Chapter 23

Saturday morning we headed east on the 134, up the hill towards Pasadena. Sunlight sparkled off most every surface slick with dew. We were on our way to Tucson to see his father and step-mother. The weekend trip was my spontaneous idea, as Lee hadn't ever visited his dad's place in Arizona, even after multiple requests to do so. And Mitchell's laudatory commentary on his family had me wondering the family I'd be marrying into with Lee, the other reason I'd motivated this road trip. It was also an easy excuse to escape my manic city for a couple of days. The escalating violence was invading my psyche of late, igniting my outrage daily with every altercation, especially without weed to disconnect from the anger around me. Reality was becoming too sharp, making me edgy most of the time. And though Lee sheltered me, it was hard to feel safe anywhere in L.A. these days.

We listened to music and chatted in our typical fluid fashion. I avoided bringing up my gnawing desire to get high, scared of Lee acknowledging his, lacking the strength to help him battle his cravings, and my own simultaneously. I didn't bring up last night's sex either, but felt afraid of repeating it. Unwanted pregnancy always haunted me with intercourse, birth control or not. I didn't want a repeat of my mother's early life with an abusive ex-husband who left her penniless with a genetically manic-depressive son.

Crossing the California border into Arizona, Lee expanded on his family history, first recapping what I knew of him growing up in Chicago until his parent's divorce, then about living with his dad in Culver City, a rather rough L.A. suburb from 13 to 18 yrs old. He too was laudatory of his father's achievements— starting his own business from nothing and turning it into a successful freight company.

“But that was years ago.” He paused, glanced at me with what seemed like trepidation, then focused back on driving. “My dad was, well, compelled into making a deal with the devil for partial ownership in the Indian Casino he runs now— payback to the mob for gambling debts he accumulated in Vegas.”

I think my jaw dropped, but I'm not sure. What he'd just said sounded more surreal than real and I was having a hard time processing it right then. I knew his dad had a shipping company, and had moved to Arizona with his wife right after Lee graduated high school, but that was it. He'd neglected to tell me about his father's gambling addiction. Till now.

“His 'business partners' take most of the profits, but my dad's not hurting, for sure. They set him up in Tucson after he was fired from the company he started for almost bankrupting the business to fund his gamble habit.”

Like father like son? but I didn't voice it, nor did he address the parallel. And for the first time in a long time I heard my inner voice sneering at me for getting involved with Lee. “So you're father is in bed with the mafia?” And I flashed on Diane Keaton in The Godfather when she married Al Pacino.

He laughed. “I guess you can say that.” He glanced at me with a quirky, guilty grin. “It's ain't like The Godfather, Ray.” He chuckled. “The men who funded my dad's casino are legally putting up casinos across the country on Indian land since gambling is legal on reservations if the Native Council says it is. And while it's true these 'businessmen' may straddle the line of the law, they don't shoot people, or leave horse heads in anyone's bed.”

His words didn't soothe me. I stared out at the straight highway, the desert around us flying by at 90mph. I'd imagined my partner's father as a doctor or college professor, and a wise, benevolent man at that, but Lee's original portrayal of his dad as a successful businessman sufficed. Though my parents were what society, and even Lee had deemed normal— still married, had remained faithful and coveted the classic parental roles, I was hoping to marry into a replacement family, one that cherished me as I was, as I did them, my husband's parents' moral compasses, and trusted caretakers for our kids. I felt a growing irritation with his revelation that he'd neglected to fill me in on the details of his father's exploits before, though I didn't confront him on his lack of disclosure, afraid of putting more distance between us.

We got into Tucson around sunset. It was windy, dusty, and cold as we crossed the parking lot of the Double Tree hotel and took refuge inside the large room with two double beds Lee's dad had booked and paid for. He'd left a message as well, to meet him at his casino for dinner so Lee could finally see his 'show,' instead of meeting up at the hotel as originally planned. I couldn't help resent the man before I'd even met him for choosing to exploit weakness in others, and modeling addiction to his son.

