The Art of Hero Worship

by Mia Kerick

  Neither Ginny nor Carrie would so much as take a single bite of Mom’s pride and joy brownies. Carrie was compelled to watch her perfect waistline and Ginny didn’t much care for chocolate, and refused to humor my mother by indulging in a brownie and faking a chocolate orgasm. Needless to say, Mom is basking in the glow of the “you are the Brownie Top Chef” compliments that Liam is lavishing on her, and I can tell she’s warming up to him.

  “So Liam, you’re from Maine?”

  He stops chewing only long enough to say, “Yes, ma’am, I’m from Lockwood to be exact.”

  “Oh, that’s a quaint little town, so close to the ocean.”

  Liam’s face clouds over, but he agrees. “Yes, it’s nice there.”

  “And you’re studying business? A very practical choice. Jason insists upon studying journalism. Knowing him, he probably wants to travel to some third world country to report on the miseries of the local population’s lives, and in the process, he’ll catch some contagious disease like Ebola and… oh, dear….”

  “Mom, I’m probably going to end up working for a small town newspaper reporting about something like the new playground equipment at the local elementary school.”

  “That may very well be true, but grade school kids are notorious carriers of ringworm, so my suggestion is that you wash your hands frequently.”

  I’m so frustrated at her dramatics, I want to reach out, grab Mom by the shoulders, and shake some sense into the woman.

  “Good one, Mrs. Tripp! You’re such a riot!” Liam actually thinks she’s joking. That makes me want to laugh, but what’s even more humorous is my mother’s reaction to his incorrect interpretation.

  “Oh… oh, yes. I can be quite a card under the right circumstances….” She bats her eyelashes in his direction and I again resist the urge to throttle her.

  As soon as my mother, the card, has a chance, though, she drags me out of the kitchen and into our tiny pantry. “Why did you not tell me you were gay, Jason? Did you really think I would cast you out on the street where you’d most certainly get lice and walking pneumonia, simply because you are a homosexual?”

  “Mom… it’s not like that. It’s just that Liam and I—”

  “I have one word of advice for you, seeing as you are a gay man.”

  I have no choice but to wait for it.

  “Condoms.”

  My cheeks start to burn in a way that can only happen when your mother advises you to use condoms with your new male lover.

  “And frankly, I’m relieved that you chose a man like Liam. Your taste in girls was atrocious. That Ginny was the most unfriendly—I’m sorry, I’m just going to level with you—she was the bitchiest girl I ever met.”

  Well, this is news to me. “Mom, Ginny wasn’t bitchy, she was just very direct… and aggressive, at times… and she refused to bow down to anyone.”

  Mom gives me a look that clearly implies, “Isn’t that what I just said—bitchy?”

  I sigh. “Whatever, Mom.”

  “Don’t ‘whatever’ me, young man. Now, get back in there to your nice young man and I’ll make him some lemonade… and I’m going to use the good glasses.”

  I actually enjoy Mom a lot more in Liam’s company than when she and I are alone. He diffuses her bossiness, largely because he doesn’t fully understand her intentions so he just laughs at her crazy remarks. At the end of our visit, she hugs and kisses him on his way out the door and even squeezes his biceps and makes some kind of a “hubba hubba” sound.

  “Young man…” Mom calls across the driveway to Liam as we get into the car. “That vehicle you’re driving is nothing but a death trap. I implore you to not exceed the highway speed of fifty-five miles per hour. Our sweet little Jason’s life is in your hands.”

  Liam drives very slowly all the way back to his apartment.

  ***

  “I don’t think we should waste our time going to my house today.” Liam had a hard time sleeping last night and his eyes, which in his case are truly the windows to his thoughts and moods, are bleary and dull this morning. “I can think of many other ways I’d rather spend a rainy afternoon.” He looks at me and waggles his eyebrows in a weak effort at flirtatiousness, but I don’t bite.

  “Eyes on the road, mister,” I shoot him down with a smile. The sky is as dreary and gray as Liam’s expression, and it rained, even poured, off and on as we lay awake in bed early this morning. “It’s important to me that I meet your parents and see where you’re from.”

  “This isn’t even the same house I grew up in.” He doesn’t explain any further, but I suspect this is because the house he grew up in burned almost to the ground when he was fourteen.

  “Well, we don’t have to stay all day. Let’s just stop by for an afternoon cup of coffee and then head to the coast for a scenic drive. I haven’t been out this way for ages. And it’s beautiful.”

  A loud sigh accompanies an exaggerated eye roll. “Okay, since your every wish seems to be my command.” He continues to drive, now wearing an angry scowl. I don’t like his tone one bit, and it’s actually quite unlike him to act so surly, but I’m still hopeful that this trip to his hometown will be enlightening, and therefore worth it. So I don’t mention his bad attitude.

  My boyfriend is either extremely reluctant to arrive at our destination or he has taken my mother’s “drive at a snail’s pace whenever my son is in your car” suggestion to heart, as he drives on only back roads at a maximum speed of 35 miles per hour. Still I hold myself back from criticizing. It will get me nowhere faster than it would get me anywhere else.

  My willingness to suppress my own needs at a time like this is part of the art of loving a man like Liam.

