Bad Boy

“How about Watch for Curves?” Laura joked.

“Nah,” Jeff said, serious. “Too limp.”

“Well, there’s always Yield to Pedestrians,” she suggested.

“There’s nothing wrong with Swollen Glands,” Phil said. “I thought of it, and anyway, the name’s in the paper. We don’t want to stop the swell of publicity that’s building. Right, Tracie?”

Tracie didn’t have the heart to mention that one article was more a pimple than a swell and that tomorrow there’d be another band in the paper. “Right,” she said, and caught Laura rolling her eyes. She hoped Phil hadn’t seen it.

Luckily, Phil was trying to get the bartender to fix him a drink. He then nuzzled closer and whispered into Tracie’s ear, “I’m happy to see you.”

Sometimes, Phil was a jerk. And Tracie knew he probably wasn’t ready to make a commitment, but there was something about his wild good looks, the way his hair brushed across his cheek, the way his fingers hardly tapered, but instead came to an end in flat, smooth nails. Phil was heat to her coolness and passion to her planning, and sometimes he made her forget all of the bad. Tracie responded to his whisper with a blush.

Laura picked up on Tracie’s blush and shook her head. “I think I’ll try to buck the trend and do something socially responsible, like picking up a merchant seaman. Later,” she said as she boogied off into the crowd.

“What’s up her ass?” Phil asked Tracie.

She just shrugged and sighed. It was too much to expect her friend to like her boyfriend and vice versa. She turned to her laptop. She’d completed her profile at work and begun the Mother’s Day feature, but she still had some polishing to do on it.

One of the things Tracie really liked about Phil was that he was also a writer. But, unlike her, he didn’t write commercially. He was an artist. Phil wrote very, very short stories. Some less than a page. Often Tracie didn’t get them, but she didn’t admit that to him. There was something about his work that was so personal, so completely contemptuous of an audience, that she respected him.

Although Phil had roommates, and had always had a girlfriend, Tracie knew he was essentially a loner. He could probably spend five years on a desert island and when a ship landed to rescue him he’d look up from his writing or his guitar and say, “This is not a good time for me to be interrupted.” He’d certainly said that enough to her, and she respected his integrity.

Sometimes she thought that journalism school and her job had spoiled her talent. After years of being told, “Always consider who might be reading your work,” she found Phil’s commitment refreshing, even if he looked down on writers like herself who took on commercial subjects.

Now she knew exactly who would be reading her feature: suburbanites over morning coffee; Seattle hipsters munching bagels at brunch; old ladies at the library. Tracie sighed and bent her head to get closer to the screen.

After just a minute or two Phil nudged her. “Can’t you put that down and enjoy the scene?”

“Phil, I told you I have to finish this feature. If I don’t get it in on time, Marcus will pull me off features altogether. He’d love the excuse. Or I could lose my job,” she snapped.

“That’s what you say about every story,” Phil snapped back. “Stop living in fear.”

“I mean it. Look, this feature is really important to me. I’m trying to do something unusual about Mother’s Day.”

“Hey, you don’t even have a mother,” Jeff announced.

Tracie turned to Jeff as if he was a child. “Yes, Jeff, it’s true that my mother died when I was very young. But, you see, journalists don’t always write about themselves. Remember, I wrote an article about you guys? Yet I’m not a Swollen Gland. Not even a mammary. Sometimes, journalists write about current events. Or they report on other people’s lives. That’s why they call us ‘reporters.’”

“Wow. The irony is so heavy in here, it’s breaking my drumsticks,” Frank said.

“Man, what time do we go on?” Jeff asked.

“Not till two, man,” Frank told them.

Tracie kept herself from groaning. Two! They wouldn’t be out of here until dawn.

“God. Was that the best Bob could do?”

“I hope these jerks clear out by then and we get a decent crowd,” Phil said.

“I’m sure you will. The Glands are really building a following,” Tracie assured him. She herself felt no such thing. In fact, the crowd could turn ugly if you cut off their supply of big-band standards.

