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  “You hurt me! I’m bleeding.”

  I rest my forehead on the door. She’s still sobbing. “Come on, Lin. That was an accident. I’m sorry. Open the door.”

  After a few moments she says quietly, “Steven?” She has stopped crying.

  “What?”

  She waits several more seconds before slowly saying, “I need to take Jennifer and leave right now.”

  “What do you mean? Leave where? Where are you going to go?”

  “To my mom’s. I need you to get away from the door and go downstairs. Will you do that?”

  I hate everything about this. If she leaves, everything is going to go nuts. But I can’t stop her. She’s already scared.

  “Are you really bleeding, Lindsey? Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be all right if you just get away from the door.”

  “All right, Lindsey. I’ll go downstairs. I’m going downstairs right now.”

  I turn and in a blur somehow find my way down the stairs and to a chair at the far end of the living room. I sit there stunned, my entire body shaking. My mind is racing. How did this happen? I’ve got to fix this and I don’t know how. What is Jennifer going through? She had to hear most of that. What is Lindsey saying to her?

  In a few minutes both Lindsey and Jennifer descend the stairs, each carrying an overnight bag.

  “Call me when you get to your mom’s house, will you?”

  Lindsey doesn’t answer. Jennifer looks back at me, confusion in her eyes. She walks a step toward me and tries to say something, but nothing comes. Then she notices the broken vase and scattered flowers, evidence of what she just heard from her room. She turns back to me with a look of fear.

  “It’s all right, honey. Your mom and dad are just working through some things right now. Everything’s—everything’s going to be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. We all just need to get some sleep. We’re gonna be fine.”

  There are no responses. Only the sound of the front door closing behind them.

  “She’s a Lot of Detroit Magic, She Is.”

  (Thursday Morning, March 12)

  Next time I check, my watch reads 3:00 a.m. I’ve spent the last few hours staring at the ceiling, rehearsing everything Lindsey and I said, replaying the scene of my wife and daughter walking out the door. I’m spent. I cleaned up the mess. Now I can’t go to sleep, but I can’t think clearly either. Lindsey never called from her mom’s. I can’t call her this late, so I have to wait a few hours to make sense of anything.

  Everything’s too quiet here in the dark. My head is buzzing. And for the last hour all I’ve been able to hear is Andy’s voice from earlier in the evening: “You could go back to what you’ve been doing… . But you’ll be back… . And until you let someone shine a light into your room, nothing’s gonna change. Life’s gonna get more painful, more confusing and darker.”

  Last night at Fenton’s seems like a month ago now. Was Andy legit? Does the guy know my dad or is he just some spooky old stalker guy?

  I grab my wallet to find his card.

  Let’s just see what Google has to say about you, Mr. Andy Monroe.

  I sit down at the computer and type in “Andy Monroe.” There’s a songwriter named Andy Monroe. He dominates most of the first few pages. I’m pretty sure that’s not him. There’s also a playwright… an expedition diver… and a bull rider.

  On page eight I find an article. “Langston Group: Andy Monroe Leaves Position as Financial Head.” It’s from 2003 and describes an apparently hugely successful forty-eight-year-old stepping away from his position at the request of the corporation for reasons of “personal indiscretion.”

  Well, well, well. Is that you, Andy boy?

  He had said something that night about once being on the fast track. Tracks don’t get much faster than the Langston Group. Those guys had dominated the South Coast financial scene since I was a boy. So maybe our flip-flop-wearing friend was somebody at one time, until “personal indiscretion” got the better of him.

  Still, how does a guy like this know my dad?

  I think about calling him, but quickly realize I’d rather not have him asking questions. Best not to mention it.

  Instead, I nose around some more and start picking up repeat articles with the occasional grainy photo of a younger-looking Andy Monroe. Various entries detail Andy’s exploits in the financial world, but everything just sort of stops with that “indiscretion” back in 2003. It’s as if the Andy Monroe of the financial world ceased to exist after that. And I can’t find a thing that ties him to Culver City or my dad.

