A Thing of Beauty

by Lisa Samson

  “Jack, you don’t know what this machine can do.”

  “Keep sipping, Fi,” he says. “Maybe not this particular machine. But I know other machines, and they all basically work the same, gears grinding without a thought as to who gets stuck inside. Machines don’t care, and the sooner we all realize that, the better off we are.”

  “Damn, that’s jaded.”

  “Just realistic.”

  “You make it sound way easier than it is.” I finish the last of the juice, and he takes the glass and sets it on a copy of Motor Trend on the coffee table.

  “Never easy, but straightforward and predictable.”

  I shrug. “If you say so. It’s never felt that way to me.”

  My phone rings. “It’s my father.” I slide the bar across the screen. “Hi, Brandon.”

  “Fia! Are you all right? Your mother’s left five messages on my phone.”

  I sigh. “I guess you’ve seen the photo.”

  “What photo?”

  “Twitter?” I ask.

  “Fia, I’m too old for all that.”

  I hate to say it, but good for him.

  “I injured myself on a rake in my basement this afternoon. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”

  “Where’s here? I’m about to pick up the rental car.”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you when I get there. You sure you’re okay?”

  I slide my gaze over to Jack. “I’m in good hands. Seriously.”

  We hang up and I shoot off Jack’s address.

  “Well, he’s on his way,” I say.

  “Let me help you get ready.”

  When he helps me to my feet, the stiffening of my muscles pulls a cry from my mouth. He picks me up and carries me up the stairs and into his room. When he sets me on the bed, he says, “Let’s get you an outfit from your suitcase.”

  Twenty minutes later I’m dressed in a full gray skirt, a white cotton blouse freshly ironed by Jack, and because actual outfits weren’t on my mind as I stuffed clothing into my suitcase, one of Jack’s cardigans, its heathery-brown cashmere hanging almost to my knees.

  We roll up the sleeves to just below my elbows.

  “Very nice,” he says. “Really, Fi. You look pretty.”

  I eye myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door. Not frumpy. Sort of prep-school girl grown up, and not in a sleazy way either.

  “You going to put any makeup on? Not that you need it,” he finishes in a rush.

  “I don’t think so. He knows I spent half the day in the emergency room and half my childhood in a makeup chair.”

  “Good. Plus, you don’t need it anyway.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I know.”

  He gets a comb from the bathroom and hands it to me as I sit down on the edge of the bed. “It’s nice that you don’t feel you have to completely overhaul yourself for your dad,” he remarks.

  “My dad doesn’t really deserve it.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Well, I’d do it for her just to keep her off my back.”

  “Ah,” he says in his “maybe there’s some food for thought there” manner.

  When my hair is free of tangles, I ask, “Do you know how to braid?”

  He smiles. “Yep. Had a horse when I was little and Lucy had me braid his tail.”

  “Thanks.”

  He takes the comb and runs it back from my forehead, its teeth pulling my hair smoothly to where he’s gathered a ponytail. “Why do you think your mom called your dad but not you?”

  “Because she doesn’t really give a damn about me, Jack.”

  “Or maybe she figured you were a little busy?” He separates the ponytail into three sections.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Fia, did you ever get along with your mom and dad?”

  “Honestly? I feel like I never really knew them.”

  “That’s really sad.”

  I consider that. It’s always pissed me off more than saddened me.

  “Maybe I’ll put on just a little makeup,” I say. “Enough to hide these dark circles anyway, so I don’t look like Captain Quirk. You know, to this day, I don’t know how they got Brandon’s eyes so hollow looking.”

  Jack casts me a sad smile. “Fia, what made your dad take on that goofball film role in the first place?”

  “I have no idea. Nobody does. He really doesn’t like to talk about it. I’ve always assumed the money was right.”

  “Hmm.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “I’ll go get it,” he says, “then come back up and get you.”

