Chapter 4: The Circus Returns

Oceano, California
December 25^th, 2002

Despite the fact that Tabby Blake was a second grader and had not believed in Santa Claus in years, and that Caydee Kingsley was seriously questioning the actual reality of the fat man in red, both were up by 6:30 AM on Christmas morning. Despite their respective beliefs (or lack thereof) in the myth, both knew there would be lots of swag that allegedly came from Santa for them under the Christmas tree and stuffed into large red and white stockings hanging from the fireplace mantle. The fat man might be a myth, but the swag was fuckin’ reality!

In the Kingsley household, Jake, Laura, and Celia came staggering out of their room in their sweatpants and shirts, their hair mussed, socks on their feet, but all of them showered from the night before (it had been necessary). Celia and Laura had both put on sports bras under their shirts in deference to the guests, though they both typically went braless when at home. Jake had set the coffee maker to turn on at 6:15, knowing they would likely be up this early. They found Caydee and Tabby both going through their stockings, filtering through the trinkets and candy within.

“Looks like Santa brought a pretty good haul this year,” Jake observed with a yawn, holding his first cup of coffee in hand.

“Fuckin’ A!” Caydee said happily. “Look, Daddy! It’s a book of Lifesaver candies.”

“That you will not eat in one day, Caydee girl,” Laura told her, holding a cup of java of her own.

“I know, Mommy,” Caydee said. “It’s just like Halloween. I hafta ration.”

“Exactly,” Laura said.

Pauline and Obie came out next, dressed similarly. They greeted the children, wished them a merry Christmas, and then headed immediately for the coffee pot. Next to emerge were G, Neesh, and ET. Neesh was still in her pajamas and looked incredibly cute in them. G had bothered to put on jeans and a t-shirt. ET was in a snug looking onesie. There was a respectable amount of swag under the tree and in a stocking for him but he was still too young to grasp the concept of Christmas.

Tom and Mary came staggering out next, their hair mussed, wearing pajamas of their own. They smiled at the children, said good morning and merry Christmas, and then went to the kitchen to hit the coffee pot. Tom took the last cup so he followed a Kingsley household rule and made another pot, doing it exactly as Jake had taught him a few years before. Filter in place, two thirds full of Jamaican Blue Mountain, use the filtered water from the refrigerator door, not the sink water.

Eric was the last to emerge. He was dressed in his usual black outfit and said little. He did sit down to watch the festivities. And there were even a few presents under the tree for him, thanks to Laura. He did not get any coffee since caffeine tended to increase his anxiety state.

It took the better part of an hour for everyone to open their presents. Most were for the children, of course, but the adults all had at least one to open as well. Caydee’s grand finale present (which was not from Santa, Jake for damn sure wasn’t going to let the fat man who Caydee probably didn’t even believe in anymore get credit for this one) was in a good sized box, about a foot wide by three feet long and eight inches thick. Caydee attacked it with her usual vigor and squealed in delight when she saw what was revealed. It was a brand new Yamaha half-size guitar. A perfect size for Caydee’s little fingers.

“It’s a guitar!” she yelled. “A real guitar!”

“That’s right, Caydee girl,” Jake said, smiling warmly. “Your first guitar. It’ll play just like Daddy and See-Ya’s guitars, just not as loud.”

“Badass!” she said. “Me play it now?” She had slipped back to the improper pronoun in her excitement.

“Well ... you can take it out of the box and have a look at it, hold it, and all that,” Jake said. “The guitar is a lot harder to play than a harmika though. It’s going to take a whole lot of me and See-Ya teaching you before you’ll be able to do much with it. The first thing you’re going to have to learn is how to tune it.”

“Me already know that,” Caydee said huffily.

“Do you, now?” Jake asked.

“Yes,” Caydee insisted. “See-Ya teached me how to tune a guitar with my harmika as the ref-ince.”

“Oh ... I see,” Jake said, looking over at his current wife, who was just smiling at him. It had never occurred to him to do something like that, but there was no reason why it would not work.

