Chapter 24

Laura squinted into the sunlight. Yellow air, she thought. That's what's different. The air is yellow.

Drifting down the Rockies, across Arizona and into the Sunshine State, Laura had ticked off each and every climatic and environmental shift. High mountain pines, arid desert, less precipitous and drier California mountains, and now "chaparral" - a fancy word for "somewhat less-dry desert."

She glanced back at the whitewashed truck stop, hoping Will would soon tire of the spectacle. No such luck.

Camera clicking, her lanky companion darted in and amongst the large structures, snapping photos from one and then another terrifying and thrill-inducing angle.

The monsters-in-concrete loomed above him all the while. Tyrannosaurus rex. Brontosaurus. Built long before the current Crichton-induced dinosaur craze, the monuments memorialized the now less glamorous (and even discredited) old-school 'terrible lizard.' No Velociraptors here. No glimpse of an Apatosaur. Give me that old time dino, that's good enough for me.

Laura had wondered why Will insisted on his southerly detour through Cabazon. "It's my old stomping grounds," he'd reply. "It's just a spit's-distance from my former summer retreat. I won't haul you up the mountain, but we must stop at Cabazon for breakfast."

Since they first met, Laura had heard tales of Will's summertime adventures as a camp counselor at Idyllwild, the renowned arts camp for filthy rich artistically 'gifted' children. In short hand, he referred to the experience as his "Summers on the Mountain." His eyes would go misty as he recounted reminiscence after reminiscence - sultry summer flings, late night sangria parties, trips 'down the mountain' to the semi-local tattoo parlor for a souvenir. Oh, yes - and teaching the kids. They managed to squeeze in some of that as well during their brief blurry sober hours.

Speeding through the desert, Will had frantically pointed to the distant mountains as they loomed on the horizon. "There it is!" he exclaimed. "There's my mountain. That means we're almost there."

It was then that Laura picked out their destination dead ahead. Being from the midwest, she'd seen her share of roadside animals. Steak house steer. Friendly, plexiglass chickens. But never before had she been witness to the glory of the cement dinosaur, snarling down on the highway.

They breakfasted in the diner that stood adjacent to the monsters in the parking lot. Laura was surprised to find that there was none of the expected carryover from its dinosaur companions. Laura scanned the menu in vain for the typical foodstuff tie-ins. No "pterodactyl eggs." No "dino-burgers." She found, to her surprise, that it was just a plain old diner - but one that wore its southwestern desert legacy with pride. The flimsy walls were covered in pre-printed faux wood panel, every inch boasting its own original piece of 'desert art.' Florid sunsets stood side by side with sage Native American portraits. No velvet Elvises - these heavily daubed oils evoked the memory of Gene Autrey and his ilk, the hard-bitten, rough sinewed, but poetic-souled California desert dweller.

At breakfast, Laura quickly swallowed her watery eggs and hot-footed it back to the car, hoping beat a hasty retreat. No such luck. The photo tour had just begun.

She looked at her watch.

"Um, Will?" He spun around, eyes dazzled. "What time is your friend Aimee expecting us?"

"Doesn't matter. Miss Aimee is not bound by the rigors of earth-time. And she doesn't lock her doors, so if she's not there, we'll just make ourselves at home. She's hostess to the world, you know." He turned back to his photographic models. "Hey! You can go inside this one!" he called to her as he clambered up the ladder.

Miss Aimee. Laura had heard many tales, and faced the impending visit with some trepidation. According to Will, Aimee was an "artistic free-spirit, Earth-mother to us all." Will had known her 'on the mountain.' She taught guitar and folk-singing to the campers - and the irony of sharing the class-conscious wailings of Joan Baez with the wealthy scion of upwardly mobile America was not lost on her. But these summer gigs supported her throughout her doctoral program in Ethnomusicology at U.C.L.A., so she was willing to bite her tongue and play yet one more chorus of "Kumbaya" for the blond, blue-eyed Idyllwild cherubs.

Like Will, Aimee had since foregone the pleasures of summers on the mount, but kept in touch with her Idyllwild alums. In true "Earth-mother Aimee" fashion, she opened her doors to Laura and Will during their stay in L.A., offering unlimited access to her cunning little cottage just off the beach in Santa Monica. In a thrilling voice, she promised to show Will and his "little friend" the sights - not least of all, the fabulous Huntington Library and its grounds.

