Suffering isn't noble:
It's humanity's birthright.


Chapter 1

He punched the button of the electronic opener, watched the door rise and let the MG coast into the garage. Malcolm lived in a studio apartment below the home of his landlady, Mrs. Shams. She and her husband had purchased the house in nineteen sixty, thirty-nine years ago, the same year that Malcolm was born. Her husband had been dead for nineteen years, and she now inhabited the home alone.

Mrs. Shams was a feisty eighty-year-old weighing in at a whopping eighty-six pounds, but with the attitude of a heavyweight. Her hair was white and her eyes a crisp, clear blue. She went to yoga at least three times a week. When she talked, her head bounced around on her shoulders like one of those fake Chihuahua dogs that you occasionally spot in the rear window of an automobile.

A friend had told Malcolm that the studio was soon to become available, and he called immediately after receiving the tip. In Carmel, nice little studios like this one were hard to find even at seven hundred dollars a month; this one went for three-fifty. It was such a bargain, he figured there had to be a catch.

"What do you expect from me?" Malcolm asked, figuring that he might have to take out her trash or do some work around the yard.

"Well, we're not going to be chums or anything like that," she answered cautiously, and that was fine with him, because he hated yard work, and befriending a grumpy little old lady certainly wasn't anywhere to be found on his to-do list, not in this lifetime anyway. More than anything, or so it appeared, Mrs. Shams just wanted a token man around the place so she'd feel a little more secure at night.

The home had been built on a hillside that provided a panoramic view of the area. The studio was part of the lower foundational structure that supported Mrs. Shams's living quarters above. It had a separate entrance on the downhill side of the house. The small apartment was completely self-contained. Malcolm found out later that her son had lived in the lower apartment as a teenager and used the kitchen as his darkroom.

As time passed, Malcolm found out quite a few other things as well. Some of what he learned she volunteered; other things he learned from a quiet, distant observation. In the year and a half that he'd been living there, he had yet to witness a visit from her son. Actually Mrs. Shams had only mentioned him twice to Malcolm, and one of the times was when she asked him to fax her son a copy of his birth certificate because he had lost his passport.

"It's beautiful," Kate said, admiring the yard as she walked out of the garage onto the driveway.

"Wait 'til you get around to the other side," Malcolm answered, as he finished unloading the trunk and set the last bags on the ground behind the car. After everything was unloaded, he closed the trunk, grabbed a couple of bags, and started walking along the stepping-stone path. It led down and around to the opposite side of the house, into a gardened courtyard, the entryway to the studio. Kate hesitated, looking first at the car and then at Malcolm.

"Don't worry about that black bag. I'll come back after it in a bit," he said, pulling up the strap from the duffle that had slipped from his shoulder.

Kate picked up her overnight bag and purse and followed behind Malcolm.

"Careful of this loose stone," he said, teetering back on forth on it so she could witness its instability. A root had grown up under it, and the gardener hadn't found the time or the necessity to dig it out. It had been that way since he'd moved in.

"Thanks, I see what you mean," Kate answered, taking her turn on the concrete teeter-tooter. "Wow, look at that!" she added, taking in the view of the mouth of Carmel Valley. She stared down at Carmel River Beach to her right and then swept left taking in the grassy green mountains that rose a thousand feet above the Highlands before she dropped her gaze. "What's down there?" she asked, pointing to the area where Highway 1 and Rio Road intersected.

"Crossroads."

"I mean the buildings."

"It's the Crossroads shopping area, and over there's the Barnyard," Malcolm answered, pointing to the left of the Crossroads. "It's all shops and restaurants," he added.

"And you live up here above it all."

Malcolm nodded with a cocky smile.

"I love it."

"I bet you do," Malcolm said grinning, reflecting on his good fortune. "Wait 'til I take you back there," he added, pointing east toward the valley.

"What's back there?"

"Carmel Valley."

"Where's Big Sur?"

"South of here about thirty miles."

"What's it like?"

"I'd tell you, but words don't do it justice," Malcolm answered, dropping his handful of bags on the brick patio just outside the apartment door. He pulled open the wood framed screen door and wedged the doormat under it to hold it open. He slid the key into the door lock, jiggled it as if whispering a secret password, and before taking another breath the door swung open, granting passage into the secret hide-away. Malcolm held the door and let Kate cross the threshold before him.

