by Owen Thomas
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I was doing those things, Susan. Yes. Does that make you happy?”
His voice was calm and detachedly unemotional. He did not divert his attention from, now, the second half of his grapefruit, the paring of which had, from all appearances, come to require the concentration and precision of a vascular surgeon.
…due respect to Dr. Farnsworth, I take strong exception to his analysis. If the polls say anything at all, they say that the liberal media has largely succeeded in cultivating a misinformed public in key regions of the country. Heritage has done its own studies which indicate that …
“Did you fall asleep in your chair again?”
Hollis ignored the question and placed his grapefruit halves onto a plate with his slice of toast. He poured himself some juice and sat down at the table to eat.
“Don’t you want some eggs?”
“No thanks.”
“But… I’m standing here making… I’m standing here making breakfast, Hollis.”
“This’ll be fine.”
“I made it for us, Hollis. I…”
“Thanks. This’ll be fine.”
“What do I do with all of this?”
She gestured with open-armed incredulity at the tortured Canadian bacon, its darkly browning edges curling up off the surface of the pan, its center-meat puckering and popping.
“I don’t know Susan. Give it to Ben when he gets up.”
“Ben hates bacon and eggs. Ben will want oatmeal.”
“It’s better for him.”
“Great. Just great. Is there some reason that you won’t eat what I’m cooking if I put it on a plate and bring it to you?”
“Uh… no thanks. This’ll be fine.”
“Why, Hollis? Just give me a reason.”
“Well, I, just… this will be fine.”
“Hollis.”
He spread a layer of boysenberry jam on his toast and then calmly lay the knife on the corner of his plate. When he spoke, it was with a serrated irritation. He spoke as if to a child that refused to understand the obvious, gesticulating unnecessarily and widening his eyes in a feigned earnestness to communicate.
“Susan… okay. This is all I want to eat. Okay? Let’s see… what else can I tell you? I’m not hungry for anything more. And, what else… I don’t want eggs and bacon. And, what else… uh, eggs and bacon aren’t healthy for me. And, uh, uh, what else can I tell you? Let’s see,” and here he counted dramatically on his fingers, “don’t want it, not hungry, don’t have time, not healthy, not interested in eggs and bacon, rather have fruit and toast. I mean how many ways do I need to express the basic idea that I do not care to have eggs and bacon today?”
“Why don’t you have time?”
Hollis had not meant to say that he did not have time. He recognized the mistake as his lips were forming the words. But it was too late. He had tried to bury the mistake with a flurry of other reasons that eggs and bacon were disagreeable, but that had failed to do the trick and now his wife was understandably curious as to why her retired husband was suddenly so busy that he could not take time to chew more than twenty-four tiny triangles of grapefruit and a slice of toast.
The irony, of course, was that he still had plenty of time before he was supposed to meet Suki and there was no need for him to have said what he had said. But the irony crushing that irony into a fine powder was that he was starving and that the bacon and eggs would have been delicious.
…don’t see how he can possibly point the finger at an allegedly liberal media with the likes of Fox News working, in effect, as a second tier White House Press Secretary and, in the meantime, the administration is spending …
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you have time? Where are you going?”
“I just have things to do.”
“Like?”
“Errands, Susan. Do you want me to pick up the dry cleaning?”
“You’re dressed for work, Hollis. Where are you going?”
He looked at her placidly.
“Favor for a friend. I’m meeting with some OSU admissions people for his kid.”
“Who?”
“Business associate. You wouldn’t know him.”
“Hollis, why don’t you just tell me these things?”
“Hmm?”
“I said why don’t you just… just tell me these things?”
“I dunno, Susan. I suppose I just don’t think of it.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if we communicated? Rather than you having this… this… this totally separate existence? Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
Susan grabbed the pan and with an efficient flick of the spatula, sent a piece of Canadian bacon and half of the eggs into the sink. She let the water blast and the disposal run as she emptied the rest of the pan onto a plate.
Hollis rose, finishing his last corner of toast as he moved to the sink, washed his plate and turned off the disposal. Susan stood frozen, staring vacantly at the counter as he patted her on the shoulder and headed for the door.
“See you tonight,” he said.
“Wait. No. Hollis, wait.”
Her voice was both calmer and more resolute. Hollis sighed, stopped and turned.
“What.”
“I want you to apologize to me.”
“For what? The bacon? Sorry for the bacon.”
“I want you to apologize to me for making me feel stupid. I’m not stupid. I’m a smart woman, Hollis. I always have been and you know it. As smart as you are. Smarter in some ways. I have insight. I have vision. I haven’t worked out in the world for almost forty years because I am here at home taking care of a son we both love. It’s a full-time job, Hollis. So, except for the election, I haven’t gotten out and mixed with others like you have, but I’m not stupid. I’m not. And I want your apology for always making me think I’m stupid. And I want you to apologize for showing no interest in me. Our life is always about your life. Your life, Hollis. I matter. I am worth your attention. I want you to apologize for abandoning your role as a husband. For just leaving me alone in this marriage.”
