and say them to her face. She would be crushed. The prospect of it left him breathless 
with anticipatory fear, and his mouth went as dry as powder, and his throat swelled so 
tight that he was unable to swallow. It would be more merciful to take a gun and shoot 
her. Just shoot her in the heart.
    So this was the kind of son he had become. The kind of son who shoots his mother in 
the heart with words.
    The traffic light changed from red to green, but he couldn’t immediately lift his 
foot off the brake pedal. He was immobilized by a terrible weight of self-loathing.
    Behind the Corvette, another motorist tapped his horn. ‘I just want to live my own 
life,’ Tommy said miserably as he finally drove through the intersection.
    Lately he had been talking aloud to himself far too much. The strain of living his 
own life and still being a good son was making him crazy.
    He reached for the cellular phone, intending to call his mom and ask if the dinner 
invitation was still open.
    Car phones for big shots.
    Not anymore. Everybody’s got one.
    I don’t. Phone and drive too dangerous.
    I’ve never had an accident, Mom.
    You will.
    He could hear her voice as clearly as if she were speaking those words now rather 
than in memory, and he snatched his hand away from the phone.
    On the west side of the Pacific Coast Highway was a restaurant styled as a 1950’s 
diner. Impulsively, Tommy swung into the lot and parked in the glow of red neon.
    Inside, the place was fragrant with the aromas of onions, hamburgers sizzling on a 
grill, and pickle relish. Ensconced in a tufted red-vinyl booth, Tommy ordered a 
cheeseburger, French fries, and a chocolate milkshake.
    In his mind’s ear, his mother’s voice replayed: Clay-pot chicken and rice better than 
lousy cheeseburgers.
    ‘Make that two cheeseburgers,’ Tommy amended as the waitress finished taking his 
order and started to turn away from his booth.
    ‘Skipped lunch, huh?’ she asked.
    Too much cheeseburgers and French fries, soon you look like big fat cheeseburger.
    ‘And an order of onion rings,’ Tommy said defiantly, certain that farther north, in 
Huntington Beach, his mother had just flinched with the psychic awareness of his betrayal.
    ‘I like a man with a big appetite,’ the waitress said.
    She was a slender blue-eyed blonde with a pert nose and rosy complexion - exactly the 
kind of woman about whom his mother probably had nightmares.
    Tommy wondered if she was flirting. Her smile was inviting, but her comment about his 
appetite might have been innocent small talk. He wasn’t as smooth with women as he would 
have liked to be.
    If she had given him an opening, he was incapable of taking it. One rebellion a night 
was enough. Cheese-burgers, yes, but not both cheeseburgers and a blonde.
    He could only say, ‘Give me extra Cheddar, please, and lots of onions.’
    After lathering plenty of mustard and ketchup on the burgers, he ate every bite of 
what he ordered. He drained the milkshake so completely that the sucking noises of his 
straw against the bottom of the glass caused nearby adult diners to glare at him because 
of the bad example he was setting for their children.
    He left a generous tip, and as he was heading toward the door, his waitress said, 
‘You look a lot happier going out than you did coming in.’
    ‘I bought a Corvette today,’ he said inanely.
    ‘Cool,’ she said.
    ‘Been my dream since I was a little kid.’
    ‘What colour is it?’
    ‘Bright aqua metallic.’
    ‘Sounds pretty.’
    ‘It flies.’
    ‘I’ll bet.’
    ‘Like a rocket,’ he said, and he realized that he was almost lost in the oceanic 
depths of her blue eyes.
    This detective in your books - he ever marry blonde, he break his mother’s heart.
    ‘Well’ he said, ‘take care.’
    ‘You too,’ said the waitress.
    He went to the entrance. On the threshold, holding the door open, Tommy looked back, 
hoping that she would still be staring after him. She had turned away, however, and was 
walking toward the booth that he had vacated. Her slender ankles and shapely calves were 
lovely.
    A breeze had sprung up, but the night was still balmy for November. On the far side 
of Pacific Coast Highway, at the entrance to Fashion Island Mall, stately ranks of 
enormous phoenix palms were illuminated by floodlights fixed to their boles. Long green 
fronds swayed like hula skirts. The breeze was lightly scented with the fecund smell of 
the nearby ocean; it didn’t chill him but, in fact, pleasantly caressed the back of his 
neck and playfully ruffled his thick black hair. In the wake of his little rebellion 
against his mother and his heritage, the world seemed to have grown delightfully more 
sensuous.
    In the car, he switched on the radio. It was functioning perfectly again. Roy Orbison 
was rocking out ‘Pretty Woman.’
    Tommy sang along. Lustily.
    He remembered the ominous roar of static and the strange phlegmy voice that had 
seemed to be calling his name from the radio, but now he found it difficult to believe 
that the peculiar incident had been as uncanny as it had seemed at the time. He had been 
upset by his conversation with his mother, feeling simultaneously put-upon and guilty, 
angry with her but also with himself, and his perceptions hadn’t been entirely 
trust-worthy. The waterfall-roar of static had been real enough, but in his pall of 
guilt, he had no doubt imagined hearing his name in a meaningless gurgle and squeal of 
electronic garbage.
    All the way home, he listened to old-time rock-’n’-roll, and he knew the words to 
every song.
    He lived in a modest but comfortable two-story tract house in the exhaustively 
planned city of Irvine. The tract, as was the case with most of those in Orange County, 
featured none but Mediterranean architecture; indeed, Mediterranean style prevailed to 
such an extent that it sometimes seemed restfully consistent but at other times was 
boring, suffocating, as if the chief executive officer of Taco Bell had somehow become an 
all-powerful dictator and had decreed that everyone must live not in houses but in 
Mexican restaurants. Tommy’s place had an orange barrel-tile roof, pale-yellow stucco 
walls, and concrete walkways with brick borders.
    Because he’d supplemented his salary from the news-paper with income from a series of 
paperback mystery novels that he’d written during evenings and week-ends, he’d been able 
to buy the house three years ago, when he’d been only twenty-seven. Now his books were 
coming out in hardcover first, and his writing income had gotten large enough to allow 
him to risk leaving the Register.