Authors: Steve Gannon
“No, of course not,” the man backpedaled. Though he lowered his camera, I noticed that he had kept his finger on the trigger and was continuing to shoot. “I’m simply saying that no one else on the beach,
man or woman
, had the guts to go out there. Only you.”
Though mollified, I suddenly felt naked under the cameraman’s gaze, my goose-flesh skin bare and exposed. Aware that my nipples were puckering the flimsy fabric of my Speedo, I clutched the woolen blanket even more tightly around my shoulders. “Well, going out in big surf isn’t for everyone,” I said, embarrassed at my on-camera outburst. “It isn’t for sane people, for instance,” I added with a shrug.
Again the cameraman’s eyes lit with a mix of amusement and admiration. “No argument there,” he laughed. As he was about to say something more, one of the lifeguards from the rescue boat placed a hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me, miss. Would you come with me to the Sheriff’s office, please?” he asked politely, pointing to a gray building overlooking the dock. “There are some people who need to talk with you.”
Twenty minutes later, after relating my version of events to several Sheriff’s officers and a Newport Beach marine safety supervisor, I rejoined McKenzie in the parking lot. By now most of the crowd had dispersed, with the notable exception of the dark-haired young cameraman.
“What’s
he
still doing here?” I groaned as I saw him walking toward us, this time without his camera.
“His name’s Mike Cortese and he’s with Channel Two News,” McKenzie replied, as if that explained everything. “He just wants to talk with you. I don’t understand why you’re being so nasty to him. He’s only doing his job. Besides, he’s cute.”
“If you like him, you talk to him,” I said. “Where’s your car?”
“Miss Kane?” the man called. I gave McKenzie what I hoped was a withering stare, realizing where he must have learned my name.
“I apologize if I seemed pushy before,” the cameraman continued pleasantly, joining us. “And I certainly didn’t mean to imply that a woman might be any less capable than a man. As a matter of fact, I think you showed exactly the opposite.” Then, extending his hand, “I’m Mike Cortese.”
I shook his hand but said nothing.
“And you are Allison Kane,” Mike went on, filling the silence. “I admire what you did out there. That took guts.”
“It was probably more a lack of good sense than anything else,” I said.
“Right,” Mike agreed, his eyes saying otherwise. “Listen, your friend McKenzie says you’re studying to be journalist. Have you ever thought of interning at one of the local news stations?”
Once more I squinted my displeasure at McKenzie. Clearly convinced that she had my best interests at heart, McKenzie smiled back, her brow as untroubled as a newborn’s.
“Channel Two usually has a couple of interns on staff at all times,” Mike continued. “There might be a position open. I could check for you if you want.”
“I don’t know,” I replied suspiciously. “Right now my schedule’s pretty full.”
Mike shrugged. “I’ll look into it anyway. If it works out, fine. If not, nothing’s lost.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“No trouble at all.” With that, Mike turned and started across the parking lot toward a late-model Toyota pickup with a sticker on the rear bumper advising: “Earth first. We’ll mine the planets later.”
“Damn you, Mac,” I said once Mike was out of earshot.
McKenzie grinned. “Hey, somebody has to take an interest in your love life. As it obviously isn’t you, it has to be me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The guy
liked
you, Ali. Although considering the way you acted, I can’t imagine why.”
I frowned. “He was just trying to flesh out his story,” I said. “‘Coed Snatches Victim from Monster Waves!’ and so forth. That bit about a news intern job was a load of bull.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t be surprised if he checks on it for you.”
“You wouldn’t, huh?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Want to put some money on it? Say, twenty bucks?”
“Nope,” McKenzie answered quickly.
It was my turn to smile. “I didn’t think so.”
3
L
ater that evening I sat on the redwood deck fronting our family’s beachfront house, gazing out over the wave-tossed Santa Monica Bay. By then the sun had dropped behind Point Dumé to the west, lighting the horizon with a palette of reds and golds. With the setting of the sun, a mild offshore breeze had picked up, keeping the Malibu evening warm and pleasant.
