by Owen Thomas
“Sounds familiar. Ever met her?”
“Once.”
“A looker?”
“Not really. Kind of matronly. Tall. Gray hair in a bun. Sweet face.”
“Smart?”
“No idea. I’ve never spoken two words to her.”
“Because?”
“Because I have no dealings with her. I have no occasion to see her.”
“Tonight was a Christmas party, Hollis.”
“Strictly business for Charles, I assure you. He probably went to six of them tonight. Why would he bring her along for all of that?”
“Because she’s the center of his universe, remember?”
“Can we drop this?”
“Sorry, Sweetie.” Susan’s tone had softened. “I’m just giving you a hard time. You get to pick your own friends.”
“Client.”
“Whatever. He clearly likes you. He said he’s got big dealings with the bank. I didn’t pry even though I think he wanted me to.”
“It’s a couple of big office complexes downtown. Also wants to build his own private school.”
“A school?”
“An academy. All hush-hush. Still in the thinking stages. Limited to exceptional students. He says he can recruit Ivy League talent to run it, but he wants Alice to be a vice-principal to make sure it’s stays a quality operation.”
“Well, well. See what I know.”
“Yeah, that’s hardly keeping her locked up.”
“Okay, okay. Uncle. I misjudged.”
“I’m telling you, they work as a team. Charles is totally squared away. He’s got his priorities. Alice and the kids come first. Always. Other women are outsiders. They get the formal treatment. Respect, but never too familiar. That’s all it was.”
“Oh, Hollis. Don’t be so defensive. I’ll take your word for it.”
Of course, Susan had not really taken his word for anything, reserving her opinion in perpetuity for further evidence that Charles Compson was a closet misogynistic lothario. When, eventually, after the Academy was in its final phase of construction, Hollis had broached the issue of David’s attendance, it was clear that Susan’s initial negative impression of Charles Compson had been well preserved, a fact that had only served to fortify her more fundamental objections to the idea.
Susan certainly had not been convinced that Hollis’ success at OFSC depended on an academic association with this single client. She did not have a good understanding of the highly personal interplay between banking and business, and while Hollis had repeatedly tried to make the point, it never stuck. She would just have to trust him.
To her credit, she had not challenged him on his home turf. Nevertheless, selling the Academy to Susan had been an up-hill battle and, because David was her son as much as he was his, Hollis had forced himself to go through the process of making the sale, to have the endless discussions, answer her questions, have the debate at a level at which she could fully participate. It was important, he knew, that she be a part of the process.
And in the end, she had relented. For it was his name, Hollis Johns – not Leonard or Lennerd or Leo or MaryAnn or Susan – on the paycheck.
For Hollis’ part, he quickly put to rest any and all doubts about whether the Vanguard Academy was a worthy investment. He knew that well before David had graduated and received his first of many diplomas, he would have distinguished himself from the others, separating himself from the herd, paving the way for his little sister, and setting the tone for the future. The Johns name would not soon be forgotten; not by Charles Compson or anybody so privileged as to be associated with the Vanguard Academy. That, unfortunately as it turned out, was the only sliver of the future that Hollis had accurately predicted.
Hollis pulled past the school, not seeing any sign of Ben in the windows. He accelerated, losing David in the rear view mirror of his memory.
How right he had been about all of that, he thought to himself. And how horribly, horribly wrong.
The thought of going home filled him with a strange, nameless anxiety. He told himself that it was a new sense of freedom. It was a wildness inside of him that he felt. Something feral clawing at his heart did not want to go home. No one was waiting for him. No one needed him. Food was not growing cold. The coming of trash pick-up day did not demand his attention. His time was entirely his own until 2:30 and he would not be asked to account for one single minute of it.
He drove to a filling station and topped off the tank even though he had filled it less than a day earlier. Rather than swiping his credit card at the pump, he sauntered inside and paid the full five dollars and thirty-eight cents out of his pocket. He tried to engage the clerk – Buckeye banter, the weather, the cost of gas – but she wasn’t having any.
He drove down the block to The Wine Seller and purchased an Australian Shiraz to go with dinner. Steaks tonight. He and Ben would cook out on the grill. He made it back to the car and then decided to go back in for a nice Bordeaux just for good measure. He carefully placed the second bottle next to the first in the back seat so they would not roll into each other and then he climbed in and drove on, navigating solely by impulse. He headed North, then West, then North again, turning almost at random, but gradually working his way to the freeway as though the car had a mind all its own.
He snapped on the radio. Haydn. They were always playing Haydn. Not always, really, it just seemed like always at the moment. Normally, Hollis would not have minded but now, inexplicably, he was tired of Haydn. He was tired of being the person who did not mind Hayden playing when the car radio turned on.
