Chapter 6
As the rain continued to beat down on their metallic shelter, both McCormick and Hardcastle lay on their respective pillows of feather and polyester-blend, huddled beneath their respective coverings of blanket and overcoat, staring out into the darkness, each engrossed in his own thoughts. But their thoughts never even touched on the relative security in which they lay, provided by another unfortunate victim of circumstance, her fate as uncertain as their own, yet another casualty of their little tragedy in the making ...
In her day, the Edsel had truly been the big beauty McCormick had pronounced her to be, the automotive equivalent of a Jane Russell or a Marilyn Monroe. She was still very handsome, despite the rough handling she had endured since she was driven off the showroom floor in 1958. In her nearly thirty years of existence, she had done everything from sweeping a bride and groom to their honeymoon retreat, to shuttling a farmer and his produce to market, and everything in between.
She had been a no-tell motel for a high-school couple too young to understand the consequences of their actions, and the scene of a near-homicide upon the young lady's father discovering their clandestine activities. She had carried millionaires and paupers, transported jewels and hauled hay; there had been times when she was as highly polished as a newly-minted dime, and other times when her paint was so scratched and dirty that one could not even recognize her original color. In the end, she had become fodder for the wrecking yard, neglected and forgotten, stored away in an old building belonging to the next-to-the-last of her four different owners, never again to be the envy of every other vehicle on the highways and byways of America.
She had been rescued from this sad fate by her current owner, who had spotted her at an estate sale and paid a paltry five hundred dollars for a car that, fully restored, would net over a hundred times that amount. She had been refurbished and repainted, her engine restored, and her chrome buffed and burnished until it shone like a diamond in the sunlight. And then her owner had rented her to other people, the wealthy and the not so wealthy, those whose tastes ran to the obscure and unusual, those who sought to revisit their past one more time, those who wanted to experience an era much different from their own. She was considered the Queen of the Classic Car Showroom, the crème de la crème of the collection, and always, always, she was treated with courtesy and respect, special consideration given to her advancing years and intrinsic value – always, that is, until now.
For now she lay upside down in this cold damp riverbed, destined to be inundated, completely engulfed in cold, stinking, dirty water. Her roof was hopelessly dented, her doors crushed beyond repair, and the original glass that had graced her windshield was shattered, the shards destined to be potential hazards for the unwary and the bare of foot. Her upholstery, her carpet, her interior trim were all still in pristine shape, but that would surely change come morning, for even now the unusually heavy rain was just beginning to break down a natural dam high in the hills, and when the water found its way through the barriers that impeded it, the river would begin to rise dramatically, so that all that stood in the path of its rushing waters would bear the brunt of that destructive force.
The Edsel was not a sentient being; yet despite the uncompromising metal of which she was constructed, there was still a sense of feeling there, as if she too had been a character in all the drama of life that had been acted out around her. So much had happened within her luxurious interior, laughter, joy, tears, anger, despair, heartache, and all had been absorbed into the fine leather of her upholstery, the soft nap of her carpeting, the silken splendor of her lining. She had been cherished for her role in the lives of those who had inhabited her world, and now the essence of those past associations would go with her on her final journey, whether it be to a rust-encrusted gravesite within the bed of this river, the indignity of the junkyard, or the final devastation of the crushing machine. Regardless of her ultimate fate, her life had been a good one, admirably fulfilling the purpose for which she had been constructed.
And now there were these last two, who lay hurt and confined there on her upended roof, the older a kindred spirit, with the same sense of a life fulfilled, with perhaps a few regrets for the past and limited expectations for the future. The younger one had a special feeling for her, an appreciation of her looks, her history, the period she represented, her longevity, her stamina; and if an inorganic machine were capable of sensate response, she might have thought to herself, oh, if only I were twenty years younger ...