Lee put on his brights as we blazed through the black desert, lighting up the highway and scrub brush a few yards beyond, occasionally swerving to avoid a large tumbleweed that escaped the bramble along the side of the road. We continued along the arrow straight highway for about twenty minutes then came upon a huge sign in the middle of nowhere, blinking in five primary colors, ten feet across and at least six feet high flashing Apache Palace * WIN! WIN! WIN! * Bingo * Slots * Poker *

The huge dirt parking lot was packed with cars. The building looked like a re-purposed supermarket. Rectangle box, flat roof, glass front. Christmas lights were still strung around the top of the building, or perhaps they were a permanent part of the façade. Inside was dense with cigarette smoke which mingled with the stench of stale fried foods. At least three hundred people sat at fifteen or more long folding tables with benches on both sides, arranged in rows that took up most of the enormous, brightly lit room. Everyone had bingo cards in front of them and several neon colored, fat-tip felt markers. Food was strewn about in the center of the tables and most everyone was munching something greasy, from burgers to nachos dripping with orange cheese. Hardly anyone noticed Lee and I enter, seemingly focused on their game.

Along the back wall in the center of the room was a small stage with Christmas lights strung along the base of the deck. A man, a mix of Jackie Gleason and Vito Corleone, maybe 5' 9'', at least 300 pounds, wearing a loud-print Hawaiian shirt and navy slacks stood on the platform yelling letters and numbers into a mic in an excited tone. He waved when he notice Lee and I by the entrance. The MC was Al, Lee's dad.

A few people in the crowd yelled "BINGO!" and held up their colorfully marked cards. Al handed the mic to his slender wife, easily twenty years his junior with a bad blond dye job, then came off the stage and went to each of the winners. After examining their card carefully he scrawled his initials flamboyantly across each with a big red marker. His gestures were gregarious, overly congratulatory though they'd won all of $10 bucks. He absolutely waddled when he moved. His eyes were narrow and sunken, his mouth tiny on his round face. He was sweating and panting when he finally approached us with a wide, welcoming grin.

“Good to see you! Glad you made it. Well?” His father gestured with both hands at the scene, like we were supposed to be impressed by all of it or something. Lee squeezed my hand before unlacing our fingers to shake his father's extended hand. I made a mental note they didn't hug. I didn't want them to, the notion they were close was horrifying right about then. Lee introduced us. I stuck out my hand to shake Al's and avoid anything more intimate, and managed to refrain from wiping my palm on my jeans to rid my hand of Al's sweaty touch.

Lee's dad suggested we have dinner at the 'lovely buffet' there, since he had to work tonight with the regular MC out sick. He lead us behind a floor to ceiling smoked glass patrician that blocked off a twenty foot wide area along the right side of the room. Slot machines lined the walls, and several small poker tables were stuffed inside this separated area. The 'buffet' was towards the back, and consisted of five metal pans filled with food floating in oil under hot lamps.

I fixed myself a small salad from the wilted lettuce in the bowl next to the bins and joined Lee and his dad at one of the four sticky plastic booths along the sides of the enclosure. Lee had a heap of greasy brisket on his plate, piled on top of mashed potatoes. Al had a large pile of spaghetti topped with meat sauce surrounded by several pieces of garlic bread. Father and son discussed Lee's business a few minutes then his dad moved the dialog onto his casino.

"This place is a gold mine. The Indians own 51%, making gambling legal on reservations since the casino is majority owned by the natives. I own the rest with some Vegas investors."

"Most Native Americans on reservations live meagerly on government subsidies. Why would they want to promote gambling to their own people?" I wasn't exactly trying to be contentious but didn't care if I was.

"Casinos are big business. Very profitable for everyone." Al sat across from us and glanced around the room as he continued. "Every resident on this reservation gets a monthly check from the profits made here."

I could see the large room though the glass partition. Mostly round, reddish-brown faces with rather blank expressions framed by straight dark hair streaked with gray. Most were over-weight and over 40, with bad teeth, and in worn clothing. "These people don't look like they're rolling in dough to me."

Al smiled a thin lipped grin. "It really is a shame with these folks. Ninety five percent of them are here every other night blowing their profits hoping to win big. Everyone's looking to get rich for doing nothing." Al shook his balding head. "Only one a night wins the $150 tournament game. The average loss weekly is over $300 bucks." He looked around the room again slowly, nodding and smiling at the few who caught his eye.

"Knowing this about your clientele, why do you provide them all this?" I felt Lee tighten next to me. He took his arm from the back of the booth behind me and held his tea with both hands.

"I'm offering entertainment, like television or the movies." Again Al gave me his thin lipped smile. "In fact, this casino is the only entertainment for miles around, especially since they don't even get cable out here."

"These people are schmucks." Lee said flatly. "They bought into a casino on their vast wasteland of property blinded by grand presentations of projected profits without considering the only clientele within thirty miles were their own people. With nothing better to do they come here and gamble away their minimal net profits after the investors takes their loan payment and grossly inflated operating costs. How exactly does this casino serve the Native Americans on this reservation, dad?"

