Part 7

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 6)

 The Pinto is The Little Engine That Could, gasping and gurgling on the drive up to the estate, and I'm coaxing, Com'on, baby, you can do it. Mrs. Wesley introduces me to her husband, the judge, who nods without shaking my hand. He's portly with silver hair and a habit of turning to his wife for rulings. What should I wear tonight, the gray or the black suit? Is it cold enough for a sweater? When are we going to eat? When the judge is home he seems to be the one who wants to be ruled, and Mrs. Wesley seems more than willing to comply. Be a dear and take Mr. Capri to the guest house, and she disappears. The judge unlocks the door to my room, mumbles that I'll be able to clean it up in no time, and quickly excuses himself. I'm left dazed. The box-like and barren dust-covered room he has sentenced me to is furnished with one bed and a dozen daddy longlegs. The arachnids bolt every which way in panic and when one runs near my shoe I pick it up and release it outside. Judge Wesley, who is watering the garden, smiles curiously. Interesting that you wouldn't kill that spider, he says, raising a bushy eyebrow. In this world I figure you've gotta choose sides and then it's either be strong and dominate or be weak and be crushed.

I'm strolling the grounds when a strong breeze comes up and rattles the tall acacia trees. I relish the sound of the rustling leaves and the feel of the cool breeze against my face. At the end of the gardens I look back at the mansion and suddenly I'm back at the mansion I was raised in. As a boy I knew all the comforts of wealth on an estate in Falls Church, Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C.. Dad, a prominent psychiatrist and the author of over 30 self-help books, was a millionaire. Then he lost everything by grossly underselling three prime real-estate properties. Going from riches to rags was a rude awakening for the whole family and made Mom especially bitter. And thinking of my folks, I decide to give them a ring to celebrate a roof over my head.

From the nearby flamingo pink Beverly Hills Hotel I call home and Mom says, How was the move from San Diego? I know she doesn't want to know the gory details so I give her the retouched picture. I edit out the photo assistant who prefers an occasional banana and the sleepless nights sleeping in the Pinto and the all-work-and-no-pay arrangement with Mrs. Wesley.

I'm so glad everything is working out, she says. Hold on. I'll get your father. The receiver falls to the floor with a Clunk. Dad says, Glad you're getting a foot in the door. It's a start till you get a regular job. Don't ever rely on photography for income. Keep it a hobby. Write us at least once a week. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mom says. Why should he write that often. You never do? Awww, stop it, Louise. You stop it, Mom says. You stop it. Sorry you have to hear this static from your mother, Dad says. He wouldn't have to hear it if you'd just breathe through your nose, Mom says. Dad says, To change the subject, your brother is doing much better. What do you mean? I ask. Didn't we tell you? Ralph's jaw was broken. He couldn't pay off one of his bets on a football game so a bookie sent over some thug who broke Ralph's jaw so bad it had to be wired shut. He's doing much better now, Mom says. Pretty soon he won't have to eat through a straw. Don't forget to write once a week, Dad says. Leave him alone, Mom says. You're the one who needs to write more. Awww, stop it. You're spoiling the conversation with Frank. Well, gotta go. I just wanted you to know that everything's okay. Tomorrow's my first day at work.

See, Louise, he's hanging up because you can't control yourself. Are you listening, Frank? Mom says. How do you like that cruelty from a psychiatrist? Believe me, if you marry one you need one. I'm sorry you had to hear that, Dad says. I don't know why we can't just have pleasant conversation. Anyhow, congratulations on your move. I know it's going to be hard for you to listen to Mrs. Wesley when she tells you what to do but you need security now. Promise us you won't rely on photography to make a living.

Don't worry, Dad, and Mom says, I told you he wouldn't promise. You're being stubborn, Dad says, and without missing a beat Mom adds, A chip right off the old block.

(to be continued every Tuesday)