by Owen Thomas
Their booth at the waffle joint was unnaturally small and in the course of reaching for syrup and butter and salt, and in the process of shifting and settling and slipping in and out to use the restroom, their limbs, both above and beneath the table, collided repeatedly. For much of their two hour breakfast, the top of Bethany’s perfect foot came to rest firmly against the inside of his calf. All innocent, he was quite sure, and something of which Bethany was probably not at all conscious. But he could not let it go; the sensation of her foot and the feeling that he was once again sixteen.
They had visited two colleges in a single day this time, first Ohio Wesleyan and then up to Northwestern… well, the University of Northwestern Ohio, in Lima.
Hollis knew that he should have been embarrassed about Ohio Wesleyan. It had been his idea to go; he was the tour guide. He had insisted for three days that she had to visit Ohio Wesleyan. And, in fact, he had been embarrassed at first. He had felt hot tendrils of shame racing up his neck and into his face as the admissions clerk – a sparsely but conspicuously whiskered, limp dishrag of a boy, assembling campus information packets by pounding sharply on a stapler – had looked at him and said, “Business school? Oh no, this is an undergraduate institution,” with an uncalled for emphasis. “We’ve never had a business school.” And then adding, so unnecessarily: “Ever.” And then again, as Hollis had slowly closed his eyes, “And we’ve been around since 1842.”
More embarrassing still should have been the fact that on the ride up, Hollis had regaled Bethany with suspiciously entertaining stories of people he knew – one in banking, one in advertising and another in information technology – smart, successful people, who had come from the Ohio Wesleyan School of Business. Or so he had remembered. Real winners, he had called them.
“Maybe you’re thinking of Wesleyan University in Connecticut,” the whiskered dishrag had said as they were leaving, Hollis in front, Bethany a step behind, pushing their way through the glass double doors of the Ohio Wesleyan admissions office out into the early sun of late summer. For a millisecond, the humiliation coalescing in his veins had paused, considering whether outrage was a more appropriate – certainly more comfortable – emotional direction. Hollis half-considered spinning on his heels, charging back into the office, and suturing the word WESLEYAN across the man’s face with the stapler that had noisily resumed wasting its true potential on sheaves of paper.
But the humiliation, along with any nascent, ill-formed anger, dissipated. Bethany had brushed past him into the parking lot and was pointing to a plush, sunlit quadrangle of fat-bladed grass stretching out beneath a grove of trees. The leaves were beginning to turn and the suggestion of gold suspended between the blueness of sky and the greenness of earth had been enough to pull her forward, slipping out of her shoes as she went.
“Hollis, I have to walk on this grass. I just have to. Come on!”
She had looked over her shoulder at him, extending her hand backwards, dangling one shoe and then two shoes on her finger. Her face held the youthful, beatific perfection that he had by then come to expect and yet could never quite seem to accept as real. He stared and followed, all trace of self-conscious emotion and thought of metal sutures reduced to cobwebs like an old bad dream.
He had resisted her entreaties to shed his shoes and socks, but that was all he could resist. She reached for his hand and he gave it to her. And it was so easy. So uncomplicated. So pure. It was such a natural complement to cool morning grass stretched beneath that blueness, and that suggestion of gold, and those perfect pink feet.
“Hollis,” she said to him when they had reached the end of the lawn and had turned back in the direction of the car.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t really take credit for the grass, I…”
She laughed, delightedly.
“No. Thank you for sharing your time. Thank you for sharing yourself. You’re such an amazing person, Hollis. You’re so … I don’t know; so wise and generous. I just feel really fortunate that I met you. I just want you to know that I really appreciate this.”
Thinking back on the day, which had slowly simmered in wine and the lateness of evening from a million brilliant details down into a warm, pleasing paste of memory, Hollis could not now recall precisely what he had said to her in return; only that she had squeezed his hand for emphasis and that he had returned the gesture. The moment had an unmistakable redolence. Part floral, part sunlight on bare skin, and part forgotten youth. She was so unabashedly affectionate; so unreservedly optimistic. Every word was genuine; every look was sincerity itself. She was so willing, so eager to learn; so interested in what he could teach her. So intelligent, and yet, disarmingly naive.
He remembered also that she had told him, either then or later, that Susan – Bethany referred to his wife as though they were old friends – was a very lucky woman. Had he been a man prone to guilt feelings, or if he had been doing anything inappropriate – which he had certainly not been, since there is absolutely nothing inappropriate in holding hands with a friend, and that’s what she was, a friend – Hollis might have felt a slightly disconcerting twinge or a tiny bioelectric pulse of energy at the invocation of his wife. As it was, Susan’s name slipped in and out of the conversation as an effortless testament to the purity of their intentions.
But Bethany’s observation could not help but confirm for Hollis what he had always known. Susan was lucky to have him. He was a good husband. He had done well in raising their children. He had worked hard to provide the roof and the food and the education and the entertainment. She was lucky to have a man of wisdom and patience. She sure could have done a lot worse for herself.
Tonight, in fact, had been a perfect example of Susan’s fortune in mating.
