Final Arrangements (3 page)

WHAT'S IN THE WATER

1-800-POOLGUY

"That's the name of your little pool cleaning
business?
The Pool Guy
?"

He nodded.

"But what's it mean,
You never know what's
in the water
?"

"It's my slogan. It's why you call the pool
guy. Because you never know. Haven't you seen my ad on TV? The one
where I'm pumicing a live hippo underwater?"

That did it. He lost all credibility. Now she
was certain his story was just something he made up in his
head.

The detail about the hippo completely
slam-dunked any notion she had that he was entirely normal. She
studied his face, but it was hard to get a reading. Perhaps he
sometimes saw hippos and other creatures in the pools he cleaned.
Most likely, he didn't know he'd just slipped into a fantasy.

"You're kidding, right? About the hippo?"

"I found a hippo in a pool once," he said.
"In Beverly Hills. The beast had escaped from its wallow next door
and was hiding in the pool of a famous country western singer.
That's when I got the idea for the commercial about me and the
hippo. Ever since that commercial, I've had more business than I
know what to do with."

"I don't know whether you are serious or
kidding," she said.

"I'm not kidding about you calling me if you
need me," he said.

"What should I need you for?"
Other than
to finalize the details of obtaining for myself a pre-arranged
husband, that is
, she thought.

"Whatever you need me for, before the
wedding, I'm available. Help of any kind in the next few days. I
can help you plan the funeral for Joe."

"Why would you do that for me?"

"God would want me to. No, change that.
Because I'd like to help. Look, I know you don't really want to get
married. But perhaps if we get to know each other better, you'll
give some thought to the marriage. Spending a little time with me
might give you more to think about."

"You're very religious, aren't you,
Stretch?"

"You say that as if it were a bad thing. It
isn't. Yes, I'm religious, if it means putting God first. Most
days, anyway. When I'm not mad or angry at Him."

"Do you go to church every week?"

He nodded.

"More than once a week?"

"Yes."

"Thought so. Should I confess? I do, too. But
I've been so busy at my job I've missed the last four weeks.
Instead, I've been sleeping in until almost noon and then zoning
out the rest of the afternoon watching old movies. Does that make
me horrible?"

"Yes."

"Stretch, did I hear you right? Did you just
say yes? Did you just say I was horrible?"

"But it's reversible. You can come to church
with me tomorrow night. You'll feel like a new creature."

"A new creature? Like a hippo in your Beverly
Hills swimming pool?"

"You're funny. I like that. But no swimming
pools. Come to church with me tomorrow night. I'll pick you up here
at 6:30."

"Not so fast. Tell me first you're not a holy
roller."

"Would it matter if I was?"

"Yes. I was baptized and raised a proper
Presbyterian. I'm not going to somebody's living room in Reseda and
roll around on the floor."

"If it makes any difference, there'll
probably be about four or five hundred ordinary people there. And
to my knowledge, none of them have actually rolled any great
distance. Nothing over 50 feet. But wait and see."

"No. What church are we going to? I have to
know in advance."

"Church on the Way," he said.

"That huge place on Sherman Way?"

He nodded.

"It's not my denomination."

"Does that matter so much to you?"

"I guess not. Not that I'm indifferent, but I
mean we're all one in God's eyes, right?"

He stood up, towering over her. "By the way.
What was so important you skipped church four Sundays in a
row?"

"My job."

"But what specifically?"

"We're working on landing a huge account. A
former Soviet-era Russian general expatriated to our country. A
charismatic international client with an astronomical personal net
worth. This guy hangs out with people like T. Boone Pickens. Made
up of real money, not inflated startup stocks. My firm is working
with the State of California on some tax issues. I've been
commuting from San Francisco to Sacramento every Saturday for
meetings with the Lieutenant Governor's staff."

"Only in America," Stretch replied. "What
firm do you work for?"

"The firm of Brunstetter and Griffen. We're a
boutique investment firm with offices specializing in tax planning
for high net worth individuals. I bet you've never heard of
us."