  So I wait on the bed, forgoing the makeup, listening to the warm timbre of male voices greeting each other—Jack’s quick explanation that I’ll be right down, Brandon’s concern, the offer of a drink, the accepting of that drink, and the subsequent clinking of ice cubes from the kitchen.

  I pick up my phone and jab the little blue birdie right in the belly.

  Why I decided to look at Twitter, I don’t know. You would think I would remember exactly what it feels like to be pummeled by the nastiness of others’ mindless and ill-informed opinions, but time had somehow blurred the edges of the feeling.

  Well, nothing’s blurred now.

  “Still a loser.”

  “Oh my god, so fugs!”

  “Somebody try to make this girl go to rehab. Please!”

  And . . .

  “For all you haters out there, Fia Hume is still the best actress of all time.”

  Well, that was nice.

  “Shut up everybody. I don’t think it’s even @FiaHume. She never looked that bad. Stop hating.”

  Talk about a backhanded compliment.

  But right now I’ll take it.

  I press the button at the bottom of my phone and realize I left Josia in the dark. He probably doesn’t even know what Twitter is.

  I call the forge and an employee picks up. “He told me you’d be calling, Fiona. Here’s his new cell phone number. I never thought I’d see the day he’d get one, but he picked up a throwaway for the next few days. He was that concerned.” His voice is soft and kind. I picture a bearded hippie guy who makes his own shoes and eats health food, but would never turn down a milkshake if you were whizzing some up in your blender.

  After he gives me the number, I call.

  Josia picks up right away. “Fiona! How are you?”

  “Okay. All stitched up. I’ll be staying with a friend for the next few days.”

  “Good. You’ll need some looking after. Call me anytime if you need anything. I’ll have the phone with me at all times.”

  It’s hard to believe someone so new in my life can care this much. And what’s even harder to believe is that I not only don’t mind this but am glad. It’s like I’ve known him for years. I mean, we say that all the time about people, but every time I’ve ever said it, and meant it, feels watered down compared to this cup of strong knowing and smooth affection.

  “Thanks, Josia. It’s good to know somebody is at the house.”

  “Glad to hold down the fort. Now get some rest.” He laughs. “But only if you want to.”

  “Will do.”

  Time to face Brandon. I haven’t laid eyes on my father for five years.

  I decide to make my way down without help.

  Jack can’t carry me around forever, so the sooner that precedent isn’t set, the better.

  Grimacing, I rise to my feet, inch across the room carrying that realization, and hop down the steps on my good leg. The hallway seems to have lengthened by at least thirty feet, every step burning. Finally, gripping the wall the entire way, I stand in the doorway to the living room, pale, I assume, a bead of sweat rolling from my hairline, down my temple, and over the side of my cheek. “Wow,” I whisper.

  Both men look up and my thoughts race through my brain at lightning speed. Somehow, he’s here when I need him. My father. I don’t know how. The one who
backed off almost completely after the divorce is in this living room with his tousled hair, his crooked smile revealing teeth that aren’t rivaled in real life, his light-blue eyes. My father who, in hindsight, maybe didn’t so much turn his back but instead was licking his wounds outside a room I nailed shut and didn’t allow him to enter.

  Was that what happened?

  Oh please!

  Is the trauma causing me to see things in a more benevolent light, and is this light the light of truth? It sure isn’t wishful thinking. I can tell you that.

  “Fia!” He hurries toward me. “Let me help you.”

  My first reaction is to bristle and shake my head and hold my hand up in refusal. Then my body sags. The fact is, I need help and, okay, right now would be good. He’s only helping me across the room, not setting a precedent forever and ever. “Thanks. I could use it.”

  My father is tall, but he reduces his height at the knees, sidling in beside me while sliding his arm across my back, his hand curling around my rib cage. The other arm crosses in front of his body, his free hand cupping my elbow.

  I press down a sob.