There had been tragedies witnessed within the privacy of the Edsel's interior, both trivial and tragic – a crying child dripping blood onto the carpet from an insignificant scratch, a former owner stricken with a heart attack, collapsing into the arms of his hysterical wife – and there was no doubt that the older man was far more seriously ill than perhaps his friend realized. His focused eyes revealed his awareness of that fact, as well as his determination to conceal the gravity of his condition from the younger one, whose own pain was obvious in every movement of his curly head and every flicker of his long lashes. The older man's concern for the younger was apparent in the surreptitious repositioning of his makeshift bed, in his struggle to preserve a preternatural calmness, in his patient efforts to convince the younger one to be still and quiet, so that his suffering might be lessened to a more manageable degree.
And it became clear, during the last of those conversations ever to be held within the Edsel's sheltering framework, that the younger man was having none of it.
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McCormick's voice was low and very troubled.
"Judge?"
"Yeah?"
"I hit you, didn't I?"
There was a taken-aback silence, following by an explosive, "No, you didn't hit me!" Then Hardcastle asked in a quieter voice, "Why would you think that?"
"Because I did in my dream. I was hurting you too, you were moaning and everything. I don't know why, I would never ... anyway, I just thought maybe ..."
"Well, you didn't hit me, so just get that idea right out of your head."
"... 'cause, Judge, I'd never ever intentionally do something like that ..."
"I know you wouldn't ..."
"... not that I haven't thought about it once or twice ..."
"McCormick?"
"Yeah?"
"You might wanna think about quitting while you're ahead."
There was a shaky laugh in the darkness. "Judge?"
"McCormick, wouldja just go to sleep? I'll be here to make sure you don't have any more nightmares."
There was a slight whine in the answering, "Okaaaaay ..."
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"Judge?"
A long-suffering sigh filled the night air. "Yeah, McCormick?"
"I wrecked the Edsel."
Hardcastle's reply had a slightly caustic edge. "I wondered when you were going to notice that."
"But ... an Edsel. Do you realize there are only about a hundred fifty of these things in the entire world?"
"Well, now there are only about a hundred forty-nine. There's nothing we can do about it now."
"But Judge, it's an Edsel!"
"Funny, that's what I said when you drove up in this thing."
"Ha. Ha."
"McCormick, just relax, okay? It's not like you didn't get insurance."
"Yeah ... uh, Judge?" The nervousness in McCormick's voice was obvious.
"What?"
"Aren't earthquakes considered Acts of God?"
"Usually."
"And don't insurance companies usually exclude Acts of God?"
"Usually."
McCormick uttered a heartfelt cry. "Oh, my God!"
"Relax, McCormick, you got an earthquake rider, I read it. Now will you go to sleep?"
"But, Judge ..."
"Sleep, McCormick. Now."
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"Judge?"
After a short silence, Hardcastle answered evenly. "Yeah, McCormick."
"What do you suppose woulda happened if I'd stayed in Daytona?"
"You probably would've gotten a phone call at your hotel telling you I was in some emergency room in San Francisco, or I might've made it all the way back to L.A. before I folded. I wasn't gonna drive myself, you know, I really was gonna take the train. I might be stupid, but I'm not that stupid."
"We shouldn't have come at all."
"I know that." Hardcastle's voice was beginning to get a little testy. "Now wouldja just shut up and go to sleep?"
"All right, Judge, if you say so. But I'm not very sleepy."
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"Judge?"
Hardcastle's voice took on a slight exasperation. "Yes, McCormick."
"Aren't you mad at me?"
"I gotta admit, the temper's beginning to slide a little, but I expect it's not for the same reason you think it is. Any particular reason you think I ought to be mad at you?"
"Well, we're lost on some deserted road, sunk in a river in a demolished car worth seventy grand, you're sick and I'm sick, and there's no way to get help. Sound like good enough reasons for you?"
The answer was calm and decisive. "We. Are. Not. Lost."
A snicker sounded in the darkness. "Okay, Kemosabe, whatever you say. But we never did find the right road. It just seems weird, you not yelling at me."
"Well, you're not exactly up to your usual standard of repartee either."
