Tuesday March 30 2004
La Jolla

Roxanne stood at Bobby and Grunge's door, arguing with herself. This is ridiculous. I'm not a jealous little schoolgirl. What do I expect to find? And if I do find something, what do I plan to do with it? But she knocked softly on the door, not to see if Grunge or Bobby was inside - she knew they were at the mall, watching some guy movie full of explosions and car chases and trampy women - but to make sure Anna wasn't. A moment later, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

Even if she hadn't already known, a glance would have told her which half of the little bedroom was Grunge's. The division of territory was as clear as in the room she and Kat shared, and marked much the same way. Bobby's side of the room was neat and picked-up and kind of impersonal. He lives in here as if he might move again overnight, she thought with a pang. The only individual touches were the guitar mags on his nightstand and the acoustic on his bed, objects he could leave behind or pick up on his way out the door.

Grunge's walls were papered with Hawaiian Tropic posters, bronzed bikini-clad hotties smiling enticingly for the camera. His skateboard leaned in one corner, and the shared closet was open on his side, revealing a couple of boxes on the over-rod shelf that she presumed held his magazines and comics. He'd moved in and denned up.

She sat down gingerly on his bed, feeling like a snoop and a slut at the same time, because she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing here. What am I looking for? Mash notes from Brittany, that skank in his Math class? Or evidence from some other girl I don't know about at all? Or… what would happen if he comes in alone and finds me here… and locks the door behind him?

She dropped backwards to lie crossways on the bed. She reached for a pillow, thinking to draw it under her head. But her hand froze as she looked up at the ceiling.

Not all Grunge's posters were mounted on the walls. Directly above her, where it would likely be the first thing he saw as he settled into bed, was a centerfold from some skin mag. The bimbo staring smokily down at her wearing nothing but a lace choker and footie socks was a leggy green-eyed redhead.

She felt heat rise, and felt herself rising as well. She got a grip on her Gen and settled back down to the mattress. Then she slid her hand under the pillow, intending to fling it with everything she had at the offending picture. But her fingers touched something solid underneath, and a quick exploration determined it was a book, placed open and pages-down to hold his place. She pulled it out carefully and looked at the title.

Beneath the Wheel
Hermann Hesse

She recognized the author's name from Lit class: a highbrow German novelist from the first half of the twentieth century. His book Siddhartha was on the required-reading list, and she'd waded through the story of a monk who leaves the monastery, becomes rich, and reclaims his soul by turning his back on his riches and becoming a near-penniless ferryman living in a dirt-floored hut and finding inner peace just listening to the river, ho hum. But she'd never heard of this one. Is he reading it on his own? And why stuff it under his pillow? He goes to bed surrounded by smut, and he hides this? Then she remembered their last night as students at Darwin, when she'd walked into his room and found him with a book like this. He'd put it aside as if he'd been embarrassed to be caught with it.

She replaced it carefully, then, on impulse, looked under his bed. The only thing underneath it was another book - a paperback, looked like. She reached under and pulled it out.

The front of the book looked like a product of the Psychedelic Sixties: purple cover, a picture of a wrench growing out of a flower. The title was totally Sixties, too:

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By
Walter M. Pirsig

Another book she was sure wasn't on the list. She replaced it as well, and left quietly, thinking. Well, I half expected to discover my boyfriend is living a double life. But it's not the one I expected.

She went downstairs to the basement, past the laundry room, and stopped at the door to Mr. Lynch's office. She tapped on the panel. "Mr. Lynch? Are you in there?"

"What is it, Roxy?" No invitation to come in.

"Um, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Wait." Faint noises as he put away stuff he presumably didn't want her to see. She kind of doubted he was stashing his porn. "Come in."

She entered it for the first time. "Yikes."

"Not what you expected?"