"How about a tour?" he joked, making light of the small apartment

"Please," she cordially insisted while standing just inside the front door.

"Directly in front of you is the closet," Malcolm announced, standing right behind Kate and pointing to the west wall of the apartment. "The door to the right is my kitchen," he explained, ignoring the dresser on the north wall. A framed poem: The Definitive Journey by Juan Ramon Jimenez hung over a replica of a dresser that Malcolm had as a young boy.

She went towards the kitchen and stepped in. "You've got to be kidding"

"It's all I need," he smiled. It was simply a closet under the stairway that led up to Mrs. Shams's home. It had a sink to the left. Above the sink was a shelf that supported a microwave and a coffee pot. Below the sink, an old bookshelf was used for a few plates, and cooking utensils. There were also a couple of dusty canned goods that Malcolm had purchased at the grocery store a year earlier, remnants of a few other good intentions that had been discarded shortly after he had discovered Tillie Gort's and the Pink House in Pacific Grove, both restaurants that the locals frequented.

"Come on, let me show you the rest of my palace," Malcolm offered, walking around Kate and pulling her by the elbow from the kitchen. On the opposite side of the clothes closet was a desk.

"That's a great looking computer," she said, looking directly at a lime colored iMac as she stepped from the kitchen. She ignored the painting that hung on the wall over the computer; the "Trickster" was Malcolm's favorite. It had the silhouette of a human-like coyote shadowed onto the sidewalk in front of a city café. Red and blue mountains rose up behind the city. The setting sun was reflected from an infinite string of golden stratiform clouds that appeared to have no beginning or end. The painting had something magical about it, like it wouldn't be difficult to fall into, getting lost in another world.

"It's an odd looking thing, huh," Malcolm answered, just to confirm her reaction to the iMac. "I've been thinking about getting a bigger place, one with a little more space and a real kitchen," he added, drawing out one of Kate's beautiful smiles. "This is the living room," he explained, pulling her three steps from where she was standing.

With the exception of a small casement in the bathroom, the east wall had the only window, but it looked down and out into the mouth of Carmel Valley. Beneath this picture window was an imported Italian black leather Natuzzi couch. The couch was fifteen years old; it was the first nice piece of furniture he had ever purchased. In spite of its history, the leather couch appeared to be in the same condition as the day it had been newly delivered.

Against the south wall were a queen-size bed and two small wooden bookshelves that held several classical novels, books on myth, and the works of several authors that had enticed Malcolm with archetypal symbolism and their analytical interpretations of the human condition, not that any of this literature had actually delivered him from evil.

Above the bed was a large, black-framed painting of Sydney Australia. It was done on brown paper that had been painted completely black. The artist had scratched off the black paint to reveal a light brown silhouette of the Sydney skyline including the famed Opera House. The painting was finished with highlights of bright colors emanating as reflections from the city's towering skyscrapers above and water from the bay below. Malcolm had purchased the painting in Sydney several years earlier. He was told that the artist was an imprisoned petty thief who was allowed to paint and sell his work for the benefit of charity. It was one hell of a claim to fame or a sleazy gimmick to sell some deadbeat's work.

The west wall had a door that led into the bathroom. To the left of the bathroom door was an original painting by one of Malcolm's good friends. It was of two dancing coyotes, one black and one white, opposing each other in a dance, face to face, both playing a flute or horn in front of the crimson sunset background that melted into a blue sea.

To the right of the bathroom door was a honey-finished pine armoire that contained a seldom-watched television and an abundantly played Sony carousel CD with an Aiwa stereo receiver. On top of the armoire were speakers and a glass picture frame with a photo of a naked old man riding a horse.

"Who's that on the horse?" Kate asked, gazing at the old man making sure that what she saw was real.

"My grandpa," Malcolm lied. The picture had actually come in the frame and he had failed to replace it with one of meaning. The naked old man had drawn so much attention over the years that Malcolm decided to leave him as a conversation piece.

"Your grandpa?"

"Yeah, he was a crazy old fart," he answered, continuing the innocent deception. "The bathroom's here," he said, pointing to the door to the left of the armoire.

"Excuse me," she said, and walked toward the restroom.

"Make yourself at home," he replied, as she pulled the towel that hung over the door top so that she could close it behind her. "I'll get the rest of our stuff," Malcolm volunteered, as the door closed.