"A bet nobody would take. After all, why
should a simple pool guy like me have any dealings with the
Brunstetters and Griffens of this world?"

"You couldn't have had any with Brunstetter.
He's been dead for over 20 years. But surely you've heard of Ronald
Q. Griffen? Mr. Wall Street West? Everybody has heard of him. The
man has shaken the hand of every President since Eisenhower. He
even gives the President advice."

"Never heard of the man."

"You never read Time magazine? He was their
Man of the Year last year."

"Nope. I know I should feel guilty, somehow,
but I don't read Time. I do read a lot of Superman comics, though.
Is Ronald Q. Griffen featured in any of those?"

"You get right down to business, don't you,
Stretch? In only 10 seconds, you've managed to reduce the founder
of my company to a comic book character."

"Any reason I shouldn't?"

"Lots. But the main one is, you know nothing
about me. You know nothing about what I do for a living. You think
I simply cater to rich old men. You couldn't be more wrong. It's
vastly more complicated than you might think. I spent my first year
with the firm behind a computer running investment scenarios seven
days a week, 12 hours a day. It took me over a year to begin to
understand how all the pieces fit, in spite of the fact I hold a
Master's from UCLA B-School."

"Out pops the credential. Okay. I'm sorry I
was sarcastic. I didn't mean to belittle your achievements. I'm a
lunkhead who only graduated from Birmingham High School and took a
few night classes at Valley College. You're right. I don't know
you. And I just lied. I didn't graduate from Birmingham. Not
officially. I dropped out when I was 17. But I did get my G.E.D.
later. And I did take some accounting classes at Valley."

"Sorry about the degree bragging. I just
think you should realize you don't know me, and you shouldn't
stereotype. You don't even know what religion I am. If you're going
to marry someone you've never met, you should at least know
that."

"You were baptized Presbyterian, you just
said. And I don't need to know anything more about you. I'm relying
on your father's recommendation for the marriage, instead of my own
judgment. I'm relying on his wisdom because he loves you and would
never suggest any marital arrangement he felt would do you harm.
Just as he relied on the judgment of my parents when they
recommended me to be your husband. He knew my parents only want
what's best for me."

The arranged marriage logic was there again.
She knew it was all in his head, but it sounded so plausible when
he explained it. She couldn't disagree with the fact that if her
father had indeed arranged for a marriage partner, that Dad would
have done his utmost to find someone outstanding for his only
daughter. On the surface, Stretch was rather outstanding. He was
good looking and smart. Except she was pretty sure Dad had done no
such thing. It was all in Stretch's mind.

"I said I was raised Presbyterian," she said.
"But how do you know I haven't converted to something else? Like
maybe a Moony, or a Hindu or something? Or maybe Ted Turner
converted me into a non-believer like himself when I helped his
cousin put together a tax advantaged investment portfolio. After
all, I have been living in San Francisco."

"Your dad is a conservative Presbyterian. If
you'd changed your faith, he would have told me. He talked about
you constantly when we played chess. But he said you'd been
avoiding him since your mother died. You hardly ever came to see
him anymore, and when you did, you didn't stay very long."

"Dad never mentioned you," Shannon said. "How
long have you known him?"

"A year."

"I can't for the life of me understand why he
never mentioned you."

"Who knows?" Stretch replied. "Maybe he was
waiting for the exact right time. Maybe there's a lot of things
your dad never told you."

"But he told you he was going to arrange for
us to get married this Saturday. Isn't that cutting it a little
close? Don't you think he would have tried to tell me about you a
bit sooner?"

"Yes. A little sooner anyways. Is it a
problem for you? Being notified that you have a soon-to-be husband
at the last minute?"

The thought of this perfect stranger, soaking
up all the details of her life from her father, and constructing an
elaborate fantasy around the details gave rise to the furious side
of her.

"It is a problem. Because you have no right,"
she said. "No right! And you can put your marriage plans right back
where they came from. Because my father would have done no such
foolish thing. And another thing--" The phone rang inside the
house. "--Saved by the bell. Wait here. It's probably my brother.
I'll be right back. We're not finished."

