by Owen Thomas
“What’s he working on?”
“Insulting me. That’s what he’s working on. I asked him if he would like to stay upstairs and plan Tilly’s party. He told me that Tilly’s party was all my deal – Susan it’s all your deal – is what he tells me. He has interests in life other than throwing parties.”
“Dad’s never been a party organizer, Mom.”
“No, he hasn’t. And do you know why he hasn’t, David? Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because he expects me to do everything, that’s why. Who does the Christmas party every year? Who arranges the birthdays?”
“You’re much better at it anyway, Mom.”
“That’s not the point. He should be interested. This is his daughter, David. Tilly. His own daughter.”
“I know Tilly’s his daughter, Mom.”
“But he doesn’t give a damn. And when I ask him just what other interests in life he was referring to he just turned and walked away. Turned his back and walked away.”
“Hmm.”
“It gets really hard to deal with that every day and every night and every day. Really hard, David.”
“I’m sure.”
“So I asked him again what other interests in life he was referring to and he just kept walking away from me and so I just kept following him and asking the same question, and he would ignore me and I would ask it again.”
“Mom, that sort of thing never really helps the situation. I mean, has it ever, ever, ever, ever helped the situation?”
“At the door to his office he turned around and his face was tight and red and angry and he looked at me and said ‘You… will… never… understand… anything… about… my… life’.” And so I got very quiet and I said to him very politely, because I’ve learned enough over the years not to inflame the situation, I said ‘Well, Hollis, that’s very interesting that you say that. Umm... Why do you think that I could never understand anything about your life? I find that to be a very interesting comment.’”
“That’s how you said it? Really? Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“Mom, why didn’t you just let him...”
“And he said ‘Because… you… can’t… understand… anything… about… anything… Susan.’ And his face was just so…”
“Maybe it’s retirement. Maybe he’s not busy enough.”
“Then he just turned and went into his study and closed the door in my face. I mean this is really a cold environment, David. Very, very cold.”
“I need to go, Mom.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I know you don’t like to hear bad things about your father. But sometimes I get tired of having to deal with it all alone.”
“I don’t mind, Mom.”
“Yes you do and I really shouldn’t bring it up. So! Sunshine! I guess we’ll be seeing your shining face on Saturday?!”
“Right. Saturday. Who’s coming?”
“About ten people, plus you and Mae, me, your father if he comes out of his cave, and Ben. And Gayle.”
“Whose Gayle?”
“David. Gayle. Gayle. We just talked about . . .”
“Oh, right. Gayle.”
“Did you tell Mae about the casserole?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. She’ll work up something.”
“She doing okay these days?”
“Who? Mae?”
“Yes. Mae.”
“Oh sure. Yeah. Yep. Doing fine. Real busy at work. Real, real busy at work. But then that’s Mae. Always busy. Probably why she’s sick so often.
“She’s not sick now is she?”
“No, I … well …”
“Well what? She’s not going to miss this party is she?”
“Well, if you’re sick, you’re sick, Mom, I mean …”
“Well, what’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing now. I’m just saying she hasn’t been feeling real well and if it got a lot worse, you know, she might not be able to make it, but that’s all premature since, you know, the party’s four days away.”
“Well take care of her. Get her well. Is there anything I can do?”
“No.”
“She hasn’t been over in awhile. It’s been about three months or so. Maybe four.”
“That long? Really? Hmm.”
“When are you going to announce the big event?”
“Uh . . .”
“I mean really, David. Snap her up before she gets away. Before you know it . . . Oh, David, that’s call waiting again.”
“Well you better take that. I gotta go. Bye.”
“Bye dear. Hello?”
“Hi Mom.”
“Oh! Tilly! If it isn’t my other darling! I was just on the phone with David!”
“Oh yeah? Am I interrupting?”
“No. Not at all. Perfect timing. He was in a hurry to go.”
“Mmm, I’ll bet.”
“So how is my starlet?”
“Fine. I’m returning all eleven messages you left me yesterday at one time. I find it’s much more efficient for me to deal with them in bulk.”
“I didn’t leave you eleven messages.”
“No. You’re right. I exaggerate. You left me six messages and called five other times without leaving any message at all.”
“Maybe it was someone else?”
“Could be. But I don’t know why they would be calling from your telephone.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Here are your choices, Mom. Either call and leave a message or don’t call. It is not an option for you to call, record ten seconds of silence and then hang up the phone.”
“I thought you might be home and pick up the phone.”
“Those are your options, okay?”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Good. So what’s on you mind?’
“I wanted to talk to you about your party.”
“Mom, you really don’t need to be throwing a party. It’s just a nomination.”
“Just a nomination? Are you crazy? This is an amazing honor, Tilly. We’re all so proud of you! It was a wonderful performance. I just know you’re going to win.”
