When Memory Fails

by D. W. Marchwell

  “That would be nice,” Hank said with a smile and placed his hand over his sister’s, stopping his legs and Sandra’s forward momentum. When she looked back, confusion knitting her brow, Hank let her hand and arm go and put his arm over Scott’s shoulder. “I wasn’t the only one you invited, Freckles.”

  Sandra squinted as if she was hearing a language she’d once spoken, but so long ago that none of it seemed familiar at all. Her eyes opened wide, and she reached out her hand and wrapped it around Scott’s forearm. “Scott, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, but I’ve had so much on my mind about tonight.” Sandra accepted the bottle of wine and the flowers that Scott held and then took his arm this time. “Thank you so much. They’re beautiful,” she gushed, making a show of sniffing the flowers.

  “Those are for Mom, Freckles.” Hank took the flowers and gave them back to Scott.

  “It’s okay,” Scott said, shooting a look at Hank. Is he pissed or embarrassed? Hank wondered as the three of them made their way up the stairs to the front door. “It’s not a problem,” he added after a few more steps, and Hank couldn’t help but notice that Scott had had to say it to the back of her head, her attention already having returned to her brother.

  Hank entered the house and saw his parents, his mother rushing over to greet him with a lingering hug and a kiss to his cheek. As she pulled away, Hank was somewhat shocked to see how much older she seemed.

  “Henry,” she said, her smile sincere and her eyes a little moist. “We’ve missed you.”

  “Son.” Hank looked behind his mother to see his father standing there, his hand extended. As he shook his father’s hand, matching his grip strength, Hank took note of how much grayer his father’s hair was and how he looked healthier, wondering for a moment if it could be because of what Sandra had explained about their father drinking less. “You look well.”

  “Mom, Dad,” Hank said, his voice steady and strong as he turned to place a hand at Scott’s elbow. “This is Scott Alan. My partner.” Hank turned to look at Scott. “Rose and John Ballam.”

  “Partner?” Hank heard the surprise in his father’s voice and braced himself. He watched as his father extended his hand to Scott. “You’re the fellow that owns the logging company? And you’ve made Hank a partner already?”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Ballam,” Scott said, shaking the elder man’s hand as vigorously as his was being shaken. “No, I’m afraid that’s my brother who owns the company.” Scott didn’t wait for any kind of follow-up questions before turning to offer his hand to Mrs. Ballam. “Mrs. Ballam, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. For you.” Scott held out the flowers.

  “What?” John asked as he pointed first at his son and then at Scott. “You start a business on the side or something? Logging not keeping you busy enough? No wonder you’re not—”

  “John,” Rose whispered, but her husband ignored her in favor of continuing to fix Scott with a perplexed look. “You promised.”

  My mom, the buffer, Hank thought as Rose turned back, the well-practiced, patient smile of a long-suffering wife firmly fixed in place again. “Scott, please call me Rose.” She stepped aside and motioned to the sofa, as if this were her house.

  Hank was almost certain he could hear Scott’s thoughts: At least your mother has manners, unlike your sister. Hank’s smile grew broader as his mother led Scott to the living room. Then Hank turned to see Sandra head off to the kitchen, just as Jeff entered, as if this was tag-team wrestling.

  “Hank, Scott, I’m so glad you could make it.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them briefly before holding them out, palms up. “What can I get you both?”

  “Beer for me and Scott will have a coffee. Thank you, Jeff,” Hank said as he turned back to his father. “Scott will be driving us home,” he announced, as if his father had asked why Scott wasn’t drinking beer as well. Hank watched as his father merely nodded and headed back into the living room, taking the only remaining armchair, leaving Hank to go and sit next to his lover.

  “Here you go,” Jeff said, handing a chilled beer glass to Hank and a clear coffee mug to Scott. “Black, right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Scott said with a smile as he put the mug on the coaster that was already waiting on the coffee table.

  “So,” John started, his arms crossing over his barrel chest. “What is it you do, Scott?”

  “Scott’s a composer,” Hank said, turning to offer a smile to his lover. “In fact, you’ve probably already heard many of his songs on the radio.”

  “You mean like commercial jingles?”

  “No, Dad,” Hank said, his smile dimming somewhat. “Songs, the kind singers record and that make it onto top ten charts and are used in movies and played at weddings and win awards.”

  “That must be so exciting!” Rose said as she reached across the arms of her chair and the sofa and patted Scott’s hand. “Do you know Anne Murray?”

  “I’m sorry, no, I don’t,” Scott said, and Hank could tell he was trying not to laugh at the question or at the obvious disappointment on his mother’s face.

  “She seems like such a lovely person.”

  “She and I have worked with some of the same musicians, and they tell me that she is even nicer in person.”

  “Mom always used to make us watch every Anne Murray special that came on television.” Hank laughed as he remembered the way his sisters sang along and he prayed for it to end. “I was much more into the Eurythmics and Depeche Mode and Blancmange.”

  “John bought him a pair of headphones one year as a stocking stuffer.” Rose laughed and looked over at her husband. “He just couldn’t take hearing those same songs over and over again.”

