"U" is for Undertow (6 page)

“Shelly’s cool. She’s a free spirit. She isn’t all hung up on material things.”

“The way we are. Is that what you mean?”

“Mom, you don’t have to be so defensive. I didn’t say that. Did I say that?”

“You’ve been looking down your noses at us since the day you walked in. Shelly despises us.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. Why don’t you just admit it?”

“You despise her so why don’t you admit
that?
Take a look at yourselves. Dad works to make money so you can buy, buy, buy. His employees scrape out a living at minimum wage and he reaps the profits. Are you proud of it?”

“Yes, I am. And why not? He’s worked hard to get where he is. He provides jobs and benefits for hundreds of people who’re devoted to him. Most of them have been with him for over fifteen years so they must not feel too downtrodden.”

“Shit, have you ever really talked to those guys? Do you have any idea what their lives are like? You pat yourselves on the back for doing good deeds, but what does that amount to? You and your hoitytoity girlfriends have ‘charity luncheons,’ raising a pittance for whatever tidy little cause has taken your fancy. What difference does it make in the overall scheme of things? None of you put yourselves on the line. You’re safe and you’re smug and you wouldn’t dream of dirtying your hands with the real problems out there.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you. You talk about safe and smug. You’ve had everything handed to you. You blew off your education and now you’re playing house, thinking you’re a grown-up when you haven’t accepted a shred of responsibility for yourself or Shelly or even that poor son of hers. What have you done that makes you think you’re superior?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ve done. We’re civil rights activists. You didn’t know that, did you? Because you never bothered to ask about our beliefs. We’ve marched in support of Freedom Rides, desegregating bus terminals and restrooms and water fountains in the South . . .”

Deborah was taken aback. “You went to Washington, D.C.?” “Well, no. There was a rally in San Francisco. There were hundreds of us. You and Dad are sheep. You’d go along with anything just to avoid making waves. You’ve never stood up for anything . . .”

She could feel a flash of temper. “Watch yourself, Greg. None of your political rhetoric has anything to do with what’s going on here so don’t muddy the waters. You’ve dropped a bomb in our laps and we’re doing what we can to adjust to the situation. You and Shelly don’t have the right to abuse and insult us.”

Shawn tore into the kitchen again, running full tilt. Deborah reached out a hand and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Listen here. You stop that! I won’t have you screaming and shrieking while we’re having a conversation.”

Shawn stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t accustomed to reprimands. He looked from her to Greg. His face crumpled and he burst into tears, his mouth coming open in a howl so profound there wasn’t any sound at first. He clutched his penis for comfort, perhaps realizing for the first time how vulnerable he was without clothes on. Deborah couldn’t even bear to look at him. When his tears failed to have the desired effect, he added screams. “I hate you. I want my mama. I want my mama.”

Deborah waited for his tantrum to subside, but he just revved it up a notch, the tone of his screams climbing up the scale.

Greg said, “Hey, hey, hey,” doing what he could to calm him, trying to reason and explain while Shawn collapsed on the kitchen floor. He lay on his back and kicked his feet hard, catching Deborah’s ankle in the process.

“Shit,” she said, knowing she’d be bruised for a month.

Shelly appeared in the door, the picture of righteous indignation. Her face was puffy and her hair was matted from sleep. She took one look at Shawn and turned on Deborah. “What did you
do
to him? You have no right. How dare you lay a hand on my child? I won’t have you interfering with my discipline.”

Adopting a pleasant tone, Deborah said, “What discipline, Shelly? All I did was tell him to stop running around, shrieking, while Greg and I were in the middle of a conversation. That’s common courtesy, though I don’t expect you to embrace anything as bourgeois as that.”

“Bitch!” Shelly grabbed Shawn and lifted him, turning on her heel and hurrying him from the room as though saving him from personal assault. Deborah gave Greg a long, cool look, daring him to take Shelly’s part.

“Jesus, Mom. Now look what you’ve done.” He shook his head, aggrieved, got up, and left the house.

