“Well, I have some good news,” Guy begins. What’s the good news? The usual hearsay, secondhand rumors, and idle gossip, combined with raw conjecture on his part. From what he has managed to learn, he infers that their daughter is feeling homesick and nostalgic. That the group is fragmenting. That its personal conflicts have started to become overwhelming. That ideologically the group makes less sense than ever. That a philosophical split has devolved into a dualism as simple as NO GURLS ALLOWED / BOYS KEEP OUT, so he’s pretty certain that he’ll be able to restore to the Galtons a young lady who is a feminist but not a Maoist.
Even to someone like Lydia, this has got to be a big distinction. Take your choice: You want a daughter who sticks a gun in a utility executive’s face, or her pussy? “Eat me now, bourgeois man-pig!” It has a nice ring to it, no? Better than “Death to the Fascist Insect.” You recuperate from cunnilingus. You definitely pull through. Though Guy has a feeling Lydia may disagree with him on this. But this is really all good news. She wants to see them. She misses them. OK, she hates everything they stand for, but as sentiments go, this is pretty standard issue nowadays. They can probably work around it.
But Guy doesn’t articulate a word of this. His sense is that were he to utter a word such as pussy within the hearing of Lydia Galton, he would instantly transform into a wizened piece of rock, some pre-Cambrian formation, ancient and eternally silent. Plus, in the instant that he takes to gather his thoughts before plunging into his spiel, Lydia leans forward and addresses him.
“I want you to know that my husband places a great deal of faith in you. He is a very gullible man. I haven’t seen anything to indicate that his faith is justified other than your assurances that you’re in touch with our daughter and that she’s all right. That would be the sum of it.”
“I haven’t got any reason to lie, Mrs. Galton.”
“Oh, yes, you have. That’s why I’ve come along to this event. Hank never will out and ask what it is that you want. But I won’t hesitate. I’ve had a bellyful of you people over the last year and a half. You’ve each wanted something. You lecture us about how corrupt we are, and then you hold out your palm for our money. Now we haven’t heard from you in three months, and suddenly you’re in touch. Clearly you have something in mind.”
“I just. More information has come to light.”
“And what would you like in exchange for this information?”
“Lydia. Guy freely offered information to us last time.”
“Isn’t that how pushers work? The first time’s always free?”
“Apparently you know more about that than I.”
Guy gazes wistfully at the icy dregs in the bottom of his glass.
Lydia says, “Oh, don’t pretend to be embarrassed. You don’t have to put on a phony display of discomfiture.”
“If he’s embarrassed, it’s because you’ve done your best to embarrass him.”
“I think he’s shameless.”
“You’ve made that very clear. Why have you come?”
“Because you have always been the type to pick up strays, Hank. It’s not enough that you give them a job or money, whatever it is they want. You have to offer them a share of our lives. That girl. Alice’s friend from Crystal Springs.”
“Oh, God, no. Not Betty Azizi again.”
“Yes. That little Arab girl. Always at the house. Always picking things up. ‘Oh, this is so beautiful.’ Picking things up and turning them over in her hands. Searching for the price tag perhaps? Had nothing and wanted everything. Eyes lit up every time she came through the door.”
“If I remember correctly, her father was a lawyer who worked for the Iranian consulate. Big house in the San Carlos hills.”
“When they’re that close, they want it even more. Especially an Arab.”
“Um,” says Guy. “Iranians aren’t Arabs.” The couple ignores him.
“Even Eric Stump,” says Lydia. “You practically adopted him.”
“No, I did not. I tried to make him feel at home. It’s my nature to be friendly. How was I to know he would turn out to be such a cold mackerel?”
“Exactly.” And Lydia raises that.45-caliber hand again and points directly at Guy’s head. Nice well-bred lady like her, pointing.
“Look,” says Guy, “I helped your daughter when she was in need. I’m still helping her.”
“You call that helping her? If you’d wanted to help, you might have told her it was time to come home and face the music rather than arrange a summer retreat,” says Lydia.
Guy experiences the strange lighted calm he used to feel just before a meet against an opponent he feared. He continues. “She thought the cops were going to off her. Not too farfetched at that point.”
“As ye sow,” says Lydia.
“That summer retreat cost me about eight grand, incidentally. I’ve spent a lot of money.”
“Here it comes.”
“I don’t expect to see that dough again. But I could use a little help. I’ve got lawyer bills. I’ve got doctor bills. I’ve got phone bills like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve got bills from auto mechanics. Bartenders.” He essays a faint smile. He was going to say drug dealers. Joke falls flat anyway.
“Tsk, tsk. You may have heard that we made our own modest contribution to our daughter’s Wanderjahr.”
“Your daughter. Not my daughter. Listen. Hank here told me, and I quote, if there’s ever anything I can do for you, be sure and let me know. I need a hand. Not a payoff. A job as a sportswriter for the Examiner maybe. A columnist working for a paycheck every week.”
Lydia bursts out laughing, an awful, high-pitched laugh. Hank cringes.
Well, time for the chimichangas! Lydia has the taco salad, which she “picks at” in time-honored fashion. A pitcher of dark beer sits untouched before the couple. Guy orders another margarita, though he skips the Cuervo on the side. Lydia really fucked him, bringing up his motivations straightaway like that. Now he has to wade back in, deeper and deeper, reclaiming his position. What was it Hemingway said? Fly-fishing in the swamp is a tragic adventure? Lydia has his number, all right. Guy knows that Hank does too; the guy just doesn’t give a damn. Not going to nickel-and-dime his kid’s life at this point. Guy figures the best thing to do is to talk. He has nothing to lose giving up information. Or he does, but the thought of quantifying that loss makes his skull throb within the generous, taco-shaped space behind his forehead. So he goes ahead and says that Alice is thinking about leaving the group. That while it may not be practical for her to come aboveground, she’d like to be in touch with her family. That her urban guerrilla days are probably more or less over, that she and some of the others, the more normal others, have been talking in terms of a “small-scale revolution,” and no, he doesn’t really know what that means either, but he’s heard snatches about local activism, community gardens, the Equal Rights Amendment, and food co-ops; about boycotts of table grapes, lettuce, tree fruit, and other agricultural products; about marijuana decriminalization, mandatory recycling, antinuclear protests, nonpartisan elections, handicapped parking spots, and other such issues. Lydia’s expression is carved onto her face, and her ramrod posture does not slacken, but he can see Hank relax; who wouldn’t want to hear that these are the keynote issues of the armed opposition? It’s like being told that the editorial page staff of the Village Voice is massed outside the walls of the keep.
And, as Guy speaks, he considers how things have changed. War over, Nixon out, and all the wind basically went out of the sails of the Movement. Stands to reason that a zany little twerp like Drew Shepard would be the last man on deck.