Captured Words and Deeds
By Kathleen Christopher
Copyright 2013 by Kathleen Christopher
Cover design by P. and K. Christopher
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents and places, are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a purely fictitious manner.
This novel is respectfully dedicated to the following independent authors for inspiration and darn fine reads: Dianne Gray, Heather Domin, Gary Weston, Kevin Kato, Suzy Stewart Dubot, Barnaby Wilde, David Keith, Elizabeth Rowan Keith, Jeffra Hays, Julie K. Rose, and Kate Krake.
Special thanks to my dearheart KAK, for crossed eyes and dotted tees.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
She walked with a small slide to her step, the small duffel weighing down her shoulder. Her light brown hair blew in the soft breeze, but she seemed bothered by it, as if normally it was held by a ponytail or clip. She looked trapped, Phil thought, bound by wayward tresses and a cumbersome bag.
She also looked his age, maybe nineteen, probably twenty. At the bus station, they weren’t the youngest, but certainly they stood out, she with that untamed hair, he with the guitar. The case was old, but inside it rested Phil’s most prized possession; he wondered if in her bag that girl had anything of similar value. He stared at her, then glanced away, his eyes darting back and forth until she found his gaze. Her curious smile was worth all of his attempts.
Still she said nothing, shifting in her white Keds sneakers, colored marks along the heels. Phil stared at the names scrawled on her shoes: Liz and Diane. Was she Elizabeth Diane or Diane Elizabeth, or maybe they were friends who in haste had tattooed themselves into her footwear so she wouldn’t forget them. Phil was dying to know, but remained standing, the station growing more crowded.
A variety of people were waiting to leave Los Angeles, young, old, middle-aged. Some were white, some were black, some were Hispanic. Some were couples, a few families, but most were single persons carrying a parcel or suitcase. Phil had his guitar and an old, stuffed backpack. He was heading east, to Ohio, where his grandparents lived. He wondered where that young woman was going.
Maybe he would sit next to her; maybe they could spend some of the trip talking. Phil liked to talk; his grandmother complained that the answering machine he bought them at Christmas was too complicated, that she never listened to most of his messages. After she told him that, he deliberately left longer and longer diatribes, usually about nothing of interest. They didn’t criticize his words, only that the technology was too difficult. Still Phil continued to leave messages; he loved leaving messages, wondered if that meant something. Probably, he accepted, again caught watching that girl.
She didn’t look like a Liz or a Diane, more like a… Sonia or Sophia, something ending in ia, slightly mysterious but not complicated. Was it her blondish hair, could blondes be puzzling, unique? She didn’t look dumb, but then she wasn’t actually blonde; light brown hair with a few sun streaks, Southern California weather in early May already like summer had been around forever. Phil wasn’t fond of Los Angeles, but so far it hadn’t been horrible, and depending on how things ended up, maybe he would return. He laughed, looking at his guitar. He hoped to come back here, but not necessarily on a Greyhound bus.
He stared at the clock, another ten minutes to wait. Then he would load his guitar, although he hated thinking of it crammed in the belly of the vehicle. There was no room in the bus proper, and so far his travels hadn’t harmed it any. Yet every time he fretted, wishing at those moments he played the flute or other small instrument. Then he smiled; he couldn’t imagine playing anything but his father’s guitar. Most of those with whom he worked thought him crazy to use Stan’s pride and joy, but Phil did it because it would be a crime not to. And it was the only guitar he owned.
The girl began tapping her foot. Phil was mesmerized by her small shoe hitting the tile as if in rhythm to some silent bass line. Was she a musician? Maybe she played the flute, and he chuckled, then cleared his throat, staring at the floor. The tapping ceased, then steps came his way. Then someone cleared their throat. “Hey, you play that thing?”
Her voice was rich and aware, contrasting with the airhead ideal her long hair offered. “What?” he asked.
“That, the guitar. You play it?”