"I'm not judging these people, son," Al defended. "Gambling is a personal choice. I chose to give it up a long time ago. When I retired from shipping I was approached by some club owners in Vegas to go in on this bingo deal, and after reviewing the financials I jumped at the opportunity. I'd have been a fool not to. These places really are gold mines."

Beyond a liar, the man clearly had no moral conscience.

Lee sighed, shook his head, took another bite of his brisket with a blob of mashed potato on top. Al segued the conversation to the home he'd recently had built, and raved about the growing opportunities for great properties in the area. Lee's stepmother, Betty, came over and introduced herself, hugged Lee with a warm hello then shook my hand with a friendly smile. She wore a rather loud, floral-print dress with a thick white plastic 60s-style belt pulled tight around her narrow waist, the gathered fabric making her breasts seem larger and hips broader than they were. She was sparkly and light, more mobile home park than city or suburb. We talked about virtually nothing for the next ten minutes, then Al and Betty went back to work after arranging where to meet for breakfast in the morning before we headed back to L.A.

I stepped out into the cold, crisp desert air and it felt like the entire building had been lifted off my shoulders until Lee took my hand. It was sweaty, like his dad's had been, and sent a cloying chill through me. I was glad when he released me when we got to his car.

He pushed in a Brian Ferry tape as we drove back to the hotel. Most times listening to music was a shared experience, but tonight it felt like a sound wall between us. Lee stared out at the highway, the high beams spotlighting only the road directly ahead in the vast darkness. He seemed a million miles away, and I felt afraid to engage him, of what he might say. Defend his father and I'd resent him, and feel even more afraid of his lineage than I already did.

'You don't just marry an individual, you marry their family,' echoed in my head as we came into Tucson. It was just after 10:00 and I didn't want to go back to the hotel straight away with even the possibility of getting into sex right then. I suggested we go get some dessert before going back to our room, perhaps a better forum to engage in sensitive dialog rather than in bed together with our sexual history to date.

It seemed the only thing open in all of Tucson was our hotel coffee shop. The short, slender, 30-something, dirty blond, deeply tanned hostess/waitress took us to a booth in the back and we ordered tea and two slices of lemon meringue pie.

"God, my dad looks terrible. He's gained so much weight. He looks so...old, and he's only 63. I'm really worried about him." That was all Lee had to say about the scene we'd just experienced.

"Well, maybe suggest he put less greasy food and more fruits and salads in his buffet. That may be a place to start." I was trying to be helpful, but got I wasn't when he looked at me and narrowed his brows, exasperated.

"He's always been overweight, but not like this. Ever. Pudgy, soft, like me maybe." Lee flashed a wayward grin. "But never fat like he is now. God, shoot me if I ever go there."

"No worries. I'll keep you on your toes." I smiled.

"You already do, my dear." Lee smiled. "Thank you for being here." He squeezed my hand, as if hanging on for dear life.

The waitress came back with our teas and pie slices. Lee lifted his fork as she set the five inch high piece of lemon meringue in front of him, took a big fork full and stuffed it in his mouth. And I flashed on Lee at 63 looking like his old man since they possessed the same short, bulky stature, and the propensity to...overindulge. He took another big bite of pie, opened wide and swept it off the fork and into his mouth, then slowly chewed, savoring the flavors as only connoisseurs of sensation do.

I nibbled at my piece of pie, the meringue rubbery, the lemon filling old and thick enough to cut, and listened as Lee regaled me with his family history. Betty had been his dad's secretary in his freight business from it's inception in Chicago. The last seven years of his father's marriage to Lee's mother, Al and Betty had been having an affair.

"My mom must have known. My dad would take off for days, sometimes weeks. My mom started drinking, was sullen all the time, got really distant. My father finally left her for good to be with Betty. He never paid a dime of support, left my mom basically broke, which is why I had to move to L.A. with him since she couldn't afford to take care of me and my sister on her own."

"Did you want to move in with your dad?"

"Not at first. But I had no choice really. I was 13, and my mom seemed perfectly fine to get rid of me. Not a lot of love lost between us to this day. I've always loved my dad though. He gave me a home, and helped me out in some really tough times. He gave me my career. Betty has always been really supportive too. She's a good lady."

A good lady? Somehow I doubted it. She was a willing participant in an affair that eventually tore Lee's family apart. I didn't challenge his comment though. About the last thing I wanted to do was hurt Lee. It wasn't his fault his step-mom was an adulterer, or that his father was a pig. Genetics were the luck of the draw, the ultimate gamble for us all.