"That's perfect!" she chimed when Will called from Beaver Creek. "My house is your house. Shovel aside the laundry, and you can sleep on my fold-out couch!"

Miss Aimee also promised an informed tour of the Huntington grounds as offered by the Manuscripts Department. "You didn't know I traveled with the brainy set, did you?" she chuckled as she made plans with Will.

Laura was grateful for the free room and board, as well as for the 'in' at the Huntington, but wasn't sure she was going to enjoy her sojourn on Los Angeles' west side. But regardless, they needed to get there. And before they could, she would have to tempt Will away from his petrified reptilian buddies.

"Um, Will . . . " she called. "Would you like a photo of you with the dinosaurs?"

His eyes brightened and he skipped towards Laura. Before he was aware, she snatched the camera, snapped his photo, and took charge. "Okay. Field trip is over. It's 1:00 and time to move on. It's going to take us at least another 3 hours to get there, so we'd better hit the road."

Will nodded sadly, chastened. He took one last longing glance at his dinosaurs, and turned slowly back to the truck. "Goodbye, my scaly friends. Till me meet again," he called with a flourish of his cowboy hat. "Goodbye, all!"

*********

Will sulked a little during the last leg of the journey, but he brightened as soon as they approached the Pacific. "When you run out of continent, you run into Aimee," was all that Laura could get from Will in the way of Miss Aimee's address.

Winding down the various sidestreets off of Venice Boulevard, Will finally pulled the truck over to the curb and parked. Even if she hadn't seen the sparkling blue sea, Laura would've known it was near. The bracing scent of salt air swirled about her, and warm ocean breezes caressed her face. She felt her shoulders unclench, and she received an instantaneous vision of herself sprawled out on ocean sand, a book in one hand, a margarita in the other. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Let's see if Miss Aimee is home," Will yelped as he leapt from the truck's cab. They grabbed their bags and headed up the sidewalk. Will stopped short before a cheery little white-washed cottage. Surrounded by a chainlink fence, the yard was guarded by three small terriers. They bounded and leapt, protective at first, but soon docile and tail-wagging happy. Will pushed open the gate and stepped into the yard, a wild tangle of flowers, herbs and weeds.

"Miss Aimee says that any garden must give some free range to nature. You can choose your own crops, but you must be willing to consecrate one section to nature's way. I think it's an ancient Native American belief. Either that, or she made it up. It doesn't really matter which."

Laura stepped gingerly into the garden and stayed close on Will's heels. The little dogs herded them to the front door, squirming and tripping as they went. Will gamboled along with them, calling to each in turn.

"Fred! Ginger! Gracie! Step lively! You have visitors. Better run ahead and tell mama to kill the fatted calf! Yah, Ginger! Yah, Gracie!

At the mention of each name, the dogs leapt and pranced, vaguely aware they had met this bearded fellow before, and willing to forego menacing guard-dog duty at the sound of his enthusiastic chatter.

"Miss Aimee," Will crooned as they approached the front door. "Your prodigal son is home." No answer. "Knock, knock. You better not be naked, 'cause we're coming in!"

Laura caught Will's arm. "I don't think she's home. Let's go for a walk along the beach until she returns. It'd be rude to just barge in."

"Nonsense!" Will announced, swinging open the door and stepping inside. He stopped just over the threshold and turned back to Laura. "Dorothy, I don't think you're in Kansas anymore."

Laura stepped in and her jaw dropped. The orderly, square-cornered girl from the midwest was at a loss at the sight of the cottage's interior.

"It certainly does look like a twister has struck."

The twister image was apt. There was barely an inch of free surface area peaking out from the wreckage. Fabrics of all colors and textures were strewn about. Piles here, piles there. A bolt of leopard print lay on the floor, a tissue pattern for a charming caftan pinned on it. Several wads of fake fur lay nearby, intermixed with dog-hair, the outcome of hard play.

As promised, piles of laundry obscured the couch, and lace, newly tatted, was spread out on the coffee table in delicate snowflake patterns.