Her eyes were dull blue, nearly gray. Yet her deep voice hit Phil in a place forgotten, like his mother was calling. “Uh, yeah, I do. Do you?”
She laughed. “No, not me.” She looked around. “You heading east?”
The bus would take passengers as far as New York State and Phil smiled. “To Ohio. You?”
She sighed. “Hafta go see my grandparents. God, I hate that. They’re in Florida, but I’m taking a long-cut.”
She began tapping her sneaker again and Phil smiled. “I’m going to see my grandparents too. They, uh, raised me, not so bad.”
Then he smiled. They had raised him and he wasn’t so bad, but that hadn’t been his meaning. “I’m Phil,” he said, offering his hand. “Phil uh…”
“Julia. Julia Penn.”
“Gideon. Phil Gideon.”
She stared at him, then the guitar. Then she smiled. “As in Stan Gideon?”
“Yeah. That’s my dad.”
She giggled, then touched the guitar case. “This his?”
“Yup.” Phil breathed with ease, as if maybe someone understood.
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” He opened the case, the guitar ancient but preserved. Whenever Phil touched the strings, he wondered how his father might have done the same, or was their playing style different? Men who had known Stan didn’t remember, a piece of history lost to time.
Gently Julia touched the neck of the guitar. “That’s incredible, I mean, that you have it.” She stared at him. “And you take it with you?”
“I couldn’t bear to leave it in Columbus.”
She nodded. Then she removed her duffel. As she went to open it, a bus pulled into the station, their bus. Phil closed the guitar case, but Julia hesitated. Then she zipped closed her bag, swinging it back over her shoulder.
“So, Florida huh.” Phil cleared his throat again as Julia pulled her hair into a thick cord.
“Yeah, once a year whether I need it or not. I hate going there, same crap all the time.”
“Where do you live otherwise?” he asked, as they headed for the growing line.
“Well, my parents live in the Bay Area. I was here with friends. What’s worse is that Florida in summer just sucks. Too humid, you know?”
He looked at her shoes. “Liz and Diane, they the gals you were staying with?”
She smiled, then stared at her feet. “No, my sisters. They always write their names on my shoes. God, like they think I’m gonna forget about them.”
“Little sisters, I assume?”
“Yeah, half really, but who cares, other than my grandparents.”
“Your mother’s parents?” he asked, feeling an ache as luggage was loaded into the compartment.
“Yeah, oh God, it’s a mess.” They had reached the bus, and Julia set her bag into the open space. Then she looked at him. “So, you gonna put that in there?”
He nodded but his stomach twisted. “Yeah, I just feel like I?
??m gonna throw up every time I do.”
“You want me to?”
So deep was her voice, as if she knew the exact worth of that guitar. All of Phil’s life, and all that remained of his father, rested in that case, like Phil carted his dead dad everywhere. He did, wouldn’t deny it, but in truth it was just a guitar, all that others saw.
With utmost care, Julia set the guitar case atop her bag, then arranged another soft-looking duffel aside their luggage. “It’ll be fine here.” Her tone was reassuring. “I overheard the woman who had that bag. She’s heading to New York, so you’ll be getting off before she does.”
“Thank you,” Phil said, feeling as if his grandmother stood beside him.
Julia grasped his hand, then squeezed. “Phil,” she laughed. “Let’s get us some seats.”
Julia never went by Julie unless her father was very angry with her. Julia Rose Penn was twenty years old, having turned that age in February. Now in May of 1980, she was on her way, long and circuitous, to Tampa Bay, Florida, to spend the summer with her maternal grandparents. She wished to be heading anywhere else in the world, even a gulag would be better than Florida, but Julia would swallow her distaste and endure weeks of sultry weather, which wasn’t the worst of her travails. The worst, she told Phil, was how much her grandparents hated her father, and how they never let Julia forget it.
