Allison (A Kane Novel) (5 page)

I frowned.  “He was just trying to flesh out his story,” I said.  “‘Coed Snatches Victim from Monster Waves!’ and so forth.  That bit about a news intern job was a load of bull.”

“Maybe, maybe not.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he checks on it for you.”

“You wouldn’t, huh?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Want to put some money on it?  Say, twenty bucks?”

“Nope,” McKenzie answered quickly.

It was my turn to smile.  “I didn’t think so.”

3

Later that evening I sat on the redwood deck outside our family’s beachfront house, gazing at the wave-tossed Santa Monica Bay.  By then the sun had dropped behind Point Dumé to the west, lighting the horizon with a palette of reds and golds.  A mild offshore breeze had picked up with the setting of the sun, keeping the Malibu evening warm and pleasant. 

My dad was leaning over a smoking barbeque, inspecting the grill.  “All right, lemme see here,” he said, stroking his chin as if lost in thought.  Taking his time, he straightened, cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his muscular six-foot-three, 220-pound frame.  “Now I remember,” he said.  Using tongs, he moved a stack of foil-wrapped corn to the edge of the grill, then began transferring a pile of New York steaks onto the barbeque.  “You kids like your meat nice and tough—black on the outside and extra-well done on the inside, right?”

“No way!” objected Nate, my youngest brother, calling from across the deck.  “We like ’em tender and juicy, medium pink, and big!”

Having recently turned thirteen, Nate had rocketed up over the past year, his strong, compact body maturing with the onset of adolescence.  His mischievous face still sported a rash of freckles, and his mop of curly red hair—as intractable as a snarl of baling wire—had, if anything, grown more undisciplined with age.  Impetuous, competitive, quick to both fury and forgiveness, his loyalties unswerving and his emotions as transparent as glass, Nate, of all the Kane children, most resembled my father.  And for better or worse, he seemed to be traveling that road more and more as time went on.

“Dadzilla’s just teasing, larva,” I said.  “Have you ever known him to burn a steak?”

“No.  And be careful who you’re calling ‘larva’, sis,” Nate warned.  Obviously showing off for McKenzie, who was sitting on a swing nearby, he flexed a surprisingly well-defined set of biceps.  “Keep talking like that and I might have to call out the big guns here.”

“Ohhh, I’m
so
scared,” I replied good-naturedly.  “Tell you what, shrimp.  I’m going to ignore that foolish threat, as I realize your adolescent brain is currently suffering the effects of your adolescent male ‘butthead gene.’  It’s a genetic failing that cripples all members of your gender right around puberty.”

“Is that what people believe on the planet you’re from?”

“Yes, oh freckled-one.  And you’re living proof,” I teased, as usual enjoying our verbal jousting—a sparring that had been part of our relationship since childhood, though now that we were older neither of us really meant.

“Is that right?” Nate retorted.  “Have you discussed your ‘butthead gene’ theory with Dadzilla?  He’s a male too, you know.”

“Dadzilla is where you got that particular gene in the first place,” I pointed out.

“Knock it off, troops,” said Dad, placing the last of the steaks on the grill.  “And while you’re at it, watch who you’re calling Dadzilla,” he added, trying not to smile.  “That kinda talk might give somebody the wrong idea.  Namely, me.”

“Aw, Dad, you know we mean that only in the best possible way,” I said.  “When it comes to dads, you are without a doubt the finest, most understanding, loving, compassionate—”

“Enough, petunia.  Why don’t you scurry upstairs and give your mother a hand with dessert?”

“Because I would rather stay down here and bask in the glow of your culinary genius, that’s why.  Besides, I don’t feel like scurrying.”

“What
is
dessert?” asked McKenzie.  “Something fattening, I hope.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” said Dad.  “My talented wife is making her famous mud pie.”

“Yum,” said Nate.  “C’mon, Callie, let’s go upstairs and see how things are going.  Maybe we can get a little preview,” he added to our family’s four-year-old yellow Labrador retriever.  Callie, who had been napping near the sea wall, cocked her ears, sprang up, and bounded after her young master.

“Have your mom check on my bean casserole, too,” Dad hollered after Nate.  “And take the Caesar salad out of the fridge.”

“Yes, sir,” Nate yelled back.  “Consider it done.”

