I went to the door and called back, “I’m in the bathroom, Casey.”
“Telephone.”
I had turned off the ringer on the bedroom phone when I took my nap. I picked up the receiver.
“Maggie? It’s Lana. Just want to keep you on top of things. To give you time for your new edits, we’re running your package tomorrow beginning at four. We’ll run trailers on the story during daytime programming, so it should get a lot of attention. I screened the first version for the producers of L.A. Hot, our midnight issues show. They’re really interested in an expanded format. Will you talk to them?”
“For tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Could be,” Lana said. “I think the topic says ‘late night.’ These guys also produce a Sunday morning interview show. They’re thinking about bringing you on because of the political campaign angle. Talk to them.”
“I’ll talk to them.” I wrote down the number she gave me, but I wasn’t ready to have my face attached to the story. Because of my connection to Mike, I was vulnerable. My research was good, the issues raised were legitimate ones. Still, I had to be careful.
While Mike dressed, I went to the kitchen to start dinner, stir-fried leftover pork and steamed rice. I was slicing zucchini when Michael came in, dressed in shorts and a polo shirt.
“Need some help?” he asked, picking up a peeled carrot on his way past me.
“I need some company. Sit down and talk to me.” He pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards.
“So?” I said. “Tell me about school. Have you met anyone?” He flushed slightly. “I have a date tomorrow night with someone I met in Asian Lit.”
“Ah, fate plays a hand. She’s nice?”
“She’s…” He paused. “She’s interesting.”
“And beautiful?”
He put his hands up on the back of the chair and rested his chin on them while he thought that over. Finally, he turned to me. “I prefer interesting. What did you think of Charlene?”
“She’s beautiful,” I said. “I think she has strong feelings for your father. And, I think Bowser was a lot happier to see her than you were.”
“I was that obvious?” He turned away to cover his chagrin. “She was actually sort of nice to me today.”
I peeled another carrot and began chopping it.
He said, “Char was always jealous of me and Dad, because we were so close. She made him choose between us.”
I said, “Exit Char.”
He raised his big gray eyes to me-Mike’s eyes. “You’ll like my mom, though.”
My face must have given me away.
“Trust me.” Michael laughed knowingly. “You’ll like her.”
“Uh huh,” I said, and segued to celery. “Meeting one ex-wife filled my quota.”
“You don’t have anything to be afraid of. For my dad, three times is the charm. No one has ever made him as happy as you do.”
I set my knife aside, feeling touched by the tenderness in his tone as much as by his words. “Thank you, Michael. I love you, too.”
He laughed. “Is that what I said?”
“Close enough.”
I kept my appointment with Linda Westman, the learning specialist, because it was easier to keep than to cancel on short notice. I had booked independent studio time and studio technicians, and would have to pay union scale whether we showed up or not.
My project had evolved a long way from its original focus, but what Linda had to say could still be useful. If not on this film, then maybe on something else.
Linda Westman was an easy interview. Whatever she might have been feeling, she looked calm and professional on camera. Dark brown hair with a comfortable amount of gray, expressive brown eyes, a well-tailored, teal blue suit made her photogenic.
“I have worked with kids like Tyrone Harkness for almost twenty years,” she said, chin up, shoulders straight with a slenderizing half-turn to the camera. “It doesn’t matter how bright they are, kids from disorganized families are destined from the first day of school to drop out, to lose job after job, because no one teaches them the organizational skills necessary to get to school or to work on time. You must learn how to get up at a certain hour, budget the time it takes to wash, dress, eat, gather school materials, and proceed directly to school.”
Her intensity edged her forward in her seat. “‘On-time-ness’ is not a goal that can be reached with a good lecture on promptness and a reliable alarm clock. It must be taught consistently at an early age. Parents who go to work every day, who serve meals on schedule, and enforce bedtime, these parents teach time-management skills by example.
“Until he was sent to Juvenile Hall, no one ever told Tyrone when to eat or sleep or what time to get up so he could get to school on time. He ate when he was hungry, slept when he dropped. And school? He got there when he got there. Listen to his language. When he speaks, he uses only the present tense, as if he is without past and without future.”
I said, “Tyrone told me how he plans to go away to a better place. That doesn’t sound like present-mindedness.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Westman said. “But I’ll lay odds that he was repeating a story someone else told him. ‘Someday, son…’ But Tyrone doesn’t have any idea where someday is. Was he getting organized for his move? Did he have a plan of action worked out?”
“He was in Juvenile Hall on a murder charge.”
She raised her hands as if to say, I told you so. “Tyrone kept getting caught by the police because he never planned his crimes. He might know that the best time to rob is bank is when it opens at ten, but he would have no idea how to get there at ten. Arriving sometime between eight and noon for a ten o’clock appointment is not precise enough for success, even for a bank robber. His crimes tended to be crimes of opportunity, because he didn’t know how to carry off a timely plan.”
Linda Westman gave me good background to use. I was glad I hadn’t rescheduled. We talked for a good hour, and could have taped a second, if I’d had the time. When the lights were turned off, she stood up and stretched.
“That was fun,” she said.
“You’re a natural. You should be in sales.”
She laughed. “All teachers are salesmen.”
On our way out, I offered her a soda from the machine instead of taking her out for coffee somewhere. I needed to be home. She invited me to drop by her classes at Juvenile Hall some morning, and dictated her schedule to me. Without setting a date, we said good-bye.
As soon as I walked into the house, Mike and Michael went out to buy paint. Casey was in the hall, working out on her barre. I sat down on the floor out of her kicking range to watch.
“So?” I asked her. “What do you think?”
“About?”
“School, the house, Los Angeles, Monsieur Flint, life?”
“I like the house,” she said. “It’s pretty old, but Mike showed me how he’s going to make a studio for me. That’s cool, but why does Michael get a whole house of his own?”
“You’re too young to fly so far from the nest.”
“Oh, right. His house is only in the backyard.”
“Michael is an adult, Casey. If his school tuition wasn’t so expensive he would be living away from home. Don’t you think he needs his own place?”
“That’s one of those trick questions. Yeah, I think he needs his own place. But so do I.”
“You’ll have two big rooms to yourself. Much more space than the cottage.”
“And it’s right next to you.”
“Yep.” I leaned back against the wall. “Show me some of your stuff.”
“Watch this.” She unfurled one of her amazing legs up from the side until it was straight up, nearly touching the ceiling. “I can finally do it. Mischa showed me how to lengthen the hamstring.
“Looks like it hurts,” I said. “The ceilings in the new house are taller.”
She snapped her leg down. “Do I have to go to Dad’s this weekend?”