"I need help."
"It figures."
"What do you know about Buddy Vance?"
"He's down a hole. It's been on the TV."
"What's his life-story?"
"This is for Abernethy, right?"
"Right."
"So it's just the dirt."
"Got it in one."
"Well, comedians aren't my strongest point. I majored in Sex Goddesses. But I looked him up when I heard the news. Married six times; once to a seventeen-year-old. That lasted forty-two days. His second wife died of an overdose..."
As Grillo had hoped, Tesla had chapter and verse on the Life and Sordid Times of Buddy Vance (né, of all things, Valentino). The addictions to women, controlled substances and fame; the TV series; the films; the fall from grace.
"You can write about that with feeling, Grillo."
"Thanks for nothing."
"I only love you because I hurt you. Or do I mean the other way around?"
"Very funny. Speaking of which: was he?"
"Was he what?"
"Funny."
"Vance? I suppose, in his way. You never saw him?"
"I must have, I suppose. I don't remember the act."
"He had this rubber-face. You looked at him, you laughed. And this weird persona. Half idiot, half slimeball."
"So how come he was so successful with women?"
"The dirt?"
"Of course."
"The enormous appendage."
"Are you kidding me?"
"The biggest dick in television. I got that from an unimpeachable source."
"Who was that?"
"Please, Grillo," Tesla said, aghast. "Do I sound like a girl who'd gossip?"
Grillo laughed. "Thanks for the information. I owe you dinner."
"Sold. Tonight."
"I'll still be here, looks like."
"So I'll come find you."
"Maybe tomorrow, if I'm still here. I'll call you."
"If you don't, you're dead."
"I said I'll call; I'll call. Go back to Castaways in Space."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do. And Grillo—"
"What?"
Before answering she put the phone down, winning for the third consecutive time the game of who hangs up first they'd been playing since Grillo, in a maudlin stupor one night, had confessed he'd hated goodbyes.
"MOMMA?"
She was sitting by the window as usual. "Pastor John didn't come last night, Jo-Beth. You did call him like you promised?" She read the look on her daughter's face. "You didn't," she said. "How could you forget a thing like that?"
"I'm sorry, Momma."
"You know how I rely upon him. I've got good reason, Jo-Beth. I know you don't think so, but I do."
"No. I believe you. I'll call him later. First...I have to speak to you."
"Shouldn't you be at the store?" Joyce said. "Did you come home sick? I heard Tommy-Ray..."
"Momma, listen to me. I have to ask you something very important."
Joyce looked troubled already. "I can't talk now," she said. "I want the Pastor."
"He'll come later. First: I have to know about a friend of yours."
Joyce said nothing, but her face was all frailty. Jo-Beth had seen her turn that expression on too often to be cowed by it.
"I met a man last night, Momma," she said, determined to be plain in her telling. "His name is Howard Katz. His mother was Trudi Katz."
Joyce's face lost its mask of delicacy. Beneath, was a look eerily like satisfaction. "Didn't I say?" she murmured to herself, turning her head back towards the window.
"Didn't you say what?"
"How could it be over? How could it ever be over?"
"Momma, explain."
"It wasn't an accident. We all knew it wasn't an accident. They had reasons."
"Who had reasons?"
"I need the Pastor."
"Momma: who had reasons?"
Without replying Joyce stood up.
"Where is he?" she said, her voice suddenly loud. She started towards the door. "I have to see him."
"All right, Momma! All right! Calm down."
At the door, she turned back to Jo-Beth. Tears welled in her eyes.
"You mustn't go near Trudi's boy," she said. "You hear me? You mustn't see him, speak to him, even think of him. Promise me."
"I can't promise that. It's stupid."
"You haven't done anything with him, have you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh my Lord, you have."
"I've done nothing."
"Don't lie to me!" Momma demanded, her hands clutched into bony fists. "You must pray, Jo-Beth!"
"I don't want to pray. I came wanting help from you, that's all. I don't need prayers."
"He's got into you already. You never spoke this way before."
"I never felt this way before!" she replied. Tears were perilously close; anger and fear all muddled up. It was no use listening to Momma, she wasn't going to provide anything but calls to prayer. Jo-Beth crossed to the door, her momentum enough to warn Momma that she wouldn't be prevented from leaving. There was no resistance. Momma stepped aside and let her go, but as she headed down the stairs called after her:
"Jo-Beth, come back! I'm sick, Jo-Beth! Jo-Beth! Jo-Beth!"
Howie opened the door to his beauty in tears.
"What's wrong?" he said ushering her in.
She put her hands to her face and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around her. "It's OK," he said. "Nothing's that bad." The sobs diminished steadily, until she disengaged herself from him and stood forlornly in the middle of the room, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story. It goes way back. To your mother and mine."
"They knew each other?"
She nodded. "They were best friends."
"So this was in the stars," he said, smiling.
"I don't think that's the way Momma sees it."
"Why not? Son of her best friend—"
"Did your mother ever tell you why she left the Grove?"
"She was unmarried."
"So's Momma."
"Maybe she's tougher than my—"
"No, what I mean is: maybe that's more than a coincidence. All my life there's been rumors about what happened before I was born. About Momma and her friends."
"I know nothing about this."
"I only know bits and pieces. There were four of them. Your mother; mine; a girl called Carolyn Hotchkiss, whose father still lives in the Grove, and another. I forget her name. Arleen something. They were attacked. Raped, I think."
Howie's smile had long since disappeared.
"Mother?" he said softly. "Why did she never say anything?"
"Who's going to tell their kid they were conceived that way?"
"Oh my God," Howie said. "Raped..."
"Maybe I'm wrong," Jo-Beth said, looking up at Howie. His face was knotted up, as though he'd just been slapped.
"I've lived with these rumors all my life, Howie. I've seen Momma driven half-mad by them. Talking about the Devil all the time. It used to scare me so much, when she started talking about Satan having his eye on me. I used to pray to be invisible, so he couldn't see me."
Howie took his spectacles off and threw them on to the bed.
"I never really told you why I came here, did I?" he said. "I think...think...think it's time I did. I came because I don't have the first clue as to who or what I am. I wanted to find out about the Grove and why it drove my mother out."
"Now you wish you'd never come."
"No. If I hadn't come I wouldn't have met you. Wouldn't have—have...have...fallen in love—"
"With someone who's probably your own sister?"
The slapped look slackened. "No," he said. "I can't believe that."
"I recognized you the moment I stepped into Butrick's. You recognized me. Why?"