by Owen Thomas
Hollis gave the tiny, old tree another quarter turn, inspecting with a fingernail the pits and crenulations along the trunk near the base where it fanned out into roots slipping beneath a plot of mossy soil. The difference, he thought, was not so much in the families, themselves. Susan was not a doctor, but she was smart. And she was a damned good woman. He had married her thirty-eight years ago and he would do it again. Sure he would. At the drop of a hat. Right this instant, if need be. Seriously.
“Hooooollllliiiiis!”
He had never met Akahito’s daughters. One of them was going to school at – he forgets the name. The Japanese equivalent of Harvard. And the other – Suki or Yuki or something like that; he could still remember her photograph – was clearly sharp as a razor. Not terribly unlike Tilly or David. Well, there was Ben – she was different than Ben; but everyone was different than Ben. To a certain extent, kids were kids. So, no, the difference was not so much the rest of the family.
The difference was between Akahito Takada and Hollis Johns. Not in who they were – for they were actually very much the same in most respects. Weren’t they? Yes. Yes, they were. Akahito was older and far more successful. But still. When you get right down to it. Very much the same. The difference was in how they carried themselves. Hollis had made the mistake of caring too much. Akahito Takada simply was. Akahito Takada did not ask permission to be himself. Akahito Takada did not compromise his integrity. Or his wisdom. Akahito Takada offers himself up as he is – no wheedling, no back-paddling, no counseling – and he lets the world, including his family, take him or leave him. Like him or don’t. There is no other option. And because there is no other option, the world accepts Akahito Takada as he is.
In the entire six days of the conference – in the evenings at the Takada home when it was just Akahito and Izume and himself drinking tea or sake under the paper lanterns at the end of the garden by the lotus pond – had Izume ever challenged her husband? Even once? No. Not once. Had she ever tried to embarrass Akahito by explaining that something he had just said was contrary to something he had said a week earlier, or that some prior conduct known only to her suggested he was being insincere? No. Had she even once hinted that Akahito Takada had had too much to drink? No. When Akahito asked Izume to excuse them so that they could talk about matters of business and banking, did Izume object or protest or even look wounded? No. Because that’s Akahito, and Izume accepts him as he is. She was the perfect picture of grace. Beautiful and delicate and soft and, in her own way – in her acceptance – very wise.
“Hollis?!”
And what about Akahito’s daughter – Yuki or Zuki or something like that – do you think she ever felt free to refuse to come home until they acceded to her demand – her demand! – that her parents see a marriage counselor? Of course not! The very idea! That is not acceptance. That is not wisdom! That is petulance! That is the height of arrogance and disrespect to one’s parents. Sweet little Yuzi or Luki, or whatever, would never dream of such tantrums. Not because she isn’t capable of them. All children are capable of tantrums. But Zumi – whatever – knows, deep in her marrow, that such conduct is hopelessly ineffective with the likes of her father, Akahito Takada. She knows her father is too wise to be manipulated in that way. She knows that her father really does not give a damn what she thinks she knows about the state of his marriage. She knows enough to accept what she cannot control and she is wise. Akahito had taught his family well.
“Hoooolllllliiiiis!”
And that was really the problem, wasn’t it? Hollis Johns had failed to teach his family. He had unwittingly cultivated a belief that they had a say in who he was; that they had a right to bargain about his opinions and his intentions and the meaning of his own experiences. Like they were entitled to own and control a piece of him. Well, not Ben. Ben accepted him completely. He challenged nothing. Ben respected him. And wasn’t that fucking ironic. The wisest one in the family was the one that was developmentally impaired. The rest of them should take a clue or two from Ben.
“Well, there you are! I’ve been calling and calling!”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t hear you. You know . . . the music.”
“I called upstairs, and then I went to the bedroom and called and called and then outside in the driveway because I thought you might be watering the plants.”
“It’s the music, Susan.”
“You don’t need to get testy. I’m just asking. Because I was calling. And calling.”
“What do you need?”
“Maybe you should turn the music down a little so in case some-one needs . . .”
“What do you need, Susan?”
“Should we invite the Blomfields to Tilly’s party?”
“That’s why you’ve been calling me for the last twenty minutes?”
“Yes. I thought you didn’t hear me.”
“I… Didn’t you just say that you were calling me?”
“I didn’t say I had been calling for twenty minutes. You clearly heard me.”
“Susan, Tilly won’t even be here. Why are we inviting anyone? How many people are you planning to drag over here?”
“Drag? They’re all dying to come. Jesus, Hollis. Tilly has been nominated for a great honor. Don’t you even care? You can bet Tilly cares. You can bet David cares. There should be some recognition, don’t you think? I know there is this thing between you and Tilly, but still, Hollis, can’t you put that aside even just for this one accomplishment? Don’t you care even that much?”
