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“So what am I supposed to tell Marvetti? My grandfather said no deal. I can hear the buzz now. ‘Jud Banning is a real pussy. A puppet. He does exactly what his grandfather tells him.’ Great … just great.”
“You want me to give you all the answers and I’m not going to. I didn’t have anyone to tell me what to do. Solve this yourself. Show the world the kind of a man you are.”
“So in this hard-edged, tough business world of yours, you become a man by welshing on a deal? How in the hell will anyone ever take me seriously?”
Victor leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and merely looked at him. He refused to lead Jud through life by the nose.
“Damn you, Victor. This is my deal. I have to lose my respect and integrity because you don’t like Marvetti?”
“You lost your integrity when you let his flunkies lure you into a business deal with him. Find out for yourself why. Then you come and tell me how good your deal is.”
Anger, humiliation, and something almost elemental were in Jud’s taut features. “I want the chance to make my own mark on this company, to do things my way.”
“Your way is wrong.” Victor didn’t move. Jud was pigheaded but Victor knew he wouldn’t cross that final line—the one that would send his butt out of the company. The silence between them was tense, and silence between people said more than words ever could. “Go on.” Victor waved a hand and looked away. “Get out of here.” He picked up a folder on his desk, but when Jud was almost out the door he called his name. “Don’t come back until you’re ready to do things the right way.”
Jud jerked open the door. “You mean your way.”
“Yes. I mean my way.”
Loyola University Marymount College,Del Rey Hills, California
There were no doctors in the Banning family. Cale wasn’t trying to follow in some relative’s hallowed footsteps. He defied Victor’s rule of natural order, but not for the sake of defiance. When Cale was young and someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, his answer was always the same. While his friends vacillated between a cowboy one week and a fireman the next, he saved the life of everything from earthworms to a neighbor’s half-drowned cat. Whenever a seagull flew into the almost invisible glass windows of the Lido house, Cale would put the senseless gull in a box with a beach towel warm from the dryer, and an hour later the bird would have flown away.
Those nights he would sleep without moving. He would crawl out of his bed the next morning, the sheets still tucked in, and later Maria would swear he’d slept on the floor or in Jud’s room. The truth was, he never tried to sleep in Jud’s room after that first month. Their boyhood closeness was just that, part of boyhood. Jud was his brother, but like those unsuspecting seagulls, Cale had slammed headfirst into a glass wall Victor built between them enough times to not fly there anymore.
By the time Cale started high school, he sought his comfort from the opposite sex. At college those first few years, partying was preferable to catching some Z’s, and he had a new freedom living away from home. Everyone slept in dorms, which was where he headed that afternoon as he left the student post office with an envelope from the University of Washington.
A cool afternoon breeze swept in from the Pacific, pushing the smog farther inland and away from the campus perched on a bluff above the western fringes of the LA basin. Students sat on benches and lounged across lawns surrounded with the clean smell of mown grass and beds of rosebushes with flowers the size of an open hand. As on most days, older priests and nuns played boccie at one end of the green, a spot called the Sunken Garden, and some students tossed around a Frisbee at the other end. A banner painted with a bulldog behind bars and the cry Pound the Zags! hung between two huge magnolia trees in the middle of the mall, because tonight—the last night before spring break—was the night when Loyola challenged Gonzaga for the number one position in their division.
Cale’s mind wasn’t on the big game when he left Saint Robert’s Hall and headed straight for the senior apartments, a three-story stucco-and-wood building that could have easily melted into any block of apartments in any part of LA. Four seniors shared each two-bedroom unit, but the place was empty when he tossed his books on an orange Formica table, grabbed a cold Coors, and headed for his room, which smelled like old socks, wet towels, and pizza. He sat down on the bed, staring down at the white envelope for a long time before he opened it and unfolded the letter.
March 24, 1970
Dear Mr. Banning:
We regret to inform you that you do not meetour requirements for admission into the University of Washington School of Medicine.