"Anna said the place was kind of plain. I didn't think she meant prison-cell plain." Mr. Lynch's office was outright dumpy for a man with his money and taste. The artwork and expensive furnishings in the common spaces upstairs were nowhere to be seen here. The only pictures were framed photos, either black-and-white or color prints washed out with age. The battered-looking steel desk had a top that was scratched and stained. The only objects presently on it were a coffee mug filled with pencils and markers, a fancy flat-screen monitor, and a mouse and keyboard. "Where's all the pretty stuff?"

"I find I work best with a minimum of distractions. And beautiful things are very distracting." He gave her a tiny smile, just a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "So, what's on your mind?"

"Have you ever heard of Herman Hess?"

He shook his head. "Somebody bothering you?"

"No, nothing like that. He was a writer. Siddhartha?"

"Ah. Hermann Hesse," he said, pronouncing it Hare-mon Hessa. "He also wrote Steppenwolf, Magister Ludi, and a bunch of others. I've read most of them. Variations on a theme, really. But good stuff."

"What about Beneath the Wheel? What's that one about?"

"Well, it's about this gifted student who's made to sacrifice any chance of a normal life to devote himself to his studies, and gets crushed by other people's expectations. He finally finds some measure of peace by flunking out, turning his back on academic life, and becoming a blacksmith, as I recall." The Man leaned forward over the desk. "Why the interest?"

"First, I've got another one. Zen and the Art of Motorcycles."

"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?"

"Right, that. What's it about?"

"It's about more than one thing, I'd say. On one level, it's a treatise on living a successful life by blending rationality and spirituality. On another, it's about a man so obsessed with finding the ultimate answers to everything he's in danger of losing his place in the world around him, along with his sanity. Near the end of the book, he comes within a hair of committing suicide." He steepled his fingers. "Pretty heavy reading for a girl whose favorite periodicals are Teen Beat and Dance Fever. Schoolwork?"

"No, no. I just came across them while I was looking for something else. I was just curious." Curious what kind of person would read this stuff. But I still don't know. I can't imagine two guys any more different than you and him. "Well, thanks." She turned to leave.

"Wait. Since you're here. Two things. First, did Anna ask you about going shopping?"

"Shopping? For what?"

"For Thursday." When she didn't respond, he prompted, "April first."

Her fists flew to her chest. "Gawd! Sarah's seventeenth! I just suck remembering stuff like that."

"Fortunately, Anna has no problem with it at all. But she would like some help picking a gift. I think your sister's going, too."

"Not the boys."

"No, they're mounting their own expedition. I shudder to think what they may bring back."

"Kay. I'll talk to her first chance. What's the other thing?"

He rose and stepped around the desk. "The picture hanging by the door. Eight men standing in front of a helicopter. Take a close look."

She stepped to the door and brought her face close to the big framed photo. It was one of the color ones, faded to soft pastels, making the bright sunshine in the scene seem furnace-like. Eight guys in old-fashioned camouflage uniforms, posed along the side of a big ugly helicopter. The background behind it was bare dirt changing abruptly to jungle, a curtain of green. The men didn't wear helmets, though some of them wore hats. And they were all armed to the teeth. But they didn't look grim or menacing, even though she was sure they were ten times more dangerous than any gang she'd avoided in school. They almost were like old buds on a camping trip. An inscription penned in the corner read Cambodia 3-23-78. She frowned. Wasn't the war over years before that?

A figure in the center of the group drew her attention: a dark-haired man with a kerchief bound around his head Rambo-style. Lean and tough-looking as they all were, this man was different. The others were sort of arranged around him, as if he was the leader, and he was clearly comfortable in the role. He looked at the camera with an easy confidence in his root-beer-brown eyes.

The glass covering the old photo wasn't anti-glare; in its reflection, she saw the Man behind her over her shoulder.

"You were so handsome." She didn't realize she'd recognized him before the words were out.

"I was thirty-two. Still old enough to be your father, and you hadn't even been conceived yet. Speaking of which. The blond-haired man with the neckerchief rolled into a sweatband on his forehead, two from my right."

She reached out and touched the figure. She could see a resemblance to Kat in the jaw and chin and the shape of his eyes. Alex Fairchild. Kat's dad, and mine. "He's beautiful. No wonder Mom couldn't resist him." It came out a lot harsher than it had sounded in her head.

