I smiled. “Yes, I think so.”
“My father had already been diagnosed with cancer when I started to spend more time with him, but he wasn’t-he wasn’t an invalid. Most of the time, he did his best to make me forget that he was ill. We had a lot of catching up to do. It was clear to me that he still loved my mother. It was the way he would ask about her, the way he would look whenever he’d talk about the years when we were a family.”
He fell silent for a while. By then we had reached San Bernadino. Soon we would be in the mountains themselves.
“Once in a while he would have a bad day,” he said, coming out of his reverie, “and on those days, he’d ask me not to come over. I’d protest, and tell him that I wanted to be with him no matter what, but he could be stubborn.
“When there started to be more bad days, he sat me down and told me-well, many things. He said that the two of us had more than enough painful memories between us, that he preferred this reunion of ours not to include my seeing him helpless and sick. He said he would always feel he had taken horrible advantage of me if he had only brought me to his side to watch him die. He wanted life with me, he said, not death, and nothing but good memories of our time together to sustain him through whatever was to come.”
He was silent again. He reached for the envelope of photographs, pulled out one of the ones of the purple camper and smiled wistfully.
“During one of my earlier visits,” he said, “my father had learned that I had studied to be a reading specialist, and asked me about it. He encouraged me to talk about the things I enjoyed doing-and about the things I dreamed of doing. I told him about storytelling, which I had been involved in locally for a number of years. And another time, I told him that I had this urge to travel. That’s when I learned more about the hobo side of the family-he said I couldn’t help being a nomad, it was the Spanning vagabond in me.
“This last time I saw him, he called in Mr. Brennan, whom I had met when I was younger, but hadn’t seen in many years. My father and Mr. Brennan told me about the provisions my father had made for me. I was astounded, to tell you the truth.
“My father told me he was worried that making me this wealthy would put me in danger, and not just from the DeMonts, but he figured I would understand that, and take care of myself. He said there were members of the family who would try to convince me that I owed them big portions if not all of his money, and he wished I would tell them to go to hell, but if I wanted to hand it over to them, fine. For now, he said, he was the one who had earned it, and so it was his decision to make himself happy by imagining me doing what I wanted to do, making my own choices.
“He asked if I ever thought of taking my storytelling act on the road for a time-and as he went on to describe some of his ideas about it, it wasn’t as if he was pushing me to conform to something he wanted. It was-it was as if I had told my most secret dreams to someone, and he had not only not laughed at them, but he had understood them perfectly.”
“And given you the power to make them come true.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“But your mother didn’t like the idea?”
He shook his head. “Hated it. She would have been angry at me for taking a dime from him. She saw it as a betrayal. She even moved to that one-bedroom apartment-a way of saying I wasn’t going to find a room for myself when I came back. I guess- I had lived with her for so long, beyond the time when I wanted to move out, because I knew-I knew!-how lonely she’d be…”
“So for once in your life, you did something for yourself.”
“Oh, not for once,” he said. “She made a lot of sacrifices for me.”
“Your wanting to leave the nest-it was the natural course of things, Travis. I remember how my father-well, never mind.”
“Your father didn’t want you to move out?”
“No. But at that time, I felt as if we’d end up hating each other if I stayed. And I think we would have.”
“But you came back.”
“That’s true. It was what he wanted, what he asked for. For me to be there. I did what he asked. Your father asked for something different. You did what he asked.”
He was silent.
Ghosts, I thought, then suddenly remembered Travis’s e-mail address. “Was he your George Kerby?”
He smiled. “Topper. My dad and I watched a videotape of that film one day. He threatened to start calling me ‘Toppie’ because he said I was just like Cosmo Topper, confined to routine and taking life far too seriously. He said I needed to get out and do the things I wanted to do. He said he’d come back and haunt me if I didn’t start living a little. So Cosmo became my storyteller name.”
“I wonder if he was also trying to take you out of harm’s way for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe by sending you on the road, making it difficult for people to find you after his death, your father saved your life.”
He was thinking that over when his cell phone rang.
“It’s Rachel,” he said, “but she said I should ask you to pull over before I give you the phone.”
“Oh, brother. Once a cop-” I said lightly.
“She sounds upset,” he said.
31
I had just started up Highway 18, so I pulled over and took the phone from Travis.
“Rachel? Is Mary all right?”
“Mary’s fine. Her house is fine, too, although there was a fire.”
“A fire! Her house caught on fire?”
“No, the Karmann Ghia.”
“The…” I couldn’t say it.
“Jack and I went over there to pick it up, there was already a fire truck on the scene.”
“Not my Karmann Ghia…”
“I’m so sorry, Irene. I know you loved that little car. I know you’ve had it for a long time-”
“Since college,” I said blankly. “Since college.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?”
“If I had gone straight over there, after I talked to you-”
“Oh, Rachel. Don’t do that to yourself. I’m the one who left it there. What happened?”
“Molotov cocktail.”
“We must be rushing him. The bomb on Travis’s camper was much more sophisticated.”
“Let Travis drive-you’re upset.”
“Steer a van up mountain roads with one hand? Not if you aren’t used to it. But now he’s wondering what has happened. Explain it to him, will you?”
I handed the phone to Travis and started up Waterman Canyon. He spoke briefly with Rachel, hung up, then said, “I’m sorry, Irene.”
“Just a car,” I said, which was such total bullshit, I’m surprised he didn’t call me on it. But he fell silent, which is what I needed.
I was grateful for the mountain roads; they required my absolute concentration. The sun was setting, and by the time we reached Mr. Brennan’s large, lake-view mountain home, it was dark. I parked along the road, took out a large flashlight that Jack had apparently included in the price of the van, and Travis and I stepped outside. I felt the chill mountain air, heard the crickets sing, smelled the pine fragrance and saw the stars overhead. I promptly bent over double and started throwing up.
“Irene!” Travis rushed over to me.
“Some water, please,” I said between dry heaves. “Bottle in the van fridge.”
He brought it to me. I rinsed my mouth out. “Is it because of your car?”
“No.”
“The curving road?”
“No.”
“The altitude?”
“No. The mountains,” I said.
“The mountains?”
“I’m-I’m afraid of the mountains.”
He stopped asking questions.
“I was taken to a place not far from here once,” I said. “Against my will. Locked me in a little dark room. Spent three days beating the shit out me. Haven’t been to the mountains since. And if you ever want to see me go nuts, lock me inside any confined space.”
He reached over, took my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”