said. “Natalie’s dad owns it. You’ve got to see the inside. The ocean water runs right through
like a creek, and they’ve got a little bridge built over. That building across the street is the gallery. The painting in
the window is one of Mom’s.”
By the time I had finished giving Helen a guided tour of the village it was really late, and we headed back to Cliff House,
pedaling as fast as we could to beat the descending darkness. We put the bikes away and entered the house through the kitchen.
Dad was seated at the table, getting ready to pour wine, and Mom was burning a chicken under the broiler. Both of them were
in good spirits—their work had gone well—and Mom had a painting of Neal’s to show us. It was a strange, fantasy thing of rocks
that were shaped like dragons.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” she said with satisfaction.
“He’s our kid, all right,” Dad acknowledged, “half artist, half SF nut.”
“S, F?” Helen asked, mystified.
“That’s short for science fiction,” Mom told her. “The other term is ‘sci-fi,’ but don’t use that around here unless you want
a fight on your hands. It’s an insult unless it’s used by another writer, apparently.”
Dad came back at her with some reference to artists, and the kids heard us laughing and came rushing down the stairs to see
what they were missing. Mom flipped the chicken to blacken it on the other side, and everything settled into an evening a
regular family might have.
My parents liked Helen. I could tell by the way they joked around with her.
“So you’re from Arizona, are you?” Dad said. “The state of tumbleweeds and dust storms. We took a trip out that way once and
dried out and wrinkled up like a couple of prunes.”
“Speak for yourself, Jim,” Mom said. “I really liked it. We almost moved there, remember? If we had, I’d be painting mesas
and mountains instead of the ocean.”
“You almost moved to Arizona?” I asked in surprise. “You never told me that.”
“It wasn’t Arizona,” Mom said. “It was New Mexico. It was back before you came along, in Dad’s and my starvation days. We
got this idea that we might build a hogan or something and live there on beans and chiles while we were waiting for the world
to appreciate us.”
“You had starvation days?” Helen asked incredulously. I guess she thought Cliff House had always been ours.
“All creative people do their share of starving,” Dad said. “When Shelly and I were first married we lived in a studio walk-up
in Greenwich Village and survived on peanut butter. That’s how we came to be the cooks we are today. By the time my wife hit
the big time and we could afford to eat something better, it was too late for us to learn how to manage an oven.”
“When I hit the big time!” Mom exclaimed, tossing a chicken bone across the table at him in mock anger. “It was when your
book Walk to the Stars got developed into a TV show that things started changing for us. They got Brittany Mahrer for the lead role—”
“Just about the same time your work was getting recognized.” Dad grinned, frankly delighted for both of them. “It all seemed
to come at once, Helen, like ketchup out of a bottle. You shake and shake, and it seems like nothing’s ever going to happen,
and then—blurp!—it’s all there. Money started coming in, and we knew right away what we wanted to do with it. We had a dream:
To live on an island. To be together, away from disturbances—to work—to raise our kids.”
“‘Kid’ then,” Mom reminded him.
“Right. Laurie then, and we thought there’d never be another. And then, out of the blue, blown in from Saturn—”
“Oh, Dad, cool it,” Neal said, blushing. He never liked to be the subject of a conversation.
Dad reached over and ruffled his fine blond hair.
“It was a good wind that blew us you and Megan,” he told him fondly.
After dinner we sat in the living room and
like a creek, and they’ve got a little bridge built over. That building across the street is the gallery. The painting in
the window is one of Mom’s.”
By the time I had finished giving Helen a guided tour of the village it was really late, and we headed back to Cliff House,
pedaling as fast as we could to beat the descending darkness. We put the bikes away and entered the house through the kitchen.
Dad was seated at the table, getting ready to pour wine, and Mom was burning a chicken under the broiler. Both of them were
in good spirits—their work had gone well—and Mom had a painting of Neal’s to show us. It was a strange, fantasy thing of rocks
that were shaped like dragons.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” she said with satisfaction.
“He’s our kid, all right,” Dad acknowledged, “half artist, half SF nut.”
“S, F?” Helen asked, mystified.
“That’s short for science fiction,” Mom told her. “The other term is ‘sci-fi,’ but don’t use that around here unless you want
a fight on your hands. It’s an insult unless it’s used by another writer, apparently.”
Dad came back at her with some reference to artists, and the kids heard us laughing and came rushing down the stairs to see
what they were missing. Mom flipped the chicken to blacken it on the other side, and everything settled into an evening a
regular family might have.
My parents liked Helen. I could tell by the way they joked around with her.
“So you’re from Arizona, are you?” Dad said. “The state of tumbleweeds and dust storms. We took a trip out that way once and
dried out and wrinkled up like a couple of prunes.”
“Speak for yourself, Jim,” Mom said. “I really liked it. We almost moved there, remember? If we had, I’d be painting mesas
and mountains instead of the ocean.”
“You almost moved to Arizona?” I asked in surprise. “You never told me that.”
“It wasn’t Arizona,” Mom said. “It was New Mexico. It was back before you came along, in Dad’s and my starvation days. We
got this idea that we might build a hogan or something and live there on beans and chiles while we were waiting for the world
to appreciate us.”
“You had starvation days?” Helen asked incredulously. I guess she thought Cliff House had always been ours.
“All creative people do their share of starving,” Dad said. “When Shelly and I were first married we lived in a studio walk-up
in Greenwich Village and survived on peanut butter. That’s how we came to be the cooks we are today. By the time my wife hit
the big time and we could afford to eat something better, it was too late for us to learn how to manage an oven.”
“When I hit the big time!” Mom exclaimed, tossing a chicken bone across the table at him in mock anger. “It was when your
book Walk to the Stars got developed into a TV show that things started changing for us. They got Brittany Mahrer for the lead role—”
“Just about the same time your work was getting recognized.” Dad grinned, frankly delighted for both of them. “It all seemed
to come at once, Helen, like ketchup out of a bottle. You shake and shake, and it seems like nothing’s ever going to happen,
and then—blurp!—it’s all there. Money started coming in, and we knew right away what we wanted to do with it. We had a dream:
To live on an island. To be together, away from disturbances—to work—to raise our kids.”
“‘Kid’ then,” Mom reminded him.
“Right. Laurie then, and we thought there’d never be another. And then, out of the blue, blown in from Saturn—”
“Oh, Dad, cool it,” Neal said, blushing. He never liked to be the subject of a conversation.
Dad reached over and ruffled his fine blond hair.
“It was a good wind that blew us you and Megan,” he told him fondly.
After dinner we sat in the living room and
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