Upon returning home after re-depositing Bethany at her hotel, he had encountered Susan just inside the front door, arms full of dirty clothing and towels, with a withering look on her face. It was instantly obvious to him that she had been seething all day over his unapproved absence and that she had been angrily rehearsing his return home.
“Hollis.” She had said it in that way of hers; the way that sounds as if each syllable is being separately sculpted by muscles in the back of her jaws.
“Hello, dearest.”
“Where have you been all day?” She did not let him answer. “You know, I don’t care where you go or what you do, but you at least owe me the courtesy of some mention of your whereabouts. If there had been an emergency, if something had happened to Ben, I would have had no idea where to find you. You left your cell phone on the dresser, so I could not have called you if I wanted to. I think that’s disrespectful.”
And it had gone on from there, all her, nothing from him, until Ben had bounded into the foyer, dancing to something he heard within his disconnected headphones. Hollis had received and returned the lavishing of hugs and kisses from his son and then had turned to his wife, waiting to resume her rebuke.
“I’m very sorry, sweetheart,” he had said before she could draw another breath. “I was out early and I didn’t want to wake you, and then I forgot my phone.”
Then he had hugged her, dirty laundry and all, unwilling to take issue with her attitude or her disingenuous concern about undefined emergencies. He was wiser than that; more patient and forbearing than that. Susan was a luckier woman than that.
He had felt her muscles tense and her body stiffen, but he did not relent. In a few moments, he felt her soften, grudgingly at first and then giving in, allowing him to squeeze the stale, angry air from her lungs.
Ben had then engulfed them both with his own bouncy embrace and they all, even Susan who was still clutching her ball of towels and clothes, had laughed. She had offered a less than convincing excuse for not having dinner ready and Hollis had wisely let it go, knowing that dinner had not been ready because all day Susan had been relishing the idea of punishing him with starvation.
“Let’s all go out to eat,” he ha
d said.
“Really?” She had been unable to cover her surprise.
“Sure. Whadayasay, my boy? How does going out to dinner tonight sound?”
Susan had headed down to the laundry room with an entirely new frame of mind. And why was that? Because he was just that patient, and just that wise, and just that above all of the unnecessary unpleasantness of Susan’s disposition when she lost perspective. A lesser man would have rolled up his sleeves and defended his actions and his right to go and do as he pleased in the world, and the night would have been a supremely unpleasant and unproductive affair. But Susan was a lucky woman.
Dinner, for the most part, had been very enjoyable. They had gone to the Safari Hut in Columbus for steaks and potatoes and the giant all-you-can eat salad bar. It was easily Ben’s favorite restaurant due less to the food than the life-sized animal sculptures guarding the clusters of thick wooden tables, corralled by imitation split rail fences.
“Table or booth,” the hostess had chirped. She was wearing a safari ranger uniform with patches on the sleeves and a hat much too big for her head.
“How about a booth, back there by the giraffe,” Susan had suggested, pointing to the large leather booths along the back wall. But Hollis, acting on a contrarian impulse he did not really understand, had elbowed Ben and pointed away from the spacious booths, and in the direction of a group of tables by the front windows.
“A giraffe? No, that won’t do. What do you think of that one, Benny?”
Ben had followed Hollis’ finger and, upon finding the sculpture, gave a bounce and a clap of approval. Ben had tried, imitatively, to bare his teeth and curl his claws and hunch his shoulders in a feral savagery he did not possess. He growled in mock ferocity and Hollis had growled back and then clawed at Susan’s arm beseechingly. Then, delighted, Ben had clawed at her too.
Susan had laughed, shaking her head. “I guess we’ll take the table by the lion.”
But if Hollis had, for whatever reason, denied Susan the booth by the giraffe, he had allowed her to control the dinner conversation, which, amid responding to Ben’s relatively constant observations, and allowing for some minor angst devoted to the state of David’s relationship with Mae, and whether David was happy in his job, and whether he thought David used recreational drugs, had consisted of variations on the theme of Tilly’s party.
Hollis had not objected. He had not rolled his eyes. He had not ventured to pass judgment on either the party or his daughter. For better or worse, the party was important to Susan, and if indulging that particular obsession would improve her day, then he would indulge her. Susan, as Bethany Koan had noted, was lucky to have him.
“I thought I would bring Bethany Koan to the party,” had been the comment, even so nonchalantly delivered, that had threatened to take the entire evening south.
“What?”
“She’s from out of town and doesn’t know anybody. It would just be a nice…”
“Who is Bethany Koan?”
“The person I’ve been helping.”
“Helping how?”
“She’s the daughter of Akahito Takada.”
“Helping how?”
“He’s the one I stayed with when I went…”
“Helping how, Hollis? Helping how? What made you think to invite her at the last minute without even asking? I mean, honestly, Hollis, who do you think pulls all of this together? It doesn’t happen by itself, I can tell you that.”
“Which question would you like me to answer, Susan?”
“Well, for starters, there has to be enough food. Did you think of that? Unless you tell me that she doesn’t eat, you have to serve…what? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. She knows how to eat. She can really pack … Oh, excuse me, ma’am, can I get another glass of pinot? Thanks.”
“Hollis, don’t do that; please don’t.”
