Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) Page A

it's grown! Can you see, Jack?''
                 Jack
tore his eyes away from the back of Dad's head. As Dad went on switching among
the channels, Jack looked at the picture of the laurel tree out behind
Margaret's house. “Yeah, gosh,'' he said. “Sure has grown."
                 “You
look, too, Buddy," Mom said.
                 “Okay,
Mom Pine." Buddy obediently leaned forward, gazing with pleased interest
at the picture of the laurel tree out behind Margaret's house.
                 Dad,
his voice testy, his manner testy, even his shoulder blades testy, said,
“Where's the sports?"
                 Grinning
spastically, like a lion tamer who's just heard a low growl from behind him,
Jack said, “There might not be any sports right now, Dad."
                 Dad
stopped switching channels, sat back with an air of triumph, and pointed at the
set. “Wrong again, Sonny. Tennis.
                 “That's
nice," Jack said.
                 “There,
now," Mom said, “just leave your father to his sports. We'll all go sit on
the sofa and look at pictures."
                “Okay, Mom Pine," Buddy said.
                 Jack
flashed a dozen smiles toward his father's impervious profile. “See you later,
Dad."
                 Dad
ignored him. Mom hustled the two younger men out of the room and firmly shut
the door. Sunshine bleached the world beyond the glass doors. Dad watched
tennis.

17
     
                 Sunshine
bleaches the world. I sit beneath it, the white light making haloes and auras
and ghosts and spirits in my vision. “I introduced Mom and Dad to all my
industry friends," I tell my interviewer, “and they fit right in."
     
              
                  
                  

             FLASHBACK 15A
     
     
                 The
concept of the living room in the Malibu house was casual living with plenty of room
to entertain friends. In an open central fireplace built on a platform of white
brick, a cozy fire crackled. Comfortable furniture of canvas and wood, easily
maintained and quite weatherproof, stood back out of the way so that the forty
people at the party could flow around the fireplace and in and out of the broad
doorways leading to the sunstruck deck. A good third of the partygoers wore
famous names and famous faces, and most of the rest were their associates:
wives, agents, boyfriends, attorneys. Uniformed staff passed discreetly through
the crowd with canapes and drinks.
                 To one side of it all stood Jack, viewing the scene with sweaty
pride. He watched his mom, in the same print dress and gray cardigan as
before, move around the room, buttonholing people, clutching their elbows,
showing them photograph after photograph, her victims all being distracted but
polite. He watched his dad, in a far corner, seated with his back to the crowd,
watching “Bowling for
                 Dollars" on a large, elaborate console TV. He watched
Buddy perched on the back of a sofa, drink in hand, easy and aggressive smile
on face, chatting up a pretty girl in a summer dress.
                 Dad
leaned forward and unceremoniously shoved at the hip of a male partygoer who
had drifted backward partway between Dad and the TV set. The partygoer looked
around in surprise, saw what he’d done, apologized, and moved away.
                 Mom,
her hands full of snapshots, pursued a distinguished older gentleman—the only
man there in a suit— out onto the deck under the sun.
                 Buddy
rose from the sofa, took the pretty girl by the elbow, and walked her over to
Dad and the TV set. "Dad Pine,’’ he said, "I’d like you to meet—’’
                 With
a warning cough, not really a groan or a snarl, Dad said, "Bud-dy.’’
                 "Dad
Pine,’’ Buddy said