  I decide to pull down some boxes of family pictures from the garage. If this guy’s for real, there has to be some evidence of it somewhere in my life. Besides, I got nothing else to do. Where am I going?

  I make a pot of coffee, and within minutes I’m sitting at the kitchen table with pictures spread out in front of me. I almost forget what I’m looking for. It’s been so long since I’ve seen pictures of my childhood. I’m actually almost enjoying myself. But there’s nothing of Andy. Forty-five minutes later I begin refilling shoeboxes with pictures.

  That’s when I notice it—a picture of my dad and me on a fishing trip. I can’t be more than eight years old. Dad used to take me on those half-day chartered fishing trips off San Pedro. We’d go with his buddies—three or four guys who show up in a lot of our pictures. We really didn’t know their families that well. They were just normal guys who grew up together in the neighborhood and never left. They all did guy stuff together: bowling, fishing, sitting around playing cards at Petrazello’s. There was a heavyset bearded guy; Stan, I think. He was a machinist or something like that. I just remember his big, beefy hands always had grease in the cracks. There was Mr. Ketchum. He was a salesman of something or other. He and his wife did a lot of stuff with my parents. I really couldn’t remember much about the others.

  In the picture, I’m holding a fish that is several feet long. My dad has his arm around me. He’s smiling. And behind us are the boys: Stan; Mr. Ketchum, a real tall guy wearing a straight-billed ball cap with a marlin on it. And him—Andy. He’s younger and thinner, but it’s clearly him.

  He’s smiling that same obnoxious grin, saying, That’s right, kid. It’s me, Andy. You thought I was making it all up didn’t you? You know, I actually helped you bring in this little trophy fish, my friend. I’m in several others too.

  I sit there stunned. This guy’s a part of my family history, and I have no memory of him. I laugh out loud. I almost decked a friend of our family.

  I decide to e-mail him.

  Andy,

  So, my wife and I, last night, we sort of got into an argument. Bottom line, I think maybe I could probably use a drive around to air some things out. Sorry again for how I reacted.

  Steven Kerner

  Within an hour, at 5:20 a.m., I get his reply.

  Steven,

  She’s a lot of Detroit magic, she is. Couldn’t shake thinking about her, could you?

  Before you agree, there are a few things you should know:

  1. I smoke cigars. Really good cigars. Never inside, but when I’m out in the Electra, I smoke. I’m not proud of it. But there it is.

  2. Sometimes I play music while I’m driving. Sometimes I play it really loud. So, there’s that.

  3. We don’t talk about the Los Angeles Rams’ move to St. Louis. It’s still a sore subject.

  What do you say we meet at Fenton’s next Tuesday, around 7:00 p.m.?

  Andy

  That’s it? Did this guy not get my e-mail? Next Tuesday? That’s five days from now! And he makes no mention of anything I said. He’s kidding, right?… No wonder my dad stopped hanging around with him.

  The Marriott, Room 643

  (Midmorning, Thursday, March 12)

  By eight thirty Lindsey and I are on the phone with each other. She informs me that Jennifer needs to be in her home and that I should be the one who finds a place to stay. This isn’t blowing over. I work until noon a
nd then leave the office with an excuse, spending the rest of the day locating a hotel between our home and my office in Santa Monica. I end up at a Marriott in the business section of El Segundo. I drive back home to pick up some clothes. As I open the front door everything feels very odd, as if my own home is no longer even sure I should be here. This whole thing feels so humiliating. What am I doing, in the middle of a workday, packing toothpaste and business clothes to stay somewhere a few miles away? I change into jeans and a sweater. Before I walk back out the front door I hesitate, wondering what I’m giving up once I give in to this.

  It feels like almost everyone is aware of my situation. Our next-door neighbor, Melanie Patton, an overweight woman in a perpetual hairnet, is out front watering bushes as I walk from the house carrying my hang-up bag. She’s never liked me. I think her fashion sense brings property values down. She peeks over her sunglasses at me and turns away, like she’s thinking, Finally.

