The Sirena Quest (23 page)

At least a dozen photographers catch that moment, including both of the ones on assignment from
People
. The best of those shots will be featured in the cover story with the following tag line: “Unveiling the Groucho Madonna.”

For there, inside the container, sits not the legendary Sirena but a concrete Madonna. Not the singer but the mother of Jesus. Yes, one of those tacky lawn-ornament Madonnas. And no ordinary tacky lawn ornament, either. Oh, no. This concrete Madonna is wearing a Groucho Marx mask—that plastic eyeglass-nose-mustache contraption. She is also wearing a rigid cone-shaped black brassiere straight out of a 1950s porno flick. The center of each brassiere cup is cut out, exposing concrete nipples painted cherry red.

As the writer for
Vanity Fair
would later observe, “All that was missing from the bizarre tableau was a lawn jockey in a leather jockstrap and matching whip.”

Chapter Forty-nine

“Now,” Ray said.

Lou shifted into Drive and eased the cargo van forward onto the end zone and then the playing field. Boos and catcalls were still pouring down from the stands. No one had yet noticed the van.

As they passed the twenty-yard line, Gordie reached over to honk the horn. He kept his hand on the horn as Lou drove toward midfield.

“Who's that?” someone in the stands called out.

“Who are those guys?”

“Oh, Jesus, now what?”

“Are they drunk?”

When the van reached the midfield stripe, Lou turned it toward the stands and drove slowly down the center aisle between the rows of seated dignitaries, past the dais, and out onto the cinder track as the reporters and photographers moved aside. He swung the van all the way around and pulled it up, stopping with the front bumper almost touching the dais, just to the left of the Groucho Madonna. The rear of the van faced the crowd, which by now was murmuring and buzzing with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion.

Just what in the hell is going on now?

Lou put the transmission in Park, turned off the engine, and got out on the driver's side. Gordie got out on the front passenger side. Billy slid open the side door, stepped down, turned back to lift out the wheelchair, set it on the grass, and unfolded it. Then the three of them carried Ray out of the van and onto the wheelchair.

The crowd in the stands watched in puzzled, expectant silence.

Lou wheeled Ray over toward the dais. Gordie and Billy walked around to the rear of the van and took up positions side by side facing the stands. Lou climbed onto the dais, walked over to Frank Burke, and yanked the microphone out of his hand. Frank glared at him. Lou turned, went back to the edge of the platform, climbed down, and held the microphone toward Ray.

Ray shook his head. “You do it.”

“Take it,” Lou said. “This one is yours.”

Ray considered him for a moment and then smiled. He took the microphone and squinted at the crowd in the stands.

“Hi, folks,” he said. “Ray Gorman here. Class of '74. These are my freshman roommates. This is Lou Solomon. That's Gordie Cohen over there. And Billy McCormick. We call him Bronco.”

Lou scanned the crowd. He spotted Katie and Kenny. They were standing next to Brandi and waving. He grinned and nodded at them.

“Frank and Reggie put on quite a show, eh?” Ray said. He turned slightly to give them a wink.

Hisses and boos from the crowd.

Frank and Reggie were still up on the stage. Frank stared at Ray. Reggie's eyes were down, as if he were looking for a trap door.

“Great bit, fellows.” The acid in Ray's voice was detectible all the way to the top row of the stands.

Ray turned back to the crowd. “We don't have an air show, folks but we're still awfully glad to be here. You see—” he paused “—we found someone special on our trip to Barrett, and we decided to bring her home.”

Lou could feel the surge of excitement through the stands.

“Believe it or not,” Ray said, “we found her hanging out inside the scoreboard at Wrigley Field.” He shook his head. “Thirty-five years of Cubs games, poor thing. So we rescued her.”

Lou nodded at Gordie and Billy. Gordie unlatched one door and Billy unlatched the other. As the photographers and videocams moved into position, the two men flung open the doors, reached in to slide the statue to the edge of the open back, and turned toward the crowd.

It was a wonderful scene—so wonderful, in fact, that it made the front page of the next morning's
Boston Globe
: Gordie and Billy flanking the famous statue, Lou and Ray to the side, all four men grinning, Sirena gazing into the distance.