Laura emerged from the dance floor, a short guy dressed like a forties bookie close behind her. Tracie noticed that a lot of small men went for Laura. The attraction was definitely not mutual. “Mind if we join you all? Or do you turn into rats and pumpkins at midnight?”

“Rats and Pumpkins. That would be a good name,” Frank commented.

Tracie looked at her watch. “Oh God. I’ve got to get this in.” She turned back to the laptop.

The band members were still giving one another glum looks. More dead soldiers littered the tabletop. Tracie snapped her laptop shut.

“This music sucks, man,” Frank repeated to the uninterested table.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Jeff echoed.

“Thank you for this introduction to Seattle. The conversation here really is a lot more sophisticated than in Sacramento,” Laura quipped.

Tracie looked up. “It all gets better when my work is done and the guys play,” she promised. She started to stand up.

“Where ya going?” Phil asked.

“I have to fax this to Marcus at home,” Tracie explained.

“Hey, don’t leave the table,” Phil said, catching her hand. “You’re making the band look bad. Don’t you realize other girls would die to sit here with us?”

Tracie shrugged and laughed. It wasn’t easy to find modem service in a bar. It would be hard enough to find a Yellow Pages, listing a twenty-four-hour copy center. Phil was being cute but difficult, and she couldn’t afford to get Marcus in an uproar. She’d have to do what was necessary to get her piece in and hope Phil would relax. If she could leave, she’d get back before the band’s performance. There’d be hell to pay with a pouting Phil for the rest of the night if she didn’t get back in time.

When she finally returned twenty minutes later, a swing-dance girl was in her seat. “I made it in just under the wire,” Tracie said, standing beside the table.

“Congratulations,” Jeff said, handing her a beer.

“So what’s new since I left?” Tracie said directly to Phil.

“Well, I hear the music still sucks, and I think there’s a new mascot,” Laura told her.

Tracie tapped the girl on her shoulder to get her seat back, shooting Phil a dirty look because he should have told the girl to move. “Hey, it’s not my fault,” Phil protested as the young woman walked away.

“I don’t know why these bitches want to dress up like Betty Crawford anyway,” Frank said.

“What assholes,” Phil agreed.

Laura leaned across the table to Frank. “It isn’t Betty Crawford.”

“What?” he asked.

“There’s no ‘Betty Crawford,’” Laura informed him. “You must be the drummer, right?”

“Huh?” Frank grunted.

“There was Betty Grable and there was Bette Davis. There was also Joan Crawford. But I don’t think Joan Crawford ever danced to swing,” Tracie explained.

“Whatever,” Jeff said.

“Yeah. Who cares? Whatever, man,” Phil said to Laura.

The band began to play “Last Kiss.”

“Pearl Jam,” Jeff said. “Epic Records. 1999.”

“That was just a cover,” Laura said. “It’s an old fifties song.”

“It is not. Pearl Jam writes all their own material,” Jeff said.

“Wanna bet?” Laura asked, raising her brows in a dare.

“Why don’t we bet each other a dance?” Jeff said. “Then I’ll win either way.” Tracie looked back at Laura, whose eyes had widened to match her brows. Wordlessly she extended her hand, and Jeff, who had to be less than half her size, took it and pulled her out onto the dance floor. God knows, Tracie thought, I’d rather give my jewelry to Allison than dance with Jeff.

“Where’s Bob?” Phil asked.

“Yeah. Where is he?” Frank echoed, obviously disgusted by Jeff’s departure. He and Laura were really getting into the music. Tracie had forgotten how well Laura danced. “I ask myself what would Guns N’ Roses do if they were here?” Frank continued.

“Pull out an automatic weapon,” Phil told him. Tracie had to laugh.

“Man, Axl Rose would turn over in his grave if he saw this,” Frank added.

“Is Axl Rose dead?” Tracie asked.

The band members turned to look at her as if she was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.

“You said he’d turn over in his grave. I just …”

Phil put his arm around her. “She’s not smart, but she sure is beautiful,” he told Frank by way of excuse, then gave Tracie a long, wet kiss.

