Kane (65 page)

I smiled, but before I could reply, Nate leaned over the railing of a second-story balcony overhanging our deck.  “Ali, McKenzie, get up here fast,” he called.  “You too, Dad.  Ali’s on TV again!”

Once more using his knife, Dad tested the corn.  “These still need a couple of minutes,” he said, judging the ears had yet to reach the proper level of chewiness, always a point of family contention.  “I’d better watch them.  You go ahead.  And tell everyone dinner’s hitting the table shortly.”

Though our prior conversation remained unresolved, I decided to let it pass.  “Okay, Dad.  I’ll tell them.”

Leaving my father on the deck, McKenzie and I made our way upstairs, joining my mother and Nate in the living room.  By then the Newport Beach news segment was almost over.  The TV screen now showed a wet and shivering me standing on the Harbor Patrol dock, a blanket draped over my shoulders.  “The lifeguards were the heroes,” my image said, turning away from the camera.  At that point the scene shifted to the news desk.  I was shocked to see the handsome face of Peter Samson, the CBS network news anchor.  Somehow, what had started out as a local news segment had turned into network news.

“Although the mystery rescuer refused to give her name, CBS has learned that she is Allison Kane, a student at UCLA,” the anchor said.  “According to hospital officials, the young victim Ms. Kane saved is in stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery.  Heavy surf is predicted to continue battering California beaches through tomorrow.”  Then, turning to another camera angle, “In other west coast news today, LAPD officials have reported little progress in locating fourteen-year-old actress Sharon French, reported missing from her Pacific Palisades home last weekend.  Here with more from Los Angeles is CBS news correspondent Brent Preston.”

The scene flashed to a residential street.  My mother shook her head.  “That poor little girl,” she said quietly.  Then, raising the remote control, she turned off the set.

“Gosh, Ali, now you’re on
national
TV,” said McKenzie.  “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said self-consciously, still stinging from my mother’s earlier censure.

“Yeah!  Awesome, sis!” added Nate.

“Can I have your autograph?” begged McKenzie.  “Please?”

“Oh, hush, Mac,” I said, covertly watching my mother from the corner of my eye.  Like many of my recent confrontations with Mom, our latest argument regarding the beach rescue had been protracted and bitter, charged with an underlying tension that more and more seemed to color our exchanges with misunderstanding and hurt.  And I knew this latest one wasn’t over yet.

As I secretly regarded my mom, I felt a familiar stab of inadequacy.  Still stunningly beautiful at just over forty, Catheryn Kane, accomplished musician and the associate principle cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, embodied all the virtues I felt I lacked in myself:  elegance, talent, grace, and most of all, a sense of purpose.  “What do
you
think about my making the national news, Mom?” I asked hesitantly.

Mom looked over.  “You know what I think,” she said, her eyes flashing with irritation.  “This newscast doesn’t change anything.”  As she was about to add something more, the phone rang.  McKenzie, the closest, picked it up.  “Kane residence.”  A pause, then, “Yes, she’s right here.”  Setting the receiver on the table, she turned to me.  “It’s for you,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

“Dinner time,” my dad’s voice boomed up from the deck outside.  “Get your butts down here, kids!  You too, Kate.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Nate, glancing guiltily at Mom.  “Dad wanted you to check on his bean casserole.  And he said to take the salad out of the fridge.”

“Already done,” said Mom.  She rose from the couch.  “Everything’s on the kitchen counter.  Let’s all take something down to the picnic table when we go.  And Allison, don’t be long.  We’ll wait for you to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After everyone had left, I crossed to the table and lifted the receiver.  “Hello?”

“Allison?  Mike Cortese.”

“Who?”

“Mike Cortese.  From the beach.  The pushy guy with the camera, remember?”

“How … how did you get my number?”

“Your friend McKenzie.  Have you seen yourself on TV?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I hope you don’t mind.  I know you didn’t want any publicity, but what happened today was news.”