A drafting table stood by the window, scattered with colored paper and drawing tools. Carefully cut fragments were pieced together into a skeletal draft of a poster, a work in progress:

The poster was laid out in several color combinations, green/black, yellow/read, mauve/tan, and various photos were mixed and matched with the layout.

A computer screen glowed from a dark corner, purple tights hanging from the monitor. Laura squinted and read the screen. "Atmospheric Changes in the Appalachians: Tonal Transformation in the Eastern American Jug-Band."

Will sidled up behind her. "Colonated," he noted, pointing at the screen.

Suddenly, the screen door slammed with a bang. A tall woman in baggy overalls stood in the doorway, her arms filled with 'Pic 'n' Save' bags. "Yay! You're here!" her warm but energetic contralto squealed.

********

Chad had chosen a dark table in the corner. He wanted to see and not be seen. He glanced at his watch. 10:00. It was still early by Eighty-Eights' standards. The crowd of regulars wouldn't be in until 11:00. And Vesper would certainly want this business handled and finished before the regulars showed up.

After what she put him through, Vesper had certainly better show up. There was a score to settle, a painful, violent score. A heavy reckoning. Vesper had had her way with him, but now the tables had turned. Because he had nothing more to lose.

Since that harrowing Thanksgiving night in the Holiday Inn, Chad had been to hell and back. Marcy had thrown him out - merely on the basis of Vesper's account of his 'perversions.' Not a word of truth in them, but then again, his wife knew enough of his 'proclivities' to find the story an easy sell.

Then there was work. It was easy enough for Vesper to have Chad terminated. He hadn't even bothered to check if she made good on her threat, or even to clear out his desk. He knew Vesper well enough; there was no returning to Waterbury.

Which was why he so willingly went with the strange men who 'rescued' him that night in Evanston. He never did find out for whom they were working. The fair-haired man seemed to be in charge, but the bull-necked man was far more menacing. Chad didn't fear a psych-out; it was brute force that made his knees weak.

He wasn't at all sure where they had taken him. Some dank, small pit of a place, still in the Chicago environs, but unidentifiable. At first, Chad welcomed the alliance. He was never one to stand alone, and to feel the backing of such a formidable group gave him a profound sense of potency.

The alliance did not last long. The Fair-haired Man and his cohort soon discovered that Chad knew nothing of value to them. He babbled on and on about the "indignities" he had suffered at Vesper's hands and hinted darkly and melodramatically about her "secrets," but it soon became clear that Chad had no information about Takamoto.

So they let him go. Thrown out onto the street, the cold Chicago streets. Chad's dismay deepened when he discovered that his bank account had been frozen. Marcy had begun divorce proceedings; their joint accounts were no longer accessible by ATM, and Vesper had made off with his I.D.

With the news that he was penniless, bereft and on the streets, the last sliver of Chad's sanity had slipped away. After spending some days in a bleary alcoholic state (his fellow street denizens, he soon discovered, would willingly share their 'supplies' with him), he began to plan his revenge. He hit up a local soup kitchen for a change of clothes and spending cash from odd jobs. He rolled a few drunks (former companions), and lifted a few wallets. Finally, he scraped together enough to claw his way back to the NYC - via the Greyhound.

Once in New York, he hit the same circuit - soup kitchens and street denizens - and managed to keep body and soul together until Vesper resurfaced in New York. By now, he had developed his plan. He was ready to spring. All she had to do was show her cool, collected, vile face in his vicinity and it would be all over for Ms. Vesper Shillington.

Overcome with excitement, Chad began to rock. Oh, revenge would be sweet. Payback. He had her where he wanted and she knew it. He began to rub his scalp in nervous anticipation. Rocking and rubbing, Chad felt all the pieces fall into place. He was king of the world. Nothing could stop him now.

Suddenly, he sat bold upright. Was that her arriving? He seemed to sense her as she approached. Her cool fragrance. Her aloof, upturned nose. Her superior detached manner. Chad noticed he had unthinkingly taken up a cocktail napkin. It was now twisted around his finger, bound so tightly his finger tip throbbed. His eyes rolled back in his head as savored the sensation. Throb. Throb. Throb. Each beat was one more step she took toward him. She approached. He lay in wait. The change has come, she's under my thumb . . . , he crooned to himself.