He listened as if at the other end of a long tunnel. He watched her lips move, wrinkling the sandwich-wrap façade. It isn’t their fault, he thought to himself. It isn’t their fault. Not really, anyway. He would take responsibility. This was ultimately all his doing. Unknowingly, by caring too much about what they thought of him over the years, he had nurtured a belief that the question of Hollis Johns was always up for debate. And that must be very frustrating for them. Because the question of Hollis Johns is never up for debate. There is no question. Hollis Johns is who he is, take him or leave him.
“No. I don’t care, Susan. Not even that much. You do whatever you want to do. Invite the Blomfields. Or don’t. I don’t care. Invite all of Columbus. Invite all of Japan.”
“Japan? Honestly, Hollis. You need to turn off the music and come up out of your cave and rejoin society. You’re becoming crotchety before my very eyes.”
“Well, you can get emotional about it if you want. But you might try thinking this through.”
“That again? I’m not thinking enough for you? You do all the real thinking? Is that it?”
“Susan…”
“Just because I fold sheets and cook food and raise children rather than go to an office…”
“We both raised our children…”
“… doesn’t mean I can’t think things through. I have a brain. I’ve always had a brain. Valedictorian in my high school and very close to the same in college… Oh, did I say something to amuse you? Did I? Hello?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Just am.”
“Was there something in what I just said that you find humorous? I did a hell of a lot better in college than you did.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not having this ridiculous discussion. Can we just talk about this party?”
“No.”
“Will you either talk louder or turn the music down? It’s really hard to hear you.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No to everything.”
“This is the wine talking again. You know it and I know it. I’m inviting the Blomfields. Ruth will be insulted if I don’t, even though she’s not a big fan of Tilly’s.” “Then why invite her?”
“What? Hollis, you’re almost whispering. Why what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you said something.”
/> “No.”
“No what?”
“No to everything.”
His wife closed the door with a tautly stretched smile and a wave expertly crafted to tell him that she had had it and was terminating the skirmish before it got any worse.
Hollis emptied his glass, and reconsidered the tree. Suddenly it was so clear. The muscles in his hand pulsed around the handles of the metal pruner like a heartbeat.
Snip. Clunk.
Patience, discipline and, above all, wisdom.
CHAPTER 2 - Susan
“Oh, well isn’t that lovely!”
“What’s that?”
“The painting. Over your desk there. Just beautiful. Beautiful.”
“Thank you. A client of mine actually painted that for me. A long time ago. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“There’s no need to be nervous. I don’t bite.”
“Oh, it’s not you. I’m sure all psychiatrists probably make me nervous.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m a psychologist. Just think of me as Beverly.”
“Thank you, Beverly. Oh, it’s really just lovely.”
“Thank you. Umm... Susan?”
“Yes, Beverly?”
“Why don’t we get started? Come on over and have a seat next to me.”
“Oh, I’m fine standing. Really. Go ahead, I can hear you.”
“Susan.”
“Yes?”
“It may work for you, but it doesn’t work very well for me. I... I really can’t talk with you if you’re… well, pacing behind my desk. This is a very comfortable little sitting area. I promise. Come put down your purse and have some tea.”
“Am I pacing? Goodness, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. There.”
“Susan.”
“Yes, Beverly?”
“Come... sit... down.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m sorry. I’m not very comfortable I guess.”
“I understand. But you have nothing to worry about. Okay? I’ve got jasmine. I’ve got chamomile.”
“What’s this one?”
“Let’s see. That’s orange-spice.”
“I’ll try that one. No, I better not. Chamomile.”
“Sure?”
“Chamomile.”
“Okay. Now. Just relax. Let’s put down the purse. Good. Now, why don’t we start, Susan, just by telling me why you are here.”
“I was referred to you by Richard Lenz.”
“Yes. I know Richard well. He is your marriage counselor?”
“Yes.”
“Are you having problems in your marriage?”
“Yes.”
“What does your husband do?”
“Hollis is recently retired. He was the senior loan officer at OFSC for years.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Thirty-eight years.”
“Well, tell me as best you can, what seems to be the basic problem with the marriage?”
“I… I don’t really know. It’s like he doesn’t see me. Doesn’t value me. Like he’s forgotten who I am. Which is a silly thing to say, because I don’t even know who I am anymore. I used to be…”
“What, Susan? You used to be what?”
“I used to be… I’ve become this… this… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. That’s okay. Don’t look so chagrined. Marriage is complicated. Maybe it’s adjustment to retirement. That can be difficult. Particularly for men. What sort of things are the three of you working on in your sessions?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just me and Richard.”
“I’m confused.”
“Hollis won’t go. He refuses.”
“I see. He hasn’t been to any of the sessions?”