Blah … blah … blah … He crushed the letter into a ball and rested his head on his fists. Every letter was the same. The rejections from the first-tier schools had come rapid-fire fast—Harvard, Stanford, Johns Hopkins. The rest came week after week, like some unending boxing match he was destined to lose.
The door flew open with a bang and his roommate and teammate shuffled in singing the team fight song off-key, “Willie and the tall boys are dancing, on the home court tonight.”
William Dorsey was the grandson of a big band leader whose musical talent was not passed on to subsequent generations, but whose showmanship was. Will loved a cheering crowd, whether it was on the basketball court or in the dorm back in their freshman year when he was the only guy who could chug a six-pack of Colt 45 malt liquor in under three minutes and not throw up. He was a basketball star. Six foot six, a loose walker, all rubber arms and legs, and on the court he was magic in motion. His jump shot was tops; he could score more points in two minutes than any other player in the division; and it was no surprise when he was unanimously voted captain of the Lions. Scouts had been around him at almost every game.
Will kicked the door closed and stopped to blow a ritual kiss at a color eight-by-ten photo of Jeannine Byer, a knockout blonde, a Mount Saint Mary’s nursing student. He gave Cale a quick glance, then stopped. “Who died?”
“Me.” Cale held up the crumpled letter.
“Another one? Which school?”
“U Dub.”
“Ah, hell, man. You didn’t wanna go there anyway. It rains all the time.” Will dropped his books on the floor, picked up a metal wastebasket, and balanced it on his head. “Here.” He pointed to the basket. “That letter belongs in here. Those sorry bastards. One throw. Come on, man. Go for it!”
Cale pitched the letter into the air; it arced across the room and dropped inside the basket with a soft ping.
Will lifted Cale’s Coors can to his mouth like a mike. He blew into it, making a hollow sound. Mimicking a famous American sportscaster, he said, “We have an-nuther goal scored by Cale Banning tonight. He is well on his way to breaking all … ex-zisting records for med school rejection! But there’s hope! This erudite fuckup of Loyola has not exhausted all his options. Canada? Mexico? The third world countries? Or if all else fails, Mis-ter Cale Banning can apply to Uncle-Sam-Wants-U, where he will swiftly be transferred to the renowned University of Da Nang!”
“Funny.” Cale threw a wet towel at him. “University of Da Nang, my ass.”
“Hell, if I were sending men into the jungle, I wouldn’t want dropouts leading the way.” Will swept a couple of eight-track tapes off the bed, fell back flat on the mattress, and crossed his big feet. He was wearing squeaky huarache sandals he’d bought for a buck on a weekend trip down to Tijuana over Thanksgiving break. “When I was dreaming of the draft, I was thinking NBA, not U. S. Army.” He folded his hands behind his head and lay staring up at the ceiling before he raised his head off the pillow and looked at Cale. “Your MCATs aren’t doing it?”
“Med schools are packed. No one wants to go to Da Nang.”
“Too many body counts on the news. Was that the last of your applications?”
“No. I haven’t heard from San Diego, Texas, and University of Southern California.”
“What are you going to do if they all say nada?”
Head down, Cale rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t believe you gave away your Grade Point Average for a forty-inch bust. Did you go to any classes last year?”
“Some.”
There was a long pause before Will asked, “Was she worth it?”
Cale laughed bitterly. “No.”
“Have you talked to your grandfather yet?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. I’m looking forward to that conversation.”
Will picked up a basketball and began to toss it from hand to hand. “Victor Banning. The great and powerful Oz. I only met him once. Kept wishing I had a crucifix to hold in front of my face.”
“One of his better qualities.”
“He has to be able to help you. With his connections?” Will quit tossing the basketball and faced Cale. “What would happen if you had a heart-to-heart talk with him?”
“He doesn’t have a heart.”
“Talk to him.”
“I’ve spent years trying to talk to my grandfather. No one talks to Victor. He talks to them. Every time I go home, I hear about how I’m throwing my future away. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t go home.” Cale looked down, then shook his head. “God, Will. How could I screw up so bad?”
