The Accidentals(23)

“Justin Bieber?” His voice is dry. “Aren’t you funny.”

“I am, actually.” More than that, I’m giddy over arriving in California. Frederick is stuck with me now. I’ll get a real glimpse into his life, whether or not he ever meant for that to happen.

When Carlos pulls the car around, I slide into the cool interior next to my father. “It’s just a ten-minute ride,” he says, scrolling through messages on his phone.

“Really?” I’ve heard stories about L.A.’s legendary traffic.

“Really. It’s one of the great things about Manhattan Beach,” he says.

As a little kid, I’d always wondered where my father lived, imagining somewhere magical. My childhood definition of magical had run along the lines of a McMansion with a swimming pool. But the neighborhood Carlos drives into is a different kind of fancy. The homes are stacked close together, and many have stucco walls right up against the sidewalk. But each one has at least one elegant detail—decorative iron gates, or a little jewel of a stained glass window. The houses don’t reveal their secrets to the street, they only hint at luxury within.

Just as dusk turns to night, the car slides to a stop in front of a narrow house with a striking zebra-wood door. Carlos pulls our bags out of the trunk while Frederick types a code into the keypad over the doorknob.

“The code is 8-6-7-5-3-0-9,” he says. “I’ll write it down for you.”

“Like the Tommy Tutone song? Who could forget?”

Frederick’s eyes widen. “Christ. You weren’t even alive when that song was a hit.”

“Oldies station, Frederick,” I say, following him inside. Of course, “Jenny” was my mother’s name. So is that a coincidence?

It must be.

The interior of Frederick’s home is not what I expect. “How long have you lived here?”

“Three or four years. I know it’s a little barren.”

I try to put my finger on why the house feels so lifeless. The lower level is mostly one big room, with a separate kitchen. There’s a giant L-shaped sofa in the living room made of pricey leather. There’s a sleek coffee table and nickel lamps. In the rear, by a set of sliding glass doors, stands a very elegant grand piano.

But apart from a collection of vinyl records in the corner, the room is as impersonal as the hotel suite we’d just left behind. The only pictures on the walls are landscape photography.

I follow my father upstairs, where there are four doors off a straight hallway. “That will be your bathroom,” he points at one door. Then he sets my bag down in the room opposite the bathroom.

Down the hall, I spy the master bedroom, which looks somewhat lived-in, with a stack of books on the bedside table. A third room has black foam on the walls, even over the windows. It’s soundproofing. A dozen guitars rest on racks against the walls. The only real furniture is a single stool beside an amplifier.

In my room there’s a brand new bed, the tags still hanging off the mattress. A mattress pad, sheets and pillows are stacked, still in their wrappers, on top of it.

I call after my father, who has gone down the hall. “What was in this room before?”

“Nothing,” he says over his shoulder. “I never went in there.”





The next morning I’m wide awake at six a.m. The house is silent as I pull on shorts and a T-shirt. Feeling like a trespasser, I tiptoe down the stairs. But Frederick is already sitting on the sofa.

“Jet lag, right?” he asks, his hair a mess. “Let’s go walk on the beach.”

I follow him out the door. At the corner, Frederick makes a left turn. Then I can see the ocean—a blue notch between the buildings that taper down the hill. We have to trot down a set of concrete stairs and across a cute little commercial street to reach the beach.

I can see why he lives here. It’s kind of glam, and you can walk to everything.

“Ah,” he says when we reach the sand. “Now we’re talking.”

I take off my shoes and let the sand squish through my toes. The breeze off the ocean is cool, making the hair on my arms stand up. There are people walking dogs on the sidewalk behind us. And there are runners and bikers on a path that runs parallel to the ocean.

But the sand stretches out for miles, with barely anyone on it.

Under the lavender sky, I feel transported to someone else’s life. As if I’ve stumbled here in a dream.





We buy coffee and then walk into a little neighborhood grocery store. Frederick puts a few things into a miniature cart. “Orange juice, bagels, cream cheese, beer,” he says. “That ought to do it.” He swings the cart toward the checkout.

“Where do you buy food?” I ask.

He points at the bagels. “I just did. You mean—for later?”

I nod.

“That’s what restaurants are for.”

“Seriously?”

“What would you add?”

“Bread, something to put on a sandwich. Something to put in a salad.”

He turns the cart around. “Go to it.”

I put grapes and strawberries into the cart. I choose lettuce and tomatoes, feta cheese and a box of cereal. The prices are horrible, but it has to be cheaper than ordering in. Frederick follows me around with a bemused expression, drinking his coffee.