AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 11

Reed walked out into the night to clear his ringing ears.  The harsh nighttime lights of the parking lot added to his melancholy.  He could forget about Courtney, completely drop her from his mind for long hours, sometimes half a day at a time.  But then he would think of her, and the pain would begin.  Not having her was an actual ache.

He just stood there on the asphalt about five feet outside the front door, and longed for a smoke; but he had given up cigarettes long ago.

Two driverless limos were parked, Ken Carroll’s Ferrari, Reed’s ’62 Corvette, some junk cars, and a hot-looking foreign job Reed couldn’t identify.

Blue followed him out into the night, and stood behind him.  Then she walked the small steps to him and put her arms around him from the side.  The arms clasped and hugged.

“You’re def, Dad.”

Reed grunted.

“Even if you still won’t let me do my own album.”

Reed smiled.  Blue had been wanting to sing a solo album since she was in kindergarten.

“Two o’clock is getting a little late, kiddo.”

“Where’s Harlot?” the little girl accused.

“She’s always late.  Days.  Sometimes weeks.  Don’t worry: you’ll get to meet her.”

“When?”

“Beats me.  Come on,” Reed said, hustling her toward his ’Vette.  “I’ll drop you off.”

“Josie won’t tell.  Mom’s in New Orleans.  Krane’s . . . he ain’t home either.  C’mon, Dad, she could come any minute.  Lemme stay some more!”  The girl was dragging.  She had him stopped, undecided.  She fired her big guns: “Are you gonna marry Courty?”

“I’m still working on the first date.”

“Well, Marry Somebody!” she said.  “Even Boobs-A-Lot.  Least then I can come live with you.”

“Why?” Reed asked, genuinely surprised.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”  It was a nothin’ full of a load of somethin’.

“Come on, Blue.  Give.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’!”

At that remark, he packed her in the car, and started driving her home.  Blue didn’t ask to steer when they got onto Sunset.  Often, she climbed onto Reed’s lap and he would give her the reins.  It was the usual compromise between the two: she wanted to drive the sucker, but he didn’t think she was quite ready for the monster lurking under the hood.

Estelle’s Beverly Hills mansion demonstrated her mid-life-crisis philosophy of money in two words or less: Flaunt It.  The ostentatious mansion, something upwards of 45 rooms, a dupe of some stones gracing the French countryside, was constructed by producer Lawrence Korones in the late 1930’s, refurbished by actress Nancy De Santis in the late 1970’s, bought, re-refurbished, and filled to overflowing by Estelle in the late 1980’s.  Reed still lived way back in the hills of Sherman Oaks.

When they pulled into the long, winding driveway, past the ‘credit-card’ electronic gate, and up to the main entranceway of Estelle-Land, Blue had a few final words to say.

“Dad, get a clue.  You have to write it.”

“Write what?”

“The love poem.”

“Roses are red is about my speed.”

“Dad, you’re not tryin’ to go Platinum!”

Reed just looked at his daughter, suddenly so earnest and serious, there on the seat beside him.  She was the one thing in his life that was turning out just fine.  The rest of his life might be ripped, but he was very proud of her.  He would never admit it, of course.

He smiled.  “Nice try, kid.  But No Sale.”

“Dad, just write down what you feel.  It’s not s’pposed to rhyme, it’s just s’pposed to . . . BE!”

“What do you know about love poetry?”

“It’s one-on-one, ain’t it?”

Reed smiled.  Yes, he was very proud of her.  How she had turned out so well, he would never know.  She had a point.  Kenny D spoke to millions; Courty would immediately know that words from him couldn’t possibly be Reed’s.  Flowers, it was OK to buy, but a love poem?  “I’ll think about it.”

She looked at him sideways.  “Mom says your think about its are forget its.”  She twisted back straight in the bucket seat, eyes arrow-straight ahead.  “So marry Boobs-A-Lot, then,” she said coldly.

Reed tried to bluff her out with silence, but it didn’t work.  “Pax,” Reed eventually said.  Then, with resignation, “I’ll write the fucker myself.”

She looked at him, and slowly smiled.  He would.

Blue jumped out of the car, leaping over the door of the convertible without opening it.

Blue’s smile faltered for a second during the icky goodbye, but then she ran up the steps and then through the double front door.

Reed’s mind was already almost three thousand miles down the road, thinking of Courtney.

COURTNEY, Chapter 12
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47