The bathroom had a full size tub and a showerhead. Pale green tile covered the floor as well as the bottom half of the walls. What wasn't tiled was painted the same color as the rest of the apartment, a creamy off-white. The sink and toilet were a pale yellow. A mirrored medicine cabinet that was beginning to rust from the inside out was mounted over the sink.

There was a screened, crank-type window on the south wall that was always left cracked open for ventilation. In the windowsill were a few boxes of stick matches that Malcolm collected from the local restaurants to use as an air freshener or to light a candle in the event of losing electricity in a winter storm. A bottle of Windex glass cleaner and Tilex mildew remover hung on a rail between the sink and toilet.

Malcolm heard the toilet flush from the bathroom window as he teetered on the loose stepping-stone on his way back down to the studio. The bath water was running. He threw the bags down on the floor, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open a couple of inches.

"I need a towel," she said in a soft tone.

"They're on the wooden stand in the corner."

"How about some soap?"

"Below the towels."

"I think I need your help," Kate said, having slipped an arm through the cracked door, beckoning Malcolm with her index finger rolling open and closed.

He hopped up like an expectant puppy dog being awakened from a nap by his master's voice promising some cuddling attention. Her long brown hair hung down over her breasts, the ends dangled over her nipples. Two clean towels had already been folded over the edge of the sink. A half bar of soap was in the tub's dish. He looked into her blue-green eyes, followed her hair down to her breasts, dropped his gaze further down to her bush, and finished the downward trend admiring her thighs, calves, feet, and toes. There was nothing on her petite, yet solid, young body that he didn't want to gobble up.

Eighty pounds heavier, he leaned in to kiss her and she supported him effortlessly. Their love affair was still new and she was always ready to receive him. Kate never needed to be warmed up; their coming together lacked any awkwardness. When Malcolm kissed her, she was all there, completely present. It was like the whole world stopped and all of its energy flowed back and forth between the couple.

Kate pulled the sweaty blue T-shirt over Malcolm's head and arms, and when his head popped out, he leaned forward trying to mouth one of her nipples. She pulled away and dropped down to help him out of his jeans and boxers. She stood up, reached for his hand, turned, and started to step into the bath. He reached around her, grabbed her breast and pulled her back. Teasingly she pressed her ass cheeks up into his groin, and he tried to slide into her from behind, but she quickly evaded him and stepped into the bathtub. She turned to face him with her melting smile. Like a loyal pup, he followed her into the tub of warm water.



Chapter 2

It had been a week since Kate last phoned. Her father had died, an unexpected heart attack. He was in his early fifties and had no history of heart trouble. She'd flown back east for the service. Malcolm had offered to accompany Kate but their relationship was too new. She felt it was better for her to go alone so that she could give full attention to herself and her family. It made perfectly good sense; he wouldn't know anyone there and his being fifteen years older than Kate might have only added to the family's grief. Bringing an older man home to mom at a time like this would have been more than just a little inappropriate, especially considering the unstable history of Kate and her father's relationship.

Against her father's wishes, Kate had moved away to school. His overprotection and her rebellion had proven a bad combination. The two probably wouldn't even have been on speaking terms if her mother hadn't been acting as a mediator. Anyway, Kate's rebellion had brought her to California, and Malcolm was damn happy about it in spite of her father's indignation.

Malcolm first met Kate while she was working at a coffee house that also served soup, sandwiches, and salads. The place looked more like a bar than a coffee house. It was where Malcolm would meet his buddies Lewis and Devin for a late afternoon bullshit session over an iced tea. Lewis's wife had nicknamed them the TWA's - short for Time Wasting Assholes. They were still trying to figure out the reason for this tag.

Kate worked afternoons at the local watering hole and had to tolerate the TWA's. Her then-current boyfriend would occasionally stop by to visit. Malcolm called him Pretty Boy: a blonde, blue-eyed twenty-three-year-old punk who believed his destiny was to be a movie star. She never appeared to care all that much for the guy. It seemed that something other than love and admiration kept the two together. At first, Malcolm thought it was jealousy on his part. He thought he had dreamed up the story about Kate and Pretty Boy just to believe he stood a real shot at her, but his initial take of the situation eventually proved to be right.

