Grave on Grand Avenue Page 12

  Grandma Toma stops spinning in the Dumpster chair.

  “Ah, everyone,” I say, because being a good hostess means always introducing your guests, right? “This is Puddy Fernandes. And this is everyone.”

  “Is this Gary’s father?” Grandma Toma spells it out.

  Aunt Cheryl steps forward. “I’m Deputy Chief Cheryl Toma of the LAPD,” she says. “And I’m going to arrest you for grand theft auto.”

  I’m not quite sure whether Aunt Cheryl is serious or not, but I decide to play along.

  “It’s my car,” Fernandes says quietly.

  She tells him to sit in the living room chair, which he does without argument. I pick up Bacall and put her in his lap because that’s the only way his insane poodle will keep quiet. Shippo, satisfied that the dog is out of his line of vision, retreats to his dog bed with a huff.

  “What happened to your nose?” Aunt Cheryl finally asks.

  “I punched him,” Lita declares.

  I expect some reaction from Dad, but there’s none.

  Nobody follows up Lita’s answer with a why. I guess we all figure she had her reasons.

  “The car is mine,” Fernandes repeats.

  Lita, like Aunt Cheryl, goes on the offensive. “It’s not your car. You left it to me. And I gave it to Ellie.”

  “How did you transfer ownership? You must have forged my signature.”

  “Puddy, it was fifty years ago.”

  As Lita and Puddy continue their squabbling, my mother begins to wipe off all the sticky orange juice and pulp on the table. I’ve forgotten all about the bacon and the coffee cake that have been cooling on the stove. I cut the cake into thick slices and place them on our makeshift interrogation table.

  “You baked this for too long,” Mom says, but I notice that doesn’t prevent her from picking at a slice.

  Dad, meanwhile, situates himself in the corner of the room. I’m kind of surprised that he’s even stayed inside. Grandma Toma has sunk into the Dumpster chair. I’m going to have to check the springs. Noah has a blank look, as if he’s staring into space, but I know he’s hanging on to every word.

  “Well, whether or not my name is officially on the car anymore, I still have a key.”

  “You’re not the legal owner, sir.” A vein begins to bulge out on Aunt Cheryl’s forehead, a sure sign that she’s becoming exasperated. “And the car was parked on private property. Why didn’t you check with the resident regarding whether it would be all right to remove it from her driveway?”

  “Ah, well—” Fernandes looks my way. I can sense some kind of psycho story brewing in his mind. He places the wet washcloth back on his injured nose. It’s so bizarre to see this unkempt man—my grandfather—sitting across from my perfectly groomed aunt. Then I remember what Fernandes told us, that he has inside information that could potentially help us apprehend a bank robber wanted for murder.

  “I might be willing to drop the charges,” I say, “as long as Mr. Fernandes cooperates.”

  “Cooperates with what?” Fernandes’s voice is a bit muffled by the washcloth.

  “He has a lead about the Old Lady Bandit. He says that he may know who is committing all those bank robberies,” I declare.

  Aunt Cheryl, like all female Tomas, has a good poker face. (I’m obviously a Rush in that regard, but I’m working on it.) Right now she looks bored out of her mind, but I know that the more expressionless she seems, the more excited she may actually be. “Well,” she says, “that could change the situation. If your information pans out, I could put in a good word for you with the DA.”

  Fernandes finally lowers the washcloth. He attempts to breathe in and out of his nostrils, which are narrowing by the minute from the swelling. “I’m going to need some assurances that anything I say will help me gain immunity from any charges.”

  “Mr. Fernandes, you are not in a position to make deals.” Aunt Cheryl won’t budge.

  Fernandes lowers his eyes in defeat. “Okay. I’m here as a Good Samaritan anyway.” He sighs. “His name back then was Ronald Sullivan. He could be going by other names now; I dunno. We worked together on movies. He was the head makeup artist, and I was the gaffer. But he was hooked on the horses, always needed money. I had nothing really to do with that bank robbery back in the sixties. I mean, I helped him with his makeup. That was about it. We made him look about fifty years older. About the age that we are now.” He laughs, but no one laughs with him. Instead, Lita frowns. Noah is listening intently; this is much more entertaining than any video game. My parents, on the other hand, are stone-faced. I don’t know what they’re thinking.

