The Practical Navigator (10 page)

I. Inland Waterway Phase: Piloting in narrow canals, channels, rivers, and estuaries.

 

17

“Well, this can be fixed.”

Leo has always prided himself on his subtle sense of sarcasm. The house is burned nearly to the foundations, hardly even a shell, and he and Michael stand in the midst of it, staring at the collapsed roof and the remnants of walls, at gray ash, at shards of half-melted pipe and cable, at seared and peeling plaster, and at the blackened brick of the still-standing chimney. The melted bones of what was Penelope's old Chrysler sits on the darkened slab of what was a garage floor. Michael kicks at a piece of charred wood that once was a kitchen chair. The sweet, wet smell of smoke and burned rubber and insulation is everywhere.

“Any idea how it started?” asks Leo.

“She put water on for tea,” says Michael.

“Tea is flammable?”

“She forgot about it.”

*   *   *

The loss of her house has overnight made Penelope an old woman. After two nights in the hospital for observation, Michael, along with Jamie, brings her home. She gets out of the pickup slowly and with difficulty. Michael is carrying some shopping bags of clothes donated by sympathetic neighbors. It's as if there's been a death in the family except people have been dropping off dresses, shoes, shirts, and slacks as opposed to casseroles and pies.

When they enter the bungalow, Penelope looks around, uncertain and confused, as if she's never been here before. She brightens as the dog, Abigail, hurries in from the living room, its entire body wagging in relief and delight. “Oh,
there
you are,” murmurs Penelope, putting her hands tenderly under the dog's muzzle. “Are you my beauty?”

“Abbie missed you, Nana,” says Jamie.

“Yes, but she was in very good hands with you, my darling.” Penelope gives Jamie a quick hug. “My hero.” She has told Michael more than once that it was Jamie who woke her, coming to her on the couch, pushing and prodding and insisting. It was Jamie who got them from the burning house.

“Come on,” says Michael. “We'll put your stuff in the bedroom.”

They enter the small guest room that is most often used as a jack-of-all-trades work space, Michael immediately realizing that in his haste to get her home and settled, he hasn't even thought to clean. There is a pile of wrinkled clothes on the unmade bed, an ironing board, a barbell and dumbbells, seldom if ever used, off to the side, and cardboard file boxes in the corner. The desk with its old computer and bulky CRT monitor is covered with dust. Michael's not sure the last time he ran a vacuum in here.

“We're gonna get it all fixed up for you.”

“Of course we will. This is going to be quite divine.” Penelope looks around and then, as if her body has become too heavy for her, sits down on the bare mattress. The dog jumps up next to her and settles in and she absently strokes its head.

“I'll get rid of the, uh…” Michael gestures vaguely at the weights.

“Please,” says Penelope. “I doubt I'll be using them.”

*   *   *

“Luis, I have to ask you two questions.”

As Michael and Leo examine the foundation, Luis surveys the scorched earth of what was the backyard. Jamie, whom Michael has brought along, is right beside him. For some unknown reason, Jamie has always adored Luis, and Luis, though he'd never admit it, enjoys the boy's company. With Jaimito, you never know what you'll get next, and whatever it is, it's never boring.

“What questions?” says Luis, his voice deep as a bellows. The kid is
always
asking him questions.

“Does your penis have a hat?”

Saludo.
What the fuck? Luis looks down at the little
chico
who is staring up at him, very serious, waiting for the answer. Luis is reminded of the time he was doing some work at Michael's house and Jamie, naked as
un duende,
after following him around all day, asked to accompany him to the dump. Luis had shrugged. What did he care? It was only when pulling into the Miramar Landfill with its circling trucks and the smell of unburied garbage in his nose that Luis realized the situation he'd put himself in. A very large Mexican with a moustache and Aztec tattoos, riding in a battered pickup with a bare-ass, five-year-old
rubio
next to him in the front seat? Never mind his Tijuana plates, if pulled over he was prison fodder, no questions asked. Luis turned the hell around and got the naked rug rat home fast. And now the boy is asking him about the
prepucio
on his
pene
. His own children wouldn't do such a thing. His own children ignore him completely. Maybe that's why he likes this one.

