Chapter 2
The taxi pulled up to the Westin Resorts Sacramento hotel and let Mason out. Pamela stayed behind to pay the cab and to meet with the film crew, still unloading their gear from a van. Mason passed a valet dropping off a red convertible Lexus, and then right before the main entrance, he stepped in front of a long, sleek black limo. He paused, feeling a sudden brisk breeze, a wind that chilled through his suit when he looked at the tinted back windows.
He could almost make out a shape inside, hovering ghost-like within: a hint of red hair, eyes that floated, shifting color in the shadowy interior, something hanging from the inside ceiling, vine-like. Frowning, Mason walked around the limo, seeing his own reflection: haggard and stretched, and had the sudden feeling like he was looking into the depths of a fairy-tale onyx mirror, one stumbled upon in the depths of a dark wood. Who’s not the fairest one of all?
He pulled his eyes away, shaking his head and blinking until a sense of nausea passed. End of the line, he thought suddenly for some reason, predicting that this event—claiming this reward, would be it, the seminal event of his life. Nowhere to go from here but down. Retirement and years of sitting on the couch, pushing Lauren around in her chair; spending his free moments staring at the 24-hour weather channel, trying to second-guess his successors. Living just for the accomplishments of his children.
Or at least, the one he still had hopes for, and praying the other didn’t embarrass him further.
Mason fought off the deepening chill that seemed to radiate in waves from the limousine. Forcing heat back into his legs, he turned to climb the stairs and enter the hotel, where the blast of air conditioning felt like a welcoming breath of some fairy goddess.
O O O
Past the lobby, into the conference room, with its sparse population of fellow newscasters, weather-prognosticators, and a smattering of journalists, Mason offered weak smiles and even weaker handshakes as he made his way to the front, to the shining woman in a shinier wheelchair. Tilted at an angle that gave him the impression he was walking down the proverbial aisle, he experienced a momentary flashback to their wedding, only with the roles reversed and she was up there this time, waiting impatiently, fighting the tears of joy at seeing him coming toward her.
He moved even quicker than she did that day, and in moments was at her side, bending down, planting a big kiss across her dry lips. Lauren’s warm hands gripped his head, pinning him close with a mischievous lip-lock. “Way to go, hero,” she said at last. She grinned, then ruffled and smoothed back his thinning grey hair. She had a camera in her lap, and her face was brimming with excitement.
Mason assumed Shelby had something to do with that. He stood up, and she came from the blind spot behind Lauren’s chair, a blur in an almost too snug green dress, and Mason had a flashback to one of her tap-dancing classes when she was only six when she had worn a similar colored dress and bounded into his arms after the performance.
Such innocence, all lost the instant the family car did a three-sixty and tumbled off the road.
“Daddy!” Her speech was still a bit awkward, but every time she said that magical word, it was the most wonderful sound he could imagine; its beauty was expressed by its mere presence instead of what could have been, instead of the silence of its absence.
His fingers and hand motions a blur after years of practice, he signed back to her: Hon, you didn’t have to come all the way back across the Pond for this! It’s too much.
“I sure did,” she said, then continued with her fingers moving almost too fast: especially when your producer’s paying for it. First class.
Shelby was always one for comfort, for luxury. Such the opposite of her brother. Gabriel would sooner ride with the caged animals in cargo than up with what he would call “white-collar criminals and earth-polluting, resource-raping pigs.”
A promising (and expensive) education pissed away, as far as Mason was concerned. Two semesters at Berkeley, and all Mason got for his return was a freethinking son who hated everything and everyone, his father included, for their purported crimes against nature. They hadn’t spoken since Gabriel’s junior year, after the call from the police that Mason had been dreading: Gabe had been arrested in a logging district in Washington State, along with fifteen of his classmates. After the police had to cut him loose from the trunk of a redwood, he then attacked the officers with those same chains.
Another twenty thousand in legal fees, just to get his ungrateful son off with no jail time, and the first week out Gabriel pulls an even bigger stunt: firebombing a Hummer dealership in Beverly Hills.
No avoiding jail time there.
Except, somehow he did. Bailed out by one of his acquaintances and fellow like-thinkers. Someone with deep pockets.
Mason hugged Shelby tighter than he had planned. He had mourned enough over his son; their disassociation haunted him as intensely as the tragedies that had taken the lives of his parents and injured his wife; Gabriel’s loss (for how else could he see it?) had opened up his ribcage, creating a void, a wounded chasm just as deep.