He pushed the scan button, listening to one station after another for thirty-second intervals. After three country-western stations, two pop stations, and a heavy metal station, Haydn was quickly regaining his appeal. Hollis lingered over an oldies station as Buffalo Springfield wrapped up For What It’s Worth, but he was unwilling to sit through Viva Las Vegas and he let the channel go.
… but she is being used, people. Used. The left-wing wackos are playing on this woman’s grief for political gain. The radical liberal element is simply taking advantage. That’s all there is to it, folks. They will put this woman Cindy Sheehan on a bumper sticker and slap her grief across the backside of every car in the country so that they can convince the world that America is an evil empire invading other countries just for blood sport. And with all due respect for …
And back to Haydn.
Hollis turned off the radio and merged into the broken metal stream flowing south along the I-71, still not having any idea where he was going. He could, he thought, just swing by OFSC to say hello. Not long enough to bother anybody; just to sort of … check in. They would all still be buzzing about Wally Nunn’s retirement party. Maybe that was what he needed. A little of the old camaraderie.
He wondered how many would ask after Beth. How is…what was her name again? Say, Hollis, that was sure a lovely woman you had on your arm the other night. Hollis, you old bull you, you’re no more retired than I am.
These idle musings brought her back powerfully to his senses. The yellow dress. The voice. The smile. Her perfect hand. The smell of her skin just beneath the ear. The taste of her mouth on his. The electric charge that had bound her naked body to his heart as he lay her back on the bed and kissed her good night.
Hollis identified, suddenly, the strange and nameless anxiety that had kept him from going home. The knowledge filled his veins like a thick serum, pressurizing his limbs and curling his fingers around the steering wheel. It was not freedom that had agitated him, but a new captivity; a new longing that could not be satisfied. It was Bethany. It was Beth clawing at his heart. Beth. It was his need for her. His memory of her. The itch he could have scratched but now could never reach. He had been a damn fool. That was what was at home, alone, waiting for him in the quiet of his study.
He exited the I-71 on autopilot, still in reverie. It was not until he had stopped at the light and taken stock of his surroundings that h
e realized the source of the impulse to exit. The word, on its iron-stilted perch, blazed yellow out over the land like the beacon of a lighthouse, at once beckoning and warning.
Waffles.
He took the back booth – their booth – by the window looking out over a fleet of eighteen-wheelers. From the kitchen, behind the swinging doors, something hit the floor. A man was laughing. There was the smell of bread and grease and eggs cooking.
Waffles, waffles, waffles, he remembered, and he was suddenly with her again, right across from her, her perfect foot mere inches from his. What he wouldn’t give to know where Beth was at this very moment and what she thought of him. Hollis jolted upright as Hello, I’m Ruth slapped a short, amber glass of water down on the table in front of him along with a menu.
“Dining all by your lonesome this mornin’, aren’t ya,” she said in a way that wasn’t a question. Hollis smiled perfunctorily, knowing she cycled through such hokey greetings as a matter of course. She was not remembering him specifically. She looked down at him, torturing a piece of gum in the back of her mouth, and somehow smiling wryly at the same time. The gum popped under the pressure and began naming names.
“Guess she wised up on you sooner rather than later, didn’t she?”
Hollis looked up at her, stupefied.
“Don’t look so glum there, Hon. You’ll see her again come the Rapture. Oh, and we’re fresh out of the special skillet.”
Pop.
CHAPTER 31 – Susan
“Hello?”
“Hollis?”
“Susan? Hold on a minute…”
“Mmm hmm. Thought so. She’s catchin’ on there fella. She’s no dummy. Your time is just flat runnin’ out.”
“One Hawaiian Macadamia Nut Waffle Supreme. Side of hash browns. Coffee.”
“Hollis?”
“Hi.”
“Who was that?”
“Waitress.”
“Who?”
“I dropped off Ben and now I’m having some breakfast.”
“Where?”
“A waffle house.”
“Waffles?”
“Yes.”
“Since when do you go out for waffles?”
“Oh, now and then.”
“Really. You mean like ever before today?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Susan.”
“Are you with someone? Am I interrupting?”
“That was the waitress. Is everything okay? Why are you calling?”
“Do I need a reason all of a sudden?”
“We just spoke.”
“Hollis, that was yesterday.”
“Mmm Hmm. Everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I remembered that I never got around to drying the last load of wash. It’s all still in the washer. I need you to rewash the whole load and then dry part of it and hang part of it. But you need to be careful here because some of those blouses will not take heat. Do you have a pen or something?”
“A pen? Why?”
“So you can write down which blouse is which. You’ll never remember unless you write it down.”
“I don’t need a pen.”
“You’ll forget.”
