be nice, like before."
"In other words, I never had a chance," Phil
said.
"Nope. Not even a small one."
Phil sighed. "Okay, Mr. vice grip. I give up.
You gonna let me go, or what?"
"Are you ready to get back on the sobriety
wagon and rejoin the human race? Do the right thing and start the
process to get your wife and kids back?"
"Yes."
"First apologize to your sister," Stretch
commanded.
"Sorry. Sister."
"Say it again. Without the sarcasm."
"Ouch. Okay, okay. Sorry, Shannon."
Stretch let him go and the two men got up
warily, Phil rubbing his wrists carefully. Suddenly his face
scrunched up and the tears squirted from his tightly shut lids.
"If I hadn't been so drunk, you never
could've took me. And you shouldn't have touched Mom's ashes."
When nobody spoke, he headed for the stairs.
"If anybody needs me, not that they should, I'll be in a cold
shower. And maybe some coffee would be nice when I come back down.
I want to be sober when I call Minda in the Philippines and beg her
forgiveness." In a moment they could hear the sound of water
running.
"Dear Lord," Shannon said. "And I thought you
played basketball. Judo was the last thing I would have
suspected."
"I did play basketball," Stretch said. "For
Birmingham. I had a couple of 100 point games."
"We went to high school about the same time,"
Shannon said. "Of course, I went to Van Nuys. Can you believe I was
one of the cheerleaders? But I don't remember you at any of the
games we played at Birmingham. Are you sure you aren't a couple of
years younger than I am?"
She studied his face, which had changed from
jubilant to shades of dark introspection.
"Stretch? What are you thinking? Your face
just clouded up."
"I shouldn't have treated Phil the way I just
did. I could have used more restraint. I wanted to impress
you."
The doorbell rang.
"Oh! It's the company car!" She'd forgotten
all about it. The car to take her to the Burbank Airport. Through
the kitchen window, they could see it, a white Lincoln limousine.
Parked behind Stretch's Mercedes, blocking the driveway.
"I'll tell the driver to leave," Stretch
said. "And then I think we'd better catch some lunch. We don't want
to do Forest Lawn on an empty stomach."
"No! Go out back by the pool and wait for
me."
"Out back? You're putting me out back? Like a
dog?"
"Stretch, please. I need a minute. I need
some space."
"Okay. I'll be under the arbor."
Shannon went to the door. A uniformed
attendant in starched white ruffled shirt with black bossa nova
tie. Shiny black shoes. Black trousers with silk piping down the
sides. A woman, not a man.
"Ms. Ireland? I'm here to take you to the
airport."
"Can you wait a minute? I ... I'm not exactly
ready."
She shut the door and stood there, unable to
find a meaningful sequence to any of the events which had recently
transpired. Was the next step to simply walk out the door and get
into the car? Leave behind everything? What on earth am I going
to do? she thought. Hop in the limo and leave my mother
sitting in a box on the kitchen table? Leave my dear father lying
wherever it is the people at UCLA put the patients who've died on
their tables? The morgue. That's where he is. I can't leave him
lying there. But I wouldn't be. Not really. Because Dad isn't even
there. He's gone to Heaven. Only his body is in the morgue. Like
leftovers in the fridge. Does it really matter if I don't
immediately attend to his final arrangements? The whole thing about
the burial ritual is so archaic. Do I have to be involved? Must I
personally supervise the burying of my dead? In this, the age of
the internet and the supercomputer? By who's order must I stand
beside a hole in the ground and contemplate the remains of my
father?
She sucked in a deep breath. Because there
stood before her not only the matter of her father's funeral, but
the matter of General Kremsky's closing. And a commission of
somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half million dollars. Dear Lord , she prayed, surely
"In other words, I never had a chance," Phil
said.
"Nope. Not even a small one."
Phil sighed. "Okay, Mr. vice grip. I give up.
You gonna let me go, or what?"
"Are you ready to get back on the sobriety
wagon and rejoin the human race? Do the right thing and start the
process to get your wife and kids back?"
"Yes."
"First apologize to your sister," Stretch
commanded.
"Sorry. Sister."
"Say it again. Without the sarcasm."
"Ouch. Okay, okay. Sorry, Shannon."
Stretch let him go and the two men got up
warily, Phil rubbing his wrists carefully. Suddenly his face
scrunched up and the tears squirted from his tightly shut lids.
"If I hadn't been so drunk, you never
could've took me. And you shouldn't have touched Mom's ashes."
When nobody spoke, he headed for the stairs.
"If anybody needs me, not that they should, I'll be in a cold
shower. And maybe some coffee would be nice when I come back down.
I want to be sober when I call Minda in the Philippines and beg her
forgiveness." In a moment they could hear the sound of water
running.
"Dear Lord," Shannon said. "And I thought you
played basketball. Judo was the last thing I would have
suspected."
"I did play basketball," Stretch said. "For
Birmingham. I had a couple of 100 point games."
"We went to high school about the same time,"
Shannon said. "Of course, I went to Van Nuys. Can you believe I was
one of the cheerleaders? But I don't remember you at any of the
games we played at Birmingham. Are you sure you aren't a couple of
years younger than I am?"
She studied his face, which had changed from
jubilant to shades of dark introspection.
"Stretch? What are you thinking? Your face
just clouded up."
"I shouldn't have treated Phil the way I just
did. I could have used more restraint. I wanted to impress
you."
The doorbell rang.
"Oh! It's the company car!" She'd forgotten
all about it. The car to take her to the Burbank Airport. Through
the kitchen window, they could see it, a white Lincoln limousine.
Parked behind Stretch's Mercedes, blocking the driveway.
"I'll tell the driver to leave," Stretch
said. "And then I think we'd better catch some lunch. We don't want
to do Forest Lawn on an empty stomach."
"No! Go out back by the pool and wait for
me."
"Out back? You're putting me out back? Like a
dog?"
"Stretch, please. I need a minute. I need
some space."
"Okay. I'll be under the arbor."
Shannon went to the door. A uniformed
attendant in starched white ruffled shirt with black bossa nova
tie. Shiny black shoes. Black trousers with silk piping down the
sides. A woman, not a man.
"Ms. Ireland? I'm here to take you to the
airport."
"Can you wait a minute? I ... I'm not exactly
ready."
She shut the door and stood there, unable to
find a meaningful sequence to any of the events which had recently
transpired. Was the next step to simply walk out the door and get
into the car? Leave behind everything? What on earth am I going
to do? she thought. Hop in the limo and leave my mother
sitting in a box on the kitchen table? Leave my dear father lying
wherever it is the people at UCLA put the patients who've died on
their tables? The morgue. That's where he is. I can't leave him
lying there. But I wouldn't be. Not really. Because Dad isn't even
there. He's gone to Heaven. Only his body is in the morgue. Like
leftovers in the fridge. Does it really matter if I don't
immediately attend to his final arrangements? The whole thing about
the burial ritual is so archaic. Do I have to be involved? Must I
personally supervise the burying of my dead? In this, the age of
the internet and the supercomputer? By who's order must I stand
beside a hole in the ground and contemplate the remains of my
father?
She sucked in a deep breath. Because there
stood before her not only the matter of her father's funeral, but
the matter of General Kremsky's closing. And a commission of
somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half million dollars. Dear Lord , she prayed, surely
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