  Fernandes pets his poodle as he remembers. “Somebody ratted us out days later. It didn’t matter how much I denied being involved. Had a horrible lawyer. Did my time, five years. When I got out, nobody would hire me. My mother had died during that time, so I took up my daddy’s profession. The sea. Fifty years of seasickness.

  “Ronnie, on the other hand, was having a good ole time in Vegas, last I heard. Doing makeup for shows or something. But that was about a decade ago.”

  Fernandes’s whole body seems to have shrunk in the chair. He seems much older than Lita, although they must be close to the same age. “I did all that Internet search stuff. Nothing came of it. Thought maybe that he might be dead. That is, until I saw that video on television.”

  I bring out my laptop and find the page featuring the stills of the Old Lady Bandit.

  “That’s his handiwork. I can recognize it anywhere. He may not be the guy underneath that makeup, but Ronnie applied it. I bet my life on it.”

  Aunt Cheryl writes this all down in a notebook that she always carries in her purse. She tears out some blank pages. “Okay, Mr. Fernandes. I want you to write down everything you just told us. And give us your contact information.”

  Fernandes hesitates for a moment and then picks up the pen that my aunt has also handed to him. My mother and I take some dirty plates into the kitchen while Dad stays in his corner, just staring at his bio-dad. Apparently this all has grown tiresome for Grandma Toma, however, because she’s fast asleep in the red chair.

  “You need to do something to freshen up this place, Ellie,” my mother tells me as we start to wash the dishes. “Plus, the inside of your refrigerator is just filthy.”

  Uh, Mom, I’ve been a little busy. Didn’t you just witness what’s happening in my living room right now? I hear Shippo’s ball being bounced on my hardwood floor. At least he has Noah to keep him company.

  Mom washes and I dry. Some things never change. I wonder what Mom is thinking. Aren’t you freaked-out? I think. I certainly am. In just one week not only have I met my grandfather for the first time; I’m also finding out that he may have crucial information about an open murder and robbery investigation.

  “You are free to go, Mr. Fernandes,” we hear Aunt Cheryl say. Both Mom and I step back into the living room. “But leave the keys to the car.”

  “But it’s my car.”

  “The pink slip is in my niece’s name,” Aunt Cheryl says definitively. I guess she’s been paying attention. “I’ll call you a taxi and pay for wherever you need to go. Within reason, of course.” Aunt Cheryl then excuses herself and says that she’ll wait for Fernandes on the sidewalk.

  Forgetting about Bacall on his lap, Fernandes rises to his feet. Bacall jumps down onto the floor and looks at Shippo, thinks twice, and wanders to the front door.

  Addressing my father, Fernandes begins to speak. If this were a Western movie, he’d be holding a hat in his hands. “I erred. Made some big mistakes. But you have to know that I went by your mother’s house after I got out of jail. I saw you then from a distance, but I had no idea that you could be mine. There was another man there with you and your mother.” Knowing Lita’s track record, it didn’t surprise me that there might have been another man around the house.

 
“Look at you now. A beautiful wife. Two smart kids. You’re some kind of engineer, I hear. It’s all due to your mother. But now I can go through life knowing that something good came out of me. I know that you don’t want to have nothing to do with me, and that’s okay. I’m proud to call you son. Anyone would be.”

  Fernandes rubs his graying mustache before digging out his car key and placing it on my living room table. Lita is as still as a statue. Only her eyes blink, faster than usual.

  I give him the washcloth filled with ice to take with him. “It’s okay. I don’t have any matching towels to go with it, anyway.”

  Fernandes stands still in front of the doorway, registering all of our faces before he leaves, then closes the door behind him.

  “Wow,” Noah says from the floor, rubbing Shippo’s belly while he lies on his doggy bed. “That was intense.”

  None of us says anything for a while. Dad looks like he doesn’t know what to do. Finally, he says, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mamita.”