Chapter 3

Jonathan Charles Delano rode his bicycle through the morning fog on Puget Sound. The road wound along the misty shore. He wore his Micro/Connection jacket—only given to founding staff with more than twenty thousand shares—and a baseball cap. The wind caught him broadside as he made a turn and then, as he swung into it, the wind inflated his open jacket as if it were a Mylar balloon. Riding was good therapy. Once he hit a rhythm, he could think—or not think, as he required. This morning, he desperately wanted not to think of last night—a night he’d spent standing in the rain getting stood up—or of the exhausting day ahead. He was actually reluctant to get to his destination, but he pedaled his heart out as if participating in the Tour de France. Mother’s Day was always tough for him. For years now, he had been following this tradition, one he had invented out of unnecessary guilt and compassion. He figured that as Chuck Delano’s son, he owed something. And anyhow, as an only child, these visits were the closest he got to extended family. Anyway, that’s how he rationalized the visits.

As he pulled around the next curve of the coast road, the fog cleared all at once and a breathtaking view across the Sound opened. Seattle appeared as green-fringed and magical as the Emerald City—and he noticed that Rainier was out, the towering mountain that reigned majestically over the city when visibility was good.

As one of the four actual natives of Seattle—it seemed everyone else had moved to the city from somewhere “back east”—he’d seen the sight a thousand times, but it never failed to thrill him. Now, though, he could only take a moment to enjoy it before he continued pedaling across Bainbridge Island and finally up to a shingled house. Jon jumped off his bike, pulled a bouquet out of the basket, and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at his watch, cringed, and bolted up the path to the front door. The name plate on it read MRS. B. DELANO.

He knocked on the door. A heavyset middle-aged blonde in a zippered sweat suit opened the door. Jon couldn’t help noticing Barbara was even bigger than last year. She had an apron on over her sweats. That made Jon smile. It was so … Barbara.

“Jon! Oh, Jon. I didn’t expect you,” she lied in the sweetest way as she hugged him. Barbara was his father’s first wife, only slightly older than Jon’s own mother, but somehow from a different generation.

Jon tried to be all the things he should be: in touch with his feelings, a good son, an understanding boss, a loyal employee, a good friend, a … Well, the list went on and on and made him tired. Being a dutiful stepson was the part that made him depressed, as well.

Something about the first Mrs. Delano really saddened him. It was her relentless cheerfulness. She seemed happy in her little cottage in Winslow, but Jon imagined that the moment he left, she’d begin to pine. Not for him—Jon knew no one pined for him—but for Chuck, Jon’s father, the man she had loved and lost.

There was no reason for Jon to feel responsible, but he did, and he guessed he would always feel it, so he’d prepared in advance for this day. He brought the flowers from behind his back. “Not expect me?” he asked, as cheerful as she was. “How could you not? Happy Mother’s Day, Barbara.” Jonathan presented the bouquet with a flourish.

“For heaven’s sake. Roses and gladiolus. My favorites! How did you remember?”

Jon figured this wasn’t the time to tell her about his automated calendar, tickler file, or his Palm Pilot.

Barbara hugged him again. He could feel her soft bulk. She obviously didn’t use the track suit on the track. “You’re such a good boy, Jon.” She stepped to the side to let him have access to the foyer. “Come on in. I’m making biscuits for breakfast.”

“I didn’t know you could bake,” he lied, reluctantly. He didn’t want breakfast and … well, once she got started, Barbara could really talk. And there were two questions he dreaded: the overly casual “Heard from your father lately?” and the even worse “Are you seeing someone special?” Though Chuck rarely communicated with Jon and though Jon almost as rarely had a date, Barbara never tired of asking. But that was probably because she was lonely. She and his father had no kids and she’d never remarried. She seemed isolated, not just on the island but in her life.

“You have to have coffee,” Barbara said.

“Maybe just coffee. I don’t have a lot of time. I really ought to …”

Barbara extended her hand and drew him into the house. “So, are you seeing anyone special?” she asked.

Jon tried hard not to flinch. If he didn’t already know that the little time he spent on his personal life was a fiasco, last night would have been proof enough. He and Tracie, his best friend, had spent years trying to determine whose romantic life was less romantic. This week, he’d finally be the definitive winner. Or maybe that would make him the definitive loser. As he followed Barbara into the kitchen, he knew that whichever one it was, it wasn’t good.

