"U" is for Undertow (23 page)

Jon took up long-distance running. He liked sports where individual achievement was the goal. He liked competing with himself. There was nothing in his nature that lent itself to team spirit. He wasn’t cooperative by nature, not a rah-rah kind of guy. He didn’t want to wear a uniform that rendered him indistinguishable from fifty other boys on the field. He preferred being on his own. He liked pushing himself. He liked the sweat and the harsh laboring of his lungs, the pain in his legs as he covered ground.

By the time he came home from camp, the promised growth spurt had materialized. Jon’s weight had dropped by twenty-two pounds and he’d added three inches to his five-foot-six-inch height. During ninth and tenth grades his braces came off and he shot up another four inches. He also dropped an additional ten pounds. Running kept him lean and filled him with energy. He took up golf and in his spare time caddied at the club. He and his father operated on separate but parallel tracks, and Jon was fine with that.

In August of 1964, prior to Jon’s freshman year at Climp, Lionel appeared at the door to the den where Jon was slouched on the sofa watching television. He had his feet propped on the ottoman and he held a glass of Diet Pepsi balanced on his chest. His father had been going out a lot, but Jon hadn’t thought much about it.

Lionel stuck his head in the door and said, “Hey, son. How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Could you turn that down, please?”

Jon got up and crossed to the TV set. He muted the sound and returned to his seat, his attention still fixed on the screen though he pretended he was listening to his dad.

Lionel said, “There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Mona Stark.”

Jon glanced over as his father stepped aside and there she was. She was taller than his father and as vibrantly colored as an illustration in his biology text. Black hair, blue eyes, her lips a slash of dark red. Her body was divided into two segments—breasts at the top, flaring hips below, bisected by a narrow waist. In that moment, he took her measure without conscious intent; she was a wasp, a predator. In his mind he could see the lines of print:
Some stinging wasps live in societies that are more complex than those of social bees and ants. Stinging wasps rely on a nest from which they conduct many of their activities, especially the rearing of their young.

Jon said, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice meeting
you
,” she said. And then to Lionel in a teasing tone of voice, “You bad boy. I can see I have my work cut out for me. I can’t believe you haven’t taught him to stand up when a lady enters the room.”

Sheepishly, Jon set his soft drink aside and rose to his feet, mumbling, “Sorry. My fault, not his.”

He shot a look at Lionel. What was going on? Jon knew his father had been dating, but as far as he knew, Lionel wasn’t serious about anyone. He’d been carrying on a series of short-term romances with students in his department, skirting any suggestion of impropriety by waiting until the particular coed in question was no longer enrolled in his class.

Later that night, after Lionel dropped Mona back at her place, he returned to the den and settled in a nearby chair for the inevitable heart-to-heart. It was clear his father felt uncomfortable. For two years, he and Jon had functioned as pals, not the father-son duo that was now up for grabs. Lionel launched into a discourse about how lonely he’d been and how much he missed Jon’s mother. Jon blocked out much of what Lionel said because the words didn’t sound like his. Mona had doubtless primed him, making sure he touched on all the relevant points. Jon imagined Mona sitting there instead, explaining that no one would ever replace his mom, but that a man needed companionship. Jon would benefit, too, said she, talking through his father’s lips. Mona knew how hard life must have been for him and now they had an opportunity to share their home. Mona was divorced and had three lovely daughters, whom Lionel had met. Mona was looking forward to merging the two families, and he hoped Jon would make the transition as smooth as possible.

Lionel and Mona were married in June of 1965. Now that they were a family of six, they needed a larger place. Fortunately, as part of her divorce settlement, Mona had been awarded a house in Beverly Hills, which she sold for big bucks, rolling the money into the new house in Horton Ravine so she wouldn’t have to pay capital gains. At the same time, Lionel sold the modest three-bedroom house where Jon had been raised. That money was set aside for additions and improvements on the new place, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Jon moved into a newly remodeled two rooms and a bath built above the garage while Lionel, Mona, and the three girls occupied the main house. Mona told him how lucky he was to have independent living quarters that would allow him to come and go as he pleased. Not that he was permitted to do any such thing. His “pad,” as she referred to it, was a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d been separated from the rest. His wants, needs, and desires were peripheral to hers.