  And then Lita bursts into tears.

  For the most part, our family is not the crying type. Grandma Toma doesn’t cry. Noah doesn’t cry. Mom doesn’t cry and neither does Dad. And Aunt Cheryl definitely doesn’t cry. So to see Lita like this is, well, a bit awkward. Noah keeps petting Shippo as if it’s the most fascinating thing he could be doing right now. Mom gets up, starts to walk over to Lita, and then backtracks. Dad is frozen in his spot. I begin to make an attempt to console her, but it’s Grandma Toma who surprises me. She rouses herself and shuffles over in her Clarks Mary Jane shoes and wraps her arms around Lita’s neck. “It must have been hard for you to be on your own all these years,” she says, her forehead resting on Lita’s. She does this for only about two seconds but it almost feels like we have been visited by the Dalai Lama.

  Mom starts blinking her eyes hard and fast. Noah makes a face, like, Can you believe this? Even Shippo is mesmerized and watches silently from his doggy bed.

  Dad clears his throat. “Caroline, c’mon, we better get going,” he says. Mom is only too happy to comply.

  Lita attempts to give Grandma Toma a good-bye hug, but is sidestepped and instead ends up wrapping her arms around air. Grandma Toma is already out the door. Everything seems to have returned to normal, and Noah heaves a sigh in relief.

  “I guess I’ll just go home with them,” Noah says, careful not to make eye contact with Lita.

  Gee, thanks, Noah.

  This whole encounter with Fernandes and Dad has apparently taken a toll on Lita, however, because she announces that she’ll be leaving, too.

  “Thank you for this beautiful Mother’s Day brunch,” she says to me. “Everything was exquisite. You definitely have your mother’s touch.”

  I go out on the porch and watch as my parents, Noah, Grandma Toma and Aunt Cheryl all squeeze into Dad’s Honda hybrid. A hybrid yellow taxi is waiting on the curve as Fernandes and his dog get into the backseat. Lita, on the other hand, is in the driver’s seat of her yellow Cadillac, the Wild Rose.

  My first Mother’s Day get-together in my own place. A complete fiasco, but it actually went a lot better than I might’ve expected, under the circumstances.

  * * *

  I pick up my car keys and get ready to call the Green Mile back home. Shippo joins me as we walk to where Fernandes said he’d parked the car around the corner.

  “What the hell did he do to you?” I mutter as I reexamine the Skylark. Shippo starts licking something sticky on the bottom of the driver’s-side door.

  “No!” I pull at his leash. “You need a bath, Green Mile.”

  Shippo is always game for an expedition, no matter how mundane. So our trip to the car wash is a literal tail wagger. I wish that I could be so content.

  We go to one of those cheap car washes, located on the side of a gas station. I’m placing my ticket in the kiosk when my phone rings. It’s my long-lost ex-boyfriend. Benjamin Choi.

  “Where are you?” he asks as the machine’s tracks move the Green Mile forward into the bay. Water shoots out from the top and sides and I can’t see much through the windshield.

  “Car wash.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  I feel my face flush. We actually did it in a car wash one time. “Anyway,” I prompt him to change the subject, “where have you been?” The mechanical arms position themselves over the car. Squirts of soap and then the scrubs of brushes. Shippo is captivated by the sounds and cleaning foam on the windows. Then more water again, followed by a quick but intense blow-dry.

  Benjamin is silent for a moment. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. My mom was diagnosed with cancer.”

  “Hold on.” The green light goes on at the end of the wash and I ease the car from neutral to drive. I park on the side of the station by two large vacuum cleaners.

  “Benjamin—” I say. My voice sounds tender, more tender than it’s been in months. “I’m so sorry. What kind?”

  “Ovarian.”

  “What stage?”

  “Third.”

  I curse. Loud. And long.

  “I know, I know. It really sucks,” he says, explaining that she had a hysterectomy that day.

  We’re both quiet for a moment. Benjamin knows I understand. Which, I realize, is probably why he’s been wanting to talk to me in the first place.

  “Tell me how I can help. I can run errands. Bring food.”