I suggested indulging in the hotel jacuzzi before going back to our room. Close to an hour later when we got out of the hot tub we were both completely drained. We cuddled in bed for a few minutes, then Lee fell asleep. Perfect. I told myself the image of his old man would fade with distance and time, but I knew I was lying. Incorporating Al into my extended family image was simply inconceivable.

Lee was gone in the morning when I woke up. I checked for a note, then the bathroom, then the hotel gym and when I couldn't find him I went back to our room. He was setting a tray with two cups of tea and two bear claw donuts on top of the dresser.

"Hey beautiful." He smiled, kissed me quickly and handed me a cup of tea. "So, you ready to get out of here?" He took a big bite of a bear claw then handed the other to me, but I declined, though it did look yummy and tantalized. "It's really good. You sure?"

I nodded, busied myself packing my backpack so I couldn't see him stuffing lard and sugar in his mouth so early in the morning and right before breakfast. Lee was still somewhat...soft, and could easily go back to the Pillsbury Dough Boy look if he kept eating fatty foods without restraint. In April, my father was having his second bypass surgery in just four years, and I flashed on my mom harping on him with virtually everything he put in his mouth. How terrible it must be to live in fear of your husband's premature demise from his inability to control his obsessions.

We met Al and Betty at a deli in the north of town for breakfast. His father had ordered platters of smoked fish, bagels, fruits and sweet rolls. Betty hugged me like I was one of the family. So did Lee's dad, which wasn't a good thing before eating. Al bragged about the new casino they were planning for another reservation near Sedona. Betty was demure when she spoke with humbled pride of her secretarial job at the casino and helping Al on the floor at night. Something about her irked me. Maybe it was her frigid demeanor, or the way she'd applied her makeup— a thick foundation and cherry red lipstick made her seem like a mannequin. I got the impression that if we were in Nazi Germany she would be your best friend right up until the time she was turning you in.

"Much of my success I owe to my beautiful wife here, though it took me a while to come around to that. Betty's my little good luck charm." Al put his arm around his wife's slender shoulders and Betty smiled modestly as he squeezed her to him. "She's stuck with me through thick and thin."

Why Betty stayed with Al was a mystery to me. He was bottom of the barrel and I was sure the woman could have done much better. She wasn't stupid, and I suspected was never desperate to mate since she claimed she had no desire to have children.

Two hours later we left the restaurant after Lee and his dad stopped arguing about the check, which his father eventually paid. We all hugged goodbye which creeped me out but I tried to shake it off in the car, actually glad to be heading back to L.A.

"God, he is such an asshole!" Lee pulled from the parking lot mad as hell. "Did you see the way he said, 'Of course all casinos are fixed,' like he was proud of it. I wonder if he ever stops to think about anyone but himself. I am so glad that I'm nothing like him." He shook his head. "He paid for everything, ya know. The hotel, breakfast this morning. It makes him feel like a big man throwing money around. It is so petty."

Lee insisted on paying for just about everything we did together. Another parallel to his father. And the foundation we'd been establishing seemed to be crumbling beneath me. I stare out the windshield so Lee wouldn't see my doubt.

"I know what you think of him. I know you think he's disgusting. To be honest, most of the time I do too." He sighed heavily.

I wasn't sure what to say, afraid of hurting his feelings any more than I unwittingly already was. "Well, Betty seems nice. And your dad's clearly successful. He seems like an intelligent man." That was about all the positives I could come up with, that were the truth anyway.

"Oh, he's smart alright. He knows how to screw you in a thousand different ways. Reminds me of the gun dealer who says he's not responsible if the gun he sells is used to kill innocent people. Right. Like what did the salesman think the guy was going to use an AK47 for, hunting Bambi?"

As he ranted, the image of Al faded, and I saw only Lee, the man I knew him to be— smart, compassionate, moral as his actions, words and passion attested. His thick, chestnut hair tussled onto his shoulders. It framed the profile of his soft but sculpted features and hung in the long dark lashes of his green eyes.

"Maybe you're like me," I joked to lighten him. "And you too were secretly adopted." Then I took his hand and held it to connect us. "And even if we are genetically linked to our parents, it doesn't mean we have to be like them. We are who we choose to be." But the line sounded right out of a movie and I knew it was bullshit. Reality is, most of us grow up to emulate our parents. Except I wanted my kids to be better than me. (And their kids better than them and so on, each generation healthier, stronger, smarter, extending life longer, giving us more and more time to maximize our potential and not only survive, but thrive.)

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