a felony, then?”
I said, “It’s a wobbler. Means it can be charged as a misdemeanor or felony, depending on how bad it gets.”
“How bad is that?” Sister Hildegarde asked.
I looked at her and said nothing. But my clenched jaw was a dead giveaway.
“I think all of us need to catch a collective breath,” Sister Hildegarde said. “I’ve just been saying to Sister Mary, a retreat
is in order. She’ll be going to Louisville for a time of self-assessment.”
That sounded ominous. Father Bob nodded slowly, but not in an agreement way. It was an I-get-what’s-going-on-here nod.
I got it a half second later. This was a way for Sister Hildegarde to put a black mark on Sister Mary.
“Let’s get the cops up here and file a report,” I said.
And hoped that would be the end of it. Some jerk had sent a single e-mail, and wouldn’t be heard from again.
Yeah, that’s what I hoped, all the time knowing hope is for kids on Christmas. It’s not a thing the rest of us can lean on.
You try to and you fall hard.
Like getting dumped on the asphalt in a pickup game of hoop. You can get seriously hurt that way.
11
I SPENT C HRISTMAS Day with Fran Dwyer—who was to have been my mother-in-law—and the little charge, Kylie, she has taken in. Being with them
brought up all sorts of memories, and pictures.
I never got a Christmas with Jacqueline Dwyer as my wife. Even though I could see her here, decorating the tree. Unwrapping
presents. Shadows of what might have been.
As Kylie opened the present I got for her,
McElligot’s Pool
by Dr. Seuss, I got a jolt of joy for the first time in months. But joy is a plaything in the hands of chance. It gets tossed
around, maybe you catch it for a while, but if you get too attached, it ends up getting lost or broken.
So I didn’t grab too hard for joy as it passed by. I just kept wishing it for Kylie and Fran. Kylie hadn’t known much hope
growing up. Didn’t know her father, and her mother was dead.
And Fran was still devastated by Jacqueline’s death.
But somehow, these two had found each other, and it was a good thing. It would fight back the loneliness. I thought about
that, and thought maybe I was losing that fight. I had wanted Jacqueline in my life more than anything else in the world.
There was a faint, shuddering fear creeping up in me that I’d never be able to replace that void. Not fully, anyway.
Kylie loved the book. She made me read it to her three times, sitting on my lap, her arm around my neck. The little house
in Reseda filled up with the smell of Fran’s cooking, and that was Christmas, a pleasant one in L.A.
12
I N THE MIDDLE of January the rains came.
I don’t like L.A. in the rain. It seems out of sorts, like a dog in a sweater. It wants to roam free, but the wet puts the
kibosh on everything. Beaches go deserted, tires skid on freeways, and at country clubs around the city retired vice presidents
sit inside and suck gin-and-tonics and complain about their wives.
The rains turned foul. Mud started sliding in Malibu. A couple hillside homes became ground-level houses. A large dollop of
wet earth and rock tumbled across the Coast Highway, blocking access for days.
It was not a fit season for man nor beast, so I spent a lot of time in my trailer, reading my buddy Plato and occasionally
looking out at the wet basketball court. It looked sad, abandoned. And Sister Mary was in Louisville, doing Sister Hidlegarde’s
peculiar penance.
A friendly detective named Fronterotta, out of the Devonshire Division, was looking into the cyberstalking e-mail to Sister
Mary. Which meant, if the tone of his voice was any indication, we had a better chance winning the lottery than finding the
guy.
I continued to dispense legal advice in the corner of the Ultimate Sip. I advised several people to start small-claims actions.
I argued one woman out of filing suit against the government for invasion of her brain and got her to a
I said, “It’s a wobbler. Means it can be charged as a misdemeanor or felony, depending on how bad it gets.”
“How bad is that?” Sister Hildegarde asked.
I looked at her and said nothing. But my clenched jaw was a dead giveaway.
“I think all of us need to catch a collective breath,” Sister Hildegarde said. “I’ve just been saying to Sister Mary, a retreat
is in order. She’ll be going to Louisville for a time of self-assessment.”
That sounded ominous. Father Bob nodded slowly, but not in an agreement way. It was an I-get-what’s-going-on-here nod.
I got it a half second later. This was a way for Sister Hildegarde to put a black mark on Sister Mary.
“Let’s get the cops up here and file a report,” I said.
And hoped that would be the end of it. Some jerk had sent a single e-mail, and wouldn’t be heard from again.
Yeah, that’s what I hoped, all the time knowing hope is for kids on Christmas. It’s not a thing the rest of us can lean on.
You try to and you fall hard.
Like getting dumped on the asphalt in a pickup game of hoop. You can get seriously hurt that way.
11
I SPENT C HRISTMAS Day with Fran Dwyer—who was to have been my mother-in-law—and the little charge, Kylie, she has taken in. Being with them
brought up all sorts of memories, and pictures.
I never got a Christmas with Jacqueline Dwyer as my wife. Even though I could see her here, decorating the tree. Unwrapping
presents. Shadows of what might have been.
As Kylie opened the present I got for her,
McElligot’s Pool
by Dr. Seuss, I got a jolt of joy for the first time in months. But joy is a plaything in the hands of chance. It gets tossed
around, maybe you catch it for a while, but if you get too attached, it ends up getting lost or broken.
So I didn’t grab too hard for joy as it passed by. I just kept wishing it for Kylie and Fran. Kylie hadn’t known much hope
growing up. Didn’t know her father, and her mother was dead.
And Fran was still devastated by Jacqueline’s death.
But somehow, these two had found each other, and it was a good thing. It would fight back the loneliness. I thought about
that, and thought maybe I was losing that fight. I had wanted Jacqueline in my life more than anything else in the world.
There was a faint, shuddering fear creeping up in me that I’d never be able to replace that void. Not fully, anyway.
Kylie loved the book. She made me read it to her three times, sitting on my lap, her arm around my neck. The little house
in Reseda filled up with the smell of Fran’s cooking, and that was Christmas, a pleasant one in L.A.
12
I N THE MIDDLE of January the rains came.
I don’t like L.A. in the rain. It seems out of sorts, like a dog in a sweater. It wants to roam free, but the wet puts the
kibosh on everything. Beaches go deserted, tires skid on freeways, and at country clubs around the city retired vice presidents
sit inside and suck gin-and-tonics and complain about their wives.
The rains turned foul. Mud started sliding in Malibu. A couple hillside homes became ground-level houses. A large dollop of
wet earth and rock tumbled across the Coast Highway, blocking access for days.
It was not a fit season for man nor beast, so I spent a lot of time in my trailer, reading my buddy Plato and occasionally
looking out at the wet basketball court. It looked sad, abandoned. And Sister Mary was in Louisville, doing Sister Hidlegarde’s
peculiar penance.
A friendly detective named Fronterotta, out of the Devonshire Division, was looking into the cyberstalking e-mail to Sister
Mary. Which meant, if the tone of his voice was any indication, we had a better chance winning the lottery than finding the
guy.
I continued to dispense legal advice in the corner of the Ultimate Sip. I advised several people to start small-claims actions.
I argued one woman out of filing suit against the government for invasion of her brain and got her to a
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