From that point on, everything revolved around Mona. She had her tennis lessons, her golf, and her charities, activities his father didn’t share with her because he was either teaching or secluded in his home office, writing. Jon was the outsider, looking in on a life that had once been his. He was miserable, but he knew better than to complain. At the same time, he wondered why he was expected to go on as though nothing had changed. His life had taken on an entirely different cast.

The following January, when he turned seventeen, he lobbied for his driver’s license and a car of his own. Mona objected, but for once Lionel argued on Jon’s behalf. After much ado and numerous debates, she finally gave in, perhaps because she realized having a car and driver at her disposal would work to her advantage. Lionel bought Jon a used Chevrolet convertible. By then, Mona’s three perfect daughters were enrolled at the same private school Jon had attended since kindergarten. He caught sight of them in the corridors six and seven times a day. Of course, he drove them to school and picked them up afterward. He also kept an eye on them if Lionel and Mona went out for the evening. If he had other plans, if he resisted in any way, Mona would rebuff him with silence, cut him out of her field of vision as though he were invisible. This she was clever enough to do without Lionel’s being aware. If Jon had brought it to his father’s attention, he’d have been written off as paranoid or oversensitive. Lionel would have repeated it all to Mona and she would have doubled the penalties.

Lionel would have had to be a fool not to pick up on the chill in the air, but since neither Mona nor Jon would discuss the situation, his father was no doubt delighted to ignore the problem. One Saturday afternoon Mona took the girls shopping, and Lionel walked out to the garage and knocked at Jon’s door. Jon hollered out, “It’s open!” and Lionel dutifully trudged up the stairs. He took a moment to survey the place, which was as cold and bare as a cell.

He said, “Well, it looks like you’ve settled in. Very nice. Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” Jon said. He knew his two rooms were without character or comfort, but he didn’t want to offer his father the means to maneuver.

“Is it warm enough out here?”

“Pretty much. I don’t have any hot water to speak of. I get five minutes’ worth of lukewarm dribble before it runs out.”

“Well, that’s no good. I’m glad you brought it up. I’ll have Mona take care of it.”

Jon suspected he’d just given his father an opening to the Mona discussion that loomed. It was up to his father to proceed without any help from him.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Jon moved a pile of dirty clothes from a wooden desk chair so his father could take a seat. Lionel began a long, rambling discourse about the new blended family. He acknowledged that things were sometimes tense between Mona and Jon, but she was doing her best, and Lionel said it was only fair that Jon meet her halfway.

Jon stared at him, bemused by the enormity of Lionel’s self-delusion. Of course, his father was her defender. She and Lionel were allies. Jon had no recourse. There was no court of appeals. In effect, his father was announcing that Jon was totally at her mercy. Her whims, her sharp tongue, her uncanny ability to seize the upper hand: for all of this, she had Lionel’s blessing. Jon couldn’t believe his father didn’t see what was going on.

“Well, Dad,” he said carefully, “not to be obtuse about it, but from my perspective, she’s a clusterfuck.”

Lionel reacted as though slapped. “Well, son, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion, but I trust you’ll keep it to yourself. I’d appreciate it if you’d try to get along with her, for my sake if nothing else.”

“For
your
sake? How do you figure that?”

Lionel shook his head, his tone patient. “I know the adjustment isn’t easy. She’ll never replace your mother. She’s not asking for that and neither am I. You have to trust me on this; she’s a caring person, amazing really, once you get to know her better. In the meantime, I expect you to treat her with the respect she deserves.”