  Slowly we traverse the path between pain and a comfort of sorts where Jack is already arranging couch cushions and throw pillows in what appears to be a highly engineered manner. Brandon and I lower my body, and he helps lift my leg onto a pillow that is perfectly positioned to receive my ankle. “Thanks, Jack.”

  My father sits to my left. “Nice gentleman you have here, Fia. That’s good to see.”

  “Glad she’ll put up with me,” Jack says. “Have you had dinner yet?” Next subject!

  Brandon says, “No. How about I wander next door and see if that restaurant will box us up something?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jack says, and all I can think is, Not yet. Don’t leave me here alone with him yet. He must have seen the panic in my eyes because he says, “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “Perfect,” Brandon says, sitting next to me. “I didn’t want to go out. It has its serious drawbacks.”

  I can’t help but laugh at his dry tone. “Boy, does it. How do you stand it after all these years?”

  “Desperation!” he says right away. “I’m an actor, and that’s all I’ll ever be because I don’t have the skills to do anything else.”

  I know how that feels. I’m living proof of what happens when you stop doing the only thing you’re any good at.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jack says, heading toward the coat closet. “Brandon,” he calls over his shoulder, “you still a vegan?”

  “Never was,” Brandon replies. “That was in that film about the man who went to India to learn yoga. I can’t remember the title right now.”

  Jack turns. “I’m sorry, Brandon. I think I missed that one.”

  “Bill,” I say. “It was just called Bill.”

  I can sense it doesn’t even occur to him that the inability to remember such a simple title might raise a question or two. Guess he has higher mountains to traverse in the self-examination process. Apparently yoga and veganism aren’t among them.

  “Did you call Mother?” I ask, thinking another glass of OJ right now would be amazing.

  “Yes. She’s glad your accident wasn’t serious and says she’s already called her publicist and they’re working overtime to keep any damage from occurring. Her next film releases in a month. Not to mention that book.”

  “I’m sure you’re not going to look good after that thing comes out,” I say.

  He grins. “Fia, I’ve never been seen out there as a good person. I’m a good actor who appears to be having fun with his life and trying not to really hurt anybody. But I’m not admired for my character and my courage.”

  “You’re no Angelina Jolie?”

  He laughs. “Nope. I try to keep whatever I do for the good a little more secret.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t think the people I help need to be seen as the people I helped. They’re proud. And they should be.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Guess that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Assuming you’ll stick around that long,” I say. And where is that OJ?

  “That’s not for me to say,” he reminds me.

  “So Mom is doing damage control. What about you?”

  He sips his tonic water (Brandon’s big into the AA thing) and then sets it on the same magazine I used earlier. Things like Jack’s lack of coasters go far in assuring me he’s not gay, and although he tries hard, he’s not fully equipped, like most men on the planet, to create a fully equipped home. Why this is, I can’t say. Nevertheless, you can’t say I’m wrong, can you?

  “What do you mean, what about me?” he asks.

  “Have you called your publicity person?”

  He barks out a laugh. “I don’t even remember her name.”

  “Really?”

  “Fia, that’s for my manager to handle. I just want to be told where and when to show up and make the decision whether I want to do the movie in the first place. That’s it.”

  “But you used to—”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Can you pour me a glass of OJ?” I ask.

  I’ve never seen Brandon’s eyes look more pleased than they do right now as he nods, says, “Absolutely, of course,” and heads toward the kitchen.

  To understand the Atlantic Ocean that separates my feelings for Brandon and how he is acting, sitting here in Jack’s rowhouse being all sweet and concerned, one would have to go back to my older childhood.

  Later, I tell Jack this up in the bedroom after a dinner of fried clams, onion rings, coleslaw, and carrot cake. He pats the bed. “Get off that leg,” he decrees, then hands me a glass of water and the next round of ibuprofen.

  “I figured there has to be an explanation,” he says. “Your dad seems pretty laid-back. I like him.”

  “He’s an actor,” I say. I swallow the pills.

  “True enough. But I’d like to think I’m shrewd enough to tell the difference.”

