by Claire Adams
For a period lasting no longer than an hour, that’s a personal record for me.
I look through the missed calls for one name in particular, but it’s heartwarming to know that so many people I know were listening in. Really, that’s what I’m taking out of this.
I’m not being sarcastic.
Seriously.
Right, well, bullshit aside, I find the name that I was looking for and I press the screen to call him back.
“Hey, so we’re coming out of the relationship closet, huh?” Damian asks as he answers the phone.
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell him. “I said one stupid thing and then the DJ wouldn’t let go of it and the callers just made it worse. I really am sorry, I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”
“It had to happen sooner or later,” he says. “I bungled the fuck out of a scene today, and afterward, Tammy came up to me to inform me there’s a rumor going around about us.”
“Yeah, she told me about that too,” I say.
“Yeah, so all things considered, I guess it was inevitable. Still, it would have been nice if we’d actually gotten to make that decision ourselves, but I can think of worse things than being in a relationship with you,” he says.
There’s a knock on my door.
“I’m actually kind of surprised to hear that,” I tell him as I get up from my chair and walk toward the entryway. “This morning, it didn’t seem like you were open to any kind of discussion, much less a solid decision.”
“I guess I just needed a little push,” he says. “But you know about Danna and you know that there are going to be times when I’m going to have to be with her and help her and stuff, so really, we may as well have come out with this already.”
Okay, that’s a little irritating.
“I really wish we could have gotten this far this morning,” I tell him, and unlock the deadbolt. “If we’d come to some sort of understanding, Tammy’s gossip thing probably wouldn’t have been on my mind so much and I wouldn’t have been so irritated with the girl at the desk and… I would… Damian, I’m going to have to call you back,” I tell him, and hang up the phone.
“Want me to come over?” he asks. “You’re probably in for a shitstorm.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think you’re right about that.”
I’ve opened the door, and standing on the other side waiting for me to answer is the last person in the world that I want to see.
No, it’s not Ben.
It’s my father.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I told you that I didn’t want to see you again.”
“Now is that any way to greet your old man,” he says, stinking of the same cheap whiskey he used to drink when I was growing up.
“You didn’t drive, did you?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “took a cab. People around here drive like they’re taking acid or promethazine or something.”
“Promethazine?” I ask. “I think that’s an allergy pill.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Whatever they’re on, they’re on something.”
“Well, that’s great and it’s been a lovely chat, but I think it’s time you got back on the road now,” I tell him. “You don’t want to run into traffic.”
I wouldn’t mind it if traffic were to run over him, but that wish doesn’t get answered.
I’ve tried.
“Listen,” he says, “I know you and I’ve had our bad times, and I know I had somethin’ to do with that, but I always taught you that family comes first, now didn’t I?”
“What do you want, Dad?” I ask.
“See, that’s the thing,” he says. “I’ve been doin’ real well at the factory lately—even got a promotion. Thing is, Jandi–” that would be the evil stepmother if we’re going to use such terms, “—needed this new car for work, and I didn’t know she was going to go for the shorter financing period and we just got into this new place and the mortgage payment’s been out of control, and well, things are gettin’ a little tight.”
“You came all the way out here to ask me for money because you and your wife can’t budget?” I ask. “Get the hell off my property,” I tell him.
“Look, now we ain’t always gonna have each other,” he says. “A dad and a daughter have a special kind of bond, and I want you to know that I’ve been seeing a therapist, and he’s really helped me see where I’ve gone wrong in the past—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I interrupt. “Now, get the hell off of my property and do not come back.”
“I’ll go,” he chuckles. “I just figured that maybe after all these years, you’d’ve learned that family still means somethin’ to some people. With that rich boyfriend ya got, I bet you’re just cleanin’—”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “You heard that thing on the radio?”
“Nah,” he says. “I heard that on the cab ride from the airport. Handsome fella, ain’t he. Don’t seem too bright, though.”
“You know,” I sigh, “for someone who says things like ‘don’t seem too bright,’ you’d think your gauge of another person’s intelligence would be a bit more modest.”
“I’ll be at the Steam Hills Motel if ya wanna get in touch,” he says. “I got the room all week.”
“Funny how you have the money to travel across the country to beg me for more money, but you don’t have enough to take care of your own bills,” I scoff.
“Just missed it by a hair,” he says, and he walks off into the night.
I go back inside and lock the door.
This has got to be the most fucked up, surreal day of my life.
When Damian shows up, I’ve already forgotten that he was coming over.
“Hey,” I mutter, answering the door.
“Hey,” he says. “Are you all right? You sounded a bit wound up over the phone.”
“You could say that,” I tell him.
I go on to tell him how my dad showed up asking for money and how he’s staying at the Steam Hills Motel.