He downed the last of his drink and slumped over even deeper into the booth. He fancied he was invisible, unseen by all around, or a some mighty bird of prey, hunching behind the rocks and crags, ready to swoop on the unsuspecting lamb below. It's down to me/ The way she talks when she's spoken to/ Down to me, the change has come . . . , he half-crooned, half-hummed.

The door slid open, and Vesper stepped in, nervously, cautiously. Removing dark glasses and resettling her kicky short 'do, she scanned the room. She waved aside the hostess, and disregarded the respectful greeting offered by the bartender. Mustering her strength, she headed toward Chad's secluded booth.

"Mr. Bismarck," she remained standing, affecting a tone of haughty unconcern. "You look a wreck."

Chad's head snapped up at the sound of her voice. His eyes were glassy. "The change has come, she's under my thumb."

*********

"Sit down! Relax! That is, if you can find a clear spot in this mess!" Aimee pushed her way through the doorway, packages precariously balanced on each arm.

Laura raced forward to help her. "Oh, I'm sorry! I told Will I thought we should come back . . . and give you a chance to . . . prepare. . . . " Laura trailed off, hoping her meaning wasn't too clear. It was.

"Oh, you could go away for hours . . . no, years! . . . and when you came back it wouldn't be any better." Laura's eyes widened as she struggled to hide her discomfort. Aimee dropped her packages in the center of the room. "It's not messy. It's inspiring."

Laura looked nervously to Will who was nodding approvingly.

Miss Aimee bustled about, opening shades and clearing a space on the couch. She swept the lace from the coffee table and crammed it carelessly into an upholstered carpet bag.

"Well, settle yourselves in. I'll get us some grub."

It was then that Laura noticed the delicious aroma wafting from the cottage's small kitchen. For a moment, she questioned whether she wanted to eat (noting crusty spills and stains on the coffee table), but the food smelled so good.

"Miss Aimee is a fabulous cook," Will assured her.

Before she could offer to help, Will and Aimee were setting the small coffee table with mismatched antique china and ancient ornate silver flatware. A variety of linen napkins followed, transforming the table into a festive culinary rainbow.

"I hope you like tofu," Miss Aimee chimed as she turned back to the kitchen.

As they settled around the table to eat (Laura on the couch, Will and Aimee cross-legged on the floor), attention turned to the treasure hunt.

"Yes, I've started reading Sooner Than Never. It's a big camp-fest, isn't it!? We love that the most. So, does that Lord Fortescue give the bone to Shy Little Violet? Or does she escape with her maiden virtue still intact?"

Will demurred as he helped himself to a third serving of teriyaki tofu. "Nay, I shan't tell you! You will have to forge ahead if you want to know."

"Oh, aren't we the purist?" Aimee nudged him with a familiar smile. "So did I tell you, I snagged another one?"

Will shot her a scandalized look, and rolled his eyes. "Oh, you kid. When will you stop!? I hope he's good."

"Yes, very! And just what the doctor ordered! Tall, muscular, blonde, Germanic. And get this . . . a banjo-player." Aimee reeled at her own description.

"Good girl. Age?"

She shot a sly glance. "Older than the last. Let's just say, he's old enough to have his own checking account, but young enough to stay awake to spend it."

"Specifics?" Will leaned in conspiratorially.

Aimee daintily covered her mouth to smother a theatrical giggle. "Twenty-six," she tittered.

Will bellowed in response and slapped her on the back. "Excellent work! Well done! You are a model for us all. Do you think you'll keep him?"

"Well, for awhile anyway," Aimee answered coyly, picking at her roasted cabbage. "I don't need the long haul, just the short term. But if he behaves, I guess I let him pleasure me for awhile!" she sang languidly.

For Laura's benefit, Aimee went on to recount her romantic past - her carefree hippie lovers, her corporate swains, her academic one-night stands. She and Will swapped libidinous tales, and as the Chartreuse began to flow (Miss Aimee always recommended sipping Chartreuse for reunions - "It makes you feel so mystic"), Laura lost her sense of discomfort. The warm glow of the little cottage engulfed her, and she almost began to purr contentedly, buried beneath a pile of small terriers. She slipped into sleep even before she knew it.

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