An hour later, Jon pushed his bicycle, careful not to skin the heels of anyone as he followed a crowd of people disembarking the Puget Sound ferry on the city side. Everyone but him seemed coupled up. Sunday morning and arm in arm with their sweeties. Except him. He sighed. He worked all the time—relentlessly as all the whiz kids. Seattle loomed over the waterfront, with its silly Space Needle and the newer towers gleaming. He mounted the bike, quickly passed the crowd, and pedaled wildly onto Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.

In less than ten minutes, Jon stopped abruptly outside a luxury apartment tower. He checked his watch, took another bouquet out of his basket—this one all tulips—and locked his bike against a parking meter. He entered the lobby of the building, an overdone mirrored space he used to visit when his dad took him for weekends. He pressed the elevator button, the door slid open, and he entered, pressing the number 12. Though it was only seconds, it seemed like a long ride.

The elevator stopped and the bell beeped as the door slid open. Jon sighed again, walked out of the elevator, and paused to gather himself. Then he knocked on an apartment door where the name below the brass knocker read MR. & MRS. J. DELANO, with the MR. & crossed out. A woman—almost middle-aged but younger and far better preserved than Barbara—opened the door. She was dressed (or even overdressed) in what Jon guessed was considered “a smart suit.”

“Jonathan,” the woman cooed as she took the tulips from his hand as if they were expected. “How nice.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Jon said to Janet as he kissed her the way she’d taught him to: carefully on each cheek, being sure not to smudge her beautifully applied makeup.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Mother.’ I’m hardly old enough for that,” Janet replied with a little laugh. There was something about Janet’s voice that had always made him feel uncomfortable. When he was younger, he’d felt that she was gently mocking him. More recently, he’d realized that she was actually flirting. “Let me just put these in water,” she said. She opened the door wider to let him inside. He’d never felt comfortable with Janet.

The apartment was as overdecorated as Janet was herself. She wore way too much gold jewelry and had way too many gold buttons. The apartment had too many gold frames and too much cut glass. When he was twelve years old and had visited his father here, she’d spent most of her time cautioning him not to touch anything.

Nothing had changed since last year except his flowers. It was frozen in time, like Janet’s face or the palace in Sleeping Beauty. But no prince was making it up here for Janet’s wake-up call. Jon liked Barbara, but he couldn’t actually feel anything but pity for Janet. Now she played with the flowers in the little sink of the tiny kitchen. “Have you heard from your dad?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“No,” Jon said quietly. It was the question he most hated hearing. It made his father’s exes seem vulnerable. Now he felt even more sorry for Janet and he’d have to stay longer.

“No? No surprise,” she said, and her flirty voice changed and became hard. She pushed the last tulip into the vase too hard and broke the stem, though she didn’t notice. “And how’s your social life?” she asked, and Jon felt she might already know the answer wasn’t good. She eyed him up and down, taking in his baggy khakis, his old sneakers, his T-shirt. Then she sighed. “Well, where shall we go for brunch?”

Jon’s heart sank. “You know,” he said uncomfortably, “I thought maybe we’d just have coffee here. I mean, I could afford to lose a few pounds …”

“You mean I could,” Janet said, smiling and using that flirtatious voice again. “I’m always on a diet. But since it’s Mother’s Day, any brunch calories I eat are exempt. Even for a stepmom.”

Jon gave up and gave in. Until he left her, Jon’s dad had always given in to Janet, too.

In less than ten minutes, Jon found himself standing in front of a chic Seattle cafe. Thank God there was no line yet, but by the time they’d finished and he’d waved good-bye to his second stepmother, more than two dozen people were waiting. Jon consulted his watch, panicked, and hopped on his bike. He pedaled like a madman, out of downtown, past the park, through the wealthier part of Seattle, and into his old neighborhood.

At Corcoran Street, Jon pulled his bike into the driveway of a brick bungalow. The house was covered in creeper and surrounded by flower beds. He ran past a well-tended bed, which reminded him to double back to the bike for yet another bouquet, the largest one.

