Free Based on a True Story by Elizabeth Renzetti Page B

gown.
    “Oh,” said Taylor softly.
    The smell of scorched chapparal drifted up from the slope below, a reminder of the previous month’s wildfires. Ken stopped by the low white wall and continued: “They were happy for a while, the phony colonel and his papist bride. Slowly, though, a worm of paranoia burrowed in his brain, and he became convinced that his lovely wife was conspiring with the Pope to steal his riches and siphon them off to Rome.” He lowered his voice: “A paranoia that culminated in the bloody events of 1903.”
    “What bloody events?” whispered Taylor. Asad took the opportunity to clutch his fiancée tighter.
    Ken let his voice drop. “On holiday with his wife by the seaside, Griffith J. Griffith snatched up a pistol and —” his voice cracked through the air “— shot her in the head!”
    Taylor gasped and drew back against her boyfriend.
    “Fortunately,” said Ken, “she didn’t die. And when Griffith got out of San Quentin, he was a changed man. Full of sorrow for what he’d done. Desperate to atone. He convinced the city to take his money, and this —” he swept a hand toward the observatory “ — is what they built with it.”
    He paused and leaned back against the wall, quite pleased with himself. Then he noticed that the posture made his belly stick out, and stood up straight.
    Taylor and Asad were looking at him as if they expected more. Finally, Taylor shot a glance at her boyfriend and said, slowly, “I think I see why you brought us here, Ken. Yes, I’m sure of it. You’re warning us about the dangers of interfaith marriage, right?”
    People who study science , he thought sourly, have a restricted sense of wonder . “It wasn’t necessarily what I was getting at, Taylor, no. Obviously, that is something that you and Asad have already discussed, and I understand both your families are quite supportive.”
    “’Course that’s not it, baby,” Asad said with a patronizing smile. “He’s warning us about money issues. He’s saying there should be a prenup. Is that it, then? That’s the lesson: we should have a prenup.”
    Why did he even bother taking them on these magical journeys? It was like reading poetry to sponges. He began walking back to the road, and they followed at his heels.
    “Was that it?” Asad asked, trotting behind. “Because my dad thinks we should have a prenup, too.”
    “What?” Taylor gasped. “Your father thinks so? Oh, that is rich . . .”
    He stepped between them, put an arm around each of their shoulders. They’d stopped in front of the white obelisk of the Astronomers Monument. Johannes Kepler gazed into the night with pitiless stone eyes.
    “Look up,” Ken said. As usual, no stars were visible; there was a price to be paid for the glow of the lights below. The last few couples wandered back to their cars through the soft darkness. “I was trying to tell you . . . about forgiveness. About compassion.”
    It’s about biting your tongue , he wanted to add, about keeping the live wire in your hand rather than shocking the person in front of you . He watched their bright, hopeful, blank faces and sighed. They could figure it out for themselves.
    Driving down the winding road that led from Mount Hollywood through the dark valleys of the park, Kenneth turned on the radio, pleasantly surprised to hear the Hollies singing about bus stops and wet days. He wasn’t the first lad to flee the steel-grey skies of Manchester for California. Best not to think in terms of portents, though, not when he was this tired and already seeing ghosts.
    As he approached Los Feliz, he knew he should move over to the right-hand lane to make the turn, but instead, after a shamefully brief mental tussle, continued to drive down Vermont.
    His eye caught a movement inside a parked car, two shadows shifting, merging into one solid lump. Maybe, somewhere, Taylor and Asad were making the beast with two gym-sculpted backs. More likely they were drinking decaf