With Nate and Callie gone, conversation on the deck again settled into a comfortable lull, McKenzie rocking in the swing and contemplating the diminished but still-gigantic waves offshore, my dad concentrating on his cooking.  I watched as my father removed foil from a half-dozen ears of corn, placed them on the upper barbecue rack for their final heating, and flipped the sizzling steaks.  And as I watched, I was struck as usual by the deftness of his thick-knuckled hands, hands that to me had always seemed more suited to bone-crushing labor than the delicate art of cooking.  Nonetheless, despite my father’s rough appearance, I knew he was an excellent chef.  It was a talent that resulted not only from his love of cooking—a passion that in my opinion derived from his controlling nature, a failing he could fully indulge in the kitchen—but also because he had a natural flair for food preparation and an adventurous spirit in his choice of menus.  Mom’s meals sustained us, but my dad’s occasional Friday-night feasts—spicy stir-fry, Southwestern cuisine, Thai and Chinese dishes, sushi, wild-game dinners, Italian food, and a summer barbecue like the one he was preparing tonight—were a welcome diversion eagerly anticipated by our entire family.

Shifting my gaze, I studied my father’s face, finding it a contradiction of harsh lines and contrasting tenderness.  In the evening light, an angry white scar traversing his right cheek reminded me of the glistening track of a tear.  He had received that particular injury in the line of duty several years back.  During that same incident he had also suffered a gunshot wound that left him with a slight limp, a disability most noticeable when he was tired.  In addition, I knew that my father carried other scars from his years on the police force—some visible, some not.

Sensing that he was being observed, my dad turned, his slate-blue eyes searching mine.  “What’s up, sport?” he asked.  “You seem kinda quiet tonight.  Anything wrong?”

I shot a glance at McKenzie, noting that she appeared occupied with her own thoughts.  After a slight hesitation, I shrugged.  “I don’t know, Dad.  Do you ever feel like you don’t know where you’re going with your life?”

“All the time.  Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.  It’s part of being an adult.”

“I’m serious, Dad.  You have your work, Mom will get tenure soon with the Philharmonic, and Travis’s career as a pianist is all laid out for him.  Even Nate is showing promise on the baseball field.  At the rate he’s going, the kid will probably turn pro by the time he’s twenty.  I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels.”

“Does this have something to do with what happened today at the beach?” Dad asked.

When I had arrived home that afternoon, my mother already knew of the Newport Beach incident, having seen it on the local news.  Angrily, she’d pointed out that I had no right taking such chances, adding that I had Friday classes at UCLA and shouldn’t have been at the beach in the first place.

“It might have something to do with today,” I replied, taken off guard by my father’s question.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.”

Dad, who had also seen the rescue footage on television, nodded pensively.  “It’s natural to feel let down after something like that, kid.  Happens in police work all the time.  It’ll pass.”

“It’s more than feeling let down.”

Using a knife, Dad made a small incision in one of the steaks.  Noting its interior had attained a deep-red color just shy of purple, he began removing the meat from the smoking grill.  “It was your mother getting on your case, huh?” he said, placing the steaks on a large platter and covering them with foil to let the meat’s internal heat complete the cooking.  “Listen, on this particular issue your mother and I don’t see eye-to-eye.  I agree with her that you shouldn’t have been playing hooky, and that going out in that surf was dangerous, and so forth.  But what you did today was really something, Ali.  Someone had to help that kid, and you stepped up to the plate.  I’m proud of you.  Just don’t do it again,” he added with a grin.

I brightened slightly.  “Okay, Dad.  But maybe Mom’s right about college.  If I’m not taking my studies seriously, why keep going to school?”

“What are you talking about?  You’re getting straight A’s, for chrissake.”

“But what good is it doing me?  I can’t make a career out of getting A’s in English literature classes.”

“Journalism’s a career.  I thought that’s what you wanted.”

I raised my shoulders, then let them fall.  “I’m not sure what I want.  Mom’s dead-set on my pursuing a career in creative writing, but—”

“Back up a sec,” Dad interrupted.  “Let’s get things in perspective here.  First of all, you have more on the ball than any other young woman your age I’ve ever met.  When I was young, girls got married, had kids, and raised a family.  Now, I know things have changed a bit since the Dark Ages, and I think it’s great that you want to do something with your life before settling down.  But as far as quitting school, don’t be in such an all-fired hurry to grow up.  You’ll be an adult soon enough, and the years will pile up before you know it.  Believe me, the only good thing about getting old is eating cheaper at Denny’s.”

