"U" is for Undertow (42 page)

On the occasions when Walker had other deliveries to make, Jon rode over on his scooter so he’d have his own transportation. Later he couldn’t remember how the discussion about the money came up. Walker arrived fifteen or twenty minutes after he did that day. The three of them—Jon, Creed, and Destiny—were sitting around smoking dope, as usual, while Creed bitched and whined about his parents. Walker stretched out on the mattress, toking on the joint when it came around to him.

Jon sent Walker a look and then turned to Creed, saying, “Start over and tell him. Walker’s big on finance.”

Creed said, “Like I was telling Jon before you got here, my grandfather left me money in his will and my parents are refusing to let me have it. They claim I can’t collect until I’m thirty. How fucked up is that?”

Destiny said, “His dad is such a butt. Creed’s entitled to the money so what gives him a say in the matter one way or the other?”

“How much are we talking about?” Walker asked.

Jon said, “Forty grand.”

Walker said, “Groovy. So what’s the deal? Was it left in trust?”

“Technically, but that’s bullshit. Dad could fork it over. He’s got money up the wazoo.”

“What do you need forty grand for, you planning a cruise?” Jon asked, his tone mild.

Creed and Destiny exchanged a look, and Creed said, “We’re buying a farm. We put a thousand dollars down and we need the rest by the end of the month.”

Jon laughed. “A
farm
? You’re shittin’ me.”

Creed scowled. “What’s wrong with that? We’re planning to work the land. Raise chickens and goats and sheep and like that.”

Destiny said, “I’ll learn to make soap and I can sell my macramé. We’ll be completely self-sufficient. It’ll be way cool.”

“You’re not buying a
farm
,” Jon said. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you propose to ‘work the land’ when you don’t know jackshit about anything?” He’d developed a very low opinion of Creed and loved egging him on. Sometimes Destiny sided with her boyfriend and sometimes she turned on him, mocking him as Jon did. Today she was standing by her man.

She said, “We’re talking about a
commune,
dickwad
.
Don’t be such a prick. Everyone will pitch in.”

Jon could barely suppress a smile. “Oh, excuse me. A commune. Well, that explains it.”

Destiny bristled. “God, Jon. Who the fuck asked you? Why are you always trying to bring us down? Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Hey, Des, come on. Why not tell ’em the truth?” Creed said.

“Because it’s none of their business!”

“What isn’t?” Walker asked.

“Nothing. Just drop it,” she said.

Creed ignored her. “We’re immigrating.”

“Knock it off, Creed. You’ve said enough.”

“Where to?” Jon asked.

“Canada.”

Destiny pushed Creed sideways. “You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to keep your big mouth shut.”

“Baby, cool it. Would you just cool it? These are friends of ours, okay?” Creed turned to Jon. “I got my draft notice three weeks ago. We were having mail forwarded to a post office box in Oakland and there it was. I knew it was only a matter of time before they caught up with me. Short of shooting off my toe or claiming to be a bed wetter, my proverbial ass is grass. I’m cannon fodder. Big time.”

Walker said, “So you’re heading to Canada? Far out.”

“I thought Sweden was the haven of choice,” Jon remarked.

“Nah, Canada’s easier. We take the old yellow school bus and head north. We don’t even need passports.”

“The forty’s to cover us while we apply for citizenship,” she added.

Jon’s gaze shifted to her. “What if you get caught?”

Destiny flashed a look at him. “Man, you are bumming me
out
. What’s all the negativity about? I’m getting bad vibes from you.”

“I’m not putting you down. I’m just asking what you’ll do if they catch up with you,” he said.

“We don’t need your counsel, shitbird. You’re eighteen years old.”

“You think Creed’s mom and dad are going to buy your cock-and-bull story about a farm?”

“That’s it, Jon. You’re outta here. We don’t have to put up with your shit,” she said.

He smiled. “So okay, ignore me, but I’m telling you the truth. Creed’s parents aren’t stupid. You talk about starting a commune, they’ll laugh in your face.”

Creed said, “They already did when we first brought it up.”

“You won’t get a cent unless you come up with something better than that.”