“Well, I suppose you were just doing your job,” I conceded.  “I
was
kind of shocked seeing myself on the
CBS Evening News
, though.”

“I’ll bet.  It was supposed to be a local-color segment, but Newspath picked it up and farmed it out to all the CBS affiliates.  Eventually network decided to use it to plug a hole in the six-o’clock national lineup.”

“Newspath?”

“They supply video clips to network affiliates.  Sort of like a wire service.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that I looked into an intern position for you at Channel Two.  Nothing’s available there at KCBS, but I contacted a friend at network.  He says they might have a slot for you over there.  Nothing’s guaranteed, but you have an appointment at CBS first thing Monday morning.  It’s on Fairfax Avenue.  Go to the main desk and ask for Brent Preston.”

“Brent Preston, the news correspondent?”

“That’s him.  I know Brent from when he started at Channel Two.”

As I’d told McKenzie, I had originally considered Mike’s talk of a news intern job simply that:  just talk.  Now, presented with the possibility of actually working at a news station, and a
network
news station at that, I found myself at a loss for words.  “Monday morning.  I’ll be there,” I finally managed.

“I’ll let Brent know,” said Mike.  “And good luck.”  With that, he rattled off Brent’s phone number at the station and said good-bye, disconnecting before I had recovered enough from my surprise to say thanks.

Everyone was assembled at the picnic table outside when I finally arrived downstairs.  “C’mon, Ali,” urged Nate.  “Get a move on.  We’re starving.”

I slid in beside McKenzie, who had taken a seat across from Nate.  From his position at the head of the table, my dad began serving salad.  “Hope you like anchovies, McKenzie,” he said, passing a bowl down the line.  “In my book, Caesar salad isn’t Caesar salad without ’em, so I use plenty.”

“I’ve had your Caesar,” said McKenzie, “and I love it.  Anchovies and all.”

“Let’s say grace before everyone digs in, Dan,” Mom suggested.

Dad ducked his head.  “Right.”

My mother led a short prayer in which she asked God’s blessing for everyone we loved—family and friends both present and absent—and especially Travis, who would be performing his own work in concert the following weekend.

“Amen,” said Dad, lifting a tumbler of Coke, his customary beverage since he had stopped drinking some years back.  “And here’s to the hero of the hour,” he added, glancing at me.

McKenzie, who had turned twenty-one earlier that spring, lifted a glass of white wine.  “To Allison.”

As the rest of the table joined in, I felt a blush rising to my cheeks.  Though my mother remained silent, I saw her also raise her wine glass.  Nate, after clunking his mug of milk against mine and taking a drink, reached for Mom’s wine.  “Can I have a sip, Mom?”

“Great idea, sport,” said Dad.  “One more suggestion like that and you’ll be doing pushups till your arms fall off.”

“Never happen,” said Nate, again flexing his biceps.  “Not these arms.”

“Who was that on the phone, Ali?” asked Mom, smiling at Nate’s posturing.

I speared a steak from the meat platter, then reached for the corn.  “Somebody from school,” I lied.

“Oh?”

“He, uh, wanted to borrow my notes,” I explained, digging myself in deeper.  McKenzie glanced at me curiously but said nothing.

“I hope he didn’t want your notes from today,” my mother observed dryly.

“Jeez, give the girl a break, Kate,” said Dad, serving the last of the salad.  “She skipped a couple of classes, saved some kid’s life, and wound up on national TV.  What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing, except for the small matter that her rashness could have resulted in her death,” Mom countered irritably.  “This isn’t the first time she’s pulled a daredevil stunt like that.  What’s she trying to prove?”

“Kate, that kid in the water needed help.”

“And Allison should have let the lifeguards handle things.  That’s their job.”

“It’s a tough call to make without being there,” Dad pointed out.  Then, sensing the afternoon’s argument threatening to resurface, he changed the subject.  “Speaking of jobs, I have the weekend off.  Should be able to start on your closet organizer tomorrow.”

