“They were lies,” I say. I’ve heard this story before. Different actors, same plot. I know how it goes.
“Most promises are,” Robert says, his eyes still on the fire giving him an eerie illumination that somehow tantalizes even as it intimidates. “People who are speaking the truth don’t have to promise. When a child promises to never sneak another cookie, or a husband promises to never flirt with another woman, when a criminal promises God he’ll be good if he can just get away with one more crime . . . those are always lies. The mother knows it, the wife knows it, God certainly knows it. But not my father, he chose to play the fool, and he paid for it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask gently. I am not berating him but this confession doesn’t seem to connect to the conversation it was born from.
“Do you know why he couldn’t see through the lies?” Robert asks. The question is clearly rhetorical, so I remain silent and wait for him to continue.
“Because disobedience was scary. It’s always safer to do what you’re told rather than blaze your own path. People find it comforting to follow other people’s rules; they’ll choose certain destruction over a risk that might lead to possible salvation. They cling to this idea that it could be worse and they’re more terrified of that than they are attracted to the idea that it might be better.” He sighs, walks back to the bookcase, puts Paradise back on the shelf.
“How long was he in jail?” I ask.
“Four years. It turns out there was more to the story and the crimes than my father knew. Securities fraud, false filings with the SEC, and so on. By refusing to explore the unknown he allowed the unknown to devastate him. My mother became a single parent. She put in long hours at her work but was continually passed over for promotion. Too many people she worked for knew about my father and they bought in to the idea of guilt by association. She could have quit, she could have worked a few less hours and spent some of her time sending out résumés to other places. God knows she needed to make more money and she had the intelligence to get ahead in a firm that would give her a chance. But she had been at her company since college. She was addicted to the familiarity.”
He comes to me, his arms encircle me, his hands slide to the small of my back. “Their mistakes were common ones. Sometimes we have to step out of our comfort zones. We have to break the rules. And we have to discover the sensuality of fear. We need to face it, challenge it, dance with it.”
“Dance . . . with fear?” my voice falters.
He smiles. “Yes. I’ve always pursued the paths that scare me, not because I want to conquer fear but because I know I have to live with it if I’m going to accomplish anything interesting. I take the risks that will unsettle me, and add an edge to my life because if I can make fear my lover, then she’ll serve me.” He raises his hands, puts one on either side of my face. “Fear is a lover I want to share, Kasie. I want to share her with you.”
I know what he’s saying is madness. The rantings of a hurt child whose greatest goal is rebellion. And yet the words entice me. How can they not? Deep down, in the part of me that I’ve tried so hard to bury, I am like Simone, always desirous of adventure.
He leans in close; his lips rest against my ear. “Come with me, pursue her with me now.”
And I let him lead me. We walk out of his home, into his garage, into his car that resembles art and power. It pulls out onto the street too fast; I feel my stomach drop as I’m pressed back in my seat. He takes the turns with the skill of a racecar driver and the recklessness of a teenager. I take a breath and realize he’s right. The fear is exciting.
I don’t ask where we’re going as we navigate the back roads of LA, streets that aren’t so carefully monitored by the LAPD. We’re a little off the grid, playing by Robert’s rules.
He finally pulls into a back alley behind a string of small restaurants and cheap nail salons. Most of these businesses have closed up for the night but I notice that there are still cars parked in a small, dingy lot that Robert slides us into. A light shines down on a white door against a dull brown building. He leads me to it and I see the word Wishes in small letters painted in red on the white surface. The color reminds me of blood, and passion and rubies.
He opens the door for me and I see we’ve arrived at a neighborhood speakeasy. The bar is small, the furniture is composed of sofas and soft chairs, things that would be perfectly at home in a private living room. There are no more than ten people here but a woman stands at a mic, singing something mournful and beguiling. Next to her a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden tan plays the double bass.