“You know,” he says, “I don’t know about the money and all that, but it might be a nice gesture to have him stay at your place while he’s in town.”
“That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I snap.
“Easy there,” he says. “I’m just saying, you know, he came all this way. It might be nice to have family stay with you for a little bit.”
“That’s not an option,” I tell him. “No way am I going to let that happen.”
“I take it you and your dad don’t get along so well, huh?” he asks.
“Brilliant deduction, Inspector Jones,” I answer.
“Well, there’s always time to fix that,” he says.
“I don’t want to fix it,” I tell him. “It’s been broken for a very long time and that is exactly how I like it.”
“You know, I’ve been seeing my ex-former-almost-father-in-law,” he says. “Ever since I met the guy, he has hated me. Well, it’s not perfect or anything, but we’re actually making some progress. I mean, we’re in the same room and we’re making small talk. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.”
“Could you let this drop?” I ask. “I’m not looking for a happy reunion with my father. That’s the end of the story.”
“Okay,” he says. “Why?”
“It’s not really any of your business,” I tell him.
“Haven’t you been listening to the radio?” he asks. “Apparently, I’m your boyfriend.”
“Oh, will you just stop it with that?” I snap. “I know that I screwed up and I know you wanted to spend however long avoiding that particular decision, but it happened, I can’t change it, and let’s talk about something else. Clear?”
“What is with you today?” he asks. “I know you’re stressed, but jeez—”
“I shouldn’t have had you come over,” I tell him. “I’m really not in the mood to see anybody and it’s not your fault, but I think you should probably just go.”
He cro
sses his arms.
“So you’re kicking me out, huh?” he asks.
“If that’s how you need to take it then yes, I guess I am kicking you out,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I came over here because I thought you might like to talk about what happened today. I’ve seen this kind of thing happen before, and I wanted you to know that I’d stand with you over the next few weeks while the story goes through the papers and all that.”
“That is very sweet of you to come to me in my time of tabloid nightmare, but I really think I’ve got this handled for tonight, so I’ll talk to you later,” I tell him.
“What did he do to you?” Damian asks.
I cross my own arms.
“I thought we were changing the subject to me kicking you out,” I tell him.
“Seriously,” Damian says, “what happened that made you hate the guy so much? I’m sure he deserves it, but what could he have done to bring out this anger in you?”
“Could I possibly make it any clearer that I don’t want to talk about this?” I ask.
“I just think it might help if you get it off your chest,” he says. “I know that when something’s really bothering me—”
“My dad was a fucking child abuser!” I yell.
Damian’s quiet a moment.
“You mean like—” he starts.
“No,” I tell him, “nothing sexual, nothing like that. He never even touched me. It was my brothers that got the beatings. Me, he’d just lock me in my room all day and any time he would let me out, he would constantly tell me what a useless little girl I was. My brothers, though…”
“I’m sorry,” Damian says in a solemn tone.
“Yeah,” I tell him, “so am I. Maybe you understand, maybe you don’t, but I don’t want him anywhere near my home. And with Ben today and the picture and those bruises…” I trail off, sucked into the numbing vortex that is my personal hell.
“Bruises?” Damian asks.
I come out of it quick enough.
“We’ve both had a long day and I think we’ve talked enough,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, but I really don’t want to talk about any of that right now. You’re welcome to stay if you can live with that.”
“Well, as your boyfriend—” he starts.
“Get out,” I interrupt.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can absolutely live with that.”
I give him a good once-over, looking for any tells, but I’m not seeing any.
My dad doesn’t want money; he wants to reassert his dominance now that it’s starting to look like I might not be such a failure. Damian’s making progress with his ex-not-quite-or-almost-father-in-law or whatever, and that’s great.
Good for him.
I just don’t need someone like Shane Roxy—surprised that’s my real name? —anywhere near my life.
Chapter Twelve
Falling Under
Damian
You wouldn’t believe how quickly a person can go from being potentially famous to a household name.
I’d never tell her this, but I’m finding it quite entertaining to watch all of the speculation about our relationship. Why anyone cares is still beyond me, but they seem to care quite a bit.
They’re even showing some of her old movies on network television now.
Hilarious.
Things are still weighing on my mind after the altercation with Emma last night, but I’m centered, focused, and absolutely prepared to go make a polished turd.
That’s when I see the horde of reporters outside Emma’s gate.
Well, that should thicken the plot for the viewers at home.
I couldn’t remember the code to Emma’s gate, so I parked on the street last night. If I’d gotten up a little earlier, I could have just caught a ride with Emma and maybe I could have avoided what I’m about to do, but que sera, sera.
“Damian!” thirty voices yell almost simultaneously.
I smile and I just keep walking forward.
If you lose your cool with them, they tend to run the clip simply out of spite.