"I guess you're right there." Despite himself, McCormick could not quite suppress the pain that laced every word.
"McCormick ..."
"I know, I know. Shut up and go to sleep."
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"Judge?"
"McCormick ..."
"Please, Judge? I'm scared to go to sleep, and it hurts too bad anyway."
"And you think talking is gonna make it feel better?"
"No ... but at least when you're talking, I'm not worrying about why you're not talking." The pause that followed had an almost apologetic quality. "Judge, I know you're hurting too, and you wanna go to sleep, but it's not that long 'til dawn, and I promise, once we get outta here, I'll let you sleep 'til the cows come home."
"Not too many cows in Malibu, McCormick."
"So ... you'll get to sleep awhile." There was a sudden panicked note in McCormick's voice. "Not too long, though!"
Exhaustion and pain suffused Hardcastle's own voice, but nevertheless, he replied, "Okay, McCormick, we'll talk for a while. Whatcha want to talk about?"
"Oh, I don't know."
There was an amused snort. "McCormick, go to sleep."
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"Judge?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Sonny might have been in the service?"
"I dunno, kiddo. Why don't you ask him?"
"I don't know, it just seems ... personal."
"McCormick, you're his son. That gives you the right to ask personal questions. Doesn't always mean you have the right to get an answer, but you can ask, anyway. He should understand; kids always want to hear those old war stories."
"I wouldn't mind hearing about yours."
"Yeah, well, mine would probably be better'n his anyway."
"I wonder where he is right now."
"Last card you got said Branson, didn't it?"
"Yeah." McCormick sounded a little bemused. "I wonder what on earth he's doing in Missouri."
"Branson's getting to be a big deal, kiddo, even the popular singers are checking it out. More and more little music theaters going up every day." Despite his pain, there was a smile in Hardcastle's voice. "Might even do him good, somewhere like that, families, senior citizens, church groups, folks like that. Probably not a mobster to be found."
"Families and church groups, huh?"
"Well, I expect it's the seniors he'd appeal to, but you know, McCormick, he's really not a bad singer. The blue hairs'll just eat him up."
"Yeah ..."
The silence that followed was a friendly one, introspective on either side, so it was a little unsettling when Hardcastle said, right out of the blue, "Promise me you'll give your dad a few more chances."
"What? What're you talking about?"
"I want you to promise me –"
"No, I heard what you said. I just don't know why you said it. You think Sonny's gonna blow me off again?"
"Maybe."
"But, Judge, it's better now, it's not like it was in Atlantic City."
"Yeah." There was a load of regret in Hardcastle's voice. "But I got news for you, sport. Sooner or later, he's gonna fall off that log and take a header into the river again – damn, must be a family thing – anyway, it's gonna happen, it's just the way he's made. I just want you to be willing to give him another chance or two, or three or four – or however many chances it takes."
McCormick's voice turned a little sharp. "And why should I do that?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Well," Hardcastle shifted slightly and stared up at the ceiling. "Because I think deep down, that man cares about you. If he hadn't cared about you before, he would have let you go ahead and walk out that night in his dressing room, back in Atlantic City. If he didn't care about you now, he woulda just taken that bar and sold it for what it was worth without ever even crossing the L.A. city limits, and you never woulda heard one word from him. He didn't have to come to Gulls' Way, and he didn't have to stay once he saw the welcome he was gonna get. He cared enough about you that he was willing to stick to his guns, even when the bent noses threatened to beat him up and then made good on it. And let me tell you something, kiddo, he didn't sit there and be the bait for the bad guys because of anything me or Frank said, or because he believed it was the right thing to do. He did it because you thought it was the right thing to do, and he cared that much what you thought about him."
It was McCormick's turn to be taken aback. Undoubtedly this was something Hardcastle had wanted to get off his chest for a long, long time, and so, because he respected Milton Hardcastle even if he had his doubts about Sonny Daye, he pondered the judge's words for a few minutes. Then he said decisively, "So you don't think he's gonna change."