“Why do you go?” Phil sat beside her in the middle section of the bus. She sat next to the window, and spent a good deal of time staring out of it.
“If I don’t, they’ll just call the house and hound my mom. Lee, my step-mom.”
“You’ve been calling her Mom all this time.”
“I know. I do it whenever I’m talking about my parents.”
Phil smiled. “Do you do it around your grandparents?”
“Oh hell no! Around them Mom is my real mom, their daughter.” Julia sighed, then looked at Phil. “You ever hear of Laura Riley?”
He nodded. “She was a writer. That’s your mom?”
“Yup. Funny huh, we’ve both got dead, famous parents.”
“Wow, yeah, funny.” Phil looked toward the window.
“Yeah, funny. Grandma and Grandpa think Dad killed her. That’s not so funny.”
“Shit, no way!”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been hearing that crap since, God, as long as I can remember.”
Phil stared at the landscape, flat earth that held no color. He thought about his guitar, cradled between Julia’s bag and some woman headed for New York. Then he considered his mother. Then he looked at Julia.
Did she look like her mom? Phil had his mother’s dark hair, but Stan’s green eyes. Phil looked nothing like his dad except for those bright emerald irises, which was probably all the resemblance necessary. His face was oval, where Stan’s had been nearly square, so many pictures taken of a man destined for such a limited lifespan. Phil had memorized his father’s appearance, but it hadn’t translated into a son becoming any more talented on guitar. Nor had it meant anything to recording studios or music executives. Phil possessed an illustrious name and those blazing green eyes. So far, those added to squat when it came to the music business.
“Was your mom a blonde?” he asked, looking away from the window.
“Yeah, I guess. She was fair, so’s my grandma, her mom. My dad’s strawberry blonde.”
“And your sisters?” Phil didn’t call them half, that seemed rude.
“Liz’s a redhead and Diane’s got really dark brown hair. We don’t look anything alike, like Mom and Dad adopted all three of us.” Julia laughed, then fell silent.
Phil nodded, then stared toward the front of the bus. Columbus, Ohio was three days away, and his guitar would be okay. “Hey, you were gonna show me something.” He tried to remind himself that others had treasures in the hold, he wasn’t the only one with something precious. “What were you gonna show me?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Oh, okay.” Phil sighed, then folded his hands. His fingers felt achy from not enough playing time, and now for days they would sit idle. Then Julia grasped his right hand.
“Can I stay with you, I mean, for a few days?”
Her grip was warm and soft, making Phil shift in his seat. “Uh, sure.” He smiled. “You really don’t wanna go to Florida, do you?”
She shook her head.
Phil nodded, then put his arm around her. As if they had known each other for ages, Julia Penn settled against Phil Gideon. He closed his eyes. She wasn’t a guitar, but for the next few days, this would suffice.
“Hey Grandma, it’s me, Phil.” A small laugh. “Like anyone else would use this machine, does anyone else ever leave messages? Maybe I’m the only one who calls when you’re gone. Anyways, I’m in, uh, where are we? Oh yeah, Nebraska. We’re in Nebraska, and I met someone, you won’t even guess who.” Another small laugh. “Well, okay, you’re not gonna guess. Mom would’ve loved it though. Look on the bookshelf for any books by Laura Riley. I think Mom had one or two of her novels. Well, standing in the LA bus station I met her daughter! Who’d have guessed? Her name’s Julia and she’s heading to Florida and uh, well, it’s a long trip, you know? Anyways, I, uh, asked if she wanted to crash with us for a day or two, you know, just to get some sleep and a shower. If it’s not too much trouble, I mean, anyways, I’ll let you and Grandpa sort it out. So yeah, we’ll be there in another what, day and a half you think?” A short pause. “Yeah, a day and a half. Guitar’s fine, I know you were probably worried about that.” A long chuckle. “Anyways, I really hope you listen to this ’cause if you don’t, you won’t know about Julia. Don’t forget to look and see if those books are there, Laura Riley. I’m pretty sure I remember them. Okay, well, I love you. See you in thirty-six hours!”