My dad was leaning over a smoking barbeque, inspecting the grill. “All right, lemme see here,” he said, stroking his chin as if lost in thought. Taking his time, he straightened, cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his muscular six-foot-three, 220-pound frame. “Now I remember,” he said. Using tongs as he continued talking, he moved a stack of foil-wrapped corn to the edge of the grille, then began transferring a pile of New York steaks onto the barbeque. “You kids like your meat nice and tough—black on the outside and extra-well done on the inside, right?”
“No way!” objected Nate, my youngest brother, calling from across the deck. “We like ’em tender and juicy, medium pink, and big!”
Having recently turned thirteen, Nate had rocketed up over the past year, his strong, compact body maturing with the onset of adolescence. His mischievous face still sported a rash of freckles that showed no sign of fading, and his mop of curly red hair—as intractable as a snarl of baling wire—had, if anything, grown more undisciplined with age. Impetuous, competitive, quick to both fury and forgiveness, his loyalties unswerving and his emotions as transparent as glass, Nate, of all the Kane children, most resembled my father, and seemed to be traveling that road more and more as time went on.
“Dadzilla’s just teasing, larva,” I said. “Have you ever known him to burn a steak?”
“No. And be careful who you’re calling ‘larva’, sis,” Nate warned. Showing off for McKenzie, who was sitting on a swing nearby, he flexed a surprisingly well-defined set of biceps. “Keep talking like that and I might have to call out the big guns here.”
“Ohhh, I’m
so
scared,” I replied good-naturedly. “Tell you what, shrimp. I’m going to ignore that foolish threat, as I realize your adolescent brain is currently suffering the effects of your emerging male ‘butthead gene.’ It’s a genetic failing that cripples all members of your gender right around puberty.”
“Is that what people believe on the planet you’re from?”
“Yes, oh freckled-one. And you’re living proof,” I teased, as usual enjoying our verbal jousting—a sparring that had been an integral part of our relationship since childhood, though now that we were older neither of us really meant.
“Is that right?” Nate retorted. “Have you discussed your ‘butthead gene’ theory with Dadzilla? He’s a male too, you know.”
“Dadzilla is where you got that particular gene in the first place,” I pointed out.
“Knock it off, troops,” said Dad, flipping the last of the steaks onto the grill. “And while you’re at it, watch who you’re calling Dadzilla,” he added, trying not to smile. “That kinda talk might give somebody the wrong idea. Namely, me.”
“Aw, Pop, you know we mean that only in the best possible way,” I said. “When it comes to dads, you are without a doubt the finest, most understanding, loving, compassionate—”
“Enough, petunia. Why don’t you scurry upstairs and give your mother a hand with dessert?”
“Because I would rather stay down here and bask in the glow of your culinary genius, that’s why. Besides, I don’t feel like scurrying.”
“What
is
dessert?” asked McKenzie. “Something fattening, I hope.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” said Dad. “Kate’s making her famous mud pie.”
“Yum,” said Nate. “C’mon, Callie, let’s go upstairs and see how things are going. Maybe we can get a little preview,” he added to our family’s four-year-old yellow Labrador retriever. Callie, who had been napping near the sea wall, cocked her ears, sprang up, and bounded after her young master.
“Have your mom check on my bean casserole, too,” Dad hollered after him. “And take the Caesar salad out of the fridge.”
“Yes, sir,” Nate yelled back. “Consider it done.”