The only sound in the room was the basketball bouncing off the ceiling, then nothing but a long silent pause. Will held the basketball at chest level, looking at him. “Bad-ly,” he said, and threw the ball at Cale.
Instinctively, Cale caught it, then laughed. “Kiss my ass, you literate jock.”
Will grabbed the ringing phone. “Timothy Leary’s House of Hash. You smoke ’em, we coke ’em.” His gaze shifted to Cale. “Yeah, he’s here … somewhere. Let me see if I can find him. Oh, I think I see his foot. There! Yes! In the corner! He’s buried under … Wait! Wait, I need a skip-loader here.” He paused for drama, then shook his head. “Uh-oh. Too bad. Looks like he’s a goner. Make a note for his epitaph, will you? ‘Here lies Cale Banning, who, on April 3, 1970, suffocated to death under the largest pile of med school rejections in the history of the modern world.’” Will held out the phone and whispered, “It’s Jud. Lucky Mr. Four-F.”
“Hey, there, big brother.”
“Hey, you.” Jud’s bass voice sounded exactly like their dad’s. Cale always had to take that one extra second to remember who was on the other end.
“Will Dorsey is a nutcase,” Jud said.
“Yeah.” Cale looked at Will. “I know. You ought to try living with him. It’s like being trapped inside a Ferlinghetti poem.”
Will flipped him off and jogged into the bathroom. A couple of seconds later, Cale heard the shower running, then the tinny notes of a transistor radio playing a Jimi Hendrix song. “What’s going on?” Cale asked Jud.
“I’m on a pay phone at the steamer dock, waiting to board the boat. I’m going to the island a day early.”
Damn … He’d forgotten this was the weekend they’d planned to meet at the Catalina place. “I can’t leave yet, Jud. There’s a play-off game tonight.”
“I know. I just wanted to let you know I’m going over early. I’ve got to get out of here today.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What isn’t wrong.” Jud sounded disgusted.
“Victor.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get me started. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
They hung up. He hadn’t seen Jud in months. Cale used school as an excuse to avoid going home; it had become a comfortable habit. He used sports, studying, anything to weasel out of going to Newport. Nothing waited for him at home but Victor’s expectations. He grabbed his game gear from under the bed, slung the athletic bag over a shoulder, and hammered on the bathroom door, then opened it. Steam hit him in the face. “How long are you going to be in here?”
“Till I’m clean.”
Cale turned down the radio.
“What’s going on with Mr. Perfect?” Will asked.
“Jud’s not perfect.”
“He’s a helluva lot closer than anyone I know.”
Cale glanced in the mirror at his foggy reflection. Smeared and far from perfect. Maybe his grandfather wasn’t the only person he was avoiding. Jud had been accepted to his first choice—Stanford—for both undergraduate and graduate studies. He wouldn’t have any idea what a rejection letter looked like. Cale’s most insurmountable problems were a piece of cake for Jud, who skated through life on silver skates, never slipping, never falling. Never failing. Jud first took off for college when Cale was still in high school, and he knew he would never forget that summer, because Victor gave Jud their dad’s MG.
By August it was just Victor and him, which meant they lived in a house of silence until a long weekend or school vacation when Jud came home. Life was pretty much a set formula. Jud set the bar; Cale usually failed to meet it. From the very day they drove up to their grandfather’s home in that long black limo, his life had been very different from his older brother’s, and he had the feeling that was exactly the way Victor wanted it.
Cale zipped his shaving kit closed. “I’m going to meet my brother tomorrow at the Catalina place. Since it looks like you’re gonna stay in that shower till graduation, I’m heading over to the gym. I’ll shower there.” He closed the door, but stopped in the middle of the room. The torn envelope sat on his bed. Talk to Victor, Will had said. Cale could just hear his grandfather now. Youyoung fool. You let a girl snatch away your dreams. Your only jobwas to go to college and study, not skip classes and screw somesweet young thing. Victor had an uncanny ability to zero in on an open, bleeding wound and stick a knife squarely into it.