Back on the bus, Phil and Julia sat as best friends, or maybe old lovers. Phil wasn’t sure, and wasn’t going to ask. They had shared secrets and trivial details, so much time in close quarters, so many similarities between them.
He wasn’t quite four months older than her, born in October of 1959, right before his father’s death. Neither mentioned more than that, but Phil wasn’t bothered. Stan wasn’t the only early rock and roller to die tragically. He hadn’t been in the plane crash killing Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and J. P. ‘The Big Bopper’ Richardson, but Stan Gideon’s demise later that year closed the chapter where rock and roll was just finding its feet. Those four deaths within eleven months arguably altered what might have occurred, especially for Holly and Gideon. What those two men might have achieved was often debated, but Phil didn’t consider it much. Only six weeks old when his father died, he had no conscious memory of Stan, just the images. Like Buddy Holly, all that remained of Stan Gideon were the music and photographic evidence.
Tunes and snapshots and one young man, Philip Everly Gideon, who looked nothing like his dad, or the musician for whom he was named. Stan had insisted his son carried Phil Everly’s moniker. Occasionally Phil wondered if Stan had stuck around, maybe another boy born to him and Phil’s mother Jo-Jo would have been named for Phil’s brother Don. But Stan had died, and Jo-Jo never remarried. Phil assumed his mother wouldn’t have continued to honor her late husband’s contemporaries, but she wasn’t around for him to ask. Phil pondered those notions while watching Julia scribble in a notebook. She was making him consider these issues, and he smiled.
Was she a writer like her mother? Was that fiction, a travelogue, or just a place to rant about her grandparents? Depending on how things went once they reached Columbus, perhaps she wouldn’t continue her journey; Phil couldn’t stop thinking what she might look like naked. She owned a medium bust, was of average height, but that wasn’t what drove his desires. Finally he had found someone who comprehended why he carted that guitar all over, why making music was so important. It wasn’t that he wanted to be his dad, there was only one Stan Gideon, and Phil wasn’t even sure if his father would have remained popular. The Beatles had been waiting, along with The Rolling Stones, The Who,
and The Kinks, an English invasion biding their time, inspired by Stan Gideon and Buddy Holly, but leaps beyond where rock music then stood. The Everly Brothers didn’t last much past the early sixties, and at times Phil permitted that perhaps his father departed at a good time, for his career. Phil had never said that to anyone, although he had alluded to it with Julia. He’d mentioned that, but not his desire to sleep with her.
They wouldn’t be able to do it at his grandparents’ house, but he had friends in Columbus, and in any of those domiciles Phil could find a moment, an hour. He ached, then adjusted himself, observing how Julia’s small hands gripped her book and the pen. She agonized over each word; was she a poet? She tried to set something down, then she looked at him, her eyes teary.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked, wiping her cheeks.
“I hate this, you know?”
“Uh…”
She smiled. “I hate writing, but I can’t stop. You feel that way about music?”
“No, not really.” He felt that way about the music business, but not about his guitar.
“I’ve been writing since I can remember. I never even knew that my mom, my real mom, was a writer until I was nine or ten. Grandma told me, got all huffy about it, like Dad was trying to keep that from me. But Mom’s books aren’t for kids, my God! I didn’t even read them until I was fourteen.”
Phil had never read any of Laura Riley’s novels, but his mother had. “How many did she write in all?”
“Five. Three were published, the other two Grandma says were just for practice.”
“Who owns the rights?”
Julia smiled. “I will, in a couple of years. Right now Dad does, which pisses Grandma off even more, oh my God.” She set the pen in the book, then closed it, placing it in her lap. “They were separated, well, he was sleeping with Lee, with my mom. But it was just an accident.” Julia sighed, then reached for Phil’s hand. “Oh I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. Sometimes death just happens.”