  “Used to make my teeth hurt, all those synthesizers or whatchamacallits,” John said, joining in the conversation. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, then he starts spending hours in front of the mirror every morning, making his hair look like he’d been sleeping on it funny all night.”

  “Flock of Seagulls?” Scott turned to look at Hank’s flushed face as he nodded. “I’d love to see pictures sometime.” Scott looked over at Rose, and Hank could see how well the two of them would be getting along.

  “It was definitely an interesting time,” Rose said, her voice light and her tone playful.

  “What was the name of that girl you were seeing in high school?”

  “Which one?” Sandra came back into the room, hefting one of the dining chairs so she could sit beside her father. “He had quite a few, if memory serves.”

  “What was the name of the tall blonde?” John was looking at his daughter now. “She was always so quiet and really good at sports.”

  “Rachel,” Sandra announced. “I ran into her mother at the market a couple of weeks ago. She’s apparently married, with a whole brood of kids.”

  Hank looked over at his sister.

  “Just think, they could have been yours.” Sandra put her hand on her father’s shoulder, nudging him. “She showed me pictures.” Sandra returned her gaze to Hank. “They certainly would have been better looking.”

  “And I would have grandchildren with my last name,” John grunted and returned to saying nothing.

  “So, would we know any of your compositions?” Rose turned her attention and her warm smile back to Scott. Hank felt his stomach doing flip-flops as he watched and listened to his mother doing everything she could to make Scott feel like part of the family. Hank hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his mother. If he were honest, he’d missed her the most.

  “Scott wrote ‘But for You’,” Hank announced proudly. “And ‘Eggs Over Easy’… the musical that just opened its tour at Queen Elizabeth was written by Scott a couple of years ago.”

  “That’s the one I wanted to go and see, John.” Rose turned to regard her husband. “Now there’s even a more important reason to go and see it.” She returned her gaze to Scott and smiled, patting his hand again.

  “Thank you, Rose, that’s very kind of you,”
Scott said and turned to look at John, then again at Rose. “Would you like me to see if I can get you tickets?”

  “Oh, it’s all sold out. I checked,” John announced as he reached for his coffee mug and, finding it empty, hoisted himself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen.

  Hank looked at his sister and then his mother. He’s trying, both of them seemed to be saying, and it helped Hank to relax a little bit more. “You should see if you can get them tickets,” Hank said as he turned slightly and placed a hand behind Scott’s head.

  “Of course,” Scott said immediately. “I’ll call Philip in the morning.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Rose exclaimed. “But I have a feeling I’ll be taking you or your sister,” she announced to her daughter. “Their father doesn’t really like musicals,” Rose said, turning back to Scott. “And both Kathy and Sandra had ‘But for You’ played at their weddings. It’s such a beautiful song.”

  “Thank you,” Scott said.

  Hank looked up when his father came back into the room, remembering how Scott had told him one day that the song had actually been written after a very painful breakup and had never been meant to be taken as a love song. It was the story of a lost love and how, had it not been for that lost love, he never would have learned to love himself.

  “I’m not much into music,” John announced. “Unless it’s classic country. Do you write any country songs?”

  “Not specifically, but I’ve had a couple of them adapted by country singers.” Scott reached forward and took his coffee mug in hand. Hank took the opportunity to slip his hand down the cushion so that Scott would feel it when he sat back again. When he did, he looked quickly at Hank and offered a smile.

  “Where are the kids?” Hank suddenly realized that he’d not seen them yet, nor heard Sandra or Jeff offer any explanation.

  “With Kathy,” John stated, his voice flat, as it had always been when one of his children asked him a question and he couldn’t be bothered to look away from the game he was watching on the television.

  “Sandra thought it would be less stressful if we had them stay the night with Kathy and Neil,” Jeff said as he came back into the living room after depositing two large platters on the dining room table.

  “Less stressful for you,” Sandra added quickly, looking at Hank, neither her addendum nor her tone very convincing.

  “Dinner is served,” Jeff announced, taking a few steps back as he directed everyone to their seats.

  Hank did his best to give his father every opportunity to show that he’d changed, but as dinner progressed, Hank was becoming more and more convinced that he was only wasting his time. And what was worse, he felt as if he’d just put Scott right in the line of fire as well. He tried to reassure Scott, slipping his hand under the table every now and then and giving Scott’s leg a quick squeeze.

  He even felt brazen enough to lean back between dinner and dessert and let his arm rest on the back of Scott’s chair. Hank waited for a disapproving look or some comment from his father, but none came. Not then, anyway. It wasn’t until Hank found himself being summoned to the backyard by his father that he realized that this evening had not been the success he’d hoped it would be.

  “Hank… wanna show you something Jeff and I have been working on.” John delivered a quick punch on his son’s shoulder and pushed his chair back from the table.

  Hank offered one more quick squeeze to Scott’s leg, glancing briefly at his lover and then following his father through the kitchen and out of the house. After they descended the steps of the back deck, he stopped when his father did, his eyes darting around the backyard. “The swing set?”

  “No,” John stated flatly. “What are you doing, Hank?”