"I didn't say that. He's already changed some, and he might change some more, but you know, kid, it's hard for a leopard to change its spots after fifty-something years; he may never get to where you think he ought to be. I think it says something that he has changed to some extent – the Sonny Daye of Atlantic City would never have done what he did last year. And I think the reason he's changed is because now he has a reason to change."
There was a faint cynicism in McCormick's voice. "Sonny, change because of me? The kid he left behind without a backward glance almost thirty years ago?"
"Yeah," Hardcastle answered slowly, then said nothing for a long time, so long that McCormick finally said, in an entirely different tone, "Judge? You okay?"
"Yeah," Hardcastle said again, then he continued in a low, almost diffident voice, "Let me tell you something, McCormick. There are a lot of ways to abandon a kid besides walking out the door and never coming back. There's the dad who won't take care of himself, all beer and pizza, and then goes out with a heart attack at forty-one. There's the dad who has kids but keeps on with a lifestyle that's a little on the criminal side, and the day his oldest graduates from high school, he's out hoeing the Big House garden."
Hardcastle fell silent, then continued in a cold voice, "And then there's the dad who never leaves, who looks from the outside like a responsible parent, has a job, keeps food on the table, clothes on the family's backs, sometimes he even shells out for a luxury or two – but he's such a bastard, by the time the kid is grown, he wishes his old man had taken a hike."
Hardcastle spoke with such bitterness that McCormick turned his head to look at him, even though there was little to see in the darkness, asking with bewilderment in his voice, "I thought your dad raised beans."
There was a growl of frustration from Hardcastle. "I'm not talking about my father, McCormick! I'm talking about me!"
"What?"
Hardcastle continued reflectively, "Funny how you can look at the same thing from opposite sides and see things so differently. For a long time, you wanted to hate your dad because he walked out on you, and sometimes I think the best thing I coulda ever done for my kid was walk out on him."
"Judge, where is this coming from? You weren't a bastard as a father."
Hardcastle replied harshly, "Well, I wasn't gonna be nominated for Father of the Year either. Why do you think my kid ran off and joined the army?"
"Well," McCormick said in a baffled voice, "maybe they made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Chances to see exotic places, stuff like that."
"McCormick, back in '71, an eighteen-year-old kid didn't join the Army just to see the world. By then, most everyone, even the teenagers, knew what part of the world anyone who joined up was likely to see, and it wasn't a place with balmy beaches or geisha girls."
"But, Judge, there's no way ..."
"McCormick, for God's sake ..." Hardcastle stopped suddenly, gasping in pain, and McCormick was already halfway out from under his blanket by the time the judge, somehow divining his reaction, reached across and grabbed his arm. "It's okay, kid," Hardcastle said weakly. "I swear it is. I just got a little carried away there."
"Okay, that's it, no more talking. We'll both go to sleep like good little boys," McCormick stated firmly, although a slight tremor to his voice betrayed just how frightened he actually was.
"The hell we're gonna stop talking," Hardcastle replied belligerently. "You started it, we're damn well gonna finish it."
"This wasn't quite what I had in mind. Just calm down, all right?" McCormick reluctantly laid his head back onto his pillow. "We'll talk – but quietly, okay?"
"Okay," Hardcastle grumbled, releasing McCormick's arm and settling down once again. More softly, he continued, "What I was gonna say was, you of all people should know what I'm talking about – you've been on the wrong side of my temper often enough."
"Aw, Judge, that's just you. I've kinda learned to ignore it, you know."
"No joke. Anyway, the thing is, if you have a time dealing with it and you're thirty-odd years old, how bad do you think it would be for a teen-age boy? I'm telling you, McCormick, I wasn't what you'd call a shining example as a father. I was pretty hard on my kid, and my expectations were probably a little on the high side."
"Judge, I think you're being awfully hard on yourself. No matter how hard you were on your son, or how high your expectations, I don't have any doubt you loved him and he loved you."