Caydee removed the instrument from the box and looked at it in awe. She held it in her hands, putting it in the proper position for playing. She strummed it with her thumb. Everyone in the room except Neesh and ET winced. It was not Caydee’s lack of skill that caused this. The strings of the instrument had been tightened just enough to keep them in place during shipping and handling and the sound was nothing like actual music. It was a disorganized jumble.

“You better go get that harmika,” Jake told her. “This is gonna be a job.” He had actually bought her an electronic tuner similar to what he now primarily used (modern technology was badass) but he did not want to give it to her yet. He wanted her to learn how to tune manually, either by using the piano or a tuning fork (or her harmika, he supposed) as the initial reference and then by ear for the rest of the strings. Once she knew how to do that he would give her the electronic clip-on tuner. It was like teaching children how to do math in school before introducing them to the calculator.

While Jake and Caydee went to work tuning her new instrument over in the corner, Jake playing the notes on the harmonica, Caydee learning how to tighten the tuning knobs until the pitch matched, everyone else broke up into little groups. Celia announced that she had a phone call to make. Laura smiled at her. She knew what the phone call was about. She was going to deliver some good news.

Celia went to the coffee maker and poured another cup. From there, she went to the office where the computers and the security screens were located. She sat down at the desk, took a quick look at the viewscreens—nothing unusual was happening on any of them—and then picked up the phone. She dialed the exit number for calls going outside the United States—011—followed by the international code for Venezuela—58—followed by the Barquisimeto area code and then her parents’ home phone number, which had not changed since she had been a child living with them. A few beeps and boops sounded in her ear and then about fifteen seconds of silence. Finally, the phone began to ring.

“Hola?” said the familiar voice of her mother. The connection was a little bit scratchy, but not too bad.

“Hi, Mama, it’s me,” she said in Spanish.

“Celia!” Mama said, delighted. “I was hoping you would call today.”

“I always call you on Christmas, Mama,” she said. “You know that.”

“That is true,” Mama allowed. “Did you go to mass last night?”

“Of course,” Celia lied smoothly. “I went to Saint Anne’s in San Luis Obispo.” That was one of several Catholic churches in the former Spanish mission town. Celia had never actually been inside of it, but she knew a lot about it from their website, which she had looked up the night before just for this conversation. “Father Standish put on the most wonderful service. It was standing room only.”

“Standish, huh?” her mother said, her voice a bit disapproving. “An Irishman?”

“One would assume,” Celia agreed. She had never met Father Standish, only knew that he was the one who had been scheduled to deliver the Christmas Eve service.

“Did Jake go with you?” she asked next.

She would not carry the lie on any further. There was a point it would become unbelievable, even ridiculous. “He did not,” she said. “He is not religious, as I’ve told you in the past.”

“That is too bad,” Mama said sadly. “I trust you are working on that.”

“Of course,” she said. “But it’s hard work. Jake is set in his ways.”

“The Lord’s work is always hard work,” Mama told her. “Keep it up.”

“I will,” she said. “How was your Christmas morning? It’s what ... one o’clock there?”

“Yes,” Mama said. “It was good. Eduardo came over and we had breakfast and exchanged gifts. He gave us a complete new set of dishware and pots and pans. Very nice. It goes well with the new knives and the new silverware you sent us.”

“That’s good to hear,” Celia said. She had called Eduardo a month before and the two of them had coordinated their Christmas gifts in order to give their parents what they actually needed. Their pensions were not carrying them as far as they used to and they were too proud to just accept money from either of their children. Altogether, it had cost nearly two thousand American dollars between them. Their parents would never know that though. “How is Eduardo doing?”

“He is doing well in this economy,” she said. “While everyone else is losing their savings and can barely afford food, he is thriving. Apparently there is still demand for high end clothes.”

“There are always going to be rich people, even in Venezuela’s economy,” Celia said.

“This is true,” Mama agreed. “How are you doing, my daughter? Things are going well in your new marriage?”

“Things are going very well, Mama,” Celia said. “In fact, I have some news to share with you.”

“What news?”

“I am pregnant, Mama.”

“Mother of God!” Mama squealed. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” she said. “I just finished the first trimester a few days ago.”

“The first trimester! And you’re just now telling me about this?”