  Hank was momentarily stunned, his eyes studying his father’s rigid expression, and he was unable to stop himself from laughing out loud. “I knew it,” Hank said, his voice full of venom. He turned and headed back to the house, intent on getting Scott and heading home. “I knew this was a mistake,” he said as he reached to open the patio door.

  “Hank?”

  He turned and looked at his father. He stood rooted to the same spot, not even having moved one foot to come after his own son. Hank looked at his father and waited.

  John crossed his arms over his chest. “This isn’t you. This life. This isn’t how you were raised.”

  Hank let his hand drop away from the patio door, and he walked to the edge of the deck, his breathing becoming labored now as he tried not to let himself get too upset. “The way I was raised? You really want to talk about the way I was raised?” Hank stopped and waited, seeing a faint glimmer of recognition in his father’s eyes. “Okay, let’s talk about the way I was raised,” he said and returned to stand in front of his father, hands on his hips.

  “Of course,” John said with a sneer and nodded his head. “So we’re going to talk about what a crappy father I was.”

  Hank shook his head. He didn’t know whether it was even worth the effort. “No, Dad, you weren’t a crappy father.” Hank fixed his father with look that told him he meant every word.

  “But you don’t want to have kids and be the kind of father I was. Did I get that right? I think those were your words.”

  Hank felt contrite, but he wasn’t about to let his father close this discussion down by playing the victim. “Yes, I said something like that. And for what it’s worth, I was drunk.” He lifted his hands, palms up, searching for the right words. “I was drunk a lot back then. And unhappy. And wondering why I could never do anything that you approved of.” Hank saw his father open his mouth to protest again, but he cut him off. “Scott changed all that, Dad. Scott is the best thing to happen to me in years.”

  “So now you’ve got it out of your system.” John uncrossed his arms and placed them on his son’s shoulders. “But you’re not one of them. Now you can find a good woman who will be a good wife and a good mother to your children, the children who will carry your name.”

  “I don’t need a wife to have children who will have my name.”

  “Please,” John huffed. “What? You’re going to adopt some baby from Russia or China, and that’s supposed to be the same as having your own?”

  “Why does it—” Hank shook his head, realizing it was pointless to discuss this anymore. “You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said, have you?” Hank turned back toward the deck and the patio door and ignored his father calling his name. He wanted to be back inside the house, where Scott was waiting for him.

  SCOTT found Rose to be very charming and warm. He especially had a hard time not giggling when she addressed her son as Henry. And Jeff was very accommodating, running between the dining room and kitchen while Sandra—father on one side and Hank on the other—sat at the opposite end of the table. Scott said little, watching the dinner unfold from his vantage point beside Hank. Scott noticed how almost everyone, except Rose and possibly Jeff, seemed to focus all of their attention on Hank. Rose tried on several occasions to include Scott. Even Jeff—when he wasn’t running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining table—asked a few questions of Scott. But Scott couldn’t help but wonder if Sandra and John had been surprised to see Scott show up. After each attempt to include Scott in the conversation, Sandra or John managed to steer the conversation back to what they’d been discussing before the interruption. This thought surprised Scott, but then he had to remind himself that all the people in this room, except Hank, were perfect strangers to him. His only common bond with them was that he, too, loved Hank.

  As the evening progressed, however, Scott was more and more convinced that he was the only person in the room, with the possible exception of Rose, who wanted what was best for Hank. Maybe even Jeff wanted what was best for Hank, but Scott recognized the words and actions of a husband who did not want to do anything but appear supportive to his wife.

  So he smiled, answered questions, asking none, and listened to the various conversations, classifying and analyzing t
hem. Scott was quite convinced that Hank’s father had not changed at all, his comments thus far having tended toward implying that Scott was either a business partner or—unlike Hank’s previous girlfriends—unable to provide a grandson to carry on the family name. And it hadn’t taken long to recognize that Rose, although charming and warm, did not enjoy her role this evening as a buffer between her husband and her only son.

  Just before dessert was served, Scott had to remind himself of the many meetings he’d attended where some singer’s lawyer or agent negotiated for the rights or for changes to one of Scott’s songs. He learned very quickly that the less he said, the better. Saying nothing, he’d discovered, gave him a tactical advantage. He would simply sit and nod, pretending to be completely absorbed by the contract in front of him. Invariably, he’d found that the silence caused singer, agent, or both to become nervous and uncertain, leading to a situation where Scott found himself with people much more amenable to negotiation.

  The lawyers, on the other hand, had taught Scott another trick entirely, one he was sure he wouldn’t need tonight. Faced with the potential to lose the deal entirely because Scott was prepared to walk away from the table out the door to his car and drive away forever, the lawyers usually relented, for the sake of their clients, and became a little more flexible.

  Scott tuned back into the conversation between Hank and his father just as John announced that he had something to show Hank in the backyard. Scott’s immediate impulse was to get up and follow, but the way John had made the announcement seemed to say that it was something only to be shared between father and son. Scott had been touched by the tender displays of affection that Hank had surprised him with throughout dinner, but Scott was also growing a little concerned that Hank had not said anything other than to refer to Scott as his partner. Scott was trying to be understanding of the need for baby steps here, but he wanted nothing more than to take Hank and go home.