  The guy at the Marriott front desk stares at my driver’s license. “Why, you can’t live five miles from here.” I give a weak nod, saying nothing. He looks at my bag, back at me, and then back at my bag again. He gives an awkward smile, as if he suddenly realizes he may have stumbled into a guy hiding from the law or something. Snatching up my license, a pen, and a room agreement, he drops them onto the counter, all in one noisy and flustered motion. I mumble something about relatives in town and scrawl out my name on the contract, all while moving away from the counter to the elevator.

  I soon discover that a Marriott room at a resort destination and a Marriott room at a business park are two different animals. Mine has a bed, a “workstation,” a smaller television, and a view of the top floor of a parking garage. It’ll do. I’m not going to be here long. I open a can of nuts from the minibar, kick off my shoes, and flop back against the bed headboard, soon staring at an oil painting of a bowl of fruit. Very edgy, Mr. Marriott. Very edgy.

  I’m not calling her. She’ll call me when she feels bad enough, realizing I’m taking the hit for all this. I grab the channel changer and mindlessly surf cable stations, eventually lying in the dark, fighting this nagging thought that I should probably get up, put on some shoes, and walk down the hall for a bucket of ice. But I’m too drained to do anything about it. I think those were my last thoughts as I fell asleep to the sounds of the Food Channel, a half-eaten can of mixed nuts sitting on my chest.

  The Bluff Facing South

  (Tuesday Evening, March 17)

  Day six. I’m still sleeping at the Marriott. I’ve talked twice to Lindsey. All business and very cryptic. She did say, “I just need some time, Steven. I’ll call you and we can talk about what comes next.” I’ve stopped by the house several times when they’re gone, to pick up mail and more clothes. I’ve talked to Jennifer on the phone once. She seems to be acting like I’m away on business, pretending nothing is very wrong or abnormal. She gets that from me, I think.

  I’m discovering I hate eating dinner by myself. The worst part is, you run out of places to look. I need to take a book with me. I used to make fun of those nerds who read in public. Now, I’m wondering what they’re reading. And everyone seems to be staring and talking about you, like they’re warning their children, “Bobby, if you don’t pay attention in school, you could end up like that man—all alone.”

  I’ve chosen to tell no one about what has happened. Nobody needs to know, and I’m pretty sure this won’t last much longer.

  He’s sitting in the Electra as I drive up. I park my Mercedes at the end of the lot. This is the kind of place where someone would open his door into yours without thinking twice about it. I get out, hit the Lock button on the remote, and walk toward his car. I pause at the passenger door of the Electra.

  “Hop in. You’ll have to reach in and use the inside handle.”

  He’s wearing another gaudy Hawaiian shirt and the same Dodger’s ball cap from the last time I saw him. I have the feeling his wardrobe has definite limitations. He puts on his sunglasses and leans over the passenger seat to hand me a pair. “You’ll need these.”

  “These” are a clunky pair of black frames with equally black lenses. How anyone is supposed to see through these during the day, let alone at night, is beyond me.

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” I say, but he presses the glasses toward me with a look that says he won’t take no for an answer. To move things along, I put them on.

  As I look at Andy’s self-satisfied grin, I’m having second thoughts about this trip. I’m not a very good passenger. I drive; I don’t ride. But, even this seems better than spending another evening sitting around in my Marriott cell, room number 643.

  I so want to tell Andy that I’m onto him—that I know all about his business failings—if only so he’ll stop with the wizard routine. But I decide to save my findings for later. I also decide he doesn’t need to know I’m living on the street, until I see how this ride works out.

  I open the passenger door with the inside handle and climb in. The car is huge. I feel like I’m sitting on an enormous, slippery, plastic tuck-’n’roll couch. I slide to the back of the seat until my feet are almost no longer touching the floor mat. It appears that back in the day, they manufactured cars for only giants to drive.

  As I’m looking around for a seat belt, he notices and says, “It’s jammed into the seat somewhere. Good luck.”