“Damian, so are you having a sexual relationship with Emma Roxy, and if so, do you think this is going to affect your ability to act in your upcoming movie together?” a random voice shouts as I open the gate, push my way through, and make sure it’s latched behind me.
“I think relationships between two people are the business of those two people,” I answer. “I can tell you that filming is going very well and we are all very excited to show you what we’ve come up with. It’s really got quite a bit of heart.”
It means absolutely nothing and they just eat that shit up. “Heart.” Right.
“So you’re confirming that you do, in fact, have a relationship with Emma Roxy?” another one from the herd shouts out as I try to navigate my way to my car.
“I’m confirming that it’s nobody’s business whether I do or don’t have a relationship with Emma,” I answer.
For whatever reason, Emma still wants to downplay this whole thing. I really don’t know why. I’ve come around.
“Do you think that—” someone else starts, but I’ve had enough.
“I’ve got to get to work,” I interrupt, and finally succeed in making it through the herd and to my car door.
“How do you think this relationship is going to affect Emma Roxy’s career?” someone asks.
“I hope her career is judged by her strength as an actress and not who she spends time with,” I answer, and I open the car door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
I get in, and though the reporters are kind enough to let me through, they don’t seem too happy about it.
I’m actually not on my way to work right now. I should probably get there sooner than later, but I need to stop by home and check on Danna.
For the most part, she’s recovered from her relapse, but she still tires pretty easily and I haven’t been home to make sure that she has everything she’s going to need for the day handy. She gets frustrated a lot, but that’s just part of the process.
I get home and Danna’s standing on a chair, reaching for something on the top cabinet in one of the kitchen cupboards.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, rushing in to—I don’t know, catch her if she falls? I just know that she shouldn’t be up there and doing that when she’s this fresh off an episode.
“Calm down, little bro,” she says. “I just needed coffee.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I should have gotten back earlier so I could make sure it was made and—”
“I’m really feeling a lot better,” she says. “I know it’s not good to overdo it, but I do need to start getting up and moving a little bit more or else I’m just going to have a harder time later on. You should start looking for a fill-in for me, though. What was it with the last guy?”
“He suggested that I try out to be on the cast of The Lion King on Broadway. He seemed convinced it was a brilliant idea,” I answer. “He was a moron.”
“You’ve got to figure something out,” she says. “You would be surprised how many people call for you and want you to do things. It really is a full-time job keeping track of it all.”
“I’m sure that whenever you’re feeling up to coming back,” I tell her, “that you’ll be able to pick it back up and get caught up in no time.”
“Oh hell no,” she says. “Whatever’s not getting done right now is simply not getting done. I’m not going to go back through every missed call to ask the person on the other end what they wanted. That’s amateur hour.”
“So you’re saying that right now, I’m basically functioning as if I don’t have an agent at all?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” she says, finally snatching the coffee from the top shelf.
“Just leave that out on the counter,” I tell her.
“Why?” she asks. “Is it because I’m too sick and weak to get it down otherwise?”
“No,” I answer.
“Usually, people explain their reasoning,” she says.
“You know,” I tell her, “if I’m getting along this well without an agent, maybe I should start saving that 15 percent. You know,” I continue, “have something for when I’m all old and disgusting and nobody wants to hire me because the only time I ever come up in conversation anymore is, ‘Hey, remember when Damian Jones didn’t look like a dumpster fire,’ and the other person says, ‘No,’ and they laugh about it—with what I’d save from not paying you, I could simply withdraw from public life completely and live in the mountains with a whiskey still and a shotgun.”
“That does sound like the dream,” she says, “but if I left your career in your hands, you wouldn’t have a career for me to put back together.”
“Your faith in me has always been inspiring,” I tell her.
“I care about people,” she says. “It’s what I do.”
Danna’s always been this way, whatever way one might say that is. It used to be that she was taking care of me, but that was a long time ago under very different circumstances.
Growing up in my house was a pretty rare thing from what I’m told. My parents loved each other and we were a relatively normal, happy family.
Dad and Mom were the classic romantics.
He met her after he came back from the war that she was protesting. He’d never really thought about whether or not the war was a just thing or an unjust thing; he’d simply been called to serve in the military, and so he went.
They ran into each other later in the afternoon that he walked by the big protest she’d organized and he recognized her.
The two of them told the story often enough that I can still remember how they said the conversation went.
She was in a diner that day and he walked in and saw her. She was sitting at the counter eating blueberry waffles in a bowl. The bowl was necessary for the amount of syrup in which they were swimming.
“Hey, you were talking at that big anti-war rally today, weren’t you?” he asked.
She looked up with a spoonful of waffle and syrup and said, “Yeah. What they’re doing isn’t right.”
“I’m a soldier,” he said. “Does that mean that we’d never be able to get along?”
She looked him up and down and said, “I thought military guys knew how to shave.”