Oh Lord, I just screamed!
She ran to
the kitchen and took the call on the wall phone, the 20 year old
instrument which had never been upgraded and was heavy as a
barbell. "Phil?"

It wasn't her brother Phil. "Shannon, we've
got a problem," a high pitched, overexcited female voice said. It
was Phil's wife, Minda, a girl her brother had met and married
while finishing a Navy tour of duty in the Philippines six years
before.

"What is it, Minda?"

"Shannon, Phil drank. He didn't come home
last night and showed up her this morning yelling and upset. He
scared me and the children. I had to have the sitter take the kids
out of the house."

Bad news. Phil's marital history consisted of
a very rocky first two years with Minda, a period in which there
were numerous police visits to their home, and one short separation
following Phil doing a great deal of damage to other people while
driving under the influence. Phil had spent time in the County
lockup, during which period of sober introspection he had decided
to join the ranks of recovering alcoholics.

Of course, initially it had been mandatory
that he attend AA as a condition of a five-year probation handed
down by the Judge. But he had taken it to heart, made a lot of new
AA friends, and had been clean and sober for the last four years,
faithfully working his 12 Steps and making many amends to those he
had wronged, putting together against great odds a loving home.

Phil was only one month away from having his
driving license returned to him by the State. The simple phrase,
"Phil drank", spoke volumes in all it implied. Spoke of a sudden
and great falling in the lives of the two women.

"Minda, did he hit you?"

"... sort of."

"Are you bleeding or anything?"

"No. He was so dizzy I was able to get away
from most of it."

"Where is he, Minda?"

"Here. On the couch. Passed out."

"Shannon calculated the time it would take to
drive to Phil's condo in Encino. The traffic at this time of the
morning wouldn't be too bad. "Okay, Minda, I'll be over in 30
minutes." She headed out back.

"Stretch," she called, "I--"

--Stretch was gone. There was a note on the
back of his business card, left beside the pound cake. DON'T
FORGET--CHURCH TOMORROW NIGHT.

Church service with Stretch Murphy tomorrow
night. An eternity away. Feeling utterly alone, she went back
inside. Devoid of inner resources. The hours of the upcoming day
suddenly seeming to be of a total tonnage which would prove
impossible to carry.

She sat down.
Is this a bad dream? Can
anything be worse? Perhaps I'll awaken, safe in my Pacific Heights
flat, and call Dad and tell him all about the nightmare.

What does one do
, she mused,
when
one's strength is gone, when hope is simply a concept other people
depend on, a flimsy crutch propping up the weak while the cunning,
the ruthless and the mean run their sadistic version of the world
with fists of iron. Well, maybe there is something I can do. I can
pray. God is everywhere. Stretch sat right here at the table and
declared it to be so
.

"Then do something!" she shouted at God. "Do
something!"

The shout echoed in the empty house. The
coming apart of her spirit had lasted about 10 seconds, ending in a
worthless shout at God. It had collapsed without the dust rising.
She had to pull herself together. Get dressed. But in what?

She couldn't continue wearing the business
suit she'd flown down in. She could try and iron it, but lacked the
energy for such an undertaking. For the moment, it appeared she'd
have to wear her mother's old clothes. Sensible beige shoes.
Sensible tan slacks and peach blouse. Everything smelling faintly
musty.

In her old closet was a large straw purse on
a long strap. Something not sensible. Mom's old beach bag. It
somehow seemed to fit the L.A. scene better than the beige clutch
she'd brought with her on the flight down. She dumped the contents
of the clutch into the straw purse. And there was a hat, a floppy
straw affair, with a silk rose in the brim. In the mirror, with the
hat on, she realized she looked just like her mother. Which came as
a shock. Something was changing her, and she wasn't sure she liked
the feeling.

The world had become a little smaller somehow
in the last 24 hours. A little more uncertain. She understood what
the central emotion was. Anger at God, who was, if Stretch were
correct, standing right beside her, feeling the brunt of all that
pent up anger. Might as well tell Him how she felt.