It had taken Malcolm a while to trust his instincts, but it took him even longer to learn patience, not to over-react, and to let fate run its course and be realized instead of becoming just another dashed dream. Fortunately, the wait-and-see method had worked with Kate. Had he pursued her like his body and senses demanded, she'd have probably ended up married to that little blue-eyed queer.

It was odd how he eventually reconnected with Kate. It was late January, over a year since Malcolm had moved to the coast. All the women with whom he'd been involved back in the Central Valley had moved on. Malcolm had walked to the Pine Inn in downtown Carmel for his morning coffee. It was the AT&T classic and he was pissed about the crowds. Actually, he was pissed off about everything.

He'd been up reading and watching television the night before until three in the morning. He was restless about what to do with his life, uncertain of how he could support a woman and at the same time honor his call to freedom. He didn't know exactly what he wanted at this stage of his life, and.. well, he was afraid of becoming a failure, afraid that he wouldn't find his next calling, and afraid of spending all the savings he'd acquired over the years.

He thought of how much easier it would have been just to go back to tractors. The problem was he'd be selling his soul in this return. Then again, maybe he really didn't have a choice. Perhaps his soul was really running the show, and had been all along. All the stuff in the outside world, the call to conventional duty, was just a distraction. Anyway, that's what was going on in Malcolm's mind.

On his way back to the studio from coffee, he decided to sell his airplane. He'd considered selling off this piece of himself in the past, but it had only been a fleeting thought. Walking back to the studio that morning, he finally resolved to let go of this particular attachment, too. He'd left that old dream a year earlier but had held on to N1MC like Kate's father had clung to her.

He was actually selling the airplane for three reasons. It no longer served him economically, and the proceeds from the sale would earn enough interest to more than pay the rent. He was also finished with the identity that went along with owning and flying the Beechcraft, but the most profound reason for selling the airplane was that he'd become frightened of it, afraid beyond a healthy respect.

Bonanza's had years ago been nicknamed Forked-Tailed-Doctor-Killers because they were fast slippery airplanes that took low-time pilots, like inexperienced doctors who could afford the airplanes, to an early and untimely death. He was also aware of how many men in the midst of a mid-life crisis cracked up airplanes or killed themselves in some other stylish fashion. They weren't intentional suicides, but the men couldn't grow up internally. For some reason, they were unable to make the transition into adulthood and eventually their short-looped psyches got the best of them. Consciously, their deaths appeared to be an accident; unconsciously it was suicide.

Two weeks later, he pre-flighted N1MC, pulled her out of the hangar, and departed from the Carmel Valley airport on runway three-zero with full power. After gaining altitude, he turned crosswind and then downwind before adjusting the propeller and manifold pressure to twenty-three inches square and then proceeded to call Monterey approach to pick up flight following.

"Monterey approach, this is Bonanza One Mike Charlie."

"November One Mike Charlie, remain clear of class C airspace until advised."

Malcolm was at twelve hundred feet and at fifteen hundred feet he'd enter class C airspace. He leveled the plane at fourteen hundred and flew a couple of three-sixties hoping to gain clearance to transit the protected airspace, but after making two more unsuccessful attempts at contacting air traffic control, he gave up on the buzzards.

It was a clear day, so he flew east through the valley at fourteen hundred feet until out of protected airspace and then climbed to seventy-five hundred and leveled off. After leaning the fuel to air mixture, he switched on the autopilot, set the heading bug to zero-one-eight, and let the Bonanza guide his final flight home.
The man who took care of N1MC was based in the Central Valley. Malcolm had decided to have Ryder look after the plane. Ryder had one of the most reputable Beechcraft shops in the Western U.S. and often received calls from people looking for a well-kept Bonanza. It would also be handy for any routine maintenance that the plane might need before it sold.

After making one of the smoothest landings in his flying career, Malcolm taxied up to the gas pump to top off the airplane. He leaned out the mixture to shut down the engine, turned the key off, pulled it from the ignition switch and then climbed out of N1MC to chock and ground the aircraft before refueling. While topping off the fuel tanks, Ryder walked up and told Malcolm to leave the plane where she was and that he'd put her in a hangar before the day's end.

When Malcolm retrieved his bag and cellular phone from the Bonanza, he discovered a voice message his mother had left. He returned her call.

"I'm alive," he announced when she answered the phone.

