CHAPTER VI. THE SPIDER’S WEB

Your hero flirts with danger.

Lung cancer claimed Grandpa Magnusson. We visited to the end and were spared little, morphine inadequate to the task. I have a dread of hospital wards. The parents caught Sonja smoking in the garage and pressed the warning. They should have known better, the rebel rarely relinquishing the chance.

 Smoke hung in the air. Another girl was taking a drag. She made it her last, killing the light on the railing, declining the drama. The breeze could barely banish the breath of guilt. The consenting party unplugged her earphones.

“Honored to have your attention.” I dared a dart.

“Yes, you are.” She spoke, in my direction. Short of stature, she failed to lift her eyes. The deck was growing dusky, although the late-afternoon fog cracked to spread a hesitant light over the well-scrubbed boarding. But no precaution is perfect; nature’s trespass glinted in the speckled light, waiting in suspension. The fly has no escape, the fineness of the thread no measure of the danger.

“What happened to the party spirit?”

“Haven’t pulled out my machete.” The glass of wine was still perched on the railing, in need of replenishment. A husky voice belied the tender years.

“Boadicea slaughtered a hundred thousand Romans. We should give thanks for your restraint.”

“She’s such a good girl. You should know, checking me out like a perv.”

“I had strict instructions. Now I’m off the hook, leaving soon.”

“Isn’t he the lucky one? Gotta stay over. Lollapalooza dragging on all night.”

“Your folks throw some party, unfortunately. I should have brought a book. You remind me of a painting. Aren’t you cold?”

“On fire.”

 Gloria and Bill have children. All three were present, two were correct. Lily, the eldest, was following her father’s footsteps into law, though propelled by less venal ambition. She featured cropped hair, square-cut jacket, businesslike blouse and slacks, and had invited a female friend of notably matching presentation to the party. This turn was news to me, and I would enjoy quizzing bombastic Bill for confirmation. Noah, the only son, had decamped to an East Coast prep school but had nevertheless managed to procure a brown-eyed Californian girlfriend, who was trailing him around as if leashed to a guide dog. Lily and Noah mingled inside, reeling in a generous catch. The parents hymn their praises, Bill’s devotion to his children redeeming his extensive list of crimes against humanity. Offspring of some privilege, they were nevertheless likeable, had inherited neither Gloria’s artifice nor Bill’s ego. The affable pair had little enthusiasm for the early guitar lessons of my recruitment, but we formed a bond, greet each other fondly. They appreciate my avuncular advice. At least they should.

 Yes, Bill is devoted. But the fatherly favor is compromised. There is an apple in his eye. Another daughter holds his heart, a possession as publicly evident as privately denied. Mr. and Mrs. Connor rarely speak of the recluse. Family intimates know the drill, but a first acquaintance might suspect some guilty secret: a baby that they made her give up; a lover biding time in state penitentiary; a hit-and-run manslaughter that her father had contrived to dismiss? The girl is pleasant to behold, can carry a conversation, acquit herself with adult aplomb. And she is smart, accepted by the nation’s top public university, if her attitude does test the limits of standard teenage deviation. Gloria never delivers on the deviant, whereas her spigot is impossible to staunch over the other two.

 “Uncle? I wasn’t expecting such respect.”

“Wish you could trade places with my real uncle. Don’t let it go to your head. Total douche.”

“Bill’s brother? Runs in the family.”

“Daddy is an asshole. My rock! Hates Ray too. I could tell you some stories.” The news anchor nonchalantly shook the pack. “Dude now has stomach cancer, nasty business. I cried when I heard the news, with joy.” Cold lips took another Camel. “We had an issue. Never touched me though. Daddy would have cut off his nuts.”

“I’m happy you warned me.” I would be even happier to change the subject.

“You’re cool. Some chicks click with older guys.” She took a drag. “Don’t be getting ideas, my gangster.” The lighter added an exclamation point. “Ray was a cop, until he lost his badge. Not angry, I like men well enough.”

“Thank you for clearing that up.” The older guy also had an issue, his ground as solid as her smoke. “So, what hideous racket were you listening to?” I tapped her equipment.

“James Brown. Got soul, Uncle Annie?”

“Stay on the scene . . . uunh . . . like a sex machine.” I am not responsible. Did I write the damn lyrics? “I got the music in me. And no more Uncle Annie, please.”

“You’d like me to call you—”

“Sex Machine.” That chorus erupted again, with inebriated brio.

Oh God! What was I thinking?! It meant nothing, you must understand. I’m perfectly innocent; Gloria had charged the waiters, no empty glass. It wasn’t my fault. Chip might lose his grip. But I’m a man of restraint, really I am.