“Siguiente pregunta,”
says Luis. “Next question.”

“What's your favorite ice cream?” says Jamie.

Good. This one he can answer.
“Almendra,”
says Luis. “Almond. Now, no more questions.”

It's a shame about the house. But it's good that the old woman has her son to take her in. From what Luis can tell, most white people don't have the support system of extended families, no uncles or cousins or nieces, no multiple brothers and sisters, no
bisabuelos
to turn to for guidance and to commiserate with. Luis has never understood why people would only have one kid. You have six or seven there's a chance at least one of them is going to turn out okay and that's the one that will take care of you in your old age. This is not to say relatives can't be a pain in the ass. His second cousin, Ramon, is a
pendejo,
selling his dope and, when not in jail, sitting on his ass in the living room, letting his mother wait on him. And according to his crazy sister Connie, Luis's niece Jennifera sees dead people. Still. There are bonds in blood. You look into a face, you see something of your own.

*   *   *

“So where's she stand on insurance?” asks Leo, kicking at what might be the remains of the dining room table. In Leo's experience,
no one
has enough home insurance. They go for the minimum, thinking catastrophes will only happen to other property owners, never to them. This is why Leo rents.

“She doesn't have any,” says Michael.

Leo grimaces. Old people are the worst. They assume they'll be dead before any kind of disaster hits. “I thought you gave her money.”

“She spent it on bulbs.”

Lightbulbs?

“Flowers, Leo.”

“Oh. Any insurance on them?”

“No, I think we're pretty much screwed here.”

Something catches Michael's eye. He picks it up. The silver frame has been blackened and twisted by the heat. The glass is broken. Half the photo is gone. The bride—Penelope—has been burned away. All that's left is the singed but still smiling uniformed groom—his father.

“I want it.”

Michael turns. Jamie has quietly approached. His eyes are on the broken silver frame and smudged black-and-white image within.

“Not much here, little man.”

“It's what's left.”

Out of the mouths of babes. Michael hands Jamie the frame and photo.

“Hold on to it. We'll get it all cleaned up for you.”

“We need new pictures.”

“We'll take some.”

Michael's heart suddenly feels lighter. Things were lost but, given time, things can be replaced. People can't. His mother and son are still here to take bad photos of. As are others. He hasn't called her yet but he will. They'll cross the bridge.

Like his son, he wants this.

 

18

“Bebe! Everett! No running!”

Anita, in an old, too-small bikini scavenged from a bureau drawer, is sunning by the pool when her younger sister arrives. Beth comes across the dark slate pavement stones of the upper terrace, preceded by two children in swimsuits and followed well behind by a skinny, scowling older boy who wears a T-shirt and baggy jams that fall below his knees. The two children come in a noisy rush down the steps and run straight into the water—boom—splash.

“Dammit!” says Beth. “Did I or did I not say—”

“Ah! Momma, it's cold!”

“Too bad! Jonathan, watch your brother and sister!”

“Mom!” the older boy whines.

“And you can change your attitude or lose computer privileges for the weekend.”

“It's not fair!” The boy throws himself into a lounge chair. “I don't even want to
be
here.”

“Well, you are, so deal with it.”

Beth drops towels and bags and plops down onto the recliner next to Anita. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she moans as if exhausted. “God, I love my life,” she says.

“Hi to you as well.” In the pool, the kids are seemingly trying to drown each other. “Which is which here?”

Beth points. “Bebe. Everett.”

“Can they swim?”

“Christ, I hope so. I have no intention of going in after them.”

Anita smiles. Her sister is funny. Sarcastic, sharp, and self-deprecating, almost always making you laugh as she tells you the truth. Hers was the vocal equivalent of not blinking an eyelash when Anita called her on the phone.

“I'm home for a while.”

“Good. 'Cause it really
sucks
around here.”

Beth takes off her wide-brimmed straw hat and shakes out her hair. Unlike Anita, she is fair skinned with the freckles and strawberry-blond hair of their father. She slips out of the light jacket she's wearing and settles back. Never entirely comfortable with her body, she wears a one-piece bathing suit.