“We wanted to make sure it was healthy and growing before we told anyone,” Celia said. “We just told Jake’s family yesterday, before mass.”

“You still should have told me,” Mama huffed.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Celia said. “But I’m telling you now. You’re going to be a grandmother around the first week of July.”

Meghan and Massa came over for Christmas dinner after spending the morning with Meghan’s family. It seemed that her parents had grudgingly accepted the fact that their daughter was fully intending to marry her Chinaman boyfriend in June and they were working on embracing him into the family. It was a work in progress to be sure, but they were getting better. They only made five or six offensive remarks about Massa’s ethnicity and only two about his job as a professional musician during the visit. Jake told them the news about Celia’s pregnancy. Both were very happy for the couple. Meghan mentally high-fived herself for having her suspicion confirmed.

Jake flew all the LA people back to Whiteman the next day. Eric and the Paladays agreed to keep mum about Celia’s pregnancy until the news broke in a few more days. The parents stayed another day and then they piled back into their SUV to make the drive home to Cypress County. Jake, Celia, Laura, and even Caydee were happy to have their house back to themselves. They spent a day cleaning everything up and washing all of the bedding so Elsa would not kill them when she returned.

In Los Angeles, in the neighborhood of Silver Lake, where Pauline still lived despite the fact that she could afford a house anywhere in the LA region to replace the one she had bought upon first making it big, there was a choice to be made. Pauline needed to decide who to break the story of Celia’s pregnancy to. She had the numbers of a multitude of reporters and news editors in her computer file, reporters from a multitude of publications and television media. Who would be the lucky one? Was there anyone she owed a favor to? Was there anyone whose favor she wanted to obtain? She thought this over on Sunday night, December 29^th, after Tabby had gone to bed, while she sipped wine in her pajamas on the couch watching an old episode of Friends.

She decided to go with Maureen Gabon, who was one of the premier reporters for the LA Times’ entertainment department. True, Gabon was a sleazy, slimy, intrusive bitch, just like all entertainment reporters, but she had occasionally displayed something that almost resembled integrity in the past, particularly regarding the Celia and Greg divorce fiasco. And Pauline knew the story would spread fast if it first appeared in the LA Times. Might as well get the shitshow exploded and died down as quicky as possible.

On Monday morning, December 30^th, at 9:02 AM, Pauline, dressed in her sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt with no bra, dialed Gabon’s office number. The number was a private one, only handed out to significant contacts, so anyone who called this particular line was able to bypass two other layers of phone screening. A secretary answered the phone on the second ring. “Maureen Gabon’s office,” she said brightly. “How can I help you?”

Pauline had played this game for years. She did not beat around the bush in any way. “This is Pauline Kingsley,” she said. “Publicist for Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez-Kingsley. I have a press release for Maureen if she would care to be the first to hear it.”

The secretary was a bit taken aback. “Uh ... well ... I’m sure she would love to be the first to hear it, Ms. Kingsley, but she not available at this particular moment in time.”

Pauline chuckled. “Late coming into the office, huh? Well, her loss. I’ll shoot the story to someone else then—someone who shows up to work on time.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here any second,” the secretary said frantically. “She’s probably hung up in the lobby waiting on one of the elevators.”

Pauline gave an exaggerated sigh. “All right then,” she said. “I’ll give her fifteen minutes. Have her call me at this number if she manages to materialize in that time period. If not, I’ll find someone else to give the release to.”

“She’ll call you,” the secretary promised.

“Fifteen minutes,” Pauline said. “That will be 9:18. Don’t bother calling after that.”

She hung up the phone. She went into the kitchen to pour herself another cup of coffee. The moment she returned to her office, the telephone began ringing. Pauline checked the caller ID. It was not from Gabon’s office, but an unknown number with a Los Angeles city area code. She debated letting the machine pick it up, but then decided to just get on with it.

“Pauline Kingsley,” she said pleasantly. “How may I help you?”

“Pauline,” a gladhanded female voice said. “Mo Gabon here. I understand you were trying to contact me.”

“That’s right,” Pauline said, chiding a bit. “It seems you weren’t in your office at the start of office hours though.”

“Yeah...” Gabon said. “I had some home office things to take care of before I came in.”