  “You do deal with a lot of people.” I nod.

  “Too many.”

  “Did I seem really bitter?” I ask.

  “You’re an actor, Fi.”

  Well, that smarts a little.

  “So tell me.” He sits on his side of the bed. “What was he like?”

  I eye the open door. He hops up and shuts it. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “First of all, you had a good relationship with your parents, right?”

  He nods. “Yes.” Jack’s dad died ten years ago, when he was twenty-five.

  “So I’m not sure how much of this you can even understand, but okay, imagine the most bad-boy actor you can think of—drunken binges, womanizing, spending money like it would just wash up on the beach and lay itself at your feet. Then picture someone like Richard Burton.”

  “Fi, it seems to me you just described Richard Burton.”

  “Alec Guinness, then.”

  “Much better.”

  “Then combine the two.”

  He grins. “Why don’t I just picture Richard Burton?”

  He does fill all the necessary requirements on his own. “Good point. Okay, so just picture Richard Burton, but prep school, beer pong–style American. Kinda like an old frat boy who’s really good at acting.”

  “Ah, got it.”

  “Now imagine that man marries a narcissist, one of the most beautiful women in the world.” I lean forward. “Let that fact sink in a second. In fact, if you let it sink in while getting me a glass of orange juice, so much the better.”

  He laughs. “You got it.”

  Believe it or not, this is the first adult conversation I’ve had about my parents, ever. Other than with therapists, but that’s just not the same. Lila and I talked a lot about our lives, but she was as messed up as I. She wasn’t a grown-up like Jack.

  He returns with the juice.

  “Thanks.” I take the glass an
d sip. “Have you ever dealt with a narcissist?” I ask him.

  “Sure. They’re everywhere.”

  “Well then, they could take lessons from my mother.”

  He takes a sip of my juice. And not a huge one either. I like that about Jack. He never presumes. “So she played the martyr and talked about it all the time, thereby poisoning you against your father and making him the reason for her unhappiness?”

  Dang, he’s perceptive.

  “Uh . . . yeah? Wow.”

  “And then made you responsible for her happiness,” he finishes.

  “That’s right.”

  “I was a psychology major too, Fia.” He pulls down the comforter and fluffs the pillows. “Was it true, that they mishandled your earnings?”

  “Yes.” I appreciate what he’s doing, but the thought of even swiveling over to get into bed seems very Everesty. “I said it was their financial manager, but Brandon couldn’t keep his hands off of it, and Jessica was content to let him because it allowed her to keep playing the victim. She tends to like to keep things as they are.”

  “Ah. Which is why she continues to stay with him.”

  “And why I had to get them out of my life as much as possible.”

  “When did your dad stop drinking?” he asks.

  “After our divorce was final.”

  “A little too late, huh?”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  I yawn, the accumulation of the day’s events fully collected into a need for sleep.

  He pats my good leg. “I’ll let you go to bed. Thanks for telling me this, though. I know it’s hard.”

  “You’ve proven your trustworthiness, Jack.”

  He just stares at me, then gets up and walks into the dressing room. I hear a drawer open, close a few seconds later, then another one. He emerges with a small stack of clothing, what appears to be a clean T-shirt and boxers. Heavy socks too.

  “All right,” he says, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and heads toward the bedroom door.

  “You’re not going to sleep in here?”

  “Fi, I have to live on my terms now, not yours. I’ve given what I could under the circumstances and played along with your game at the risk of my own dignity. But now that the truth is out, the old rules are over. I’m going to treat you like the lady I’ve always thought you are. The fact is, I don’t have to pay for friendship and a little making out. I never have. I just did what I needed to do to take care of you. Now you can either accept that or not. But I’m not paying for you anymore. The business arrangement is over. I’ll help you and support you as your friend, and if anything else develops, I’ll be happy. But if it doesn’t, then it doesn’t, and at least I know I respected you the best way I knew how. And what is more, I respected myself.”