Regret scalded my fibers. Party guests would have another story: A man of half century was hitting on a girl, his oldest friend’s daughter, no less. Defiling a treasure. The beloved child will rat and the father will have to punch me out, the paternal prerogative. Excommunication! The afternoon lurched from bad to worse, an abyss of stupidity. Oblivion, swallow me up. I finally find someone to talk to, if thirty years my junior, and scare her away like a homeless lunatic shrieking at a pigeon. And I couldn’t muster the simplest apology.

The bird giggled. “Cracking me up.” The mirth blew in like a rain shower in the desert. “Mr. Sex Machine. Totally.”

“James Brown. My man.”

My cheer outlasted her chuckle. And I had to celebrate in silence, finding nothing to match the wit. A buzz animated the party hive, and lanterns shone through the stained glass as the gray fog enveloped two wayward insects and smothered the ocean waves. But a glow suffused my core. Who would have thought? I had last known a gawky adolescent, undistinguished to male survey. That small, skittish shadow had firmed into the sunlit form I had assayed from an earlier remove. With button nose, upturned lip, angle of assurance, and those eyes of enigma, she faced the world on her own terms, although proximity replaced the flattery of distance with some pallor. But a spring blossom possesses a pollen. And she knew.

The skin betrayed no blemish. And our solid deck gave onto a well-tended garden, no sore blighting the bucolic scene. The beach beckoned, waves broke calmly within earshot, and I heard another melody; we shared a taste in music. The surest web spreads gently. The long and winding road. The girl had her song.

June sings a different tune. D-Day immortalized the month, thousands of Allied forces perishing on Omaha Beach. A long way from home, the GIs peered over the bow of their landing craft, where ominous cliffs concealed hell’s artillery. Earlier in the war, nearly half a million Allied forces were trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk. Out of his element, his defenses down, his equipment wanting, another valiant soldier surveyed his own fateful stretch of sand.

 “Can I fill up your wine? Doing the math here, you won’t get me into trouble?”

“You should be so lucky. My mother said she wanted me to enjoy myself.”

“Very generous, given all the judges in attendance.”

“Reverse psychology. I’m onto her, as usual. I’m fine.”

She was fine. I withheld the quip; the older player should hold his cards. And he should not inadvertently brush her arm—even when she waives her right of recoil. You might suppose an understanding. However, pages had turned since we were playing hide-and-go-seek in their overgrown yard. I recalled a cycling route around the neighborhood, with a detour to the swings and slides of a small park. But in later visits to the family home, she was sighted as often as Huckleberry Finn in the employment office, her adolescence sequestered in a rumored attic.

—Huck, you came and went, of your own free will. You wore castoffs, one suspender supported your trousers, and your hat was a vast ruin. Luckiest of boys, the more properly dressed envied your latitude. The town mothers issued strict orders of avoidance; the oppressed sons could only dream. Yet I have a sneaking suspicion: Becky Thatcher, of the lovely blue eyes, long blond hair, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes was in love with your friend, respectable Tom Sawyer. A vagabond will whistle, but didn’t you ever have the thought?—

“Your folks are really lucky, having this place.”

She turned her back. The banal remark placed me in exile. Silence hung over the deck with the thickening fog, though strains of laughter still escaped the house.

“Don’t want anything more to drink. I am jonesing for some weed.”

Drugs fuel the teenage fire. Dealt a royal flush, the poker player gulps. But I play my cards with calm, trust me.

“Here?” I shrugged. Suppose she lit up in front of me. I would be an accomplice, and I needed a father’s good grace.

“Timbuktu. I’ll borrow Daddy’s private jet.”

“Funny girl. I don’t suppose Daddy would be overjoyed, in full view of the—”

“I don’t suppose he’d be overjoyed.” She knew her scoff. “I’ll go for a walk on the beach. What can he do?” She rose to full contempt.

Troy falls for the ploy? Quite possibly, but I am Anselm Thomas Merrywood. A walk on the beach? The news aired with some static. She was Bill’s daughter. She had a worrisome way. But even a rebel respects the rule—a culprit might share the contraband, but a girl will never ask.

 We studied the surf in silence. The wind was waning, the weed was waiting, but the wench offered no encouragement. I took it all in stride, needless to say.

“Well, Alice . . . I’m actually in no big hurry . . . I don’t . . .” I am never at a loss, trust me. “I’m thinking . . .” I get right to the point. “If you . . .” I am a conversationalist of some cool. “If you want some company, that is . . .” All right, these words might seem a little wanting. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? But even the Bard would lose the facility, if thou blowest cigarette smoke in his visage.

“Wild man! I’ll get my stuff.”