we’re arguing over is a technicality.”
“You think it’s a technicality,” I said, “that I have no legal status in her life? You could move her to another state without even telling me.”
“You should have thought of that, Randy, when you destroyed our reputation on the front page of every paper in Southern California.”
Jean Trask had shed my last name as quickly as a prisoner sheds his orange jumpsuit. Her maiden name had always sounded like military discipline to me. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to love her.
Sewell cut us both off at the pass, which I suspected was his specialty. He did it in an interesting way, too: he cleared his throat, looked at the room around us, and then launched into something entirely different. It wasn’t denial so much as a weird dominance. He’d decided that the conversation should be over, so he declared it over.
“Randy,” he began, “Alison says that project in Capistrano is something to see. How did she put it—Frank Lloyd Wright in skateboard shoes? I’m not sure what that means, but I was impressed by her enthusiasm.” Sewell’s default mode was to conciliate. I remembered that about him. Or rather, I remembered what Terry had said about him:
Guy can’t even take a bathroom break until he’s sure everything’s in order
.
I wish I were better defended against this kind of compliment, but I’m not. Convince me that my daughter loves me a tenth as much as I love her, and I’m your bitch.
One of Jean’s former boyfriends had written me a poem about his “yearning” for us to be good friends. Another asked if I wanted to do a sweat lodge with him sometime. So I liked the idea of John Sewell. He was cordial, and he acted like a man. All I really wanted was a safe place for my daughter to live when she couldn’t live with me. An end to my alimony wouldn’t hurt, either.
John suggested to Jean that maybe I would like a ginger ale, too, and she left the room with such fury that you could hear the fabric of her slacks whipping against itself. In an instant, John and I were alone together.
“Can I ask you a question, John?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You ever meet an electrician named after a dog? Maybe someone who worked for you?”
Sewell smiled kindly and shook his head. “I don’t think so, Randy. Why?”
“You don’t even want to know,” I said.
Sewell looked thoughtfully into my eyes. “I was sorry to hear about Terry. I missed the memorial. I was in Sacramento working on—”
I interrupted him. “We were good friends to him while he was alive, right?”
“That’s right,” Sewell said. “Although now I wish we had spent more time fishing. Was that a pretty regular outing for you guys?”
“For a while,” I said. “Then we got busy.”
“That’s too bad,” Sewell said. “I thought of you being out there every weekend, Terry planning everyone’s lives.”
“What was his plan for you, John? I can’t remember.”
“I was going to be a senator. And if I remember correctly, you were going to run a huge development corporation.”
“How’s that working out for us?”
Jean arrived with my ginger ale. “John’s got too much integrity to be a senator. He’s going to be a judge.”
“Should I be congratulating him now?” I asked her. “Did I miss an announcement?”
“Yes,” she said, “you should be congratulating him now.”
“It’s not official,” John interjected, “but it’s in the pipeline.”
“They’re going to give him Judge Fogarty’s bench,” Jean said. “Now that the old bastard has finally done the right thing.”
John looked down modestly. “It came at a good time,” he said. “I was looking for new challenges.” His statement of intent was flavorless, but I didn’t begrudge him: Jean had enough
picante
for both of them.
“Fogarty resigned?” I said.
“He should have resigned years ago,” Jean said.
“I think judge
is
better than senator,” I said.
“You think it’s a technicality,” I said, “that I have no legal status in her life? You could move her to another state without even telling me.”
“You should have thought of that, Randy, when you destroyed our reputation on the front page of every paper in Southern California.”
Jean Trask had shed my last name as quickly as a prisoner sheds his orange jumpsuit. Her maiden name had always sounded like military discipline to me. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to love her.
Sewell cut us both off at the pass, which I suspected was his specialty. He did it in an interesting way, too: he cleared his throat, looked at the room around us, and then launched into something entirely different. It wasn’t denial so much as a weird dominance. He’d decided that the conversation should be over, so he declared it over.
“Randy,” he began, “Alison says that project in Capistrano is something to see. How did she put it—Frank Lloyd Wright in skateboard shoes? I’m not sure what that means, but I was impressed by her enthusiasm.” Sewell’s default mode was to conciliate. I remembered that about him. Or rather, I remembered what Terry had said about him:
Guy can’t even take a bathroom break until he’s sure everything’s in order
.
I wish I were better defended against this kind of compliment, but I’m not. Convince me that my daughter loves me a tenth as much as I love her, and I’m your bitch.
One of Jean’s former boyfriends had written me a poem about his “yearning” for us to be good friends. Another asked if I wanted to do a sweat lodge with him sometime. So I liked the idea of John Sewell. He was cordial, and he acted like a man. All I really wanted was a safe place for my daughter to live when she couldn’t live with me. An end to my alimony wouldn’t hurt, either.
John suggested to Jean that maybe I would like a ginger ale, too, and she left the room with such fury that you could hear the fabric of her slacks whipping against itself. In an instant, John and I were alone together.
“Can I ask you a question, John?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You ever meet an electrician named after a dog? Maybe someone who worked for you?”
Sewell smiled kindly and shook his head. “I don’t think so, Randy. Why?”
“You don’t even want to know,” I said.
Sewell looked thoughtfully into my eyes. “I was sorry to hear about Terry. I missed the memorial. I was in Sacramento working on—”
I interrupted him. “We were good friends to him while he was alive, right?”
“That’s right,” Sewell said. “Although now I wish we had spent more time fishing. Was that a pretty regular outing for you guys?”
“For a while,” I said. “Then we got busy.”
“That’s too bad,” Sewell said. “I thought of you being out there every weekend, Terry planning everyone’s lives.”
“What was his plan for you, John? I can’t remember.”
“I was going to be a senator. And if I remember correctly, you were going to run a huge development corporation.”
“How’s that working out for us?”
Jean arrived with my ginger ale. “John’s got too much integrity to be a senator. He’s going to be a judge.”
“Should I be congratulating him now?” I asked her. “Did I miss an announcement?”
“Yes,” she said, “you should be congratulating him now.”
“It’s not official,” John interjected, “but it’s in the pipeline.”
“They’re going to give him Judge Fogarty’s bench,” Jean said. “Now that the old bastard has finally done the right thing.”
John looked down modestly. “It came at a good time,” he said. “I was looking for new challenges.” His statement of intent was flavorless, but I didn’t begrudge him: Jean had enough
picante
for both of them.
“Fogarty resigned?” I said.
“He should have resigned years ago,” Jean said.
“I think judge
is
better than senator,” I said.
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