“No. So I guess we’re not making a lot of progress. Richard won’t see me any more until Hollis is willing to show up. He – Richard – thought it was a good idea if I came to see you.”
“Whose idea was marriage counseling?”
“My daughter. She lives in California. A couple of years ago I was trying to get her to come home for Thanksgiving. And she said she wouldn’t come home until Hollis and I went to see a marriage counselor.”
“I see.”
“Actually, she and my oldest son – his name is David – have each encouraged me to see someone. I hate that they see us this way. That’s not the way children should see their parents. You know what I mean?”
“Parents are people too, Susan. And children are very perceptive. There’s no hiding the facts.”
“I know. They’re just concerned. David is so sensitive. He teaches children.”
“So, both of your children are out of the house?”
“Those two are, yes. My youngest son is at home. He’s special needs, so…”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He’s a Downs Syndrome baby. I had him pretty late, so…”
“Okay. And so are you at home most of the time then?”
“Yes. I’m pretty much home all of the time. Yes.”
“No work outside the home? Are you involved in any, you know, extra…”
“No, nope. Keeping up with my family is a full time job.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. That’s a lot of work.”
“Oh, I enjoy it. And without me nothing would ever get done, so…”
“I’m sure that’s true. And so your daughter lives out of state?”
“Yes.”
“So how are your children, the two that are out of the house, how are they getting the sense that things are going wrong in your marriage?”
“Well… I don’t know. I guess I tell them. They ask me. I don’t want to lie. You know.”
“Mmm.”
“Anyway, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go see a counselor so I went.”
“And your husband?”
“Hollis just got angry about the whole thing. Very angry. He refused.”
“So, then, is your daughter coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh... No. That’s not very likely. Hollis and Tilly still don’t talk very much.”
“And why… wait. Tilly? Your daughter’s name is Tilly Johns?”
“Yes. Mmmhmm.”
“Well, that must get interesting.”
“Mmm, oh yes. Wait, what do you mean?”
“Well, I have a daughter named Monica. And during the whole Clinton fiasco... you know, with the thong underwear, and the cigars and the semen stain, I found myself strangely relieved that my last name was not Lewinski.”
“Oh.”
“Every tabloid, every news broadcast – Monica Lewinski this and Monica Lewinski that. And sometimes it felt like they were talking about my Monica. So I can only imagine. Does that wear on you some-times... having a daughter with the same name as this latest little biscuit that’s all over the place?”
“Well, actually...”
“Hollywood these days turns out more sex scandals than decent movies. I almost know more about who that little trollop is bedding than what movie she’s in. You know? It’s enough to make you want to turn the fire hoses on her, isn’t it? Spritz her with a little disinfectant. You must want to tell everyone in the world, you know, same name—different person. Not my family.”
“Um, okay…”
“Because when you’re in line at the... grocery... Susan? Hey, Mrs. Johns? Wait. Sit down. Where are you going?”
CHAPTER 3 - David
“Who is the most important historical figure you can name?”
They stare at me, bright and twinkling with attention. Soaking me in. Assessing me. Measuring me against the others. And I am ready for them.
I sit on the edge of the desk and swing my leg, looking from face to face, letting them take stock before getting down to business. The first-day energy is palpable. Fresh, young, hungry minds. I roll a stick of chalk from one palm to the other like dice. They blink at me.
“Don’t be
shy, folks. No judgment here. Who do you think is the most important historical figure of all time?”
Swing, swing, swing. Roll, roll, roll. Blink, blink.
“Anybody. Anybody at all. Don’t all dive in at once.”
Blink, blink.
“How about you… over in the back there… what’s your name?” I look at my seating chart. “Ashley? What do you think, Ashley?”
She is startled. I smile and nod. I am reassuring. I am encouraging. I am everything a teacher must be. A guide. A shepherd. I turn to the virgin green board behind me with a quickness and uncoiling energy that makes them jump. Beneath “Mr. Johns” I dramatically click chalk to slate, poised to write. A display of trusting servitude. A humble scribe.
I wait. I wait.
“Madonna,” she says, finally, with a pop of gum for punctuation.
“M…” I write the first letter and turn. “Mother of Christ?” I ask, hopefully. I am an optimistic person.
Ashley screws up her face, rapidly cocooning her forefinger in a spiraling strand of purple glop. “Huh?”
So maybe I’m not an optimistic person. I think of myself as an optimistic person, which is really very different than actual optimism. The irony is, my self-concept as an optimistic person may be the only true claim I have to actual optimism. Every morning I come to conscious-ness with this belief – this understanding – of who I am today. I stretch and I yawn and I swing my feet from the bed to the floor and so it begins. I am an optimistic person. I feel optimistic. People are basically good. My life is a communion with well-intentioned souls. Everything is, more or less, as it should be. Yesterday did not happen. History is a fiction. Each day I am reborn.
