The Wonder Bread Summer (24 page)

Chapter 20

D
ad,” Allie said, “Mighty Zamboni played at the Cow Palace in San Francisco tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank merged into the right lane. For the second time that night Allie was cruising over the Bay Bridge. They were going to Sausalito to check into a hotel that was owned by a Japanese couple who ate at Frank’s restaurant every time they were in L.A. Since Jonas had yet to be located, Lionel’s house didn’t seem safe.

“Should we stop off and see if we can find Mom?”

“Allie, why would you want to see that woman?”

“I dunno. I was almost killed tonight. I’ve got choke marks on my neck. I mean, I’m happy to be alive and I’m glad both my parents are alive.”

“She’s not much of a parent,” Frank said.

“Wai Po used to say,
IN BROKEN NEST THERE ARE FEW WHOLE EGGS.
” Allie spoke in Wai Po’s choppy dialect. It was an imitation she had been doing for her father for as long as she could remember. Usually it made Frank laugh. Tonight he just smiled.

“All right,” Frank said. “We’ll go see her but you have to take it easy. Rest your throat.”

“You can do all the talking,” Allie said. “I just want one moment of feeling like a whole egg.”

When it was well after midnight, they reached the Cow Palace. A steady stream of cars flowed out of the parking lot as Allie and her father drove in. Frank waited in the Prelude while Allie ran to the steel backstage door and banged with her fist. No one answered. Allie banged again and again.

Frank honked the horn. Allie looked back at him, then bopped her fist against the steel once more, and the door popped open. A guy with a headset on stuck his head out. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said
BILLY IDOL
. “Yeah?” he said impatiently.

“My mother’s in the band and I want to see her,” Allie said.

“There are no mothers in Billy Idol’s band,” the guy said.

“No, Mighty Zamboni,” Allie said. “Can you tell the tambourine girl that Allie’s here?”

“Zamboni’s gone, man,” the guy said. “Everyone’s gone except a few of us cleaning up.” He started to shut the door.

“Do you know where they’re staying?” Allie asked quickly.

“No idea,” the guy said. His eyes darted between the lump on Allie’s head and the cat-paw-looking bruises around her neck. “And if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

A
s they were driving away from the Cow Palace, Allie remembered the beeper number Billy Idol had left her. “Dad, can you pull over at a pay phone?”

“Who you gonna call at this hour?” Frank said.

“I’ve got Billy Idol’s manager’s beeper number.” Allie dug through her purse and pulled out the piece of Biltmore stationery. “He’ll tell me where Zamboni’s staying.”

“Who’s Billy Idol?” Frank asked.

“A rock-and-roll star,” Allie said. “His band’s playing with Mom’s band.”

Frank pulled over the car. They were at a dark corner with looming electrical towers and an office park. And there, like a life raft, stood a phone booth.

“Call Beth’s house first and see if Rosie’s found Jonas,” Frank said, and he handed Allie a fistful of change. “And make it quick.”

Allie rapidly ran through the last few phone calls she’d made to Beth. Each one had made her feel like there was a bag of shifting sand in her stomach. Now was no different.

Rosie answered the phone.

“Did you find Jonas?” Allie asked.

“He’s here,” Rosie said. “Everything’s fine now.”

“So, he’s not after me anymore?” Allie asked.

“Shit!” Jonas shouted in the background. “Are you talking to that goody-two-shoes curly-haired pain in my ass?! Is that Allie-fucking-fuck-up-my-weekend?! If I see that college-girl on my side of town I am going to fuck her up, you hear?!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rosie said, but Allie couldn’t help but tune in to Jonas’s rant. “I’ve got control of the situation.”

“Okay.” Allie felt vaguely queasy. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“He’ll be on to hating someone else within eight hours, I swear. The guy’s got so many enemies in this town—”

“My biggest enemy is that daddy’s-girl motherfucking—”

“Trust me,” Rosie said, and he hung up before Allie could say good-bye.

Another time
, Allie thought. She dropped in the rest of the change Frank had given her and hoped it was enough to dial out to the Los Angeles area code of the beeper. The phone rang once, there was a double beep, and then Allie punched in the number for the phone booth. Thirty seconds later, the manager was calling her back.

“Hello?” Allie said.

“You beeped me?” The accent was British, but not Billy Idol. In the background was the layered buzzing of a small crowd.

“Yeah. Billy gave me this number to call in case I’m in trouble and, well, I need to find my mother, who’s with Mighty Zamboni, and I was just wondering if you could tell me where Zamboni is staying?”

“What’s your name?” the guy asked.

“Allie.”

“Allie?”

“Yeah. But Billy was calling me China Blackie.”

