"U" is for Undertow (27 page)

“What would I have to do?”

“Well,
Jon,
this is a writing class. You’d have to write, as wacky as that might seem. If you’re bored with my topics, you can tackle your own.”

“Like what?”

“That’s up to you. You can’t have it both ways. You either do the pieces I assign or you come up with your own. At the end of each week, you turn in everything you’ve done, and I mean everything—false starts, cross-outs, bad paragraphs, ideas that bomb. The first time you fail to deliver, you’re out. Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon said.

“I’m making a sales pitch. The offer’s on the table for ten minutes.” Mr. Snow glanced pointedly at his watch.

“Okay, fine. We have a deal.” Jon was thinking it would be a breeze. He liked Mr. Snow. The guy was blunt and aggressive and Jon trusted him. “When would I have to start?”

Mr. Snow said, “The day school gets out. After that, you report to me here every Friday morning at nine.”

Jon got to his feet and ambled to the door. As he was leaving the room, Mr. Snow said, “You’re welcome.”

Jon closed the door behind him, but he was smiling.

The Friday morning Lionel, Mona, and the girls left in the limousine for LAX, Jon managed to look somber and contrite. He’d been excluded from the family fun, but he was taking his punishment like a man. Mona knew he was faking, but that was his intention. Lionel gave him a big hug, like there was oh-so-much affection between them. His dad patted his shoulder. “You take care,” he said. “You have everything you need?”

“Hot water would be nice.”

Lionel frowned. “I thought we bought you a new water heater. I mentioned it to Mona after our last chat, but that was months ago.”

“I guess she forgot.” Jon’s tone was neutral and the gaze he fixed on his father was without guile.

Lionel flashed an irritated look at her and then said, “Call the plumber. Mona has the number in her Rolodex. Tell him we need an eighty-gallon water heater and the charge comes to me. The two of you can work out a time for the installation, but make it soon.”

“Thanks.”

The minute the limo turned out of the driveway, Jon felt relief wash over him. It was like getting out of prison. He loved having the big house to himself, though he spent most of his time in his rooms above the garage. The big house was pure Mona—her taste, her style, expensive and overdone. He went through all her drawers but didn’t learn much, except she used K-Y jelly.

Lionel had left him sufficient money to cover meals and gas for his motor scooter while the family was gone. In March, Jon had totaled the used car his dad had given him, and Mona was adamant about not replacing it. Fine with him. He went back to tootling around on the Vespa his dad had bought for him his freshman year. As the end of school approached, Jon asked if he could use his father’s old Olivetti typewriter for summer school, but Mona said she needed it for one of the girls. Jon had to suppress a smile. When it came to sheer predictability, the Amazing Mona was a champ.

He cruised garage sales that weekend until he came across a Smith-Corona portable electric typewriter with a manual carriage return. He paid fifteen bucks for that and then stopped at the hardware store and bought four gallons of paint. For the two years he’d been living in his aerie above the garage, he’d been content to leave it in its original bare and shabby state. Now he saw it differently. Three dormer windows looked out on the ocean and the sharply slanting eaves made the rooms feel garretlike, perfect for a writer in residence.

He painted the walls a dark charcoal gray, close to black, in part to annoy Mona, but more nearly because it soothed and quieted the chatter in his head. He went through the main house, scavenging items from linen closets and storage areas. For bedding, he’d been using a sleeping bag, flung on top of the bare mattress, but now he made up his bed with a set of Mona’s expensive cotton sheets and two quilted coverlets his mother had made. From the attic he brought down a secondhand chest of drawers and a hat rack, and he mounted a series of wooden pegs on the wall for hanging his clothes. He scrubbed his small bathroom until it was immaculate.

For the larger of the two rooms he’d found a deep, down-filled easy chair—another garage sale acquisition, this one for twenty-five dollars, with a reading lamp thrown in. He moved his desk under the middle window, placed his typewriter in the center, and laid in a supply of paper, carbons, typewriter ribbons, and white-out. Once everything was arranged, he sat there for four days, drinking coffee and staring at the view. During his preparations, he was brimming with ideas. Now that he was ready to go to work, his mind was blank.