“No, I mean…” She gripped his hand, their fingers entwined. “Phil…”
He nodded as she leaned into him. Her left hand still clutched his, but her right grasped the notebook.
They slept against each other, ignoring the need for showers. By the time they crossed the Ohio state line, Phil desired space, but he didn’t get it, and his frustration felt overwhelming. Instead he spoke about trying to break into the music business, a futile endeavor. He had spent all spring in LA hustling his demo tape, and while his name cracked open a few doors, no one showed particular interest. Going back to Ohio wasn’t all in defeat he admitted; no one made it on their first try.
“Like a novelist,” Julia giggled. “My mom wrote three before getting one published.”
“I’ll have to read the ones my mom had,” Phil said. He could smell them both, bodies in need of cleansing, but still Julia carried something pleasant, or maybe he was so horny it wouldn’t have mattered if dog shit stuck to her sneakers. He would read Laura Riley’s books; if for some reason no copies waited at his grandparents, Phil would go to the library, a bookstore even. He needed to read what Julia’s mother had written, but not before he made love to Julia.
That was first, after a shower and some sleep. It would be fitful rest, but Phil wasn’t worried. Julia seemed to need the same, a bath, slumber, sex. Then maybe she would stick around, but even if she didn’t, Phil would always remember this long but significant trek across America that brought to his attention someone akin. In all his admittedly short life, Phil Gideon had never found anyone who understood. Either someone’s parents were only dead or just famous, but not both. In Julia Penn, everything fit at the appropriate corners, dark and unpleasant, but correct. If nothing else, she met the criteria.
Maybe her father was still alive, but those grandparents in Florida certainly wished otherwise. Phil would try to learn as much as he could about Laura Riley, and her death, adding those facts alongside Julia’s allowances. Phil was used to that, the details of his father’s demise well documented, but still people asked him, like he’d been there or as if all his mother recalled had been implanted in Phil’s brain. But they had rarely spoken of Stan; Jo-Jo hadn’t been able to broach his name.
Julia said Laura wasn’t a fixture in her life, not unless she was staying with her grandparents, for Julia had her father, step-mother, and two younger sisters. Only her maternal grandparents made the distinction of where Julia’s loyalties should lie, not in Northern California, but in some murky, dismal memory that was fallacy. Their fantasy, Julia sighed, as their arrival in Columbus loomed. Her grandparents were convinced that her dad had engineered Laura’s death, over which Julia shook her head. They were old, unable to change their minds. In their seventies, all they possessed was one grandchild, and Julia hefted the weight of their accusations with disdain. Yet, she would set it aside for a few days in Ohio. In Ohio, Julia laughed, her grandparents were nowhere near.
Which was fine with Phil. He wasn’t sure if his grandparents would be waiting for them, or even if they had listened to his message. He had left another, brief and simple, when they stopped last night, and he hoped one of the two had reached his grandmother’s hearing, for it would be Helen Reese to make up the spare bed, one that Phil used when home. He would take the sofa, giving Julia that space, the chivalrous thing to do.
That might be Phil’s only gallant moment, sensing more than his own desires. Julia pressed against him, and he was certain it would only be a matter of time. As the bus parked near the building, they stood, and he peered out, but didn’t see his grandparents. That was okay, he could call a friend. Someone had to be around, and Phil might even give a knowing wink, arranging a future afternoon or evening to drop his gentlemanly cloak. He was twenty years old for God’s sake, and three days beside this woman was making his skin crawl.
They got off the bus, grabbed their luggage, the guitar nestled just as Julia had placed it. He gripped her duffel, over which she protested for seconds. Phil needed the distraction, and her bag wasn’t heavy. As they stepped inside the station, he saw his grandparents. They were eager, but not surprised, and he smiled. One of them had checked the machine.
“Oh Phil!” his grandmother sighed, as his grandfather took the guitar.