He grabbed it and ran up to the door. There under the buzzer, the brass name plate read J. DELANO. Before he could knock, the door was thrown open by an attractive dark-haired woman who actually looked a lot like Jon.

“Jonathan!” his mother exclaimed.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” Jon embraced her warmly, crushing the flowers between them.

“Right on time!” his mother said. She took the flowers and patted his cheek with obvious deep affection. “Oh, honey. Peonies! God, they’re way before season. They must have cost you a fortune.”

“It’s okay, Mom. My allowance is bigger than it used to be.”

She laughed. “But how’s your appendix?” she asked.

“It’s still missing—but I’m good,” he said. He’d had an emergency appendectomy three years ago and it had frightened the hell out of her. She still asked about it, but it had come to mean his health in general.

“Did you see Rainier today?” she asked.

“Yes. And Mount Baker,” he told her.

They went through the living room and into the kitchen. “You came alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?” Jon asked.

“I thought maybe you’d bring Tracie.”

Jon smiled. Though he and Tracie had been close friends from the time they met, his mother still hinted or hoped they were more. Or that he’d bring some other girl—a real girlfriend—home. While all of Chuck’s ex-wives focused on who Chuck’s new girlfriend was, his mom focused on who Jon’s girlfriend was. He knew she wanted him to be happy, and that she wanted grandchildren for herself and for him. It wasn’t that Jon wouldn’t love to meet a woman and settle down, it was just that women he met seemed to want to settle down with someone other than him. In his social life he was a disappointment to himself and others. He sighed. He’d have liked to oblige, but …

“… This holiday’s always hard on her,” his mother was saying as she put the flowers in a vase.

Jon didn’t bother to tell his mom that he’d thought of Tracie—sometimes he thought he thought of Tracie too much—but that she was booked up with the latest loser and her old friend from San Bernadino or somewhere.

“She was busy. But I’ll see her tonight. You know, our midnight brunch.”

“Well, give her my love,” she told him.

“Sure,” he agreed as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small wrapped box. He put it on the counter between them.

“Oh. A present? Jon. It’s not necessary.”

“I know that traditionally on Mother’s Day you’re supposed to steal your mom’s bank card and go on a spree. I just thought this once we’d be untraditional.”

Jon made a lot of money. Well, it was not a lot of money compared to what the four initial founders of his firm made, but it was a lot of money for a guy his age. And he didn’t spend it on much, since he was usually too busy working to have time to shop. Plus, he didn’t want anything. He had all the toys—stereos and laptops and video equipment—he could possibly want and very little time to listen, play with, or watch them. When he wasn’t working, he was thinking about work or sleeping. So, for him to spend some bucks on his mother was no big deal. It was deciding what she might like that was difficult. In the end, he had let Tracie pick something out. She was great at shopping.

“You’re so thoughtful. You sure didn’t get that from your father.” There was an uncomfortable pause, just for the tiniest moment. His father was the one subject Jon had asked that they not speak about. His mother laughed and unwrapped the gift. She held up the jade earrings. “Oh, Jonathan! I love them!” And it was clear she really did. Tracie always knew stuff like that. His mother went to the hall mirror and held them up, then preened for a moment. It made Jon happy. “So, are we going to Babbette’s for lunch?” she asked as she at last put the earrings on.

“Don’t we always?” Jonathan responded without hesitation, despite the protests that Barbara’s breakfast and Janet’s brunch were making in his stomach.

“Let’s capture the moment,” his mother said as she grabbed her Polaroid and led Jon outside to the wisteria bush. “All I have to do is figure out the automatic timer and we’re all set.” She took about half an hour doing it, while he waited as patiently as he could. Then she scurried from the camera to him before the timer went off.

And, with a flash, the moment was over.

Jon was exhausted. He was only twenty-eight, but he wondered how many more Mother’s Days he could survive before they killed him. He had three more stepmothers to get through, despite the three meals distending his gut. But tea, an early dinner, and a late supper were all on the agenda before he could meet Tracie at midnight. Grimly, Jon climbed on his bike and pedaled off into the Seattle rain.