“Just…”
“Hollis. You need to write this down.”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“Okay. Fine. I have a pen.”
“Do you?”
“Susan. Just… tell me.”
“Okay. You need to wash everything again. No soap. Just put them through another rinse. Hollis?”
“What, Susan.”
“Did you get that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So rinse them and then you need to take the three blouses that are kind of crème colored out of the wash and hang them up.”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“Susan, look...”
“Are you…”
“Just… tell… me.”
“You know, you really don’t need to take a tone, Hollis. I just don’t want…”
“I am fully capable of doing laundry.”
“Okay. Okay. Cream-colored button-down’s need to get hung up, and there are a couple of bras that get hung up, and the rest of it needs to be dried in the dryer but just use the no-heat setting.”
“…”
“Okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Not low heat. No heat. You… oh, and there is a short sleeve knit that you need to take out of the washer and lay it out on a towel on the ironing board.”
“…”
“Hollis? Okay?”
“You want me to iron the knit thing. Got it.”
“Not iron it, Hollis. You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“Just lay it out on a towel. There are some slacks that will take forever to dry on low heat so…”
“No heat.”
“What?”
“You just said low heat.”
“No heat, Hollis. Don’t use low heat. Use no heat.”
“I know. You said low heat.”
“No. I said no heat, not low heat. N-O. No heat.”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“You said… never mind. Slacks. What about the slacks, Susan?”
“When the rest of the stuff feels dry just leave the slacks in there and turn the dryer on high.”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“Is that it?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“I’m not thanking you. I’m thanking the waitress.”
“Oh… You really wrote all of that down?”
“Susan…”
“Okay… No heat.”
“Susan...”
“Have you heard from David?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Well… I don’t know. I just thought you might.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You said you would be doing a bachelor’s night. I was just wondering. You and Ben are alone, he’s alone. It’s a good idea.”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“MmmHmm.”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About having dinner with David.”
“That would be fine.”
“And Mae.”
“Mae?”
“Yes. Mae. You know who Mae is.”
“Yes, Susan. I know very well who Mae is. Why am I having dinner with her?”
“Because she’s likely to come over with David when he comes over.”
“She is?”
“Yes. Is that so unusual?”
“Frankly, yes. It is unusual. It’s a rare…”
“Well, it shouldn’t be. They’ve been serious now for some…”
“Susan.”
“What?”
“Why is Mae coming over for dinner?”
“Because I asked her to.”
“You asked her to come over to dinner.”
“Well, I left her a message. I thought she might cook something up for the men while I was away.”
“You asked her to … why on earth…”
“Because I thought it would be nice, Hollis. Why do you always have to be so negative about everything? Do you have a problem with Mae?”
“Mae’s fine.”
“Did you have other plans?”
“No.”
“I mean really. It’s not for me to interrupt whatever you might have going on.”
“Susan…”
“I don’t even know if she’ll come. I just left her a message.”
“Susan…”
“She’s probably still busy on that big case.”
“Susan…”
“Or
she’s sick again.”
“Susan…”
“I just thought that if Mae came with him, David would be happy.”
“Susan…”
“And I know Ben would be happy.”
“Susan…”
“But don’t tell Ben unless you’re sure she’s coming or you know how he’ll get.”
“Susan…”
“But it really was not my intention to interfere with anything.”
“Susan…”
“What, Hollis? What? Christ! What is it you want to say?”
“…”
“Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“What?”
“Nothing, Susan. Never mind.”
“I just … I just thought it would be a nice thing to arrange for a nice dinner for everyone while I was out of town. I was not trying to do anything wrong.”
“It’s all fine.”
“I promise I wasn’t.”
“Whoever wants to come to dinner is welcome to come. How is the protest?”
“What?”
“How is the protest? Have you saved the world yet?”
“It’s not a protest. It’s a planning workshop.”
“Ah.”
“It’s good. It’s okay. I’m the oldest person here by a long shot. And some of these people don’t like each other very much. That was a little surprising. Today we’re doing a lot of spa things, so…”
“Spawning?”
“Spa… things. Spa… things.”
“Oh. I thought you said spawning.”
“This is a spa resort, Hollis. I told you before I…”
“I just didn’t hear you.”
“There are hot springs and massages and body wraps. Spa… things.”
“Thought you said you were spawning.”
“You did not. You’re just being difficult. You’re angry because I invited Mae and David to dinner.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re irritated.”
“I’m not irritated.”
“Well, I think you are. You sure act like it. I think I have interrupted your plans or something and if I did I’m sorry because that is not what I intended.”
“Susan…”
“Although I will be glad for you to see David, even if Mae doesn’t come.”
“Susan…”
“Something’s wrong there, Hollis.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong where?”