“Really?” asked Mom.

“Absolutely,” said Dad, ladling a steaming portion of three-bean casserole onto his plate, then tearing off a hunk of freshly heated French bread.  “Maybe I can even get going on those living room bookshelves you’ve been bugging me about.  You want to help, champ?” he asked, passing the breadbasket to Nate.

“Sure,” Nate replied enthusiastically.  “I have a baseball game tomorrow morning, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  I’m one of the coaches, remember?  We’ll get going on things here after that.”

“The house is sure coming along, Mr. Kane,” interjected McKenzie, gazing up at the new Kane residence.  Mom’s mother, Dorothy Erickson, had grown up in an ancient structure built on the site during the midthirties, and she had subsequently bequeathed it to my mom and dad as a wedding present.  The original home, a sadly sagging construct of termite-ridden beams and quick-fix repairs that time had eventually lent an air of permanence, had burned to the sand several years back.  Though our family had escaped for the most part unscathed, it had been a heartbreaking loss for all of us.  Following the fire, Dad had spent a year getting the requisite permits to rebuild.  After securing a bank loan to augment the fire-insurance money, he had taken substantial blocks of accumulated LAPD sick leave and vacation time to supervise the framing—later setting up a workshop in the new garage and spending every free weekend working on various finish details.  Although the family had moved back to the beach months earlier from temporary quarters in a nearby rental condo, there was still much to do.

“It really
is
coming along, isn’t it?” Dad agreed proudly.  “I kinda miss the old place, though.”

“I never thought I would admit it, but I do, too,” said Mom, absently brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead.  “Still, it’s nice having a modern kitchen, not to mention a bigger music room and windows that actually open and shut.  And the upstairs balcony is heavenly,” she added, referring to the deck above us that Dad had cantilevered off the second floor.

“No argument there,” said Dad.  “You should use it more often, sugar.  Catch a few rays.  You’ve been looking a bit peaked lately.”

I stole a glance at my mother, thinking her color did seem a little pale.  A small, purplish bruise marked the skin of her forearm—a blemish that would have ordinarily gone undetected had she displayed her normal tan.

“With the Philharmonic’s rehearsal schedule and helping Trav prepare for his concert, I haven’t had much time to be lounging around in the sun,” Mom replied.  “But it’s sweet of you to notice, Dan.”

“Just watching out for you, honeybunch.”

“How
is
Trav’s concert preparation going?” asked McKenzie.

“Fine,” Mom answered.  “Trav’s been in D.C. for the past two days working with the NSO music director to fine tune his concerto, as well as rehearsing it with the orchestra.  Next weekend’s performances should go perfectly.”

“He’s really nervous about debuting his own work, though,” I noted.  “I talked with him last night.  He says a lot is riding on this first concert.”

Mom nodded somberly.  “Performing his own composition will be a tremendous step up for Trav, especially if it’s well received.”

“How come Trav gets to play with the NOS, anyway?” asked Nate.

“NSO,” I corrected.  “National Symphony Orchestra.  And it’s because our older brother Travis is such an ineffable genius.”

Nate looked confused.  “Ineffable?”

“Unspeakable,” explained Mom, squinting at me with irritation.  “Your sister’s being sarcastic.  It’s an ineffably unattractive trait in a young lady, I might add.”  Then, turning back to Nate, “To answer your question, the NSO’s music director heard Trav play one of his compositions at the Kennedy Center last year.  Your brother was on a recital tour that was part of his winning the silver medal at the Van Cliburn International.  You remember.”

Nate nodded.  “And the conductor liked Trav so much he wanted him to play with his orchestra?”

“Something like that.  The music director happens to be old friends with one of Trav’s professors at USC.”

“Mr. Petrinski?”

“That’s right.  Anyway, the NSO regularly supports young musicians, and Mr. Petrinski sent his friend a recording of Trav’s work.”