“And your secretary was unaware of this?” Pauline asked.

“It would seem so,” Gabon said. “I did give notification about this last night to the answering service, but I guess they failed to pass on the message. You know how it is?”

“I know how it is,” Pauline lied. She did not know how it was. She did not believe Gabon’s excuse for a second. She had just not come to work on time and it was apparently a regular enough occurrence that her secretary did not think twice about it. But that was not her business. “Listen, I have some news to share about Jake and Celia. I decided to give you first crack at it.”

“I very much appreciate that, Pauline,” Gabon said with obvious sincerity. “I like to think we’ve had a good relationship in the past.”

“Yeah, I guess we have,” Pauline said, rolling her eyes. Like having a relationship with gonorrhea was better than having one with syphilis. “Do you have something to write on? There will be details.”

“I do,” Gabon assured her.

“Okay, here it is. Celia Valdez-Kingsley is pregnant.”

“That is indeed news,” Gabon said. “Is Jake Kingsley the father as far as you know?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Pauline said. “Already? Yes, Jake is the father with one hundred percent certainty.”

“They’ve already done an amniocentesis and DNA testing?” Gabon asked, surprised. “Just how far along is she?”

“There has been no amniocentesis or DNA testing,” Pauline said. “They are one hundred percent sure because they are a monogamous couple who only has sex with each other.”

“But how can Jake really be sure without the DNA test?” she asked. “Is he going to wait until the baby is born?”

“We’re not going any further down this road,” Pauline said. “Celia has not been sleeping with anyone else”—well, not anyone male anyway—”the baby is Jake’s without doubt. Now, would you like to hear the other details?”

“Absolutely,” Gabon said.

“She just finished the first trimester and is ready to let the public know. Her estimated date of delivery is on or about July 3^rd, 2003. She has had first ultrasound which confirms a healthy pregnancy implanted in the uterus where it belongs. She is receiving prenatal care from one of the best OB/GYN physicians in San Luis Obispo county.”

“Can I have the name of her OB/GYN for the record?”

“No,” Pauline said. “That is confidential information. We don’t want you people harassing her doctor, who would not give you any information anyway, not even to a troll.”

“Fair enough,” Gabon allowed. “Was this a planned pregnancy?”

“No comment on that,” Pauline replied.

“Why not?” the reporter asked. “To fail to answer the question implies it was not.”

“Take the answer for what you will,” Pauline said. “Jake and Celia were very specific about keeping that information private.”

“I guess that’s their right,” Gabon said with a sigh, obviously peeved that the celebrities she stalked had rights. “Are Jake and Celia still living with Laura Kingsley?”

“They are. As I’ve told you in the past, they believe that to do so is the best for their daughter Cadence.”

“And are they going to continue this cohabitation once Celia delivers?”

“I do not have that information yet,” Pauline said.

“Is Laura Kingsley aware that Celia is pregnant?”

“Of course she’s aware,” Pauline said. “All family and close acquaintances were informed before I called you to make it public. Laura couldn’t be happier.”

“Really?” Gabon asked, clearly not believing this.

“It’s the truth,” Pauline assured her. And it really was.

The shitshow began the very next morning, New Year’s Eve. The Tuesday edition of the LA Times carried the exclusive story of the pregnancy of Celia Valdez-Kingsley on the front page, above the fold so the headline could be seen in news stand machines and in the stacks at places where individual papers were sold. The article was straightforward. It listed the facts and did not speculate about the paternity of the embryo in Celia’s belly. That would come later. It gave a summary of Jake’s notorious history, his previous relationship with Laura Kingsley, their child, the fact that they were still living together with Celia after the divorce, and then a quote from Pauline that Laura Kingsley “could not be happier” about the pregnancy of her ex-husband’s new wife.

By nine o’clock that morning Pauline’s phone was ringing off the hook at her office in KVA’s main building in Santa Clarita. The harried receptionist screened each one, passed the name onto Pauline in the other room, and Pauline would decide whether or not to speak with them. The ratio worked out to be around fifty-fifty. Those whose names she recognized (and did not absolutely loath, like anyone from the American Watcher) she spoke to, giving no more information than she had to Maureen Gabon, just clarifying the facts in Gabon’s story. When the line of questioning because offensive—as it generally did a few minutes in—she hung up on them. She allowed no return calls through.