Hollis watched his wife, standing rigid in their kitchen, trying to orderly arrange her words like undisciplined school children as they assembled hastily in her mouth, clamoring for daylight. It was a bad habit he had developed, watching people in the mouth, rather than in the eyes, as they spoke to him. Susan especially. His focal point with her was always the lips, the teeth, the tongue, never the eyes. The mouth made the words and the words he could handle. But the eyes…
“And I want you to apologize for keeping Tilly away. You do nothing to encourage her, Hollis. You do everything to criticize her. It’s just no wonder at all that she does not come home. That is your doing and I want … you … to … apologize.”
Susan paused and looked at her hands, as though trying to remember.
… frankly, Wolf, I think it is insulting for Ms. Wilson to accuse me of manipulating my research to mislead your viewers. I…Wolf…I…Wolf…I want…Ms. Wilson…I want…doctor, it is my turn to speak…No, I don’t care, I want to address that…Dr. Farnsworth has no business taking a self-righteous tone when he’s the one…
“And I want you to apologize for just … just so easily moving on without me, Hollis. For not even caring whether I am here or not here. I am here, Hollis. I am entitled to your respect and I am entitled to your apology.”
Hollis regarded her, all of her, in silence as she stood, fists clenched on the green gold-flecked counter, jaws set, eyes rimmed red in anger and self-loathing for having to show her pain. They stared at each other for a long moment as Wolf admonished his guests to remain civil.
“See you tonight,” he said, and walked out the door.
* * *
Hollis saw her within moments of pulling into the grounds of the Westin. She was semi-reclining on a glossy rock wall that unnecessarily demarked the parking lot from the entrance to the
hotel. Her head was propped upon a stone pillar, eyes closed, face bathing in morning sun. She was wearing a simple blouse of pale blue and a floral skirt that she had pulled up onto her thighs so that the sun would not be wasted. Her shoes lay abandoned in the gravel at the base of the wall. Her toes were young and pink.
He tapped his horn and Suki Takada jolted to life, pulling down her skirt, slipping easily from the wall and reclaiming her shoes. She swung a purse from over the other side of the wall.
“Good morning, Hollis. Wow. You look nice.” She climbed in next to him and closed the door in a single, fluid, youthful motion.
“Well, good morning there, Suki. You look lovely yourself. Are we ready for the day?” He smiled and she patted him on the forearm like they were old friends.
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful today?” She intoned in a pure and weightless voice. “Isn’t the sun just irresistible in the morning?”
Hollis pulled through the other side of the parking lot and headed west.
“So,” she asked, “what did you decide? Ohio State, then Case Western…”
“No. Ohio State, then Ohio Wesleyan, then Ohio Northwestern, then up to Case Western, then we’ll try to pick up Kent State on the way back.”
“Okay, Hollis. You’re in charge. Sounds like a good enough plan to me. Think we can do all of that in one day?”
“Don’t see why not. If we can’t then we’ll just pick up the rest tomorrow.”
“I can’t possibly take up two of your days. Even today is too generous of you.”
Hollis pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. A low-riding Buick roared around them in irritation. He turned to face her and extended a forefinger.
“Okay, Suki, listen up. No more handwringing about wasting my time. Okay? We covered this more than once yesterday. I’m here to help you. I promised your father I’d help and that’s what I’m here to do. We’re going to visit every one of these schools and I am going to be right there with you if it takes us a solid week. Okay?”
“Well,” she said, concern melting into gratitude, unfurrowing the little petal of skin between her eyes, “okay.”
“There will be no more concern about wasting my time, right?”
Suki smiled at him. She pulled his hand out of the air and clasped it for a moment between her own. “Okay, Hollis. Alright. You’re too kind to do this for me.”
“Not at all.” Hollis let a cable utility truck pass and then pulled back out into the roadway. “I am at your service. Your wish is my command.”
“Well, then can I ask a favor?”
“Absolutely, Suki. Ask away.”
“Would you not call me Suki?”
“Oh. But…” He looked at her in semi-alarm, concerned that he had somehow misjudged; that he had been the cause of some unknown offense. But she was smiling at him sweetly, almost apologetically; the flawless skin of her perfect little forehead again showing the topography of concern.
“I am Suki to my father. I am Suki in Japan. But…I grew up in California. My mother never really liked the name, so…”
“What do I call you?”
“My name is Bethany.” She winced as though the word were the point of a knife breaking his skin.
“Bethany? Really?”
“Yes. Bethany Koan.”
“Bethany Koan. From Suki Takada to Bethany Koan in two seconds.”
“I’m sorry, Hollis. I really am. I…”
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s a beautiful name.”