As the applause and cheers continued and the cameras clicked and whirred, people started coming down out of the stands. First in singles, then in pairs, then in whole groups. They came down and walked over to the van to stare at Sirena. One of the first ones, an elderly man with a Class of '27 ribbon attached to his straw boater, put out a hand and touched her. Behind him a line began to form, and within minutes it stretched past the end zone—young and old, men and women, patiently waiting for their chance to touch the Siren of Barrett.

Lou moved off to the side and watched the reporters and photographers surge toward Ray, shouting questions at him.

It's Ray's moment
, he said to himself, and he was glad.

He searched the crowd for his children. Just as he spotted them coming down the stairs with Brandi, someone grabbed him roughly by the arm. He turned to find himself eye to eye with Frank Burke.

“You fucking bastard.”

Lou glanced down at his arm. “You want to take that hand off me?”

Frank's face was flushed red with anger, the vein in his right temple throbbing. “Enjoy it while you can.”

Lou gazed at him calmly. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“You better believe it, asshole. You stole her.”

“No, Frank. You stole her. We just took her back.”

“You set us up, you cheating bastard.”

“Cheating? Remember what you told me yesterday, Frank? There's no crying in baseball. Same with Sirena. Suck it up. Those are your words, Frank, not mine. Live by 'em, die by 'em.”

Frank shook his head. “You and your pals are going to pay big-time for this cheap trick. I'm going to find a lawyer and—”

“—Find one? You're looking at one, Frank.”

Lou moved closer, their faces now less than a foot apart. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “If I were you, Frank, I'd say a prayer every night until the statute of limitations runs out on Gordie's claims for assault and intentional infliction of emotional distress for what you had that hooker do to him. Trust me, Frank, if he ever gets you in front of a Cook County jury, they'll shove your head so far up your ass that every time you fart your lips'll quiver. Now get out of my sight.”

Lou turned to find his children.

“Hey, fuckhead!”

Lou turned just in time to see Frank's punch coming. It was a big roundhouse swing, thrown with the sluggish windup of a man who'd never been in a fistfight in his life. Lou easily ducked the punch and came straight up with his right fist. The uppercut smashed into Frank's chin, snapping back his head. His legs wobbled as he stared wide-eyed at Lou, trying to keep his head steady, his body listing to the right. Then his eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the grass.

There was a smattering of applause.

Some guy hollered “Way to go, dude!”

Lou looked down at his right hand. The knuckles were throbbing.

“Daddy!” Kenny shouted as he ran up. He hugged Lou around the stomach.

Katie was grinning as she approached. “Awesome, Dad.”

Chapter Fifty

Ray popped the tab on another beer. “All things considered, Reggie was cool about it.”

“Oh?” Lou said.

“After the TV guys cleared out, he came over and shook my hand. Told me it was a great bit.”

Gordie said “Even told me he was sorry about the motel scene.”

Ray took a sip of beer. “Maybe there's hope for that preppy douche bag.”

“Don't get mushy in your old age,” Lou said.

None of them wanted this moment to end. It was, at last, an isle of tranquility at the end of one of the wildest days of their lives. Following the Remington Field craziness was a seemingly endless round of interviews, and then it was off to Braxton Hall for Sirena's official homecoming, where she would bide her time, surrounded by armed guards, until a state-of-the-art security system could be installed. After that, the four of them, along with Lou's kids, Billy's family, and Brandi Wine, had been guests of honor at a luncheon at the president's mansion. Then a press conference, more interviews, and a late afternoon private meeting with Rocky the pilot and her boyfriend. From there it was off to the Class of '74 reunion banquet under the tent. Throughout the dinner, classmates came over to pump their hands and slap them on the back. Neither Frank nor Reggie showed up. Then it was back to Remington Field for the sesquicentennial fireworks extravaganza.

An hour after the final rocket exploded, the four of them met in the lobby of the Barrett Inn. The original plan had been to have a few farewell rounds of beer in the bar, but a noisy function in the ballroom made conversation impossible, so they bought a bucket of iced Rolling Rocks from the bartender, went outside, grabbed three chairs off the back veranda, and carried them onto the lawn behind the inn. They arranged the chairs and Ray's wheelchair in a semicircle facing the veranda, put the bucket of beer and two bowls of pretzels on the grass in the middle, and settled in.

That was an hour ago. It was now nearly eleven-thirty, and what had started as a raucous gathering of four former roommates had grown subdued. And a little melancholy. They knew that this was their last night together for a long, long time. Billy and family were flying back to Chicago in the morning, Gordie following at noon, and Ray and Brandi later that afternoon to San Diego. Although they promised to do it again real soon, they all knew that “soon” could mean twenty more years. Each had his own life, his own gravitational field.