“Maybe we have. We’ve been giving it some thought.”

“Creed!”

“What’s wrong with running it by them?”

“Great. And have ’em rat us out? That’ll be a big help.”

Irritated, Walker said, “Get off it. We’re not snitches.”

“I’ll just bet.”

Jon watched her with interest. “Now you got me curious.”

Creed took two quick hits from the joint and passed it to Jon. “Destiny came up with this. We could make it look like Rain’s been abducted and someone’s holding her for ransom. Dad would fall all over himself, forking up the dough.”

“So how much ransom? Forty thousand? That’ll fool ’em,” Jon said.

Destiny said, “Shit, Jon, would you lighten up? We’re still working out the details, okay? We’re tossing ideas around. We figure she’s our kid so it’s not like we’re really doing any harm.”

Jon drew on the joint, making the tip glow a bright red before he passed it on to her. “I thought his folks adopted her.”

“Technically, sure, but she’s still our kid,” she said.

Creed said, “Yeah, Jon. You’re missing the point. We scare ’em shit-less, wait a couple days, and then hit ’em good like it’s a one-time deal. Pay and you get the kid back. You don’t pay, she’s dead. They’ll come through in a heartbeat, no questions asked.”

Destiny brightened, warming to the subject. “It’ll look like someone’s snatched her, only she won’t be in danger.”

“Well, that sucks, right there,” Jon said.

“Jesus . . .”

“Don’t look at me like
that
. I’m playing devil’s advocate. What if they call the cops or the FBI? I sure as shit would. You’ll have the law swarming all over you.”

“Not if we set it up right.”

“Which would be what?” he asked.

“We’re brainstorming. I’m not saying we’ve got all the answers,” she said.

“You don’t have
any
answers.”

Walker cut in. “Where you going to keep her?”

Destiny considered the issue and then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a motel.”

“Who’s going to babysit the kid while the two of you walk around pretending to be innocent?”

“Maybe we’ll be gone by then.”

“Then how would you collect the dough?”

“We’d find a way,” she said, irritated with his persistence.

Jon said, “Why don’t you do the obvious? Tell them you have her stashed somewhere and you won’t turn her over unless they make it worth your while. They don’t pony up, they’ll never see her again.”

“I don’t think my dad would go for it,” Creed said. “So far he’s turned us down cold.”

“Don’t ask for forty. Ask for fifteen. That’s enough to get you out of the country.”

“Yeah, but what if they balk?” she asked. “I mean, what if they tell us to take her and shove off. Then what?”

“Then I guess you get your daughter back,” Jon said.

 

 

 

It was the weekend after that that their relationship changed. The last two weeks of June, Walker went to Hawaii on vacation with his folks. With Walker gone, Jon was at loose ends. The first couple of days he hung out at his place, watching TV. On day three he decided it was time to get out. He fired up his scooter and headed over to the Unruhs’, arriving just in time to see the family pulling out of the drive. Looked like Patrick at the wheel, Deborah in the front seat, and Creed, Rain, and Sky Dancer in the back. He wasn’t sure if Destiny was with them or not.

He parked the scooter and then peeked in the yellow school bus, which was empty. He could see her half-finished macramé lying in the grass. “Hey, Destiny? You here?” No response.

He shrugged and circled the house to the cabana, surprised at the pang of disappointment that shot through him.

“Is that you, Jon?”

He followed the sound of her voice and found her sitting on the edge of the pool, her gypsy skirt pulled up around her as she dangled her legs in the water. She wore a tank top, a white one, and he could see the freckles that covered her shoulders and chest. “Sun damage,” she said when she caught his look.

“Where’d everybody go? I saw Creed and his folks in the car with the kids.”

“It’s Sky Dancer’s birthday and he asked if he could go to the band concert in the pocket park on the hill. Deborah packed a picnic lunch. They’ll be gone for hours.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Because I was hoping to see you. You want to see me?” She lifted her skirt, showing him that she was naked from the waist down. She opened her legs, exposing herself.

Irritably, Jon said, “What’s the matter with you? Would you cut that out?”