"Don't judge him too harshly. Roxy. If it wasn't for his trifling ways, you wouldn't be here. From where I'm standing, I'd have to call that a win." His hand rested briefly on her shoulder and lifted away.

"The Oriental guy next to him. Is that who I think?"

"Philip Chang. Eddie's dad."

The other men were strangers, unrecognizable. She took her finger off her father's image and looked again at the younger Jack Lynch, and suddenly her attention was pulled, caught like a fly in a spiderweb, really, to the man standing just behind him. "Who is that?"

"That," the Man in Black said, "is Stephen Callahan. Matt and Nicole's dad."

She studied the figure. He was okay-looking, she thought, but no Alex Fairchild, and didn't look much like either of his kids. He was average height and kind of stocky, the kind of guy who didn't have to pump iron to look bulky and intimidating. But that wasn't what had pulled her eye to him. She was sure it was just a trick of the camera angle or something, but she got the eerie feeling he was staring through the photograph and seeing her, a quarter-century and ten thousand miles away…

She realized she'd been staring at this stranger for longer than she'd looked at her father. "He seems nice."

"He loved his kids," the Man said tersely. "He told me more than once they were the most important thing on earth to him." He stirred, as if he was uncomfortable. "Is that all? I don't want to seem brusque, but I really need to get back to work..."

"And I'm distracting you. Sorry. Shouldn't have come in here with my goofy questions."

"The questions were the least of it. Like I said, beautiful things. Shoo."

Thursday April 1 2004

"Surprise!" Five voices called in unison as Sarah stepped into the living room.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, good grief." Her four friends and Anna stood smiling around the coffee table, which held an assortment of wrapped packages.

"Happy B-day, Sarah." Bobby smiled at her. "For the next ninety days, you're a year older than me."

"Now we're the same age," Beth would say every year as she blew out the candles on her cake. "For ten days, anyway."

Bobby presented her with a flat square package, obviously a CD case. "Open this one first."

The jewel case was decorated with a desert scene that formed a background for a picture of a "native" drum and a flute with feathers attached to the end. If she'd seen it in a music store, she'd have wrinkled her nose at the Native American kitsch. But Bobby's taste in music was excellent; even if the flautist's style wasn't authentic as her grandfather's, it would be good. She decided not to remind him that she didn't own a CD player. "It's wonderful, Bobby. Thank you." I can listen to it in the car, anyway.

"Mine next." Roxanne's package was an inch tall and fit in her hand.

She unwrapped it. As she'd expected, it was a jewel box. She opened the lid and drew a quick breath. "Oh. It's beautiful." It was a necklace: a slender chain with a small peridot pendant. She lifted it out of the little box, and judged that when she put it on, the pendant would hang almost between the tops of her breasts. The faceted stone was clear, an almost luminous yellow-green that threw shards of light into her eyes. "Where did you find it?"

"Jeweler's on Draper carries unusual gemstones. You pick out what you want and they mount it. I know how you like peridot. Anna took one look at it and said I had to get it for you."

Her enthusiasm cooled slightly. "Thank you. I'll put it on as soon as I wear something that goes with it." She shifted her attention to Eddie, and the shoebox-sized parcel in his hand. "What have we here? Something from Minnetonka, maybe? Or a buckskin teddy?"

Eddie's grin faded away. "Actually, I almost got you this picture book on Sapphic erotica, but I figured you already knew all the positions." He passed it over.

She took it in hand. It seemed a bit heavy for footwear. "Just as well, I'm sure the pages would have been smudged and sticky by the time I got it." She paused with one finger under the wrapping paper. "Eddie. You know I was joking, don't you?"

"Sure. So was I. open it."