With Nate and Callie gone, conversation on the deck again settled into a comfortable lull, McKenzie rocking in the swing and contemplating the diminished but still-gigantic waves offshore, my dad concentrating on his cooking. I watched as my father removed foil from a half-dozen ears of corn, placed them on the upper barbecue rack for their final heating, and flipped the sizzling steaks. And as I watched, I was struck as usual by the deftness of his thick-knuckled hands, hands that to me had always seemed more suited to bone-crushing labor than the delicate art of cooking. Nonetheless, despite my father’s rough appearance, I knew he was an excellent chef. It was a talent that resulted not only from his love of cooking—a passion that in my opinion derived from his controlling nature, a failing he could fully indulge in the kitchen—but also because he had a natural flair for food preparation and an adventurous spirit in his choice of menus. Mom’s meals sustained our family, but my dad’s occasional Friday-night feasts—spicy stir-fry, Southwestern cuisine, Thai and Chinese dishes, sushi, wild-game dinners, Italian food, and a summer barbecue like the one he was preparing tonight—were a welcome diversion eagerly anticipated by all.
Shifting my gaze, I studied my father’s face, finding it a contradiction of harsh lines and contrasting tenderness. In the evening light, an angry white scar traversing his right cheek reminded me of the glistening track of a tear. He had received that particular injury in the line of duty several winters back. During that same incident he had also suffered a gunshot wound that left him with a slight limp, a disability most noticeable when he was tired. In addition, I knew that my father also carried other scars from his years on the police force—some visible, some not.
Sensing himself being observed, my dad turned, his slate-blue eyes searching mine. “What’s up, sport?” he asked. “You seem kinda quiet tonight. Anything wrong?”
I shot a glance at McKenzie, noting that she appeared occupied with her own thoughts. After a slight hesitation, I shrugged. “I don’t know, Pop. Do you ever feel like you don’t know where you’re going with your life?”
“All the time. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. It’s part of being an adult.”
“I’m serious, Dad. You have your work; Mom will get tenure soon with the Philharmonic; and Travis’s career as a pianist is all laid out for him. Even Nate is showing promise on the baseball field. At the rate he’s going, the kid will probably turn pro by the time he’s twenty. I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels.”
“Does this have something to do with what happened today at the beach?” Dad asked.
When I arrived home that afternoon, my mother had already known of the Newport Beach incident, having seen it on the local news. Angrily, she’d pointed out that I had no right taking such chances, adding that I had Friday classes at UCLA and shouldn’t have been at the beach in the first place.
“It might have something to do with today,” I replied, taken off guard by my father’s question. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
My dad, who had also seen the rescue footage on television, nodded pensively. “It’s natural to feel letdown after something like that, kid. Happens in police work all the time. It’ll pass.”
“It’s more than feeling letdown.”
Using a knife, Dad made a small incision in one of the steaks. Noting its interior had attained a deep-red color just shy of purple, he began removing the meat from the smoking grille. “It’s your mother getting on your case, huh?” he said, placing the steaks on a large platter and covering them with foil to let the meat’s internal heat complete the cooking. “Listen, on this particular issue Kate and I don’t see eye-to-eye. I agree with her that you shouldn’t have been playing hooky, and going out in that surf was dangerous, and so forth. But what you did today was really something, Ali. Someone had to help that kid, and you stepped up to the plate. I’m proud of you. Just don’t do it again,” he added with a grin.
I brightened slightly. “Okay, Pop. But maybe Mom’s right about college. If I’m not taking my studies seriously, why keep going to school?”
“What are you talking about? You’re getting straight A’s, for chrissake.”
“But what good is it doing me? I can’t make a career out of getting A’s in English literature classes.”
“Journalism’s a career. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
I raised my shoulders, then let them fall. “I’m not sure what I want. Mom’s dead-set on my pursuing a career in creative writing, but—”
“Back up a sec,” Dad interrupted. “Let’s get things in perspective here. First of all, you’ve got more on the ball than any other young woman your age I’ve ever met. When I was young, girls got married, had kids, and raised a family. Now, I know things have changed a bit since the Dark Ages, and I think it’s great that you want to do something with your life before settling down. But as far as quitting school, don’t be in such an all-fired hurry to grow up. The years will pile up soon enough. And believe me, the only good thing about getting old is eating cheaper at Denny’s.”