He couldn’t dwell on that now. He had one child that loved him, one that respected him and was grateful to be alive. That, in itself, was a miracle. He took his wife’s hand as he continued smiling at Shelby.
“I want to hear all about your British wanderings, about Spam and Stonehenge and all that, but I just need to do this little speech thing first.”
She nodded, then signed: Blow ’em away, daddy.
“Bloody right,” said Lauren.
Mason smiled. “Bloody right.”
O O O
A half hour later, after the uncomfortable acceptance of Pamela’s introduction, and after some initial stumbling, Mason made good on his promise to keep it short, and to thank those who needed thanking, especially his brilliant producer. The Oscars ceremony this definitely wasn’t, with only a few camera flashes going off, a few journalists, and one video camera with a feed that might find its way to the archives of the Meteorology Society. But it was just right as far as Mason was concerned. His favorite two people in the world were here, smiling in the front row.
He had the award in his hand, and raised it up one more time after his speech, to mild applause, and he posed for a quick picture. The flashbulb still searing his vision, he caught sight of someone in the back, someone standing up quickly before the others.
Mason squinted. Something about that figure. The man was young, all in black, with a starched fancy black suit. Clearly out of place among these journalists. Head bald, or shaved. His face however, was too unclear in the after-spots of the flashbulb.
Blinking rapidly, Mason leaned forward. The oddest thing about that man … he seemed to be holding a cane, or a stick of some kind. Mason took a moment until the spots cleared and the cheers subsided, and then sought out the man again.
Above the waving hands and the friends and coworkers coming to congratulate him, their eyes made contact. Eyes that were a fierce blue, almost like cobalt or quartz mined from the California hills. Deep and reflective of the profound depths from which they had arisen. So blue …
Just like his mother’s.
Mason couldn’t breathe, and it took several attempts to expel air from his constricted lungs, but he managed to push out one word.
“Gabriel.”
O O O
The next ten minutes were some of the longest of Mason’s life. Shaking hands, sharing trivial stories and memories of his career: his start in Seattle and cutting his teeth on the complex weather patterns in the upper northwest, the blizzard of ’99, the floods and mudslides of ’05. Through it all he kept stealing glimpses to Lauren and Shelby, where they were perched off to the side of the stage, signing to each other and smiling, laughing like two chatty high school girls after class.
Finally, in a short break he got Lauren’s attention and made the sign for “Gabriel,” and motioned to the back.
Lauren smiled, nodded, and then Mason understood. They had known all along. She signed back: he called last week and asked if he could come. Go. Talk to him, it’s important.
Wondering what else his wife had been keeping from him, Mason excused himself from the current crowd of journalists, and from Pamela, who snatched up his award at the last moment.
“Let me see that. Nice. Not as nice as mine for Producer of the Year, but it’s okay … for you.” She gave him a lopsided grin and a pat on the back, then noticed his eyes, and followed them to the back of the room. “Who’s that? Paparazzi?”
Mason eased past her. “Worse.”
He made his way down the aisle, walking with legs that felt heavier with ever step, acutely aware of the lighting in here, the sounds at his back diminishing to mute whispers, the bulbs flickering, the air cooling. Gabriel had been leaning against the wall. He pushed off now, using the cane, a lacquered cherry wood stick with a golden tip, and took three quick, energized and certainly not feeble, steps to meet his father.
“Who are you,” Mason asked, trying to set the mood, “and what have you done with my son?”
Gabriel shifted the cane to his left hand and reached out to shake his father’s hand, pumping it vigorously. Mason stared at their connected hands. It was the first time they’d touched in over three years.
“Congratulations, Dad.”
Mason pulled his hand away and tilted his head, eying Gabriel quietly. Neither spoke for a long time. Finally, Mason said, “Glad you lost the beard. The last I saw you, your hair was down around the middle of your back. Next, you’re going to tell me you’ve got a job at a bank?”
Gabriel chuckled. “Please, we don’t want to go there.”
By “there,” Mason knew he meant the whole evil of the federal government and the ownership of the world’s sparse resources by the fiends in the international banking community. Or some other such nonsense. Mason couldn’t resist, however. And he needed to see who this young man standing before him was now, needed to learn if anything had changed. Surprisingly, he found himself actually nearing the brink, daring to hope.
“And you Dad, lost a bit more up top, and the grey’s taking over. I figured rather than go quietly, I’d just shave mine all off. Much less maintenance.”
Mason nodded. “My genetic gift to you.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Could be worse, and considering what else you’ve given me, a fair trade.”
“What’s the ‘else’ you’re referring to?” He wasn’t following.
