Three paintings: a harlequin, a ballerina, a too-bright rendition of an imaginary arroyo under a salmon pink sky. In the landscape, flecks of silver paint passed as reflection. Dreadful. Kevin Drummond hadn’t grown up with fine art.
And he’d escaped. The dingy Hollywood flat was less than an hour away, but for all intents, we were talking different planets.
His father dropped heavily into an overstuffed sofa. Terry settled herself a foot away, crossed long, dancer’s legs encased in skintight capris, tossed her flame-colored hair, and displayed no self-consciousness as her unfettered breasts bobbled.
High heels, no bra. The smell of canned spaghetti wafted from the kitchen.
I wondered more about Kevin’s childhood.
Frank Drummond exhaled, sat up straight. Terry Drummond’s face was heavily made-up but cosmetics failed to mask her grief. Yet, her body posture remained languid- Cleopatra-on-a-Nile-barge.
A handsbreadth between them. No touching.
Petra said, “I know this is hard for you-”
“And you’re making it a lot harder,” said Frank Drummond.
His wife tilted her face toward him but kept silent.
“What would you have us do, sir?” said Petra.
No answer.
Milo said, “Looks like Kevin flew somewhere. Any guesses where?”
“You’re the detectives,” said Frank Drummond.
Milo smiled. “If I was in your situation, I’d like to know where my son was.”
More silence. I scanned their faces for the slightest hint of deception. The errant eye blink, the facial twitch, the merest shift in body language.
All I saw was anguish. A pain I’d seen far too often.
Parents of seriously ill children. Parents of runaways. Parents living with adolescents whose behavior had long since stopped being predictable.
The agony of not knowing.
Terry Drummond’s eyes caught mine. I smiled, and she smiled back. Her husband didn’t notice, sitting stiffly, eyes dulled- off in some lonely place.
Milo said, “There is one good thing. For us, and maybe for you. Kevin never got a passport, so chances are he’s still in the country.”
Terry Drummond said, “This can’t be happening.”
“Honey,” said Frank.
“This just can’t be happening- please. What do you want from us?”
“Information about Kevin’s whereabouts,” said Milo.
“I don’t know his whereabouts! That’s why I’m going out of my mind!”
“Terry,” said Frank.
She ignored him, shifted her buttocks, and showed him her back. “Don’t you people think if I knew where he was I’d tell you?”
“Would you?” said Petra.
Terry regarded Petra with contempt. “You’re obviously not a mother.”
Petra went white, then she smiled. “Because…”
“Mothers are protective, young lady. Do you actually believe I’d want Kevin to be hounded by you people? Maybe God forbid get shot because he looked at you the wrong way? I know how you people operate. Trigger-happy. If I knew where he was, I’d want him safe and beyond suspicion!”
Frank Drummond regarded his wife with what seemed like new respect.
No one spoke.
Terry said, “This is absolutely ridiculous- considering Kevin a suspect in anything. A mother knows. Are any of you parents?”
Silence.
“Ha. Thought so. Now you people listen to me: Kevin’s a good boy, he’s done nothing wrong. That’s why I would tell you if I knew where he was. Because I am his mother.” A glance at Frank said she considered that several ranks above father.
He said, “Okay?” in a soft voice. “Will you please go now?”
Milo said, “Why would Kevin leave town?”
Terry said, “You don’t know that he did.”
“His car was near the airport-”
“There could be any number of reasons for that,” Frank broke in. Pugnacious inflection. Back to lawyer’s mode.
His wife shot him a disgusted look, then turned to Petra. “If you were really interested in doing your job, young woman, you’d stop regarding my son as a criminal and look for him as if he were just a regular person.”
“Meaning?” said Petra.
“Meaning- I don’t know what I mean. That’s your job-your world.”
“Ma’am-”
Terry wrung her hands. “We’re normal people, we don’t know how to behave in this situation!”
“Answering our questions would be a good start,” said Petra.
“What questions?” Terry shouted. Red-nailed fingers clawed the air. Trying to rip through an invisible barrier. “I haven’t heard any intelligent questions! What? What?”
Milo and Petra let her calm down, then went through their routine. Twenty minutes later, they’d learned little more than the approximate date of Kevin’s last call to his parents.
Nearly a month ago.
Frank’s admission. Terry blanched as he said it.
A month between calls spoke volumes about the parent-child relationship.
“Kevin needed space,” she said. “He was always my creative one.”
Frank started to say something, stopped himself, began picking lint from the sofa.
Terry muttered, “Stop that, you’ll ruin it.”
Frank complied, closed his eyes, rested his neck on a throw pillow.
Terry said, “Kevin’s twenty-four. He has a life of his own.”
I said, “When’s the last time you sent him money?”
The subject of cash rejuvenated Frank; his dark eyes snapped open. “Not for a long time. He wouldn’t take any more.”
“Kevin refused money?”
“Eventually,” he said.
“Eventually,” I repeated.
Terry said, “He was always independent. Never wanted to rely on us.”
“But you did finance GrooveRat,” I said.
Mention of the magazine made both of them wince.
Frank said, “I bankrolled it in the beginning.”
“And after that?”
“Nothing,” he told me. “You’re wrong about our being involved in everything he did.”
“His life we were involved in,” countered his wife. “He’s our son, we’ll always be part of his life, but…” She trailed off.
I said, “Kevin needed to establish his own identity, and you respected that.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Kevin’s always had his own identity.”
Frank blinked, and I addressed him: “So you sent him money to start up the magazine, then stopped.”
“I sent him money for whatever he needed,” said Frank. “It wasn’t specifically for the magazine.”
“What did you think of the magazine?”
He shrugged. “Not my thing.”
Terry said, “I thought it was cute. Very well written.”
I said, “And after the first few months…?”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “He stopped calling-”
“Don’t say it like that,” said Terry. “It wasn’t like we had a fight. You and he-” To us: “My husband’s a dominant man. The other boys can deal with it. Kevin needed to find his own way.”
“Great,” said Frank, “it’s my fault.”
“It’s no one’s fault, Frank, we’re not talking about fault, no one’s done anything that’s a fault. We’re trying to give them a clear picture of Kevin so they can see him as a person, not some… some suspect.”
Frank folded thick arms across his chest.
Terry said, “This is not about you, Frank.”
“Thank God.”
She moved a few inches farther from him. Took hold of an accent pillow and held it on her lap like a pet.