It was the word “amazing” that somehow stuck in Jon’s craw. Mona was the enemy, but he could see how futile it was to battle her head-on. After that, Jon referred to her as the Amazing Mona, though never in his father’s company and never to her face. The newlyweds’ first Christmas together, the Amazing Mona had inveigled Lionel to play Santa for a Climping Academy fund-raiser, and every year thereafter, he donned his white wig, white beard, and white mustache, and then climbed into a red velvet fat suit, trimmed in white fur. Even his boots were fake. In Jon’s mind, the photograph that exactly captured their relationship was the one in a silver frame Mona displayed on the baby grand piano in the newly decorated living room. In it she was decked out in a low-cut Yves Saint Laurent evening gown, perched seductively on Santa’s lap. While she glowed for the camera, Lionel’s identity was obliterated. She did manage to raise over a hundred thousand dollars for the school, and for this she was widely praised.

Jon unburdened himself bitterly to his brother by phone. “She is such a total bitch. She’s a tyrant. I’m telling you. She’s a fucking na rcissist.”

Grant said, “Oh, come on. You’ll be out of the house in a year or two, so what’s it to you?”

“She thinks she can run my life and Dad lets her get away with it. Talk about being pussy-whipped.”

“So what? That’s his business, not yours.”

“Shit, that’s easy for you to say. I’d like to see you try living under the same roof with her.”

Bored with the topic, Grant said, “Just tough it out. Once you finish high school you can come live with me.”

“I’m not moving away from all my friends!”

“That’s the best I can offer. Stiff upper lip, old chum.”

Jon discovered a new way to occupy his time. He began breaking into various Horton Ravine homes he knew were unoccupied. While he caddied at the club, he picked up all manner of information about members’ travel plans. Guys chatted among themselves about upcoming cruises and European tours, jaunts to San Francisco, Chicago, and New York. It was a form of bragging, though it was couched in queries about exchange rates, good deals on charter flights, and luxury hotels. Lionel and Mona socialized with most of them, so all Jon had to do was look up their addresses in Mona’s Rolodex. He’d wait until the family was gone and find his way in. If there was talk of an alarm system or a house sitter, he knew to avoid the place. People were careless about locking up. Jon found windows unlatched, basement doors unsecured. Failing that, he scouted out the house keys hidden under flowerpots and fake garden rocks.

Once inside, he cruised the premises, poking through closets and dresser drawers. Home offices were a rich source of information. He was curious about women’s underwear, about the fragrances they used, their personal hygiene. He didn’t steal anything. That wasn’t the point. Breaking and entering gave him temporary relief from anxiety. The heightened fear level washed away the stress he carried and his equilibrium was restored.

Midway through his junior year, he started cutting classes at Climp, first occasionally, then more often. Not surprisingly, his grades tumbled. He was secretly amused at all the murmuring that went on behind his back. There were conferences at school and conferences at home. Notes went back and forth. Phone calls were exchanged. Lionel didn’t want to be the bad guy, so Mona was the one who finally lowered the boom.

She was stern and reproving, and Jon made every effort to keep a straight face while she read him the riot act. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You have great potential, Jon, but you’re not putting forth your best effort. Since you’re doing so poorly, we think it’s a waste of our money to pay private-school tuition. If you’re unwilling to apply yourself at Climp, we think you should transfer to Santa Teresa High.”

Jon knew what she was up to. She thought the threat of public school would give her leverage. He shrugged. “That’s cool. Santa Teresa High School. Let’s do it.”

Mona frowned, unable to believe he wasn’t going to protest her ruling and promise to improve. “I’m sure you’ll want to graduate with your classmates at Climp, so we’d be willing to discuss it after the first semester at Santa Teresa High, assuming you do better. If you show us you can bring your grades up, we’ll see that you’re transferred back. The decision is yours.”

“I already decided. I’ll take the public high school.”

The fall of 1966, at the end of Jon’s first day at Santa Teresa High, he was standing at his locker when a kid at the locker next to his looked over and smiled. “You’re new. I saw you this morning. We’re in the same homeroom.”

“Right. I remember. I’m Jon Corso.”

The kid extended his hand. “Walker McNally.”

The two shook hands and then Walker said, “Where you from?”

“I was at Climp last year. I flunked out.”