For the next hour, Deborah could hear Shelly out in the bus, yelling and weeping. Accusations, recriminations. She leaned forward and laid her cheek on the cool surface of the kitchen table. Dear god, how would she get through the next four months?

 

 

Thursday, I woke at 6:00 A.M. and pulled on my running shoes for my three-mile jog. I brushed my teeth but left the rest of my “toilette” for the damp morning air. When the weather’s hot the run leaves my hair sweaty and when it’s cool, as it was that day, the fog makes a mess of it anyway. At the beach, the only people I see are as unkempt and baggy-eyed as I am. I don’t jog for the health benefits, which are probably minimal at best. I do the (almost) daily three-mile run for the sake of vanity and peace of mind. I see couples walking or running while they chat or lone individuals with their headsets in place, listening to god knows what. I crave the quiet, which allows me to sort out my thoughts.

Home from my run, I showered, dressed, and grabbed an apple, which I ate in the car. I’d intended to hit the public library first thing, but I put that on hold until I made a visit to Climping Academy. At 10:13, I drove through the two stone pillars that mark the entrance to Horton Ravine. I took the first left, turning onto Via Beatriz, a narrow two-lane road that wound up the hill to the academy, which overlooked a spring-fed lake. The main building was the former residence of a wealthy Englishman named Albert Climping, who arrived in Santa Teresa on his retirement in 1901. Prior to immigrating, he was engaged in the manufacturing of inlet valves and flotation devices for toilets, and while he’d amassed a fortune, the source of his money ruled out acceptance in polite society. At a lawn party,
really
, how
could
one converse with a toilet valve magnate?

If he was aware that the nature of his livelihood forever barred him from hobnobbing with the Horton Ravine elite, he gave no sign of it. He purchased a hilly thirty-five-acre parcel, which had languished, undeveloped, near the Ravine’s front entrance. The property boasted a natural spring, but the general location was deemed undesirable because it was too far from the ocean and too close to town. Undismayed by these deficits, Climping brought in heavy equipment and excavated a crater-sized containment pond for the spring water that bubbled up out of the hillside. Having created Climping Lake, he set up an extensive network of water pipes that crisscrossed his land. He flattened the peak on the steepest of two hills and began construction on a fake English manor house, complete with stables, a phony chapel, a barn, and a massive glass conservatory. All the exteriors were clad in a golden sandstone that he had imported from his native Sussex. The interiors featured heavy ancient-looking beams, coffered ceilings, mullioned windows, and rich “twelfth-century” tapestries he had made in Japan. If there had been an architectural board of review in his day, he would
never
have been granted approval for this faux-medieval domicile, which was completely out of place in an area noted for its one-story, Spanish-style homes made of adobe and red tile.

Albert Climping had grown up in poverty with no education to speak of, but he was smart, he was an avid reader, and he had an uncanny understanding of the land. The sweeping views from his hilltop property were astonishing. The Pacific Ocean was visible to the south and the mountains loomed to the north, with the city of Santa Teresa spreading out between the two. During drought years, Climping’s acreage was always green, supported by an irrigation system that also allowed him to maintain orchards and vegetable gardens sufficient to sustain him. While his perspicacity was undisputed, his humble origins remained a fatal defect. If Climping thought he could purchase respectability among the carriage trade, he was sorely mistaken. The ladies were prepared to rebuff any overture he might make. Sadly for them, he had no desire to ingratiate himself and they were left with various biting remarks growing sour on their tongues.

For the next twenty years, he went about his business, entertaining foreign dignitaries and Washington politicians, men who appreciated his financial acumen and his lively sense of humor. When he died, a charter school was established out of his estate. Climping Academy was richly endowed, and from the day the doors opened, the well-to-do parents in Horton Ravine clambered to enroll their kids. Over the years, with the blessings of the city, additional sandstone-clad buildings were erected, all in the same imposing architectural style, which set the school apart from, and above, its competitors.