He wrote the occasional paragraph, but he spent most of the time thinking about Walker. He couldn’t figure out why Walker was so successful with girls while he remained so out of it. Walker had had a string of girlfriends his senior year. Two of them Jon found attractive, but neither one would give him the time of day. It was always “Walker this, Walker that.” Their only purpose in talking to Jon was to ask how Walker felt about them. Having heard Walker trash both in private, Jon wondered if they’d lost their tiny minds. Walker treated girls badly. He ignored or snubbed or insulted them. He’d date them, screw them, and break up with them. Given the tears and upsets and phone calls and public scenes, they were totally smitten, absolutely gaga about him. Jon detached himself, mystified by the unspoken rules underlying love, flirtation, passion, and sex.

Just to feel like he was doing something, he went into his father’s study and pulled out a copy of Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises.
He took it back to his desk and typed out the first two chapters. He liked the plain, choppy feel of the prose, but transcribing someone else’s work didn’t spark inspiration. While he liked the language, he wasn’t connected to the content. The words belonged to Hemingway and the images were his. For Jon, the subject matter carried no emotional energy. If he could write about anything, what would it be? He couldn’t think of a thing.

He had to laugh at himself. He hadn’t written a word and he was already suffering writer’s block. Just to shake himself loose, he closed up shop for the day and broke into a house four doors down. The owner was a Hollywood producer who spent the occasional weekend in Horton Ravine. Jon knew their habits because the couple had come to a number of dinner parties Mona had given and they talked nonstop about themselves. The guy had a son Jon’s age that Jon had no use for. Mona liked him, of course, because his manners were good and he wore a coat and tie and said sir and ma’am. It was therefore doubly amusing to discover the kid’s stash of dope and pornography. Farm animals? Come
on
.

In the master bedroom, at the back of a closet, Jon came across a wooden box. There was no lock on it and when Jon opened it, he found a handgun. It was a Mauser HSc .380 ACP. He took it out of the box and hefted it in his hand. Pasted in the lid of the box there was promotional material in German and English that he read with interest. The pistol was a double-action, all-steel small-frame automatic with checkered walnut grips. Very cool. According to the pamphlet, the gun had open, fixed recessed sights, a positive thumb safety, a magazine safety, and an exposed hammer for additional safety. Jon tucked the gun in his waistband and helped himself to a box of ammunition. Maybe he’d write about a crook who carried a gun just like it. He returned the empty wooden box to the back of the shelf where he’d found it. Chances were the guy wouldn’t pull the box out to check. He’d assume the gun was where he left it.

Back in his garage apartment, Jon took a few minutes to decide where to hide the Mauser. He finally went into the bathroom and unscrewed the plumbing-access panel. He wrapped the gun and ammunition in an old towel and pushed it into the gap on the right, snug against the underbelly of the tub. He returned to his desk feeling fresh and renewed. Again, he raided his father’s study, this time taking out William Faulkner’s
Light in August
. Typing the first ten pages taught him something about the power of language in the hands of someone utterly in control. Faulkner was extravagant, while Hemingway was spare. The stylistic differences seemed appropriate to the tale each was trying to tell. While Hemingway stripped away, Faulkner painted layer on layer, using long, lavish sentences. Neither narrative voice was natural to Jon, but at least he was beginning to understand range and tone.

Jon had a stack of
Playboy
magazines, dating back to the first of the year. The girls all had perfect bodies, but they seemed brainless to him. What difference did it make how big their tits were when the girls themselves were shallow, egotistical, and self-involved? Yeah, right. Like he’d really turn one down as unworthy of him. Since he didn’t have a prayer of meeting any of them in real life, he might as well enjoy the illusion of them as lush, sensual, and available. Leafing back through the January issue, he got sidetracked by a Ray Bradbury short story called “The Lost City of Mars” and after that, the second part of a new Len Deighton spy novel called
An Expensive Place to Die.
Now he’d seen two more writers with entirely different literary effects.