“Sunscreen?” asks Anita.

“No, I think I'll get a nice burn today.”

There's a cooler next to the lounge chair and Anita grabs a bottle of Corona beer, opens it, and hands it to her sister. Beth takes it. Anita is pleased to see that Beth's nails, though short, are neatly filed. When her sister was a little girl they were usually bitten to the bloody quick.

“You look terrific by the way.”

“I look like Jabba the Hutt with three kids.”

“How's Bob?”

“Still working for Dad down at the bank. We're in debt up to our assholes.”

“I see Mom's still on the Jesus kick.”

“You haven't had to live with it.”

“The health food thing is new.”

“Mom gives botulism a good name.” Beth sits up in her lounge chair. “Jonathan, you're not watching!”

“Yes I am!”

“No you're not. You're staring at your aunt's tits.”

“Mom!” Outraged, the boy turns away, his face turning crimson. “You're such an asshole!”

“Takes one to know one.” Beth settles back in the lounge chair. “You believe he talks like that to his mother?”

“Where do they get it from?” says Anita, feigning dismay.

“Not from his father,” says Beth, her voice saying she wishes he did. UCLA Bob. Bruin Bob. Bland, boring, dependable Robert Black whom Beth met in Westwood sophomore year and whom everybody likes. Her sister, Anita knows, secretly covets leather-clad rock stars and tattooed, muscled bikers and has serious fantasies about engaging one of each in a torrid threesome.

“Speaking not of which,” says Anita, drinking some bottled water, “when did you get the boob job?” It's true. The bathing suit, though modest, emphasizes her sister's newly ample chest.

“Just keeping up with the Kardashians.” Beth sounds just a touch defensive. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

“Didn't say there was,” says Anita.

“You always had great boobs,” says Beth. “You still do.”

“Yours weren't so bad.”

“Now they're better.” Eyes closed, Beth puts her head back, happy now. Anita reaches out and takes her sister's hand in her own. “Love you, Bethie,” she says.

“Missed you, Neets,” Beth replies.

“Family dinner, huh?”

“Gee, maybe Dad will make martinis.”

 

19

“I don't like this!!!”

Sitting at the head of the long dining room table, with a squat cocktail glass of ice and Tanqueray at his fingertips, Neal Beacham takes inventory of his family and, once again, finds it wanting. His granddaughter, called Bebe of all the goddamn things, is squalling as his daughter Beth, who has the mothering skills of an egg-laying reptile, cuts her food. His younger grandson, Everett, is making train noises—“Choo-choo-choo-choo!”—while his older grandson, Jonathan, sulks and pushes food around his plate. His wife's dog, the latest in a long line of pathetic rescue mutts, has its head between the two younger children, hungry for scraps, while Beth's boob of a husband, Bob, whom Neal is forced to suffer at work every day, wolfs his food and stares longingly across the table at his son Neal Beacham Jr.'s latest girlfriend, a voluptuous, blue-streaked blond Barbie doll, who, for some goddamn reason, is eating with chopsticks. Neal Jr., who at the age of thirty-what is it again? still tends
bar
for a living, and as all know, lives in a
condo
provided for him by his parents
,
is talking popular culture of all the goddamn things, with his mother, seemingly forgetting that Tisha is about as interested in popular culture as she is in sex, which—at least with Neal Beacham—is not at all. And then there's Anita. With all his wife's cold, tensile strength but none of her propriety. Back home, arriving with no word of warning, from who knows where. Anita, who keeps looking at him, studying him, as if with her unsettling gaze she can read his mind and, in doing so, finds what's written there wanting. His wife is constantly telling Neal Beacham that drinking makes him angry and volatile. His wife is full of it. It's not drinking that pisses him off, it's the people he's forced to drink with.

*   *   *

“Well, I thought it was a very
original
movie,” says Neal Jr. Anita, serving herself from a bowl of sauced vegetables held by the longtime Mexican housekeeper, Maria, feels that if there's one thing the family all agrees on it's that her brother, a pleasant-looking hybrid of his parents with Tisha's blond hair and Neal's broad features, has never had an original idea in his life.