Cale threw the envelope in the trash. No way he would go to Newport now. Will had been right on when he’d called Victor the great and powerful Oz. He was. But for Cale, no place was home.
CHAPTER 6 (#u72d2fca6-1860-5aae-a9ac-956cb623ea69)
During the years she lived with Julia, Kathryn Peyton had lost herself. Her mother-in-law hadn’t been old when Jimmy died, only fifty-five to Kathryn’s twenty-three, but she was frail, her bones the first thing anyone noticed about her and much of what gave her the hard look that went along with her controlling nature. With Laurel in the house, Julia’s mind stayed sharp, but her body hadn’t. Those bones shrank into nothingness over twelve years, and even Julia, with her sheer determination to control everything, couldn’t stop her own death.
Those same twelve years had shrunk Kathryn into a nonentity. She was Laurel’s mother, Julia’s daughter-in-law, a reclusive artist known only through the pieces sold. No Kathryn. Her life had been dissected into two precise pieces—before Jimmy died and after Jimmy died. Everything before was only a dream, everything afterward alien territory.
It wasn’t until recently that she had faced her own existence with clearer eyes, and saw what it had been—one distraction after another. Laurel needed her. Julia needed her. Her work—a place to hide from what she was really feeling. Then one day she was living in her dead mother-in-law’s home with no one to tell her what to do or how to live. She didn’t fit anymore and felt swallowed by the emptiness of her own existence. Until Evie called with a plan. She was getting married and moving to Chicago, so Kathryn should buy the house on Catalina Island. The timing was perfect. Nothing was keeping her in Seattle. “After all, Kay,” Evie said, “you’re almost thirty-six years old.”
So Kathryn bought the house and moved to Santa Catalina, a small Channel Island off the coast of Southern California, where everything was different. From the island village of Avalon, the moon looked as if it rose right out of the sea, and the palm trees stood so tall, like hands waving hello in the sea breezes. It was lazy here; things began only with an arrival from the mainland—a regatta, a steamship, or a seaplane. This was the land of glass-bottomed boats, of coves named after jewels, of starfish and abalone shells, a place where people preferred to drive golf carts instead of cars.
Esther Williams had leapt off an island cliff on horseback once, creating a small but dramatic piece of cinematic and island history. The movie studios had shipped a herd of buffalo over to film a Western, and left them to become part of the place, like the wild boars and herds of goats and other seemingly mythic animals. So, given all the elements, Catalina became the magic isle, a place that rose out of the fog, an emerald in a sea of sapphires, a place where the fish could really fly.
Here the rain didn’t come down in sheets of water so thick they blocked out life going on around you. Island sunshine made things appear clearer. You could see all the sharp edges and soft curves of life. Here, when you looked into a mirror, you saw what you had become, not what you had been.
Hiding in excuses wasn’t so easy in the clear air and sunshine, or inside a small house filled with rooms as colorful as her sister’s personality. So perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising when Kathryn shared a pitcher of margaritas and a platter of nachos earlier that evening with a man named Stephen Randall, whom she’d met at a Chamber of Commerce meeting the week before. She had sat down alone in the bar of the local Mexican restaurant and felt reckless for even showing up. She knew how to hide; she didn’t know how to date.
Just drinks, he told her when he’d come into her shop one afternoon. But tonight he came into the bar with his arms full of yellow daffodils, so drinks moved on to appetizers, and he left hours later with her home telephone number. Funny that she didn’t regret giving it to him, even now, as she set an overflowing vase on a glass table in her bedroom. His flowers were the same sunshine-warm shade as the walls. Happy colors, Evie called the paint she’d used inside the house. Daffodils were happy, like snapdragons, and pansies, and lost women who moved to small islands in the blue Pacific.