  “Ellie, you can’t cook.”

  “But I have money.”

  “Don’t worry about it. But this helps. Just talking to you.”

  “Have you told anyone else yet? I mean, other than relatives.”

  Benjamin is silent, so I know he hasn’t. Except for me.

  “I remember when I first found out my mom had cancer,” I tell him. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, she was supposed to always be around for me.”

  It was before college and the Fearsome Foursome. It had been around the time that my college applications were due. My high school friends hadn’t known how to deal with it. So, for the worst months—the months of operations and chemotherapy—I felt alone. Noah was still in elementary school, so most of the babysitting duties were on me. He was the one who would ask me, as we watched Mom’s hair fall out and heard her throwing up in the master bathroom, Is Mom going to die? So, at seventeen, I had to put on a fake happy face and say, “What, you idiot? Mom’s not going to die. She’s going to be torturing us forever.” My mother put on a brave face because she didn’t want it to affect my grades or my essays. But how could it not? I’d had good grades, had considered applying to Ivy League schools or maybe Stanford or Berkeley, but I changed my mind when all that was going on. Both my parents argued with me, but I wouldn’t back down. Pan Pacific West, a reputable liberal arts school only a few miles away, was good enough. Noah didn’t say anything at the time, but I know that he was relieved to hear I’d be sticking around. He was only ten years old at the time.

  “I’m glad that we can still talk,” Benjamin says now. “After everything.”

  “Listen, when all is said and done”—I take a deep, deep breath—“we are friends, Benjamin. Nothing is going to change that.”

  “Oh, the family’s all here. I gotta go,” he says.

  “Tell your mom Happy Mother’s Day, for me, okay? And that I know that she’ll pull through this.”

  “Thanks, El.” Benjamin’s voice cracks and then our conversation ends.

  I sit in the Green Mile for a while, next to the vacuum hoses, curved like elephant trunks.

  In terms of my love life, there’s my pre-Benjamin phase and my just plain Benjamin phase. During my pre-Benjamin, I dated my share of guys in high school. Nothing hot and heavy. Dances, football games, group events. But I noticed a trend: when I wasn’t that interested, it seemed that they always were. I had that conversation several times. You know, let’s just be friends. I va
lue our friendship too much to mess with it. Blah, blah, blah.

  I hated those talks most because they were lies. It wasn’t that I deeply valued my friendship with these guys; it was that I didn’t like them in that way. I couldn’t imagine myself kissing them (yuck!), holding their hands, or having their arms around me. Absolutely no chemistry.

  On the flip side, I did have my share of unrequited crushes. You know, the kind when your whole body flushes when you see that guy? Your body temperature goes up about fifty degrees. You imagine kissing their face, their lips, their neck, and having them ravish you. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, that’s as far as any of those ever went. Just in my head.

  With Benjamin, though, there had been immediate attraction on both sides for once. I was into his casual messy style. The longish hair. The slight afternoon shadow—well, as much as a Korean guy could have—on his unshaven face. He didn’t talk a lot. He was perfectly comfortable with moments of silence, and I became comfortable with them, too. We didn’t have to entertain each other, be on our best behavior. I could burp and fart and wear no makeup. He honestly didn’t care. I loved how easy our relationship was, at least until I graduated early and entered the Police Academy. Then it became . . . less easy. More moments of nagging, on both our parts, accusations, arguments. A whole lot of drama. Our breakup had been messy, but after all that drama, in a way it was a real relief by the end.

  I finally shake myself out of my reverie and start to clean out the interior of the car. I throw away all the balled-up fast-food wrappers and containers. I attempt to suck out all the dirt with the gas station’s vacuum cleaner, and a strange rattling noise emanates from the hose. I turn off the vacuum and take a closer look at the backseat floor. There are a bunch of rusty screws all over the place. What the heck? What was Fernandes doing in here?

  Whatever. This day has been too complicated already, and I’m in the mood for a simple reward. I feel an urge for sugar. Pure sugar. After I finish vacuuming, I go into the car wash and get a big bag of gummy bears. I go back to the Green Mile and eat every single dang one.