She laughed. “Don’t be a stick in the mud. It’s just us.”

He scanned the surroundings, realizing how sheltered the area was from the eyes of neighbors. The trellised fencing that stretched out on each side of the cabana was overgrown with wisteria that obstructed the view into the Unruhs’ backyard.

“This is a very bad idea,” he said.

“I think it’s a very good idea.”

He put his hands in his pockets, his gaze restlessly searching the perimeter of the property. The air was hot and he could hear birds. Two houses away, a lawn mower buzzed, and even at that remove he could smell the cut grass.

She ran her hands down along her belly and between her legs. “What would you give for a piece of this?”

“I’m not going to
pay
you.”

“I’m not talking about money, shithead. I’m talking about what it’s worth to you.”

“What about Creed?”

“We have an open relationship.”

“He knows you’re doing this?”

“He probably has a pretty good idea. As long as we don’t rub his nose in it, so to speak, then what’s it to him? Creed doesn’t own me and I don’t own him.”

“Anyone could walk in,” he said. “What if the mailman comes by or the UPS guy, delivering a package?”

“If you’re so worried about being seen, why don’t we go into the cabana where we can talk and get to know each other a little bit. If you feel uncomfortable, all you have to do is say so. I’m not going to knock you down and jump your bones.”

She held a hand up, wanting him to pull her to her feet.

Jon ignored her.

“You’d prefer to do it all out here?”

“No.”

“Then help me up.”

Jon grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. Primly she shook her skirt down. “All nice and neat,” she said.

She moved toward the cabana. Jon followed her with a mounting sense of disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. Passing through the door, she lifted her crossed arms and pulled the tank top over her head.

Inside, she’d made a pallet of blankets. Two joints at the ready with a roach clip, a pack of matches, and an ashtray. She unbuttoned her skirt and stepped out of it. Her figure was womanly—generous ass, small breasts with brown nipples as big and flat as fifty-cent pieces. The thatch of hair between her legs was dark and bushy. She knelt on the blanket, picked up a joint, and lit it. She took two or three quick draws and held the smoke in. She closed her eyes and toked once more before releasing the smoke in a thin stream. “You’re wasting time, Jon. Don’t just stand there with your clothes on. You can do better than that.”

He hesitated, looking down at her as though measuring the drop from a ten-meter board. He stripped off his T-shirt and then stepped out of his pants. When he took off his jockey shorts, he saw the change come over her face.

“Oh my god, you’re beautiful. Incredible. I’d forgotten what eighteen looks like.” She crawled to the edge of the blanket and ran a hand along his bare flank and then looked up at him. He bent and kissed her upturned mouth.

 

 

Wednesday afternoon I took Cabana Boulevard up the hill to Seashore Park, a city-owned stretch of palm trees and grass that skirts the bluff overlooking the Pacific. That morning I’d called Michael and asked him to meet me there. In my shoulder bag I had the file folder of clippings about Keith Kirkendall and copies of the photographs his sister had given me the day before. My body hummed with dread, but there was no avoiding the conversation. I couldn’t bear to lay the revelation at his feet, but there was no escape.

The day was sunny and the air mild with scarcely any breeze at all. While I waited I walked the length of the chain-link fence that had been erected to prevent citizens from tumbling off the cliff. The drop to the ocean below was a good sixty feet. At high tide, the surf concealed the rocks. At low tide, the rocks were laid bare. Either way, a fall would be fatal. Looking down I could see the telltale muddy plume where a sandbar had formed, and the waves were breaking differently from how they did a hundred yards on each side. Most people think of the effluence as a riptide, but the proper term is “rip current.” Tides are the function of the moon’s gravitational pull. A rip current is a treacherous outflow that runs in a narrow line perpendicular to the beach, sometimes extending as far as twenty-five hundred feet. The term “undertow,” used to describe the same phenomenon, is a misnomer as well. A rip current moves along the surface of the water, a function of the hidden shape of the shore itself. This one, like the rip current that swept Sutton’s mother to her death, was an artifact of the same attempt by the city engineers to create a safe harbor where there was none before. As with so much in life, good intentions often generate unexpected results.