A smile broadened on Gabriel’s face. “Come, let’s walk out in the lobby, get some fresh air. We need to talk.”
Mason stood motionless. “Talk?”
“Yes, you know. You and me. Talking, moving our lips. Hearing. Responding.”
“Sarcasm I get. What I don’t understand is why. Why now? Last time we ‘talked,’ I heard the words ‘Dad’ and ‘Fuck Off’ as they led you away in handcuffs.”
“I was a different person back then, but if you want apologies and groveling, if you want me to act out the Prodigal Son, you’ll have to wait. I’m here for a more important reason.”
“Good,” Mason said acidly, “then get to the point.”
“Outside?”
“No, here. I don’t want to lose sight of your mother. Or your sister.”
Gabriel cocked his head. “Still blaming yourself?”
Mason’s eyes hardened. “For what?”
Gabriel’s eyes stayed on his, unblinking.
He knew what his son was thinking: for not being there, not being the one to drive; or for telling Lauren, who always hated driving in snow, that the weather report looked just perfect, not a chance of even one snowflake, much less anything like that merciless blizzard heading her way.
“Nothing, Dad. Look, what if I told you I could give you a chance to do something truly important with the rest of your life? Something in your field, something … light years beyond all this?” He waved the cane’s tip half-heartedly at the remnants of the ceremony. “This nickel-and-dime, dog and pony show. Weather forecasting? Come on, here in southern California anyone with half a brain or access to a window could do your job. No offense.”
“So which one do I have?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t give you a window.” Gabriel’s smile softened. “Look, what if you could have the chance to achieve what you’ve always wanted?”
“And what would that be?”
Gabriel smiled. “Call it what you like. Redemption. Understanding. Control.”
“Control?”
“How about sweet old fashioned revenge?”
Blinking, Mason stepped back. “Gabriel, please stop talking in circles. Why are you here? What do you want?”
His son reached into his suit coat and retrieved what looked like a black playing card. He flipped it over with a snap like a stage magician and handed it to Mason.
A business card. Plastic, laminated.
SOLSTICE SYNERGISTIC, INC.
Environmental Research
Seattle, Washington, 45050
555-643-3333
“Environmental research?” Mason gave his son a skeptical look. “This is what you’re doing now?”
“You’re surprised?”
“By the very fact you have what sounds like a real job, yes. So what do you do there?”
“A little of this and that. I’ve been moving up in the ranks. Working on environmental law, currently.”
Mason made a face. “Is that just a fancy name for chaining yourself to more trees?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I told him you’d be unreasonable.”
“Who?”
Gabriel motioned to the card. “Call the number on there, anytime. We’d like you to come in, tour the facility, see what we do.”
“For what purpose?”
“That should be obvious.”
“Pander to an old man. State the obvious.”
“We want you to come and work for us.”
O O O
“So, what was that all about?” Lauren asked him when he returned, a few minutes later. Mason hesitated. Shelby was watching him intensely, staring at her father’s lips, ready with baited breath to read the next words from his mouth.
Mason glanced at both of them. He was still holding the business card, shifting it between his fingers as if practicing a failed magic trick, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong. “He didn’t tell you?”
They both shook their heads.
Mason turned, saw his son, the cane under his arm, strolling out the door, after first opening it for an older woman. Reformed, and a gentleman? Again he wondered who Gabriel was, and what had changed him. Or was it all an act? He stared at the card, and something about it gave him the shivers. He noticed suddenly the black wasn’t all black; there was something beneath it, trapped under the dark. A coiled form, like a snake or a nest of vipers; the things seemed to define themselves the more he stared at the card; red-tinged, their scales—and the eyes, twinkling almost if you held the card just right, and away from the light.
Oddly, it felt warm to his touch.
Shelby pressed her hand to his arm, getting his attention. She said, “He wants … to ’omebak?”
“He wants to come back,” Lauren translated, sounding more hopeful than certain.
Mason slipped the card into his shirt pocket. “He wants something, that’s all I know for sure.”
“You goin’ to give it? Do what-eber he ’sked you?” Shelby asked, her voice clearer than Mason ever remembered.
“I don’t know,” he said, along with making the quick sign. A peal of laughter caught his attention. A few tables away, Pamela led a crowd of his coworkers into near-riotous laughter after some joke or story, most likely at his expense.
Mason turned back to meet the stares of his family, the looks that expressed a sense of hope, and reconciliation.
I don’t know, he signed.
“Go,” Lauren said, pointing to the pocket where he had placed the business card.
Shelby nodded, then signed: Go.