I smiled, but before I could reply, Nate leaned over the railing of our second-story balcony overhanging the deck.  “Ali, McKenzie, get up here fast,” he called.  “You too, Dad.  Ali’s on TV again!”

Once more using his knife, Dad tested the corn.  “These still need a couple of minutes,” he said, judging that the ears had yet to reach the proper level of chewiness, always a point of family contention.  “You and McKenzie go ahead.  And tell everyone that dinner will be hitting the table shortly.”

Though our conversation remained unresolved, I decided to let it pass.  “Okay, Dad.  I’ll tell them.”

Leaving my father on the deck, McKenzie and I made our way upstairs, joining my mother and Nate in the living room.  By then the Newport Beach TV news segment was almost over.  The television screen now showed a wet and shivering me standing on the Harbor Patrol dock clutching a blanket around my shoulders.  “The lifeguards were the heroes,” my image said, turning away from the camera.  At that point the scene shifted to the news desk.  I was shocked to see the handsome face of Peter Samson, the CBS network news anchor.  Inexplicably, what had started out as a local news segment had somehow turned into network news.

“Although the mystery rescuer refused to give her name, CBS has learned that she is Allison Kane, a student at UCLA,” the anchor said.  “According to hospital officials, the young victim Ms. Kane assisted is in stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery.  Heavy surf is predicted to continue battering California beaches through tomorrow.”  Then, turning to another camera angle, “In other West Coast news today, LAPD officials have reported little progress in locating fourteen-year-old actress Jordan French, reported missing from her Pacific Palisades home last weekend.  Here with more from Los Angeles is CBS news correspondent Brent Preston.”

The scene flashed to a residential street.  My mother shook her head.  “That poor little girl,” she said.  Then, raising the remote control, she turned off the set.

“Gosh, Ali, now you’re on
national
TV,” said McKenzie.  “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I replied self-consciously, still stinging from my mother’s earlier censure.

“Yeah!  Awesome, sis!” added Nate.

“Can I have your autograph?” begged McKenzie.  “Please?”

“Oh, hush, Mac,” I said, covertly watching my mother from the corner of my eye.  Like many of my recent confrontations with Mom, our latest argument over the beach rescue had been protracted and bitter, charged with an underlying tension that more and more seemed to color our exchanges with misunderstanding and hurt.  Worse, I knew this latest conflict wasn’t over yet.

As I secretly regarded my mom, I felt a familiar stab of inadequacy.  Still stunningly beautiful at just over forty, Catheryn Kane, accomplished musician and the associate principal cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, embodied all the virtues I felt I lacked in myself:  elegance, talent, grace, and most of all, a sense of purpose.  “What do
you
think about my making the national news, Mom?” I asked hesitantly.

Mom looked over.  “You know what I think,” she said, her eyes flashing with irritation.  “This latest newscast doesn’t change anything.”  As she was about to add something more, the phone rang.  McKenzie, the closest, picked it up.  “Kane residence.”  A pause, then, “Yes, she’s right here.”  Setting the receiver on the table, she turned to me.  “It’s for you,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

“Dinnertime,” my dad’s voice boomed up from the deck outside.  “Get your butts down here, kids!  You too, Kate.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Nate, glancing guiltily at Mom.  “Dad wanted you to check on his bean casserole.  And he said to take the salad out of the fridge.”

“Already done,” said Mom.  She rose from the couch.  “Everything’s on the kitchen counter.  Let’s all take something down to the picnic table as we go.  And Allison, don’t be long.  We’ll wait for you to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After everyone left, I crossed to the table and lifted the receiver.  “Hello?”

“Allison?  Mike Cortese.”

“Who?”

“Mike Cortese.  From the beach.  The pushy guy with the camera, remember?”

“How . . . how did you get my number?”

“Your friend McKenzie.  Have you seen yourself on TV?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I hope you don’t mind.  I know you didn’t want any publicity, but what happened today was news.”