“Hey, you made it.” He kissed her, then smiled. “You get my messages?”
“Oh yes.” Helen Reese looked at Julia. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read your mother’s novels, what a talent.”
“Thanks.” Julia smiled, but it was forced.
“So, how was the trip?” Daniel Reese took Phil’s backpack, as Phil still carried Julia’s bag.
“Long. Anything to eat at home?”
“Of course. She’s been cooking since you called from Nebraska.”
“I have not.” Helen tapped her husband’s shoulder. “Just the usual. Tonight I’ll make up the sofa for you Phil. Julia, you can have the guest room.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure. Now tell us what happened in California.”
Phil looked at Julia, her smile eased. “Well Grandma, you know how it goes…” Phil’s tone was conciliatory, their faces the same. But Julia lit from his stories, which caused him physical angst. Yet better for him to ache over her than for Julia to endure his grandmother’s good intentions.
While Julia showered, Phil caught up with his grandparents, sharing the bits of Julia he knew she wouldn’t mind; that she wasn’t looking forward to spending time with her maternal ancestors, over which Helen and Daniel both clucked. “Well, she can stay here if she likes,” Helen said.
Phil nodded. “We’ll see. Did you find her mom’s books?”
Daniel smiled. “She nearly tore the house apart looking for them.”
“I did not. I just had to look around a little. Two of them, but I didn’t put them in her room, you know.” Helen looked toward the back of the house. “Just left them in the bookcase. My goodness but Joanna loved those novels.??
?
Phil smiled. His grandparents never referred to their daughter by her nickname, but they spoke of her without sadness. As they gripped cups of decaf coffee, Phil could see his mother in Helen’s small eyes and warm smile. Her smile was from his presence, and from a reference to her child. Books read recalled memories, as if Jo-Jo stood beside them.
Phil only thought of his mother by her first name. His dad was the same, Stan and Jo-Jo, as if they were someone else’s parents. Maybe they were; they were dead, he had been an orphan since he was twelve, living in this house all his life. This couple was more like his parents, but he called them Grandma and Grandpa, great love spoken in those terms. Phil had a mix of parents, the ghosts and these actual beings. Did Julia feel that way?
Was her step-mother like her real mom? She called Liz and Diane her sisters, not half, yet their names adorned her shoes, as if she might forget them. Perhaps those names were a slap to those grandparents in Florida. That old couple considered Julia solo, and Phil swallowed the rest of his coffee, staring at seniors who held no animosity toward his dad. Phil had never heard a cross word pass their lips in conjunction to Stan Gideon, although it certainly could have been permissible.
But there was no unpleasantness, also no reminders. Stan had been their son-in-law a paltry few months. All of his memorabilia was stored in the garage, possessions waiting for Phil to get his act together. When he had a place of his own, those items would leave this abode, not just the guitar. Stan’s parents had died years ago, not too many after their only son. There were plenty of only children in Phil’s realm, but Julia adored her little sisters. Her grandparents might hate their guts, but Julia didn’t.
Phil heard her leave the bathroom, and thinking of her in some partially clothed state again made him wince. “I think I’ll get a shower.” He stood, taking his coffee cup to the sink. Usually he would kiss his grandmother, but she had noted his fragrant state, only his courtesy to let Julia bathe first.
“Go on,” Helen giggled. “You stink.”
“Thanks Grandma. I love you too.” Their laughter followed Phil as he left the kitchen.
His bag rested at the foot of the sofa, the rest of his clothes in the spare room, but that door was closed. He had rescued clean duds before Julia took her shower, and gathering that pile, he announced he was next. She answered, and he flinched, then ran cool water, trying to think about music, his dead father, anything to discourage his longings. Maybe he would sneak into the spare room that night, his grandparents’ hearing not what it used to be. That their room was down the hall aided Phil’s plan, and he toweled off thinking about Julia, then about her miserable grandparents. Only they eased his erection.