“Don’t what Susan?”
“That’s number three.”
“Relax, Susan.”
“Yeah, fine, Hollis. I’ll relax. It’s always on me to relax. No…Ben, here, let me get that. There you go, Sweetie. I just wish you had told me sooner, Hollis.”
“I didn’t know sooner.”
“It’s very nice of you to help her do…whatever it is you’re helping …”
“She looking at business schools.”
“It’s just not as easy as saying come on by for dinner. Is she a fan of Tilly’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. Susan. I don’t know.”
“She does know who Tilly is, right? I mean…”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Hollis. Why…how…is she just looking for some food or something? Is she some starving refugee looking for a buffet? This is a party for our daughter. It’s important. We can’t just have strangers in who don’t give a damn. I don’t want that.”
“She’s not a stranger.”
“No? How long have you known her?”
“Oh…a few days.”
“And you think that’s knowing someone?”
“Oh, thank you, and we can take the check anytime.”
“Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“You think that because you have known this person for a few days that she is not a stranger to the family?”
“MmmHmm.”
“How? I don’t know her. Tilly and David don’t know her. None of our other guests know her. This party only works if everyone gets along and fits together socially. Are you sure she will fit in?”
“MmmHmm.”
“Really? Are you sure she will get along with Jude and Mickey?
“MmmHmm.”
“Really? She’s going to get along with Peaches?”
“MmmHmm.”
“And Rhonda Davenport? You know Rhonda can be quite something. Are you sure this … oh, what’s her name? Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“Your friend, what’s her name?”
“What friend?”
“Hollis… the one you invited to Tilly’s party. The one we are talking about.”
“Bethany Koan.”
“Are you sure Bethany Koan will even enjoy the likes of Rhonda Davenport?”
“MmmHmm. How do you like that mac-n-cheese there partner?”
“How? Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“How can you be sure she’ll fit in?”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Yes, but I’m asking why you think so.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Hollis.”
“Hmm?”
And so it had gone, through dinner, a fourth glass of Pinot Noir, dessert, and all the way home. But while the conversation and rapport had not maintained the rosy feel that had immediately preceded The Safari Hut, it also did not devolve into outright argument. And this, Hollis knew, even if Susan could not appreciate it, was entirely due to his ability to rise above her petty concerns. He was smarter than to take the bait and this was as much to her benefit as to his own.
Not that he wouldn’t have loved to teach Susan a thing or two about herself; to show her the illogic, the incredible shallowness, of her social concerns; to lay bare for her own inspection her rampant insecurity, her misdirected anxiety, and her penchant for projection. Quite the contrary; he had itched to share a candid observation or two. Hadn’t Susan, in fact, invited her own friend, Gayle, to the party? Did she think he had forgotten this? Did Gayle know the family? Was Gayle a fan of Tilly’s?
Not that he cared in the least. The point was that Susan was lacking perspective; her thinking was muddled. And he could have laid it all out for her.
But he knew she would never have taken the lesson. She would have rejected his insights wholesale as mean-spirited criticism. She would have started demanding apologies and counseling and the conversation would have seized the evening in its jaws and plowed through the floor of The Safari Hut directly in into the earth beneath t
he city of Columbus. And it would have been Susan, not him, who would have suffered the most. It would have been she, not he, who would have gone to bed crying.
But Susan had not gone to bed crying. And whether she understood it or not, her dry eyes and her already over-taxed mucous membranes had only his emotional restraint to thank. Wisdom is its own reward. Its value does not depend upon its apprehension by others. Indeed, true wisdom, marked by its inaccessibility, is a solitary pursuit. That tends to make those who are less contemplative – those who are less in tune with themselves – angry and frustrated and of a mind to cast blame and to feel personally rejected. He had been wise enough to spare her that turmoil. He had checked out of the conversation at the point where wisdom intersected with mercy. It was, in fact, as simple as it had been put to him earlier in the day: Susan was a lucky woman.
Of course, while lucky Susan had not gone to bed crying, she had gone to bed thoroughly pissed off. Upon returning from dinner, Hollis had spent some time with Ben and, when Susan had gone up to take a shower, he had quietly repaired himself to his study with a glass of Chablis. There, he had listened to Bach and contemplated his bonsai and meditated so comfortably that the unknowing might have thought him asleep.
He opened his eyes and slowly regarded the dark living room. His muscles were relaxed and the blood felt warm in his veins. The quiet stillness of the house packed in around his ears so densely that he could hear his own heartbeat. His hands lay in his lap, still clutching his bouquet of clean underwear and his empty wine glass.
Hollis leaned forward and emptied his hands onto the low, square coffee table in front of him. As he leaned back into the inviting cloud of sofa, his hand, as if of its own volition, snagged the remote control.
He muted the sound as the dark box against the far wall came to life. The screen exploded across the living room in a ball of silent blue light like a miniature supernova. A man – the head of a man – was talking at him. Insistently, urgently, pointing at him, and yet, at the same time, with shoulder shrugs and lifted eyebrows and dismissive hand gestures that seemed to say all of this is so simple, so axiomatic that I am wasting my time even talking about it. Hollis pushed a button and gave him the power of speech.