They also knew that these had been ten days together that could never be duplicated. There wouldn't be—couldn't ever be—a sequel. Charles Lindbergh might dream of a second Atlantic crossing, Neil Armstrong a return to the moon—but you could never recapture the magic of that first time. If and when they came together again—maybe for their fortieth in 2014, assuming they were all still above ground by then—it would never be more than a reunion.

“You know,” Billy said, his voice faltering, “this was wonderful.”

Lou smiled in the darkness.

Ray reached for another Rolling Rock. “How's the Great American Screenplay, Gordie?”

“Are you still working on that?” Billy asked.

Gordie shrugged. “I'm thinking maybe it's time to move on.”

“You mean drop it?” Lou asked.

“Nah. I mean shift the focus. Make it more, uh, contemporary.”

“Do me a favor, Gordie,” Ray said.

“What?”

“Don't breathe a word to Brandi.”

“Why not?”

“She'll try to get you to write a part for her.”

“So?”

“So? You do that, man, and I'm screwed.”

“You?” Billy said. “Why?”

Ray took a sip of beer and reached for the pretzels. “About six months ago, she read this article in
Forbes
about motion pictures being great tax shelters. Ever since then she's been bugging me to pour some money into one of those sinkholes.”

“She's looking out for you,” Billy said.

“Bronco,” Ray said, “I need another tax shelter like I need another asshole. Brandi's looking out for Brandi. She wants to be in pictures.”

“Well, she's smart,” Billy said, “and really pretty. She'd be super in a movie.”

They were quiet for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

The sounds of a rock band came from the ballroom of the Barrett Inn.

“What's going on in there?” Billy asked.

“A wedding?” Gordie said.

No one answered.

After a moment, Lou said, “Twenty years is a long time.”

“Seems like yesterday,” Gordie said.

“Not really,” Lou said. “We were kids back then.”

“We're still kids,” Gordie said.

Lou looked over at him. “No, Gordie. By the time you turn forty, you've been through too much to be a kid anymore.”

They sipped their beers in the dark.

Suddenly there were lights and voices and laughter. Lou looked up as the hotel doors swung open, illuminating the veranda. High school boys and girls were streaming through the doors—the boys in tuxedos, the girls in full-length gowns.

A prom, Lou realized, rising from his chair.

June. Prom season.

Lou walked to the edge of the veranda, to the edge of darkness. The light from the veranda lit his face.

In the middle of the throng of kids was a girl in a white prom dress. A stunningly beautiful girl with dark, curly hair. She was gazing up at the stars. So lovely—and so young.

She took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure. A tall boy in a dark tuxedo came up and put his arm around her waist. She looked up at him and smiled. After a moment, the two of them turned back toward the doors and disappeared inside.

There were tears in Lou's eyes.

From the “Class Notes” section of the
Barrett College Alumni Magazine
(Fall 1996)
:

CLASS OF '74
Submitted by
Bryce Wharton
(Class Secretary)

Hard to believe that more than two years have come and gone since our Big Two Zero. That insight flashed through your humble scrivener's brain a fortnight back when I attended the Left Coast nuptials of
Lou Solomon
in sunny Santa Barbara. Lou married
Donna Crawford
(Hampton '74), who looked even more winsome than in days of yore. After the “I do's” and the heartfelt toasts, Lou and his two scions, and Donna and her two heir-lettes, headed off for a one-month holiday (you heard me right fellas: thirty days and thirty nights!) in the Tuscan region of Italy, where they've rented a villa (complete with vineyard) on a hill overlooking Florence. Sounds like
la dolce vita
to me.

Rumor has it that Lou received welcome news from the Missouri Supreme Court just days before the ceremony. Something about a paralyzed widow he represents finally getting her just desserts on appeal, assuming that $3 million plus change qualifies as dessert! I'll have one of those banana splits, too, Your Honor.

The other three caballeros in the infamous James Gang were at the matrimonial. Only Sirena was missing—missing from the wedding party, that is! Don't get any funny ideas, Frank and Reggie. Just joshing, amigos. (Ha! Ha! Ha!)