"Why don't you hire someone to fly you home if you're nervous?" his mother suggested, knowing that he had been anxious about his final voyage

"I'm already here," he announced. Fear or no fear, he wouldn't have let someone else pilot him home; that would have been a defeat.

"Where are you?"

"Airport."

"So then you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"A plane just went down," she said in a sad, yet relieved tone. "Three people died and a fourth is in the burn unit."

"No, it wasn't me," he said in a choked up voice as a few tears came. He had no power to create what had happened, but the timing of the plane crash was enough to validate the decision he'd made to end his flying career. He'd had a lot of fun in N1MC, had flown places and done things most people only dream of doing in a lifetime, but now it was over.

Lewis drove up a few minutes later. After locking the Bonanza's doors, they headed for lunch.

"Hey, whatever happened to Kate?" Lewis asked, after they'd been on the road for about ten minutes.

"I don't know. I called her several months ago, but she never called me back," Malcolm answered. "I've got her number programmed into my cellular phone. I'll call her right now," he announced and keyed up her number. Her voice mail answered. "Kate, this is Malcolm. I called you a few months back, but you never called me back. Call me. I really want to know what's been happening with you," he said in a direct authoritative tone. "Well, we'll see if that works," he said, laying the cellular phone down on the seat.

"Man, I sure hope you can tap into some of that shit," Lewis encouraged. Lewis was married with two children. He was always hoping that Malcolm could tap into some of whatever he couldn't.

After lunch, Lewis brought Malcolm back to the airport to get his car. The MG was stored at the airport in the Central Valley. Malcolm kept a Chevy Tahoe in Carmel and the MG in the Valley. That way, when he flew back and forth between the two destinations, he always had a set of wheels waiting for him once he touched down.

Several months had passed since he'd last started the MG, and she was a bit stubborn. After a few prayers, and cranking on the little red mid-life-crisis-bucket-of-bolts until the battery was nearly dead, the stubborn Brit fired on one cylinder. She choked and coughed until eventually all four were firing.

He had just left the airport when his cell phone rang. It was Kate and the call threw Malcolm at first because he'd forgotten that he'd left her a message. She apologized for not getting back to him a few months earlier. They visited a bit and then he thought that he'd test her with an invitation for a coffee. She couldn't because she had plans that evening, so he offered to take her to lunch the following day and she accepted.

At lunch, Malcolm learned that Kate was still seeing Pretty Boy off and on. They were still doing the same break-up-get-back-together routine that they'd been doing when she worked at the coffee house. Over the next several months Kate and Malcolm stayed in contact by e-mail. Whenever he returned to the Valley, he'd phone ahead to make a date with her for lunch or dinner. He didn't push anything with her, mostly just listened.

Then one day, Kate phoned to say she had dumped old blue eyes a month earlier, and that this time it was for good. Malcolm kept in contact with her, but figured it best to sit back and let her seesaw for a while longer. The following month, he did another Valley run. It was a Friday afternoon, and he phoned her on his drive over. She wanted to get together that evening for dinner. That was the first night Malcolm didn't leave when he took Kate home. Actually, he didn't leave until the following Monday morning.

Kate and Malcolm had only been seeing each other for about a month when her father passed away. She was employed by the county as a social worker for child protective services and still had her apartment in the Valley. They'd spend weekends together. Things felt good between them, but it wasn't time to be living together, not yet anyway. But now Kate was back east burying her father, and Malcolm was slumming around Carmel, living alone in his three-hundred and fifty dollar a month studio, pretending that he was a retired millionaire like the rest of the people there, and wishing the hell that he wasn't feeling lonely and missing Kate.

When she last phoned, Kate told Malcolm she planned to stay with her mother for a while. He understood, but was alone and wasn't so fond of the idea. He wanted to ask her how long she planned to be away but didn't want to burden her with the demands of his trivial narcissistic tendencies. He'd been alone for a long time. Having Kate come into his life had raised a hope that his life as a single man had come to an end.