The first of the reporters showed up at the gate to Kingsley Manor at 10:25 that morning. Jake, still dressed in his sweatpants and sipping on his first cup of coffee, went to the office to answer the hail from the intercom at the gate. He checked the camera. It was a news van from the local NBC affiliate, Channel 6, the only local station in SLO. A long haired, bearded man was behind the wheel.

“Can I help you?” Jake said into the intercom microphone, deliberately changing his voice and adding a New Zealand accent to it.

“We’re a news crew from Channel 6,” the driver said. “I have field reporter Dawn Hellings with me. We would like to come up and interview Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez-Kingsley about the news that broke this morning.”

“The Kingsleys are not granting any interviews at this time,” Jake replied. “Please turn around and exit the property.”

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

“I am the person who is telling you to turn around and exit the property,” Jake said. “Please do so now or I will call the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s department and you will be trespassed.”

He did so. Jake was glad. He did not want to involve his cop friends in the situation until it was necessary.

Two more new crews showed up over the next two hours. They were turned away in a similar manner and complied with Jake’s New Zealand accented instructions. They were followed by two print reporters, one from the SLO paper and one from the Santa Barbara paper. They too left when told that Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Kingsley-Valdez were not granting any interviews.

Just after lunch was cleaned up, another vehicle was detected coming up the access road.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jake muttered as he watched a gray BMW pull up to the intercom. The man behind the wheel was clean cut, in his mid-forties, wearing a suit. The button was pushed, giving the chime. Jake sighed and then pushed the button. “May I help you?” he asked in his best Kiwi.

“Bob Perkins,” the man said. “Los Angeles Times. I’d like to speak with Jake Kingsley and his wife.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Jake said once again. “Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley are not granting any interviews at this time.”

“I’m from the LA Times though,” Perkins said, as if that was a key to the freakin’ city. “We’re the ones that broke the story in the first place.”

“That’s very nice, but Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley are still not granting interviews. Now, if you will kindly turn around and exit the property.”

“I drove all the way up here from LA,” Perkins said indignantly.

“I hope it was a nice drive,” Jake said. “The weather is quite pleasant today. Now, you’ll notice that behind you is a specifically designed turn around spot. Please utilize it immediately.”

“I’m not leaving here until I speak with Jake or Celia,” he insisted.

Jake took a deep breath. His patience was at an end. He dropped the Kiwi accent and reverted to his normal voice. “You’re talking with Jake Kingsley right now, asswipe!” he barked into the microphone. “We’re not giving interviews! Leave the property immediately!”

“Jake,” Perkins said, “if I could just confirm a few facts. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

“Immediately!” Jake reiterated. “If you’re not using that turnaround in the next ten seconds, I will call the sheriff’s department. And believe me, they get mighty cranky when they have to come out here to trespass someone.”

He shut off the intercom link. Perkins pushed the call button again.

“I’m picking up the phone now,” Jake told him. “You have four seconds left.”

It actually took closer to ten, but Perkins finally backed up and used the turn around. His BMW disappeared from the camera view.

Laura, who had been standing in the doorway, watching the exchange, walked up and began to massage his tense shoulders. “Don’t let it get to you, sweetie,” she told him. “We’ve been through the shitshow many times.”

“Yeah,” he said. leaning back into her massage. “I know.”

Two more reporters showed up before dinnertime. Both left without argument after Jake’s first spiel. They were able to live the rest of the evening in relative peace.

The next morning was New Year’s Day of 2003. Elsa was off and remained in her quarters. That meant Jake would be responsible for making breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Breakfast was easy to cover. There were always eggs, cheese, sausage, bacon, various peppers, and potatoes in the refrigerator. Lunch and dinner would be another story. Elsa had not made her weekly shopping trip yet and there was nothing that looked inspiring in the freezer.

“I’m going to go to the store,” Jake announced after breakfast cleanup was complete.