“Oh, China Blackie!” the guy said. “Billy told me about you. Yeah, your mum’s here with us at the pub. Hold on, I’ll try to find her.” There was a hollow clattering, Allie assumed it was from the receiver being placed on the bar. Allie could see the phone in her head: red, like most bar phones, with a dial rather than a push button on the base. She could hear the
thunk thunk thunk
of shot glasses being slammed down. Music started up, it was George Benson.

After a few minutes, Frank tapped the horn and waved Allie toward the car. She pushed the receiver harder against her ear as if that would bring her mother to the phone sooner. The random titterings in the background folded into group laughter. Very quickly, that laughter increased, thickened, and broadened its range into mass hilarity. And within that dense ruckus, Allie could suss out Penny’s laughter, the same way she could hear her mother in the choruses of Mighty Zamboni songs, a single, vibrating thread of sound that Allie knew as well as her own voice.

The passenger-side window glided down and Frank leaned toward it. “Allie!” he shouted. “Enough! Let’s get a move on!”

The phone clanked, as if it were being bounced on the bar top, and then Penny was finally there. “Hello?” she said.

Allie found she couldn’t speak. There were words in her throat but they felt barricaded behind a trapdoor. She had spent so much of her life waiting for her mother—to come home, to call, to send a postcard, to pick up the phone—Allie knew that she could no longer wait.

“No one’s here!” Penny shouted to a rumbling voice beside her. “Hello?!”

“I’m going to go now,” Allie finally said, and she waved to her father in the car to let him know she’d only be another moment.

“What?!” Penny was laughing, drunk. “Who is this?!”

“I’m going now,” Allie said, and she hung up.

“J
onas has the coke,” Allie said. “But he’s still raging at me.”

“I am certain,” Frank said, as he pulled onto the road, “that Jonas fully understands that I will kill him if he touches you.” Allie wondered if her father really had it in him to murder someone. He did own a gun, after all.

“Okay then,” Allie said. “That’s one more thing I’m never going to think about again.”

T
he traffic was as thin as it ever got in San Francisco, so it was only minutes before Allie and Frank were merging onto the Golden Gate Bridge. Just the sight of the bridge made Allie happy. She especially loved traveling over the bridge at night, when it was lit and resembled a giant, unraveled Ferris wheel.

“So that Tommy Idol fellow didn’t know where your mother was?” Frank asked.

“No, he knew where she was,” Allie said. “But I decided I don’t need to see the Queen of Hearts again.”

“Good to hear,” Frank said firmly.

“I don’t think Mom ever loved me,” Allie said. She thought she should have cried saying something like that aloud, but it wasn’t painful. It just felt like a simple fact.

“She gave you what little she had,” Frank said. “It was a type of love.”

“I guess,” Allie said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Frank said. “You’ve got me to love you.”

“Are you saying you love me, Dad?” Allie nudged her father on the arm, she laughed. Frank had never told Allie he loved her.

“Of course that’s what I’m saying.” Frank held his gaze ahead.

Allie looked out the window to the sky draped over the bridge all the way down to the inky bay. She felt like she and her father were in a hydroplane bulleting out into the open sea
,
into an open future. And then she remembered her favorite Wai Po saying:
EVERYTHING IN PAST DIED YESTERDAY, EVERYTHING IN FUTURE BORN TODAY.

Here I go
, Allie thought.

Acknowledgments

E
normous thanks to everyone who read and commented on early drafts of this book: Geoff Becker, Michael Downs, Kit Givan, Michael Kimball, Deborah Reed, Cheryl Hogue Smith, Ron Tanner, Stacy Thal, and Marion Winik. I am indebted to the Evergreen Café writing group and appreciate the support of Jane Delury, Larry Doyle, and James Magruder. Molly Peck at Blu Dot in SoHo must be thanked for selling me the most comfortable couch in the world in a year when I didn’t have time to shop. Thanks go to David Piltch for helping me with the County Bowl details. Thank you to my family and my children: Madeline Tavis, Ella Grossbach, Bonnie Blau, Sheridan Blau, Rebecca Summers, Josh Blau, Alex Suarez, Satchel and Shiloh Summers, Sonia Blau Siegal, Morgan Ortiz, and Jillian and Jenna Grossbach. I am immensely grateful to all the smart and talented people at HarperCollins, especially Amy Baker, Julie Hersh, Olga Gardner, Mandy Kain, Cal Morgan, Mary Sasso, Margaux Weisman, and Martin Wilson. I wish there were bigger, greater, more powerful words than
thank you
. If there were, I’d save those words for Katherine Nintzel, Gail Hochman, and Joanne Brownstein Jarvi.