Buried inside a nest of packing material lay a small pot, about the size of two coffee mugs. She took it in both hands, dropping the box to the floor. "Eddie." It was a sort of taupe in color, with a lustrous glaze. She was certain it was the work of someone from San Carlos. She turned it over and saw the reservation seal: cattle skull in the foreground, symbolizing the wasteland the place had been when the People had been settled there; verdant green and blue lake in the middle, showing the oasis they'd made of it over decades; mountain rising to heaven in the background, symbolizing high purpose and hope for the future.

"I found it in this Native American store. Most of the stock was junk, but I recognized the mark on the bottom of this one. It matched a tribal logo I saw on a website Kat was on once."

"Exactly right," she said. "Thank you." She looked at the table. Two gifts remained: a package about the size and shape of a watch box, and one almost large enough to hold a coat.

"Here." Caitlin held out an envelope. Sarah took it, expecting a birthday card. It was, but inside she found a gift card to a nearby mall. She stared at it for a moment. A gift card? Inside the birthday card was written: I'm sorry. I looked for days. Nothing seemed right.

"Thank you." She tucked it into her purse, pushing down an empty feeling. "Maybe, we can go together when I use it."

"The small one is from Rick." Anna lifted an eyebrow. "I have no idea how he found out it was your birthday. He said it's something every girl like you should have. And that you should open it when you're alone."

Caitlin and Roxanne traded glances. Eddie gave an appreciative little moan. Bobby looked put out.

"Mr. Lynch is gone again, I'm afraid," the little robot went on. "I'm sure he'll bring something back for you. This one is from me." She hefted it and offered it to her with both hands.

Sarah removed the wrappings from the heavy package, revealing a fancy cardboard gift box. She removed the lid. Inside lay a large coffee-table book. Its cover featured a Native American in the sort of getup one only saw at festivals. The title was The Chiricahua Apache, from the Athabascan Migration to Reservation Life. She ruffled the pages, opening it just enough to feel the heavy, glossy paper holding the promise of many illustrations. She looked at the inside title page for the author's name, and found what she'd expected: Laura Penscott, Ph.D., Professor of Native American Studies at the University of Arizona; and Malcolm C. Card, Ph.D., Professor of Native American Studies at Wilford College, Maryland. Pictures accompanied the names. A book on Apache culture and history, written by a pair of college professors, white academics. A sex manual written by eunuchs. "Thank you. I don't think it will fit on my bookshelf, but I'll find someplace." She gathered up the gifts and turned towards her room. "Let me just put this all away, and I'll be right back."

"Hey," Eddie said, "Don't forget the cake. Anna made it."

"Perhaps we should wait on that," she said without slowing. "Dinner is only an hour away."

In her room, she turned the privacy lock. She dropped the book on one of the beds, the one she didn't sleep in, the one that would be her sister's if Sarah was still at home and sharing a room. She carefully placed the pot on her bookshelf and the jewelry box in her top dresser drawer. She sighed. Aside from the silly cake ceremony, which she didn't want, her seventeenth birthday was over.

At home, Mother would have been cooking for two days. Grandmother would have made the cake, with plenty of help from Rachel and Beth. Father would have taken the day off work to clean and decorate and just to spend time with me. Everywhere I went on the rez, people would smile and wish me a happy birthday, even the bachos who look at me with only one thing on their minds the rest of the year. So many people would have come to dinner, they'd have had to eat on the porch. The party would have spilled out onto the front lawn and into the woods behind the house and continued past sundown by the light of the rising moon, just four days from full, and a campfire in the back yard. Not many gifts, but music and jokes and games, and a sense of belonging and being cherished. A better gift than you can wrap.

She sighed again and looked at the last package, the one from Rick McCall, the neighborhood security goon with a case of wandering hands. She picked it up, tore off the wrapping paper, and opened the plain white box.

Rick's gift was a purse-sized can of Mace.

Friday April 2 2004

The back of the refuse truck whined as it compacted another canful of trash. George watched the big ram come down, smiling to himself at the haul he'd already made today from his route.

