“Well, you’ve put on enough performances since,” Owen said, trying to cheer him up. “You’ve put on a lot of shows.”
“So I have, boy. So I have. It was either that or spend the rest of my life heaving sandbags backstage. That’s what they had me do! After a few years I was so desperate to stay in the theatre, I actually did it-on the sly, of course. Then the stagehands’ union got wind of it and had me cashiered, and that’s when I turned to my life of travel and romance. Note it well, lad: classical training will never see you wrong. Not that I’d want to see you become an actor-perish the thought.”
Owen had visited Las Vegas before, back when he was twelve years old, the first long trip he had ever taken with his uncle. That time, before the Rocket and before Owen was included in Max’s shows, they had stayed at Circus Circus, a children’s paradise, and Owen had loved every minute of it.
After they got settled in the trailer park, they took the car downtown to the El Cortez for dinner.
“Why did you pick this place?” Max said when they sat down to eat. “A sudden fit of thrift?”
“Bugsy Siegel used to own it,” Owen said. “It’s my theme this year. Criminal history. That’s why we had Alcatraz, and that’s why we’re having dinner at the El Cortez.”
“Poor Bugsy. Ended up with more holes in him than Saint Sebastian. You’re a peculiar boy, Owen, have I told you that today?”
“Well, look who brought me up.”
“Bollocks. I get to choose where we have dessert.”
Max chose Sir Slots-a-Lot’s Kitchen, just off the Strip. It was reasonably priced, served down-home cooking, and offered several rows of slot machines in case a diner should feel the urge to shed money between courses. It was decorated with suits of armour that had been shipped to Vegas all the way from a Hollywood movie set.
They ordered chocolate sundaes, with brandy for Max and a Coke for Owen. As they waited for the food to arrive, they stared dumbly at the array of television screens, all tuned to Celebrity Poker. The room rang with the intermittent ka-ching of the slots.
“Chocolate sundaes,” said Max, who had the sweet tooth of a ten-year-old. “Food of the gods.”
Owen couldn’t finish his.
“Why so down in the mouth, old chum? We put on a great show the other night, and you sit there like a death’s head.”
“I got accepted into Juilliard’s drama program.”
Max regarded him, spoon in mid-air. The blue eyes were bright and alert, but he suddenly looked very old.
“I’m gonna go, Max. I want to start my own life.”
Owen couldn’t meet Max’s gaze. He had to look away at the televised hands stacking their chips, gripping their fans of cards. Moans of disappointment wafted over from the slot machines.
“Don’t study theatre, boy,” Max said. “You’ll just end up another bloody waiter.”
“I have a good shot at it, Max. They loved my audition.”
Max sat back, rolled his shoulders bearlike against the booth, and leaned forward again as far as his bulk would permit. He spoke in what was for him a pretty soft voice. “Look at us, Owen. We’re free and easy. We have excitement, money, friends! Most boys your age would kill for this life.”
“It’s been fun,” Owen said. “It really has. We’ve had some great times. But I need to move on. I’ve saved a lot from our road trips, and there’s that money from Mom and Dad to cover the rest. Hey, listen, my marks were so good the school’s offered to pay half my tuition.”
“Of course. And who was it made you study? Who stood over you like a learned Colossus?”
“You did, Max. I could never have done it without you.”
“And not just the studies, mind. Do you have any conception of the life I saved you from? Modesty forbids I should raise the issue, but you force me. Think about it, boy. Do you have any idea where it was you were headed?”
Owen’s tenth birthday is the best birthday ever. He is an only child, and his parents-both British by birth, both physicians in a family practice in Norwalk, Connecticut-tend to go overboard on birthdays. In addition to his presents, which include a telescope, several books and five complete seasons of Doctor Who on DVD, they’ve driven down to New York City in the Volvo to see The Lion King on Broadway.
After the show, they stroll through the crowds and the noise and traffic, the ruby flashes and multicoloured pinwheels of Broadway’s light show, and make their way to Serendipity. New York seems to Owen the most brilliant creation in the universe-it is a universe, where everything is gaudy, loud, musical and fun. When Serendipity’s house specialty of frozen hot chocolate is set before him, Owen feels like a king himself.
He loved the musical, and can’t stop talking about it. To his parents’ amusement he breaks into an excellent reprise of “The Madness of King Scar,” singing at the table I’m revered, I am reviled, I’m idolized, I am despised, I’m keeping calm, I’m going wild!
His parents beam at him across the table.
“Owen,” his mother says, “do you even know what ‘reviled’ means?”
“Nope. It sounds good, though.”
“Ten years old and already a ham,” says his dad. His wiry black beard made his smile a vivid flash.
Owen glows under their praise, and resumes spelunking in the depths of his frozen hot chocolate, which performs the culinary miracle of being simultaneously hot and cold.
That night, as they drive back home in the dark, he falls in love with the vast glittering bridges, the Fifty-ninth Street and the Triborough.
“Hey, Dad. Do they make models of those bridges?”
“I don’t know, Owen. They might.”
“Would they have lights on them?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t we look them up on the Net?”
“That would be so cool. I’d build one right across my bed and sleep under it.”
His mother turns around in the front seat. “Someone’s imagination is working overtime tonight. Did you have a good birthday?”
“The best. Best, best ever.”
“That’s good, sweetie.”
By the time they get to the relative darkness of the Merritt Parkway, Owen is sacked out across the back seat. The road surface is glassy calm after the constant chop of the Bronx, the curves slow.
He can’t have slept for more than a few minutes-Norwalk is only about eighteen miles up the Merritt-before he is awakened by sirens. He’s too sleepy to sit up, or even to open his eyes, but he can hear them getting closer, and his parents’ disembodied voices.
“Police,” his mother says. “My God, there’s someone moving awfully fast back there.”
The sirens get louder. A sudden roar and then the car swerves. Owen sits up, gripping the back of the driver’s seat.
“God, that was a near thing,” his father says, real agitation in his voice. “Idiot barrelling along on the inside lane.”
Horns honk up ahead. The sirens gain on them from behind.
“It’s a police chase,” his mother says. “Can we get in the other lane?”
“Unfortunately, everybody else has the same idea.”
“Owen, sit back, sweetie. Is your seat belt on?”
Owen sits back and adjusts the shoulder strap across his chest. A police car goes blaring by on their left, red light flashing.
“Good Lord,” he hears his father say.
Then an oncoming car veers into their lane. His mother’s scream is the last thing Owen hears.
Eight years later his memory of specific details following the catastrophe is thin. He woke in hospital with no memory of the cars’ actual impact. He tried to call for his mother but couldn’t speak; there was a tube in his throat. Where were his parents? Why weren’t they here beside the bed? He wanted them to come right away and take him home. A young nurse came in and saw he was awake. She checked his chart and called for a doctor.
When the doctor came in, he removed the tube in Owen’s throat and held out a glass of water with a straw in it. Owen took a sip and asked for his mother and father. The doctor wanted to examine him first. He asked him a lot of questions, shone a light in his pupils, and tested his reflexes. When Owen asked again for his mother and father, the nurse said she would have to ask someone else. She and the doctor left together.