Wilmington Pier, Los Angeles Harbor
Laurel Peyton stood on the corner as the local bus pulled away from the wharf and headed back toward downtown LA. A slight breeze lifted her hat, so she pressed it down, picked up a large, rusty brown suede purse, and rushed toward the boat as she did almost every Friday, when she routinely made the two-hour boat trip home.
The SS Catalina was a three-hundred-foot white steamer, a ship really, but everyone called it a boat. As always, the Catalina was docked in the last slip, where nothing but an expanse of blue-gray water stood between her huge hull and the Channel Island she serviced. On most days, you could see the island from almost anywhere along the Southern California coast. Against the western horizon, Santa Catalina Island looked like an enormous sleeping camel, sometimes shrouded in marine mist and sometimes sitting there so clearly you could almost make out the saw-toothed outline of the trees along its ridges.
Laurel joined the long line waiting to board. The late afternoon sun was hot and shone at eye level. The sun was more intense in California, especially at the very end of land and on days like today, when no cool wind blew in off the ocean. People shifted in line and muttered impatiently, removing jackets and sweaters. Kids whined or ran about. Their mothers ignored them, fanning themselves with island pamphlets and folded-up guide maps.
Although she hadn’t lived in California a year yet, Laurel could spot the tourists with the innate eye of a native. Men in dark shirts wore straw hats with black hatbands and socks with their sandals. Women in floral print dresses carried white patent-leather purses and wore nylons. California women were true to the golden land and wore only their tanned skin, polished with a bit of baby oil.
Laurel glanced left at the sound of a deep male voice coming from a bank of pay phones. The young man leaned casually against the wall, his back to her. He was tall, with light brown hair and the lanky build of a movie idol. He wore khaki shorts and a polo shirt the color of fresh lemons, his skin looking darkly tanned against that light clothing. On his feet were sandals—no socks.
The line shifted with an almost unanimous sigh of relief as two crew members came down the gangplank and unlocked its chain. He glanced over his shoulder and she forgot to breathe. Paul Newman and Ryan O’Neal rolled into one. He was too old for her, really—in his mid-twenties—but when he walked past her, he winked.
She counted slowly to ten before she turned around, and had lost him while pretending to be so casual. The boarding line was backed up to beyond the turnstiles, four or five people wide. The Gray Line tourist buses in the parking lots still unloaded passengers, but he was tall enough to stand out in any crowd, so she systematically scanned the dock from right to left.
“Excuse me, missy.” A man tapped her on the shoulder. “You’re holding up the line.”
A gaping distance stood between her and the gangplank. “I’m sorry.” She rushed forward, her face red, struggling to sling her bag up her arm.
A familiar crewman greeted her at the gangplank. “Going home again?”
“Sure am. Looks like you have a full boat.”
“Spring break starts today. The next couple of weekends will be pretty wild. College kids. High school kids. Heard last year was almost as wild on the island as Palm Springs. This might be the last calm crossing for a while.”
Her frozen smile hid the truth: she had no idea what spring break on Catalina Island was like. She and her mother had lived there only since summer, after they had moved away from everyone and everything they’d ever known. Halfway up the gangplank she looked back over the crowd, searching, but the line was now just heads and hats and people milling together like spilled marbles. Once on board, she searched for that handsome face and yellow shirt, but soon gave up and went to find a seat.
An hour and a half later the seat felt hard as a rock. The sun glowed low on a vibrant pink horizon, a golden ball magically balancing itself on top of the blue sea. Passengers shifted to the bow, where the colors of the sunset looked like fire, which meant no lines in the snack bar. Inside, she stared at the black menu board with its crooked white letters. She glanced back and Paul O’Neal himself stood three people back. He smiled. She smiled back.
“What can I get for you?” The worker behind the snack counter waited impatiently, a plastic smile on his face.
She glanced quickly at the board and blurted out the first thing: “A white wine.” There was complete silence for an instant, the kind where you wish the floor would swallow you up.
“Can I see your ID, please?”