I pulled into the gravel motor court and found a parking space in an area screened by boxwood hedges. I locked my car and walked around to the front entrance, where I climbed a flight of low stone steps and entered the main building. While the grand architectural elements were still in evidence, the interior had been updated and furnished with all the modern conveniences. I paused to read the school’s mission statement, which had been framed and hung just inside the doorway. In support of its claims of scholastic excellence, the school boasted that one hundred percent of Climping graduates went on to college. I had to read that line twice. One hundred percent? Well, shit. Maybe if I’d attended Climp, I wouldn’t have wasted my education smoking dope with a tatty bunch of ne’er-do-wells at the public high school.

A class bell rang and students began to spill out into the corridor. I stood and watched them passing in twos and threes. I did envy them, but I could feel an old prejudice rising to the surface. I wanted to believe the offspring of the rich were snooty and spoiled, but such was not the case. These kids were friendly, well behaved, and conservatively dressed, no flip-flops, no cutoffs, and no T-shirts imprinted with offensive expletives. Some actually smiled at me and a few said hi. They were disconcertingly
nice
.

On the other hand, why
wouldn’t
they be nice when they sailed through the world with all the advantages? Behind closed doors, they were probably subject to the same miseries as everyone else, parents whose alcoholism, financial scandals, divorces, and emotional shenanigans left them as vulnerable as the children of the middle class and the poor. Money couldn’t possibly protect them from all of life’s woes. On the other hand of my first other hand, whatever their problems, whether inherited or self-generated, their parents could at least afford the best doctors, the best lawyers, and the most exclusive rehabilitation facilities.

I beckoned to a passing student. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find the library?”

She was a good-sized girl, built like an athlete with a sturdy set of bones. Her dark hair was straight and sleek, pulled into a complicated knot at the nape of her neck. When she smiled, her braces gleamed. “Sure. I’m headed in that direction anyway.”

“Thanks.”

We walked the length of the corridor and turned right. She left me in the hall outside the library while she continued to her next class.

The room I entered must have been the mansion’s original library. Shelves of books extended from floor to ceiling on all four walls with a movable platform ladder resting against a brass rail. The panes in the leaded-glass windows were marked by imperfections, lending a shimmering effect to all the outside views. Two groups of students sat in dark green leather chairs arranged around refectory tables. The students were quiet and there wasn’t much activity except for the turning of pages and the scribbling of pens.

The librarian was seated at a desk under one of the windows. The name plaque in front of her read LORI CAVALLERO, HEAD LIBRARIAN. She looked up at me expectantly. She set her pen aside, got up, and crossed the room, walking on the balls of her feet to minimize the sound. She appeared to be in her late forties, her dark hair a long, careless tumble around her face. Her mouth was bracketed with deep lines and a faint frowning V was sketched between her eyes. She wore a long brown knit dress over boots, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

“Are you Ms. Cavallero?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“I’m Kinsey,” I said with a smile to match hers. “I was wondering if I might take a peek at the 1967 yearbook. I’m trying to track down an old friend.”

“Of course. We keep the yearbooks in the other room. You want to follow me?”

“Great,” I said. I couldn’t believe another closely held conviction was taking a hit. Now it turned out the faculty and staff were as nice as the kids. What was Sutton’s problem?

She moved to a door on our left and ushered me into the room. “This was Albert Climping’s study,” she said. She gave me a moment to appreciate the room and its furnishings. The study was smaller than the library and beautifully proportioned, with a spiral staircase taking up one corner. I counted twenty built-in file drawers, each labeled with old-fashioned cursive on white cards slipped into brass frames. I could see wide, shallow drawers that I imagined held maps or documents intended to be stored flat. A massive desk took up the center of the room, resting on an Oriental carpet in muted browns and blues. A big stone fireplace with an impressive carved mantel was centered in the wall across from the door. On the far wall there was a second carved wooden door, probably leading to the hall beyond. The remaining wall was paneled in mahogany. The oil portraits that hung in the open spaces between bookshelves were darkened with age and suggested successive generations of severe Christian gentlemen and their long-suffering mates.