  So here we are… two men wearing sunglasses after sunset, strapped into seat belts with no shoulder harnesses, rumbling down the boulevard in a vehicle designed before fuel economy was a gleam in a car designer’s eyes. For a while we’re just driving, neither of us speaking a word. The combination of the wind in my face and the deep hum of the Electra 455 is almost trancelike.

  He yells above the engine, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I guess I’m fine, then.”

  With an obviously well-practiced skill, he pulls out an old Zippo lighter, and as the flame flickers in the wind, he lights up a cigar he calls a Padron 1924 Anniversario.

  Eventually we pull onto the 405 for a few minutes and then up into the hills overlooking Marina del Rey and Venice and the Pacific Ocean. Andy parks the car on a bluff facing south. From there you can see most of the L.A. basin. After some time looking over the city, he takes a long draw on his cigar and blows an impressive smoke ring into the still night air.

  “Steven, if this was 1972 and I was sitting here with the top down in this gem with a pretty high school girl, well, let’s just say that the guy in the Chevy Nova next to me would be driving back down the hill in embarrassment.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Andy,” I say. “I wasn’t born yet. I don’t think my parents had even met in 1972.”

  Andy clutches his heart. “Ouch.”

  Looking over the city, it strikes me that I haven’t sat like this in a long time. Just sitting and looking at a great view for no other reason than because it’s there. I begin to relax a little.

  Eventually he breaks the silence.

  “So, Steven, what do you see from up here?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean, what do you see when you look out over the city?”

  “I see lights. Lots of lights.”

  Andy rolls his eyes at me a little. “That’s it? Lots of lights?”

  “Yeah. What are you getting at?”

  “Tell me what you imagine is going on in some of those homes down there.”

  I don’t like this. I don’t need this. I’m not up for wherever he thinks this is heading.

  “Go ahead,” he presses. “Humor me. What’s going on down there tonight in L.A.?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Lots of stuff. Some good, some not so good.”

  He takes a minute before speaking again. His tone seems to change; his volume is lower, his pace a little slower, as if he’s saying something he thinks is important.

  “Yeah, lots of stuff. Husbands and wives fighting. Ang
ry kids fuming in their rooms, resenting their parents’ authority. Some of those lights are cars with sad and lonely kids inside, driving around, acting tough, looking for something… anything.”

  Andy closes his eyes and rubs them. “It starts young, doesn’t it? They get hurt. Maybe they get hurt real bad early on. And if they’re not careful, they learn something that takes a lifetime to unlearn. They learn to cover up, to protect themselves. They don’t even know they’re doing it at first. But later they can’t stop it even when they want to.

  “All those people down there, walking and driving around, confused—angry, hurt, wounded, afraid, resentful—they all have some things in common.”

  He stops speaking, as if he wants me to ask. I begrudgingly reply, “What’s that?”

  “Well,” he says, after doffing his cigar into an oversize ashtray, “they’ve learned to protect themselves. Now they’re adults and they’re discovering this cruel secret: they can’t protect themselves. In fact, the last person who can protect them is them.”

  I turn to look at him.

  “They end up trusting only themselves,” he continues. “And all of these people have others around who could help them see… if only they asked for help. But fear keeps them from asking. So everybody does an elaborate dance around each other. A guarded, well-intended conspiracy of silence surrounds almost every conversation. What isn’t said is louder than what’s spoken. Friends dance around friends for years, holding back truths that would set the other free. The memories of failed attempts, hurt feelings, and estranged relationships block light from entering the room.”

  Andy pauses before saying, “We’re an entire population of people with spinach in our teeth—and no one to tell us.”

  He puts his hands behind his head, leaning back into the sofalike seat. “Every light down there represents a person. Every light tells a story. A lot of them are stories of what happens when we try to self-protect.”

  I need to change things up. I open the door and walk out several feet onto the bluff. It is so quiet I can hear my feet scuffing at the dirt. I turn back toward the car. “What do you mean, ‘self-protect’?” I ask, knowing I risk another speech.