Both young people were starving, so dinner was eaten early. No reference was made to Laura Riley, but Joanna Gideon was mentioned, and Phil’s grandparents didn’t bat an eye. It would be eight years next month, Phil considered, as Helen casually spoke of her late daughter. Daniel noted how pleased Joanna would be for Phil to get to California; they never said Los Angeles, as if that city encompassed the entire state. All there was to the west was California, but Julia spoke of her family in Oakland.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” Helen said. “What does your father do?”
Julia laughed. “He’s a white cop in a largely black city, puts shoes on our feet.”
“Oh,” Helen said.
“Uh-huh,” Daniel added.
Phil smiled; their neighborhood was mostly white. The city as a whole was somewhat diverse, but not as varied as Julia’s hometown, or where she was raised. She was born in Chicago, also her mother’s birthplace. Her grandparents had moved to Florida when Julia was young, and she didn’t recall living in the Midwest, where she had dwelled until her mother’s death. Julia was two and a half when Laura died, her father moving far from Illinois and his late wife’s incensed parents.
Those parents were so different from who had raised Phil, grandparents not intent on ruining a child’s memory. Julia called her step-mother Mom because she was the only woman Julia knew as her mother. Yes, her father had been cheating on Laura, and yes, Lee Dale had been pregnant when Laura died. Those details eased Phil’s desires. He didn’t actually wish to think of all that history, but better to remind himself of Julia’s baggage than think of only Julia.
He excused himself to the bathroom, then emerged finding Julia and his grandparents on the sofa. Julia sat in the middle, seemed more relaxed. They spoke of Oakland, Tampa Bay, and Columbus, but not people. Phil smiled, then plopped into the recliner. “So, covering a lot of ground, it sounds like.”
“Phil did you go to Oakland when you were in California?”
“No Grandma. Just LA.”
“Well, it sounds like a nice place to visit. Julia’s been telling us all about it.”
He nodded, then grinned at the young woman sitting right where he would be lying in a few hours. Maybe the sofa wouldn’t smell of old people, maybe it would carry her youth. “Well, Sly Stone’s from Oakland, I think.”
“Yeah, his whole family’s from there,” Julia said.
“Well, maybe that’s where I should go next. No one in LA gives a damn about my music.”
“Philip…”
Julia giggled at Helen’s admonition.
“Grandma, I apologize. Chalk it up to exhaustion.” And stress and lust. Phil would sleep with Julia that night, unless she was too wiped out.
Then he chuckled. “Listen, I gotta run out for a minute. Julia, wanna quick tour of the neighborhood?”
“Uh, sure.” She smiled, then stood. “Do I need a jacket?”
“Nah, it won’t take long.”
“Philip, what now?”
“Gotta get some pop. No one bought any Pepsi.”
“I told you Helen,” Daniel chided.
“Oh goodness! Well, all right.” Helen went to the kitchen, bringing back her purse. She gave Phil some money, and while he tried to refuse, a five-dollar bill was thrust into his hand. “Phil just loves Pepsi. Joanna did too. But don’t be long. You both look about to fall over.”
Phil stuck the money in his pocket, then he grasped Julia’s hand. “Grandma, I assure you, we’ll be right back.”
“They’re nice,” Julia said, getting into the red Ford Pinto parked in front of the house. “God, I wish my grandparents were like that.”
Phil nodded as the car started; it was Phil’s when he was home. Within minutes he reached the main drag, heading toward a convenience store. Stopping in front of a small shop, he would pick up a six-pack of soda. Also some Trojans, a box of three. He didn’t want to appear that desperate.
“So, Pepsi huh?” Julia grinned.
Her hand landed near his leg, but not on him. Phil stifled a groan. “Listen, I wanna get something other than pop.”
“Yeah? I don’t think they sell pot.”
He stared at her. Drugs hadn’t made it into any of their conversations. “Uh, no, I don’t need any weed.” Did she smoke, he wondered.