Laura and Celia both gave him a list of things they needed for the next few days. Thankfully, it was a short list (and did not include any feminine hygiene products). Caydee asked if she could go with him. She was getting restless to leave the house (as was Jake, for that matter).

“You bet, Caydee girl,” he told her. “Go get your shoes and socks on.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she said, rushing to her room.

They pulled out of the garage ten minutes later, Jake behind the wheel of the BMW, Caydee in her booster seat in the back middle. Jake, who, after the Jenny Johansen incident, had become attuned to vehicles possibly following him, noted almost immediately that a stream of cars had come out of the state beach parking area and formed up behind him. Paparazzi and reporters for sure. At least five cars full of them. He sighed and then drove to the first place he could pull into. He turned around and went back to the access road and pulled in. The vehicles did not follow him.

Laura and Celia were not in the entertainment room when he and Caydee entered the house. He sent Caydee off to her room to put her shoes away.

“Why did we come home, Daddy?” she asked.

“It turns out we didn’t need to go to the store after all,” he said.

“Aww, what a rip,” she replied.

“Yeah, what a rip,” he replied.

He went to the master suite and opened the door. Laura was on the bed, her sweats and panties off, Celia, still fully dressed, with her face between Laura’s legs, lapping away.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Laura barked when she saw who had opened the door. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Celia looked up as well, her face wet with Laura’s juices. “What are you doing back so soon, Rev?” she asked. “Did you forget something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Our place in the world. We’re kind of trapped in here for the time being.”

“What do you mean?” asked Laura.

“Pap started following me the moment I left,” he said. “They’re staked out at the Johansen spot.”

“Well ... poop,” Laura said, borrowing one of her mother-in-law’s expressions.

“Yeah,” Jake said with a sigh. “Poop. You two carry on. I’ll keep Caydee occupied and reevaluate what we have in the freezer for lunch and dinner.”

Jake kept Caydee occupied and found some frozen bratwursts to make for lunch and some frozen marinated chicken breasts to make for dinner. Celia and Laura carried on.

The next morning, the first business day of 2003, Elsa ran the gauntlet. She left the house and four cars full of paparazzi followed behind her. She pulled into the San Luis Obispo grocery store she had been patronizing ever since Jake’s shooting and they pulled in right behind her. The moment she got out of her door she was surrounded. By this point, most of the media people who stalked Jake and Laura and Celia knew who she was.

“Ms. Tyler!” they shouted, over and over. “Can we just have a few words with you?”

“No,” Elsa said firmly. “You may not.”

Cameras flashed at her, video recorders recorded. She had no idea why anyone would find photographic and videographic images of her old Nigerian face interesting. Probably the people taking them did not either.

“We just have a few questions about Celia’s pregnancy!” one reporter, who was holding a digital tape recorder, yelled.

“I am sure you do,” she said, turning and heading for the entrance to the store. “I have no answers for you. I will not discuss any information about my employers. I have told you this in the past.”

“But this is a huge story!” someone else yelled. “The public has a right to know!”

“They have no such right,” Elsa replied. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have some shopping to accomplish.”

They excused her, but that did not stop them from following her into the store and staying behind her as she began to move up and down the aisles. They continued to bleat questions at her but she ignored them. They made note of everything she put in her cart. It only took two aisles before the manager of the store—a woman named Samantha Broward, who very much appreciated the money that Elsa spent in her store every week—suddenly appeared.

“Are these people bothering you, Ms. Tyler?” she asked.

“Yes, they are,” Elsa replied. “Very much so, as a matter of fact.”

Samantha turned to the crowd. “Get out, all of you,” she said. “I will not have you harassing our customers.”

“This is Elsa Tyler,” someone said. “Jake Kingsley’s housekeeper.”

“I am aware of who she is,” Samantha said, “and I won’t have you bothering her. Out, all of you, or I will have the police department come here and evict you.”

“We have just as much right to be in here as she does,” one of the pap said indignantly.

“No, you actually do not,” Samantha said. “You are not here to purchase groceries, you are here to harass someone who is patronizing this business. That is illegal and I have every right to insist you leave the premises. I am quite sure the San Luis Obispo police officers who respond will share my interpretation of the law.”