Your ink-stained wretch remembered to bring his dog-eared copy of
People
to the wedding.
William “Bronco” McCormick
graciously consented to affix his John Hancock to the picture of the Gang on page 67. Bill attended with his lovely bride
Dorothy
and their charming legatee, Sandy. Bill was too modest to divulge what Dorothy was ready to proclaim from the rooftops: our own Bronco was named one of ten Illinois Teachers of the Year. ¡Muchos kudos, Señor Beel!

During the wedding reception, your intrepid reporter wheedled a few scooplets out of
Gordie Cohen
. Seems Gordo ankled his advertising job and resettled in (are your ready for this?) the lovely town of Barrett, Massachusetts. These days he shares living quarters with none other than Barrett College English Professor
Sally Jacobs
, Hampton '74, who yours truly once had the pleasure of escorting to a T.D. toga party. (Note to Prof. Sally: Where did you go that night, dahling? I still have your cup of Tropical Passion Punch.) Gordo is hard at work on a screenplay and—
drum roll, Maestro
—the Gordster may finally see his name up there in lights on the silver screen, thanks to a deep-pocketed investor.

The aforementioned deep pocket belongs to
Ray Gorman
, the mall maharajah and Hombre Mejor at Lou's nuptials. I am pleased to report that Ray had no problem “standing up” for Lou at the wedding. (Heh, Heh, Heh!) Ray was his inimitably irascible self when your servile scribe asked him to confirm that there was a cameo role in Gordie's movie for Ray's favorite little mermaid,
Brandi Wine
. Although my query triggered a few piquant suggestions—including one anatomical tour de force beyond the modest gymnastic capabilities of yours truly—let the record show that Ray did not deny the rumor. Save me an aisle seat, Raymundo, and make sure my popcorn is hot and buttered!

After the excitement of the Solomon wedding, it was back to my humble abode, where Mr. Postman has delivered missives from many of you. Keep those cards and letters coming in, folks.

We start the evening news with word from
Robbie Carlson
, who pens from the misty clime of Seattle of his promotion to…

Title: THE SIRENA QUEST }
}
Draft: 4th Revised }
}
Author: Gordon Cohen }
}
Scene: 49 }

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. THE BACK VERANDA AT THE BARRETT INN—NIGHT

ANGLE ON LOU

The four of them are seated in a semicircle, sipping beers in the quiet darkness. Suddenly bright lights and VOICES and LAUGHTER. Lou looks up as the hotel doors swing open. The light from inside brightens the veranda.

NEW ANGLE - THE VERANDA

High school boys and girls are streaming through the doors and onto the veranda. The boys are in tuxedos, the girls in full-length gowns. Prom night.

ANGLE ON LOU

as he rises from his chair and moves to the edge of the veranda, to the edge of darkness. The light from the veranda illuminates his face, his eyes wide with wonder.

NEW ANGLE

In the middle of the crowd is a girl in a prom dress so white it seems to glow.

CLOSE ON GIRL

She is stunning. So beautiful, and so young. She has dark, curly hair. Lou watches, spellbound. She gazes up at the night sky with a smile, takes a deep breath, and sighs with pleasure.

NEW ANGLE

Lou is standing, staring.

WIDER

His three friends are seated on their lawn chairs behind him, watching him.

BILLY

You remember prom night?

RAY

Sure. Drank a fifth of Jim Beam, booted on the side of my car, and passed out in the backseat.

GORDIE
(singing to the tune of
“Mrs. Robinson”)

Where have you gone, Robin Silverman?

RAY

Yeah. Where did she go?

CLOSER ON LOU

as he stares at the high school kids.

GORDIE

The band took a break and she told me she was going to powder her nose. She left.

RAY

Left?

GORDIE

AWOL. Gone. As in dumped me.

BILLY

That's terrible.

GORDIE

Welcome to my life.

CLOSE UP

of the girl in the white prom dress. A dark-haired boy in a white tuxedo puts his arm around her waist. She looks up at him and smiles.

ANGLE ON LOU

His eyes are shimmering.

LOU'S POINT OF VIEW

The girl in the white prom dress and the boy in the white tuxedo turn toward the camera, smiling.

The image freezes. The color fades to black and white. We are now staring at the prom photo of Lou and Andi from his 1970 high school yearbook.

And on the soundtrack Neil Young is singing “Sugar Mountain”:

…though you're thinking that
You're leaving there too soon.

FADE OUT