“Mom, it’s my first nomination. There is no way. No fucking way.”
“You don’t need to start with the language. And there is a way. Get a little optimism going.”
“Give me a break, will you? Meryl Streep was nominated.”
“She seems like a very nice person.”
“She’s a machine. She’s an acting robot. She’s unbeatable.”
“Tilly, we all know you’re going to win and even if you don’t it’s
still an incredible accomplishment. And if I want to throw a party I’ll throw a party.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mom. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Sweetie.”
“Who’s coming to your party?”
“No. It’s your party, Tilly.”
“Okay. Who’s coming to my party?”
“Mostly people you don’t know; but they all know you.”
“I’ll bet they do.”
“Well, that’s the price of fame, my dear. We told you to keep your personal life off the movie set.”
“Mom, my whole life is a movie set.”
“Tilly, I am sure there are lots of nice men in California that don’t also happen to be your directors.”
“Don’t start, Mom. Let’s not do this. Okay?”
“Okay, okay. What are you working on now?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s not like you think, Mom. It’s not like the jobs just line up at my door. You have to look.”
“I know, but nothing? Even though you’ve been nominated? I’d have thought . . .”
“Marty’s looking. He’s got a few leads.”
“Tilly, can’t you get rid of that Marty character and find a new agent? I mean now that you’ve been nominated? Someone that handles the real stars?”
>
“Marty’s the one that pulled in Peppermint Grove. I can’t just abandon him.”
“Yes, well he also got you involved with that Steinkruger fellow, so...”
“Mom, I am not talking about Steinkruger or The Cat House Diaries again with you. Ever.”
“Who is Meryl’s agent?”
“I don’t want Meryl’s agent. I want Marty Wycoff and that’s all there is to it.”
“Well does the fabulous Marty Wycoff have anything for you at all?”
“He’s working on it.”
“Like what?”
“Mom.”
“I’m just curious.”
“He wants me to try out for something that Blair Gaines is working on.”
“Oooo... Blair Gaines. I like his stuff. He did that… that… oh, what was it?”
“Yeah, don’t get your hopes up. I’m not sure I’m interested.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. It’s a science fiction thing and there’s a lot of crap out there.”
“Yes, but Blair Gaines, Tilly.”
“Yeah. Gaines is good. That’s true. And it’s based on an Angus Mann story. So maybe.”
“Who?”
“Angus Mann. Great writer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s from Ohio.”
“I’ll ask you father.”
“Please don’t.”
“I could ask Bill Swenson. He’ll be at the party. Bill’s very well read.”
“Oh, please, Mom. Please don’t. I probably won’t even be asked to do the film, and I’m not dying my hair again. If you want me to talk about this stuff you can’t release it into the gossip mill.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, Mom? Seriously.”
“I said okay.”
“How many people are coming to this thing, anyway?”
“Coming when?”
“The party, Mom.”
“Maybe a dozen. I just talked to my friend Gayle, she’s coming.”
“Who’s Gayle?”
“Fingerhut campaign.”
“Oh. I’m sure she could use a drink. You should invite Voinovich over and beat the crap out of him.”
“You know your father voted for him? And Bush!”
“Yeah, that’s old news, Mom. I’m shocked.”
“He did it just to spite me.”
“Of course he did. You start to exercise a little independence, you start associating with people who are intelligent and interesting and who appreciate you and Dad starts getting that holier than thou, wise man at the top of the mountain stick up his ass and he wants to reign you in and when you won’t heel then he takes it out on you. The man has a black belt in passive aggression.”
“The drinking, Tilly.”
“Hey, no fair, he’s the Republican. He’s got no reason to be an alcoholic. He ought to leave the booze for the Democrats.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s a Republican-Democrat thing. Really, we’re both Republicans.”
“You’re not a Republican, Mom.”
“I’ve always voted Republican. So has your father.”
“Mom, I swear to God my brain is going to explode. If you are both so entrenched Republicans, why did you campaign for Fingerhut? Why vote for Kerry? And why are you so surprised and angry that Dad voted like … like an entrenched Republican?”
“I like to think of myself as an Independent.”
“You just said you were a Republican.”
“No, I said that’s how I’ve always voted in the past.”
“No, you …”
“As far as I’m concerned, you want my vote, you have to make your case.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“But, your father, Tilly . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes it gets very, very difficult living with so much anger and coldness.”
“I’m tellin’ you Mom, cut the bastard loose.”
“Tilly, stop it. He’s your father. He’s a good man. I’m not cutting anyone loose. Goodness. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying . . .”
“That you want to take his shit forever? Is that what you were just saying?”
“Oh, dear. You’re mad. I really shouldn’t be talking about this to you kids.”
“Why? What’s David think?”
“I don’t know. You know David. He clams up. He doesn’t like talking about it.”