He'd been running a garbage truck for seventeen years, and he'd ceased to be amazed at the things people threw away, especially rich people. He wasn't too proud to collect the castoff clothing and housewares from the fancy neighborhoods he serviced. Some of it would go to a local charity, some would make him a little cash on Ebay, and some he would keep. The cab of his truck presently contained, among other items: a fancy stainless-steel countertop convection oven, easily worth a couple hundred dollars new, with a broken knob that could probably be replaced at an appliance-parts store for a couple of bucks; an assortment of dress and casual shoes his size, including a pair of crocodile cowboy boots, from the recently divorced woman on Park Row; and a beautiful crystal decanter set just rescued from the house he was presently servicing, the Sylvestri residence. The lady of the house had apparently dropped a glass, and likely used the mishap as an excuse to purchase a different set. George had no problem with owning a lead-crystal decanter set with seven glasses. He thought of his activities as a service to his clients, saving them from the folly of waste.

He wished it was as easy to save them from the folly of indiscretion. It was truly frightening, the things you could learn about a person just from emptying his garbage. George was no dumpster diver, but he couldn't help noticing how many people still tossed bank and credit card statements without shredding them, as well as doctor bills, store receipts, and other personal paperwork that arrived in the mail and found its way back to the curb in a can. Add to that the empty prescription bottles, booze and food containers, and other packaging that showed what a person bought or used, and an opportunist could get a very good feel for a client's habits, vices, and problems. One would think that people would put all their trash in opaque bags, at least, but many didn't. A week's worth of their history was accessible to any stranger with bad intent every Friday morning at the lift of a lid.

George got in his truck and rolled forward to the next house, his smile widening. Not because he expected a bonanza sitting beside the cans at this place; the owner, Mr. Lynch, never bought anything that broke, it seemed, or tired of what he'd bought. Partly it was because the refuse in the black bags inside the can was always crushed, broken, and thoroughly chopped up; he could tell by the loose way they hit the hopper of the truck. But mostly it was because of the regular visits he got from the little housekeeper while he worked.

Annie was standing at the mailbox, smiling like sunshine and giving a little wave as he approached. He brought the truck to a stop and dismounted. "Hey, little girl, how ya doin?"

"Got a song in my heart, George, same as always." She had one hand behind her back.

He grinned at the little pixie. He was pretty sure her real reason for being at the curb when he arrived was to make sure no one touched the trash before it was safely in his hopper, but she had a way of lighting a fellow up just by being there, whatever the reason. He noted that the cans had been set at the curb with the handles positioned for an easy grab. He tugged at the first one, testing the weight. "You should get the boss to spring for a couple cans with wheels, kid. I don't know how you get these out here sometimes." He popped the lid and dumped the contents into the hopper."

"Oh, I manage." The hand behind her back came out with a small container. "Cookie? Homemade."

"I couldn't touch food with these hands."

"Hmf." She popped the lid, pulled out a chocolate-chip cookie, and brought it to his face. "Open."

He grinned, opened his mouth, and she shoved it partway in. he bit off about half, chewed, swallowed. "I see why he keeps you. You know how to treat a man right."

She giggled at that, giving him a warm glow. If Annie Devereaux had been an orphan, and as young as she seemed, he'd have adopted her on the spot. She fed him the rest of the cookie. "George, are you the one spreading rumors about me and Mr. Lynch?"

"Not a chance. And if he gets fresh, you let me know, and I'll straighten him out." He popped the lid on the second can and frowned in surprise. "What's this?" He reached in and removed a large gift box with something heavy inside. He lifted the lid to reveal a large book with an Indian chief on the front. "This can't have got in the trash on purpose."

The good humor was gone from Annie's face. In fact, for a moment, everything was gone from it: a mask dropped over her features – or maybe, he thought uneasily, the mask slipped off? Then the smooth doll-face was gone, replaced by the features of a solemn young girl. "I'm sure it wasn't an accident. Do you want it?"

He leafed through the pages. He wasn't sure what the book was about, but it was a work of art, every glossy page illustrated with scenes from the Old West, mostly Indians. It was beautiful. "If you're sure-"

"Very sure." She grasped the handle of the empty can, as if she was suddenly impatient to be back in the house. "In fact, the sooner it's gone the better."