His first few stabs at fiction were erratic, prose that fell flat and ideas that died in half a page. The problem, as he saw it, was that he had nothing to draw on. He’d done a lot of reading, but he didn’t have firsthand experience at much of anything. The only job he’d had was the unpaid babysitting he’d done for the Amazing Mona. Weekends, he caddied at the club, but aside from the intelligence gleaned, it was mostly step-and-fetch-it stuff—cleaning club heads and humping golf bags up hill and down. He’d had no travel adventures, no athletic triumphs, no physical challenges to overcome. Well, the latter wasn’t quite true. He’d been a fat boy and he remembered how shitty that was. He thought it best to avoid stories about prowlers lest he seem too well informed.

He wrote part of a short story based on a notion he had about a kid contaminated by radiation, who turned into a zombie and infected his entire family before his dad shot him dead. He ran out of steam in the middle of that one because he couldn’t think where to go with it. He wrote a mawkish essay about loneliness that struck him as funny when he read it the next day—not quite what he was hoping to achieve. He wanted to write about a kid seduced by his tennis instructor, but that wasn’t exactly an area of expertise. The tennis pro at the club had put her hand over his once, showing him how the face of the racket should feel on contact with the ball, but that was as close to having sex as he’d come, so to speak.

The best part of writing, at least the best part of
trying
to write, was that it allowed him to spend time alone, tuned to the static in his head. Once in a while a line came through, like an unexpected message from the outer limits of the universe. He recorded those isolated images and phrases, wondering if one day there might be more. At the end of the week he didn’t have much to show for his time, but he gathered up what he’d done and stuck the sheaf of papers in a file folder that he handed to Mr. Snow, who said, “Have a seat.”

Jon sat down in the front row, looking on self-consciously while Mr. Snow went through his pages.

“What’s this about? You plagiarized Hemingway?”

“I typed a couple of chapters as warm-up. I tried Faulkner, too. You told me to bring everything so I did.”

Mr. Snow rolled his eyes and read on.

Jon watched his face, but he had no idea how his work was being received. When Mr. Snow was done, he straightened the pages, lined up the edges, put them in the folder, and handed it back.

He didn’t make a comment so Jon was finally forced to clear his throat and say, “So what do you think?”

“As a general rule, beginning, middle, and end are nice, but at least you kept at it. Go back and try something else.”

“Like what? I mean, I’m really having trouble coming up with stuff.”

“Fancy that.”

Jon went back to work. He wrote at night, usually until three, when he fell into bed. In the morning he slept late. At lunchtime he showered and dressed and headed over to Walker’s house at the top of Bergstrom Hill, half a mile from his house. If he kept to the winding streets, the travel time was five minutes by scooter, but Jon found another route, skirting the Ravine along its easternmost edge, putt-putting along the bridle paths that formed a warren of meandering trails. It required his crossing one two-lane road, but there was scarcely ever any traffic. Late afternoons he’d spend forty minutes lifting free weights in Mona’s home gym and then do a long run of six or seven miles. After that he’d shower, put on his slippers and sweats, and sit down at his desk. For most meals he ate cold cereal or Top Ramen, which was all he could afford after the money he’d spent on furnishings.

Meanwhile, Walker was spending his summer vacation selling dope. His parents were clueless and didn’t seem to grasp the import of his frequent absences from the house or the unannounced visits from an assortment of friends whose names they were never told. In the fall Walker would start his freshman year at UCST. He had no interest in living at home, but he didn’t have the money to pay for off-campus digs. Even if he went in with five other guys, he’d be coming up short, dope money notwithstanding. Jon was in the same boat. Once Mona and the family returned, she’d make his continued residency dependent on his paying rent. Lionel would explain this was for his own good, a means of building character, not just a variation on Mona’s abuse. Jon could see he’d have to find a job and juggle work with classes at City College. Mr. Snow had a point about avoiding the draft.