I graduated from high school and, after a long, boring, hot summer in my small upstate town, I took a bus into Rochester and signed up for the Marines. It was 1977. The war in Vietnam was over. The only wars left were cold ones. That's what I told my parents when I returned to our dingy clapboard house after inking my papers. My dad just nodded and went out back to smoke a cigarette. My mom folded her hands together and told me she'd pray for me. Neither seemed too heartbroken about my decision. Sure, I'll be the first to admit: I wasn't an easy teenager.
After basic training at Parris Island, the Marines shipped me out to Pendleton and then off to Okinawa. The military and I agreed with each other. I liked the order and routine. I liked the fact that if you wanted to move up, you could. If you were happy where you were, the Corps was happy for you. I also discovered that I was pretty good with maps and, after a little practice, with air and satellite images. I shifted my MOS to Intelligence and the Corps agreed that I might have some talent. They sent me off to Twentynine Palms in the California desert for advanced training.
I gave my parents the news on my bi-monthly call to New York. As we finished our conversation, my dad asked my mom to hang up the phone in the bedroom.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Uhhhh." Never fond of words, my dad searched his limited vocabulary. "You never met my mom. Right?"
I almost laughed. Dad's family was a complete mystery to all of us. We knew he'd grown up in Buffalo. And, we knew he had a couple of brothers and sisters. But, we'd never met anyone from his side of the family. Thankfully, there were enough aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents on my mom's side to keep us busy on holidays.
"Nope," I answered.
Dad hesitated again. "Look," he continued. "It's kinda complicated. And, next time you're home, I promise to explain. But, this Twentynine Palms. You say it's near Palm Springs?"
"Yep, about an hour east."
Silence. "Okay," dad finally said. "Your grandmother lives in Palm Springs."
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Never a word for twenty years and yet the guy knows exactly where his family lives the whole time?
"And grandpa?"
"No," my dad said quickly. "My dad died a long time ago. Your grandma remarried. I think he's dead too."
I tapped the wall next to the phone.
"You want me to stop by and say hello?"
Dad cleared his throat. "If you want. But you don't have to. She's kind of a unique... character."
I sighed. "Send me her address. If I get some time, I'll see what I can do."
"Yeah," dad answered. "I mean you don't have to. But it's something to think about."
We hung up and I went outside, sat on a bench, and smoked a cigarette. I'll admit. On the one hand, I was intrigued. Finally, I'd be able to solve the mystery of my dad's family. On the other hand, I was a bit ticked off. Who needed the extra drama? I snuffed out my smoke and returned to barracks.
A week later, the hot desert sun and I had become best friends. Most days, I woke early to work out before the sun really got going and spent a lot of time in air-conditioned classrooms. The base was pretty laid back, so I passed most of my evenings in front of the TV, reading a book, or shooting the shit with my brothers-in-arms.
I got weekend leave at the end of my first month. A couple of buddies and I decided to spend our two days of liberty in L.A. but we only got as far as Palm Springs. We'd left base as the sun went down on Friday and decided to kill our thirst at the first bar we came to. So, we ended up at Harry's, a crummy little joint on the north side of town. One beer led to two led to three led to six or seven. One of my buddies left with a girl and the other one left with a guy who said he could score some killer weed. That left me at the bar alone.
Closing time arrived and, with nowhere to go, I found a soft spot in a field next to the bar, pushed my jacket under my head, and drifted off. I woke in the morning to a blazing sun and a mouth full of chalk. Harry's parking lot was empty. My friends were gone.
I was contemplating the location of the nearest Greyhound station when I remembered the phone call with my dad. I pulled a worn scrap of paper from my wallet and hiked to a payphone down the street. There was no answer at Chez Swanson. I scratched my head.
What the hell, I thought. When in Palm Springs...
I dialed 411 and dropped another quarter in the payphone. Twenty minutes later, I slipped into the cool interior of a cab. The driver nodded when I read the address from the paper square in my hand and, less than fifteen minutes later, I was standing on the sidewalk outside the adobe walls surrounding a pastel house.
I straightened my shoulders and rang the doorbell below the intercom in the wall. The sun baked my hair while I waited... and waited. I was just about to give up and grab the next outbound Greyhound when a slick white Mercedes pulled up to the driveway. The driveway gate opened and the car disappeared inside.
A few minutes later, a woman in a short beige dress, sandals, and a sun hat walked back through the gate onto the sidewalk. She pushed her sunglasses down her nose and studied me.
"You must be Kevin," the woman said.
I nodded.
Her eyes roved over me and she pushed her dark glasses back into place.
"Come on in," she said, pivoting on her heels and disappearing back up the driveway.
Okay, I thought to myself. Not the warmest welcome in the world. But, a welcome nonetheless. The gate slid shut behind me as I followed the woman toward the house. She stopped at the side door and waited for me to catch up. As I did, she opened the door and waved me in. A gust of cold, refreshing air washed over me. I took a deep breath and the door behind me closed.
"Go on," she said from behind me. "Into the kitchen."
I moved forward into a big, airy kitchen filled with sunlight and parked myself next to the kitchen island. The woman pulled off her sun hat and a long cascade of silver hair dropped onto her shoulders. She removed her sunglasses and a pair of bright, blue eyes peered at me.
She was good looking - - with a perky little nose, soft chin, wide lips, and high cheekbones. It was hard to tell how old she was. Light wrinkles spread out from the corners of her eyes and her mouth but her skin was firm and tight. Her dress outlined a good-sized pair of tits, narrow-ish waist, and wide hips. Her calves tapered down to slender ankles.
"Uh huh," she said, registering my appraisal. "I'm Beverly. Your dad told me I might see you some time."
I liked her style - - direct, even brusque. The sparkle in her eyes suggested a more playful side to my grandmother.
"I'm Kevin," I answered, extending my hand. "Your grandson."
Beverly arched an eyebrow and ignored my hand. She sashayed to the sink and washed her hands.
"Have a seat, Kevin," she said over her shoulder. "Glass of water?"
"Sure," I replied and she brought over two glasses.
We drank our water together silently.
"Tastes great," I said, placing my glass on the granite countertop.
Beverly peered over the rim of her glass.
"You look like you needed it. Tough night?"