-0-

The Sirens' regular Friday jam session at Melanie's house ended early for once. Alex had warned them when she arrived that she wouldn't be staying, and she'd laid down her sticks and jumped in a car with Mel's brother Joel as soon as he pulled into the driveway. Joel was okay, Bobby thought as he drove home, but the two made an unlikely pair. Joel just seemed too into himself for an outgoing little blonde cheerleader type like Alex. But Kat was fond of him too – not in a boyfriend way, but there was something there. Bobby figured he must be the sort of guy chicks like to make a project of.

When he pulled the hatchback into the garage, he saw Eddie sitting on the steps of the connecting door with his head in his hands. When Bobby got out of the car and got close, the big ape looked up with a harried expression. "Insufficient research my chapped ass. McClintock Effect is real as AIDS."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. Get a bunch of chicks living in the same house, and after a while, their cycles all line up. Swear, every female in the house is PMS'ing – including Anna."

"Wait-"

"I know, I know. Maybe they're sending out radio signals along with the hormones, who knows? But you do not. Want. To go in there. Better to pass the Gates of Moria."

Bobby scoffed and reached for the knob. He turned it and pushed the door open three inches. It jumped back towards him as something crashed against the other side and shattered, scattering bits of porcelain over the hall rug. He pulled it shut quickly.

Eddie raised his eyebrows. "Let's just hope it was something from the kitchen and not the T'ang Dynasty."

The door eased partway open, and Eddie sprang off the step. Anna slipped through the opening and closed the door behind her. She handed Bobby a roll of bills and a sheet of paper, her manner all business. "Get back in the car, Bobby. Take Eddie with you. Driving directions are on the paper. Buy food and camping gear for three on the way."

"Three?" He looked down at the roll, which must be at least a couple grand. "And what about curfew?"

"These are Mr. Lynch's instructions, not mine. I called and explained the situation. He'll be joining you. It's not safe to be a male in this house right now."

Eddie brushed the seat of his pants. "Knew it. They're all ragging, aren't they?"

The little housekeeper turned to Eddie with cool eyes. "That's really none of your business, Eddie."

"Well, excuse me. I'm getting evicted for the weekend because of it. I think that might make it a little bit my business."

Anna's gaze held steady. "Perhaps it would explain Roxanne's unreasoned impulse to search your room, which was rude, especially since you share it with Bobby. But it doesn't explain the box of condoms she found in your nightstand. The part-empty box of condoms."

"Hey, there's only two missing, and they're both in my wallet." Eddie turned to him with pleading eyes. "Tell her, dude. Every guy carries rubbers in his wallet. You know, for emergencies."

She crossed her arms. "'Emergencies'. I'm afraid my imagination fails me. Unless you're anticipating a sudden need to stir a quart of paint with your finger."

From inside the house, he heard the raised voices of the other three girls, apparently arguing. He couldn't make out any words, but Roxy's speech was fast and high-pitched, Sarah's terse, and Kat's disturbingly like growling. Anna deliberately looked back at the door, then returned her eagle stare to Eddie. "She knows you're out here. Caitlin and Sarah are keeping her in check and trying to calm her down, but their hearts aren't really in it. You should go. Now."

They turned for the car. Anna said, "Wait." She pecked Eddie on the forehead.

"What was that for?"

"It's your first night away from home. I don't want you to think… well, I'm not sure. Be careful, and come back Sunday. Everything will work out." She turned to Bobby. "Are you okay with this?"

He shrugged. "It'll be nice to get out of the house, maybe."

"Try to get along with your father. Whatever issues lie between you, he has nothing but good intentions for you." She wrapped arms around him. Then she paused, and drew closer, pressing her cheek to his chest. Her eyes closed.

Bobby looked down. "Anna? What are you doing?"

She didn't move. "Experimenting." Finally, she drew back. "Sometimes touching people induces a glitch in my human-analog subroutines. I still haven't traced it."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "My heartbeat acts up. I'll figure it out eventually."