"Loving him didn't protect him from a Viet Cong bullet, now, did it?"
There was a stifling silence, then McCormick said gently, "Judge ... why're you bringing all this stuff up now? What does it have to do with me and Sonny?"
"Well, I was just thinking. It might be that Sonny Daye and I are two of a kind ..."
McCormick's reaction was immediate and indignant. "Now, wait a minute here, Sonny's my dad, and maybe – just maybe – I'm beginning to see him in a different light. But, Judge, you and Sonny aren't even in the same league, let alone the same ballpark. Hell, you're not even playing the same game!"
"Would you just shut up and let me finish here?" There was genuine anger in Hardcastle's retort, and McCormick promptly shut up, although he had to bite his tongue to do it. Hardcastle cleared his throat and continued, "As I was sayin', it might be that your dad and I are a lot alike – screwed up big time, lost our sons, and there's nothing we can do to give 'em back what they lost in the process."
"Judge ..."
"What I'm trying to say is that I had a son and I lost him, see? And I kinda think maybe I'm the reason I lost him. But there's nothing I can do about it now. I can't fix it, and it's too late for him to forgive me or give me a second chance. But your dad, he made an effort, kid. Maybe it wasn't much by your standards, but it's like he told me, he never had anything worth passing along to anyone until he won that club in that poker game. And you know, it might be that as time goes on, he'll take that next step forward, and another one, and another one. But it might be that he'll miss that next step and land flat on his face, or try to take one step forward and slip two back. Or it might be that he'll never go either way, just stay the same Sonny he is right now."
Hardcastle paused, then said in a near-pleading voice, "Kid, I know Sonny's no Ward Cleaver, but he's still worth something. Compared to some of the guys who came through my courtroom, he's practically gemstone material, and anyway, he's worth something to me, just because he's your dad. What I'm trying to tell you is that my son can't give me a second chance, and I don't want that to happen to you and Sonny, okay? Life's just too short to let that kind of bitterness and regret poison the rest of your lives. I think my son forgave me, I hope so, but I don't know for sure. But your dad, well, it's not too late for him to know his kid forgave him, even if he didn't deserve it."
McCormick said with a groan, "Judge, I don't know about this ..."
"As a matter of fact," the judge continued, as though McCormick hadn't uttered a sound, "there's this book I thumb through once in a while that says a little something on the subject. It calls that kind of forgiveness 'grace' or some such name as that. Apparently the guy who wrote it thought that if He can do it, we oughta be able to do it, too." There was a meaningful pause. "And it seems to me that chain you're always wearin' around your neck says you might have checked out that book a time or two yourself."
McCormick could feel Hardcastle's eyes boring in his direction, as if he could even see the expression on his face. He sighed in resignation. "So you think I oughta keep on forgiving Sonny, even if he keeps on screwing up?"
"Well, kid, I think it goes with the territory, if you know what I mean. Who knows, you might even have to do that for me someday." There was a disturbing texture to Hardcastle's voice that made McCormick a little uneasy. "And if you ever need to talk to someone about it, someone who knows a little something about forgiving people who've hurt you or not been there for you, well, I got an idea about that, too. Next time you go to Mass, you might have a little chat with that guy hanging on that cross over the altar table; it might be that He has some idea where you're coming from. After all, there was one time when it looked like even His dad was lettin' Him down."
A quietness settled over the cold interior of the car, broken only by the swift lapping of the water outside and the heaviness of Hardcastle's breathing. Then McCormick asked softly, "Judge, why haven't you ever said any of this before?"
"Because it was none of my business."
"It's still none of your business. So why are you saying it now?"
"Because I think it needs to be said, and I might not be around to say it later."
"Kinda like getting the place in order, before you vacate the premises?" asked McCormick sardonically. "You're not planning on doing any vacating any time in the near future, are you, Hardcase?"
"Well, kid," answered Hardcastle noncommittally. "You never know."
"Judge?"
"Hmmm?" Hardcastle's voice sounded as though he hardly had the strength to answer.