“Dad’s got him whipped. Always has. I love David, but he doesn’t have a spine.”
“Oh, I think he’s got plenty of spine. He’s just uncomfortable on this subject. He’s had to hear a lot of fighting over the years.”
“Mom, we all had to hear a lot of fighting. How’s Ben?”
“Great. David came by last night and snuck him out of the house and took him to the movies. He’s still talking about it. David really takes care of Ben, you know.”
“Meaning …”
“Nothing. He just does.”
“Meaning I don’t, right?”
“Well, Tilly, you live in California.”
“Meaning, I left home and never came back, right?”
“That really is not what I was saying. We’re proud of you.”
“Christ. Mom, why did you call me?”
“Oh. I wanted to arrange for a time that you will call in on Saturday.”
“Call in where?”
“Here. At the party.”
“Why am I calling in?”
“So you can say hello to your fan club and so we can hear your voice.”
“What?! Like on the speakerphone?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t even know these people. It’s just a nomination. Absolutely not.”
“Tilly …”
“No, Mom. I am not doing that. I’m not.”
“God, I hate it when he’s right.”
“Who?”
“Your father. He said you’d say that. He thinks it’s a stupid idea too.”
“ …”
“Til?”
“…”
“Tilly?”
“What time do you want me to call?”
CHAPTER 8 – Hollis
The hostess had given him a booth.
He was not sure whether he should keep it or change to one of the tables that ducked decorously beneath the half-wall separating the restaurant from the lobby.
He decided to stay put. The tables bordering the lobby were very small. So small that the little octagonal baskets on the wall-edge of each table – just large enough to hold the salt and pepper shakers, four tiny blue plastic thimbles of crème, and a glass box of sugar packets – were crowding the slender crystal bud vases, whose conspicuously assigned territory was dead center of each table. A wall table would have made for a cramped and uncomfortable meeting.
The booth was bigger. Quieter. So he would stay where he had been placed.
Although, and this was the thing, the booths held an unidentifiable discomfort; something he could not quite place. A vague unease with their intimacy. The way they hunched over in a dark crouch like half-opened leather-lined seed pods in the back of a pantry. These were tables for secrets.
The waitress, “Ramada– Lydia”, came by with a glass of water and a menu and asked for a drink order.
“I’m waiting for someone,” he said. “I’ll need another menu.”
“Something to drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
Ramada Lydia returned with another menu and filled his cup from a stainless steel pot and then was gone again, over to a couple – he in an expensive looking suit, she in jeans and plaid flannel – feeding each other pie and holding hands. They spoke alternately in low whispers and loud bursts of illicit gaiety.
Hollis checked his watch again. He supposed it was possible that she had been here on time and, having ascertained that he was not here on time, became impatient and left. That was possible. He knew the Japa
nese to be a punctual culture. Extraordinarily punctual. They knew how to keep appointments. Courtesy. Honor. Respect.
But … eleven minutes. The Japanese were also extraordinarily patient, and bailing after ten or eleven minutes did not fit the mold. Even fifteen minutes. That was late, true – he should not have taken the by-pass, he knew better with all the goddamned traffic than to take the by-pass, what had he been thinking?
But still, even fifteen minutes is not so late.
Hollis popped his head out of the booth and took another look around. Seven other tables were occupied, all but one with parties of two or more. He could eliminate those immediately, since he was reasonably certain she would be alone. She was on the road and she did not know anyone in Ohio. At least, he didn’t think she knew anyone in Ohio, although now that he thought about it, he didn’t really know one way or the other.
But, even if she did, what cause would there have been to bring a friend? Nervousness? Apprehension at meeting a stranger? And meeting him at a hotel, no less.
Hollis took a closer look at his fellow diners, less certain than before.
No, he resolved again, she would be alone. And besides, these people were all so obviously wrong – either local business folks meeting for lunch or travelers. Standard Ramada casting. There was one woman sitting alone at a table in the middle of the restaurant reading a book. About the right age, but definitely not her. Caucasian, like the rest of them, and blonde to boot.
It was not like he didn’t have a pretty good idea of what she looked like. His memory was far from perfect, true enough. And Suki had been younger in the photograph. But he had the basic idea. She just wasn’t here, that’s all there was to it.
Hollis returned to the center of the booth where he had a clear line of sight to the entrance. The vinyl leather pod groaned around him as he resettled himself.
“Yes sir?” Another waitress, “Ramada– Ann”, appeared suddenly before him with a pitcher of water in one hand and a pot of coffee in another. “Did you need something?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“I saw you looking around so I thought maybe...”
“No. Just looking for someone.”
“Someone meeting you for lunch?”
“Yes. You haven’t seen a young Japanese woman here have you?”
“No. Not that I recall.”
“Probably don’t get a lot of Japanese in the ol’ Zumstein Drive Ramada, do you?”