“I should have told you yesterday, I just… you’re a friend of my father’s and well, I mean, in all things concerning my father, I am Suki Takada, you know? And yesterday, meeting you and all, I was just sort of in that mode. But now, here we are and the sun is shining and you are just so sweet to be helping me like this and,” she placed her hand on his forearm again, “I don’t know, Hollis, I just want all of my friends to call me Bethany. It just feels better. You know? Is that okay?”
“I understand perfectly.” Hollis beamed out the front windshield and merged into the sparkling, metallic gush of southbound I-71. “Like I said, your wish is my command.”
For a few moments, they were both quiet. The freeway rose beneath them in a smooth, gray arch that lifted them enough to see the buildings of downtown Columbus gleaming in the middle distance. Bethany watched the traffic and then adjusted her body, back against the door, her shoulders almost squared towards him, so that she could catch more of the sun streaming in from the east. Her blouse soaked it up like a patch of Caribbean sky, gleaming as though she were lit from within. Hollis quietly basked in the reflected warmth.
She looked at her watch and turned on the radio. Mahler was in the thick of it.
“Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
She cycled through the presets and then switched to AM, scanning low to high.
“What station is O’Donnel on here?”
“Who?”
“Mike O’Donnel. The Fixture?”
Hollis shrugged his shoulders. “Never heard of him.”
“Don’t you have cable?”
“I don’t watch television,” he said. “I’d rather read. Who’s Mike O’Donnel?”
She smiled and turned off the radio. “A news guy. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Me too.”
“Breakfast?”
“Excellent.”
Against his better judgment, he stopped at the first waffle house that caught her attention. It was a squat white building with seven square, dingy yellow signs welded along the roofline; one for each letter of the specialty. There were too many semi rigs in front. He parked, and then thought better of it and started off again.
“No. Hollis. This is great. Here, here, here. Really.”
She put her hand on his, clutching the gearshift, and slipped the car into neutral. The engine revved furiously, catching the attention of two bearded men in baseball hats just pushing their way through a pair of glass doors into the sunlight. Hollis stomped on the brake and the car jolted and seized. Bethany threw her head back and laughter welled up from deep in her throat.
“Waffles, waffles, waffles!”
“I know a lot of very nice breakfast places in town. If you can hang on about…”
“Waffles, waffles, waffles!”
“Okay, okay.” He tried not to look taken aback. “Waffles, waffles, waffles!”
“Thanks, Hollis. You’re the best.”
The hostess seated them in a booth at the back of the restaurant and Hollis wondered if he had become a booth-in-the-back-of-the-restaurant type of guy. He thought that the waitress, Hello! I’m Ruth, eyed them a little too appraisingly as she poured their water. Her accent was Texan. Her smile was late-blooming Baptist; a thin, crooked, fleshless slash of a smile that had managed to hang on to all of the seedy ways of the world even as Hello! I’m Ruth had been snatched from the Hellfire and pulled into the bosom of Jesus. It was a smile that popped its gum and said I know what you’re all about there, fella’.
Bethany ordered a plate of waffles; Hollis, the Belgian Special, consisting of a plate of two Belgian waffles, two eggs any style – he chose scrambled –, a side of bacon and wheat toast. The rationale that he was starving, and that it might have been considered rude to simply sit there and watch his guest eat alone, was just enough to keep the sound of his own kitchen garbage disposal from chewing at his conscience.
They spoke of the day ahead and of the administrators Hollis proposed they see in the various halls of Ohioan academe. He knew them all, it seemed. Just to prove it, he generously peppered the discussion with personal, iconic anecdotes for each administrator which he shared with relish and which Bethany received with delight and an acolytic purity of interest. Almost all of these administrators, he explained, had come to him at one point or another, asking for his advice about employment opportunities, not so much at the bank, but at any of the many Ohio businesses that Hollis knew so well.
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br /> “Not a one of them,” he declaimed, “have a lick of sense for business. They’re frustrated academicians stuck in the bureaucratic purgatory of university administration. A more unhappy lot of sourpusses you will never see. They are neither educators nor business people.”
“Running a college is a business,” she said uncertainly.
“These are small governments, not businesses. Universities are like foreign embassies. The laws don’t apply; in this case the laws of economics, of fiscal cause and effect, the laws of bottom-line consequence. These people know school yard politics like they were born to it, but none of them would know a balance sheet or an income statement if their lives depended on it. They each go scurrying out into the private sector, spend two years falling on their faces and making bad decisions with other people’s money, and then they go scurrying back to the ivory towers where they curse their fate and play Rapunzel for another three or four years before they give it another try.”
“Sounds kind of sad to me,” she said.
“It’s sad until they take their misery out on you.” Hollis pointed with his fork.
“Me?”
“You, the student. You, the admissions candidate. You, the one with your life ahead of you. They can’t help but envy their own students, who they know will, in a few years time, be earning five times their salaries. You’re coming from Columbia. It’s a good school. No question. But it has an elitist air to it. These people are very sensitive to being looked down upon.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“I’m just saying that an inside track would not hurt you, Suki, believe me.”