"What do you think it is?" There was a vast unhappiness underpinning McCormick's voice.
"What do I think what is?"
"Whatever this ... disease is you've got."
Reluctantly Hardcastle answered, "I dunno. Gallstones, maybe. I've never had any before, but Nancy had 'em once. I don't remember her ever being as sick as I've been, though. Hurting, yeah, she hurt a lot, but not like this. On the other hand, I've heard of people who almost died with a gallbladder attack. I reckon it just all depends on how big those gallstones are." He paused. "I'm not really up on my digestive tract, where everything is located, you know. It could be something going on with my colon or small intestines, an infection or something; that would explain the fever. I gave up my appendix a long time ago, and I don't have any jaundice, or at least I didn't earlier." There was a longer pause. "Still, it might be liver or pancreas. I've seen that before too."
"It's beginning to hurt really bad all the time now, isn't it?"
"It sorta comes and goes. Makes me feel like those folks in Parkfield must feel – just sittin' around, wondering when the Big One's gonna hit."
The roof wobbled as McCormick changed position, then his voice came, muffled, as though his face were buried in his pillow. "Okay, I'll promise."
"Promise what?"
"To cut Sonny some slack. That's all I can promise, Judge. I can't promise I won't ever get mad, or want to haul off and sock him. But I won't walk away unless I'm sure the situation is past praying for – and I mean that in more ways than one. Will that satisfy you?"
"Yeah," Hardcastle answered, and the smile was back in his voice. He continued thoughtfully, "You know, I wonder. Six years or so is a long time for a one-night stand, especially when there's no marriage license involved, and it's a little strange, some of the stuff you remember about him, pretty specific for a five-year-old who didn't lay eyes on the guy for another twenty-five years – what kind of car he drove, the tattoo on his arm, even him going to the beach with you and your mom. That sounds like he was around a lot back then, which to me doesn't sound much like a man who'd just walk away and desert his family, even if he and your mom weren't married. I might be wrong, it might've happened just the way it looks like it did. But still, I wonder just what did make him leave?"
"He says he got on a plane to a gig, and just kept on going."
"I seriously doubt he learned to be a master safecracker after he left you and your mom. Might be he was a little like you in the juvenile know-how department, and it caught up to him. I just wonder ..."
"Well, you just keep wondering, and if – when – I see him again, I'll ask him about it. And this time, I'll sit him down and really ask him. Who knows, maybe I'll even get a straight answer."
"Sure ... and when you do, find out if he was in the military. I'm kinda curious now."
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"Judge?" McCormick asked sleepily.
"Yeah, McCormick?"
"I'm really sorry about the Edsel."
"McCormick, it's okay. You wanted something that you thought I'd be comfortable in. And I was, for a while anyway. As a matter of fact, if we hadn't been in the Edsel when that bridge collapsed, I expect we'd both be dead right now."
"You think?"
"Yeah, I think."
"She really is something, isn't she, Judge?"
"She sure is, McCormick."
"I wish I'd been around in her day."
"You were, kiddo. You were about four years old when this model came out."
"Yeah, a lot of good that did me." There was a short pause, then McCormick said, apropos of nothing, "What is it with Studebakers, that everyone seemed to drive one back then?"
"Well, all I ever drove were GMC's."
McCormick gave a drowsy snort. "Yeah. All two of 'em."
"Make that all three of 'em. I bought the first one back in '45, right out of the service. Now that was one heck of a truck." As Hardcastle spoke, his voice grew gradually fainter, his final words ending with a soft snuffling and the beginnings of a snore.
"Well, anyway, I really do wish me and this girl had met up earlier." McCormick finally began to nod off himself as he mumbled, "Boy, if only I were twenty years older ..."
And as McCormick faded to sleep, with Hardcastle's snores rumbling in the background, it seemed to him that the Edsel herself was whispering softly in his ear, in a sultry, sensuously feminine voice, "Now you're cookin', kiddo."