“I don’t either. It was just a joke. What else Phil?”
“Uh, well…”
“Oh.” She looked to the floor. “Uh, Phil, I, uh…”
“Oh Christ.”
They sat in silence as people went in and out, carrying milk and beer, pop and slushies. Then Julia cleared her throat. “Uh Phil, it’s not that I don’t like you, I mean…”
“No, it’s okay. You, uh, don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry.”
“Phil, I do like you. A lot. I really mean that.”
He stared at the front of the store. “Julia, it’s, uh, okay, really.”
She grasped his hand, which stirred a sharp pain through him. But as she squeezed, the ache subsided, then was replaced by something gentle, not sexual. Warm, friendly, and lasting and Phil glanced at her, finding tears along her cheeks. “Oh shit Julia, Christ! I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to screw it up.”
“Phil, I really do like you. And I mean, yeah, we could sleep together, it’s not th
at I don’t wanna have sex with you. But if we do, oh God, the rest of this’ll be all shot to hell.”
The warmth she offered was so peaceful, as if his mother was alive, even his dad. Yet it was only this young woman, her streaked face and all their words. Many similarities bound them and Phil reached over the gear box, taking her in his arms. Desire remained, he didn’t dismiss that, but something deeper invaded as she wrapped around him. She was like a sibling bound by fame and art and brevity. They had celebrities for parents, but people not destined for long lives. Their lives weren’t easy, yet they had managed to eke by, he with Helen and Daniel, she with her father, stepmother, and two sisters. As Julia pulled away, Phil saw release on her face better than sex, and he smiled. “I guess we’re just meant to be friends.”
She giggled. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Probably. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel differently.”
“Maybe I will too.”
They laughed as he kissed her cheek, which was still wet. Her tears stuck to his lips like a tattoo. “Julia…”
“What Phil?”
“I, uh, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For turning me down.”
“Oh God, well, sure Phil, anytime.”
“No, I mean it.” He traced her fingers. Something rested in her digits, a book he was certain, over which she battled, but as he well knew, that gift was inborn, which neither of them could fight. He had never tried to, probably suffered from wanting so much to make music. She ached from words that lingered in those fingers, words her mother hadn’t lived to pass along in any good way. Instead they had been inherited, with no direction offered to a little girl who had a mother, but not the one who could translate what Laura had bequeathed to Julia. Lee had cooked and cleaned, hugged and kissed. But Phil recognized the other side, and he set his hand along Julia’s, encompassing her fingers. “It’s better this way. Not easier,” he laughed. “But I need a friend more than someone in bed.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. I just ask one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Do your parents have an answering machine?”
“No.”
“Well, can they get one? I mean, would they mind having one?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Phil released her fingers, then set his palm along her face. “Because I love to leave messages. I love to talk on the phone too, but messages are great, I mean, I guess I just like to talk.”
“Or leave pieces of yourself behind.”
He nodded. He still wanted her, but this would be better. Phil desired a long run with her, wasn’t sure why, other than she understood. “Yeah, maybe I just want my voice to be heard.”
“And if not on a record, then on someone’s answering machine.”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll go with that.”
“My grandparents have one,” she said, not moving from his grasp.
“Will they mind if I use it?”
“Not if you’re paying for the call.”
He laughed. “Well okay. Expect a lot of messages while you’re in Florida.”
“Can’t I stay here with all of you?”
Phil smiled, then leaned toward her. He kissed her, not innocently. “Julia, if you stay here, I’ll lose my mind.”
She traced his temples, then stopped, leaving her fingers right at the sides of his head. “I don’t want that Phil.”
Where her digits lay were significant, but neither spoke to the meaning. Instead he nodded, then kissed her again, just on her lips, which were warm, soft, and healing. Then Phil fell into her arms, sobbing as if she was his mother, telling him just how his father had died.
Chapter 2