* * * * *

Bored and lonely, Malcolm set off to seek solace from a good friend. Unfortunately, no one was home. Malcolm let himself in with a spare key, poured himself an iced tea, and turned on the television in hope that someone would soon return. Named after his maternal grandfather, Judas Turner despised his birthright, and at an early age chose to be called by his surname. Turner was a few months younger than Malcolm. They'd been friends since the summer before their freshman year at high School. Turner was a few inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than Malcolm's six feet, one hundred and ninety-five pound frame. They both had very fine sandy-brownish-blonde hair. Turner had blue eyes; Malcolm's were green. Malcolm had been Turner's best man twice, and Turner had been Malcolm's once. If Malcolm was ever foolish enough to do it again, it would be Turner standing next to him whispering into his ear, reminding him of what a stupid ass he was, and singing a little tune that would be something like: "I do, I do, I do. I don't know why I do, but I do."

Cassandra was ten years younger than Turner. She was from the South. They had met when Cassi was visiting her grandparents in California. After her initial two-week visit she returned home and that's when Turner showed up on Malcolm's doorstep. Hell, he hadn't seen Turner in months, so something was up

"I met this girl a few weeks ago," Turner said, as he settled into the black leather sofa in the den of Malcolm's home, having found the last beer in the refrigerator and a non-alcoholic beer at that.

"What's she like?" Malcolm asked, reaching to put his iced tea down on a coaster next to the couch.

"She's cuter than hell," Turner said, before taking a swig of the O'Doul's.

"What's her story?"

"Lives in Memphis."

"Memphis? Where the hell'd you meet her?"

"At a party here in town. She was out visiting her grandparents."

"You going to Memphis?"

"No, Memphis is coming here. I've been on the phone with her every night since she got home. You ought to hear her voice. She just drives me wild," he said, eyes all glazed over.
Turner was.. well hell he was gone. He was so mesmerized, that he didn't even bother telling Malcolm what Cassi looked like. He was like a wagged-tail puppy close to peeing himself every time he started mimicking her cute southern "hi y'all." Cassi moved out to California a few weeks later. More than ten years had gone by, and now they were a happily-ever-after story with two little boys, four and two, and a third kid in the hopper and ready to pop out of the chute anytime.

They were married a year later and not long after, moved to Memphis to try life in the south. They returned to California six months later. Turner's old company rehired him and transferred him to Salinas to run a facility that had been failing because of poor management. Malcolm was divorced by then and had no woman in his life, so he started visiting Turner and Cassi on the occasional weekend. One Christmas, Malcolm had come over to celebrate the holiday with them and the following day he drove Cassi to the Del Monte shopping center in Monterey to exchange some gifts. Turner hated shopping; Malcolm didn't care for it much either, but he still had a woman to cross off his list.

So, Cassi set off on her gift-exchanging mission, and Malcolm bought a cup of coffee before settling into one of the heavy cast iron chairs that were scattered around outside of Starbucks. He sat and sipped his coffee and watched the legs that were attached to the ass ends of all the women scurrying about in a frenzy as if it was the last shopping day on earth.

It was Malcolm's birthday. He turned thirty-six that day, the day after Christmas; it was Boxer's day in Canada and St. Stephen's day in other parts of the world, or so he'd been told.

Gleaning for remnants of bagels and scones, a black bird landed on the cast iron table less than a foot from Malcolm. He watched the bird bob its head a few times and then fly off drawing his attention up to the coastal mountain range. Malcolm felt a bit odd, took a deep breath, and then it hit him. He was thirty-six, single, no kids and had been living his entire life back in the San Joaquin Valley. It wasn't a bad life by any standard, but he'd become a prisoner of his identity. In other words, all that Malcolm had become and acquired was running him instead of him running it.

A sweet southern "hi there," woke him from his trance.

"Oh, hi Cassi. You done?"

"No, but we better go before I spend what we don't have," Cassi answered, smiling her smile.

When they arrived back at their apartment, Malcolm picked up the newspaper and found the classifieds. In the new-today section, he found a studio apartment for rent in Carmel. He phoned and asked to see it and was invited to come and have a look right away. Two hours later, he was writing a check to rent the studio for the month of January.

Malcolm returned to the Central Valley and told his manager what he'd done and of his plans to take off the next month. After putting his business in order, he returned the following week for a month long sabbatical that would hopefully cure him of the same discontentment that three years later he was still trying to escape. Turner and Cassi eventually purchased a home in Monterey, about a month before Malcolm had quit his job and moved into his studio below Mrs. Shams. And now, that's where Malcolm was, sitting in their new house, sipping an iced tea, watching television and waiting for Turner, Cassi, and the boys to return home.

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