  We pull up in front of an enormous, modern home in a stately neighborhood that overlooks the rocky coastline of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s the kind of place where once a week, crews of eight men descend upon each home to mow the lawn and groom the shrubs and polish the exterior windows and vacuum the pool. The water view is fantastic and dramatic, but intimidating. And the gray sky only enhances the somber austerity of the huge, pale yellow house. It’s so beautiful, yet so unwelcoming.

  He parks his car on the smooth black driveway with a screech. As soon as we’ve come to a stop, I swing open the door and get out. Liam gets out of the driver’s side, but makes no move to collect me or to wave at the occupants of his house or to really do much of anything except stand beside his car and brood. I’m feeling absolutely nothing in the direction of warm and fuzzy here. He sends me a got-what-you-wanted glance, and says, “Come on, Jason.”

  I trail behind Liam as he makes his way to a side door in the third garage bay. He pulls out a key from his back pocket to unlock it and let us in. We walk past a twenty foot bright yellow Chaparral boat in the last garage bay, and then proceed past a shiny black Lincoln Navigator in the middle, and finally past a sleek silver metallic Jaguar XJ.

  “Your dad has a lot of toys.”

  Liam shrugs. “They’re Mom’s toys, too.”

  We enter into an enormous, sparkling kitchen—it’s so clean I’d eat off the royal blue and white decorative tile floor without hesitation. The room sports black granite counters, oversized metallic appliances, and incredibly high ceilings. “You have two ovens and two refrigerators?”

  “And two dishwashers.” He isn’t elbowing me and joking so I know that this is nothing more than Liam’s way of life.

  He told me once before that he was an only child, and I now know that to be sort of untrue, as he had a younger sister who’d been killed in a fire. So I decide to see if I can get him to talk about it. I make a gesture toward the kitchen appliances. “All this for a family of three?”

  Liam thinks about my question, and then replies coldly, “My parents entertain a lot.”

  We stand there waiting for his parents to come to the kitchen to welcome us, but we wait for nothing. No one comes to say hello.

  “You can sit in the living room. I’ll go find my folks.” He ta
kes my hand and leads me to another oversized room, with a black leather sectional couch, several modern charcoal gray suede chairs with matching ottomans, and a huge widescreen television. Just about everything else in the room is a shade of white.

  “Shit, Liam. Your television is more like a movie screen.”

  He glances at me. “It’s just a TV, Jase,” and then he heads for the stairs.

  I should have known from his usual humble demeanor that the size of a television, the showiness of some vehicles, and the glamor of a house wouldn’t mean a thing to him. In fact, he’d never before mentioned to me that he lived in a multi-million dollar mansion with a spectacular view of the Atlantic. I don’t sit down in the fancy chair or on the huge couch, but instead I get started on doing what I’m here to do. I walk slowly around the enormous room, searching for something that will give me a clue as to what disaster Liam suffered in his youth. I come upon a small ivory-colored chest of drawers, neatly tucked behind the picture window’s extravagant light gold velvet curtains, and on it is a small, framed black and white photograph. The picture is of two children sitting cross-legged at the end of a dock, grinning at the person holding the camera.

  Despite his toothless grin, I would know Liam anywhere because the expression in a person’s eyes doesn’t change over time. Though smiling, he is thoughtful, maybe even uneasy, and very aware of the tiny blonde girl beside him. The little girl is everything Liam is not; she is jovial and carefree and laughing through her broad grin. I assume this is Liam’s little sister, Lucy.

  The wooden frame displaying the photo of Liam and his sister is old, and its gray paint is chipping on the edges. It’s probably the only item in the room that isn’t shiny and new. I pick it up and flip it, and on the reverse side of the frame, I love you, Lucy is printed in purple marker, complete with two purple hearts, both of which say LN in the center.

  After listening for the sound of voices on the stairs and hearing nothing, I continue my exploration of this grand living room. I walk to the huge fireplace that is built from piles and piles of pale, flat, smooth stones. Above it is an enormous painting of the same little girl, but this image of her is in color. She’s about ten years old, beautiful in an angelic way, and she’s dressed in an old-fashioned ivory lace dress that makes her look like a child of the 1800’s. Her smile is more demure than in the other photo, however, there’s a spark of high spirit in her eyes she just can’t hide, although I think she might be trying. The frame, itself, is also a work of art. It’s mostly white but has been painted golden yellow where the picture meets the frame. Across the top of the frame, in brilliant gold slanted script, is painted the name Lily, and across the bottom of the frame are the words, “The Light of Our Lives.”

  I find this bold statement to be rather cruel. Because if Lucy is the light of their lives, then what is Liam? So as not to jump to an erroneous conclusion, I glance around the room in search of a similar painting of Liam that boldly declares how he is the sun in their sky, but I find nothing. Aside from the painting of Lucy, the walls are all bare and white, with one small exception.

  I step to the narrow wall beside the front door where there’s a photograph of Liam in a cheap black document frame, the kind you can get at any pharmacy. Holding my breath, I lean in to examine it closely. It appears to be Liam’s senior picture. The boy in the picture is the same Liam I know but his face is thinner and bare—he has no long squared-off beard—and he isn’t wearing the thick-framed glasses that provide a decisive boundary between his face and the world. He’s wearing a simple navy jacket and a traditional maroon banker’s style tie that I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be caught dead in today. On the light blue background to the left of his face, is a hand written note. It’s small, written in pencil, so I need to squint to read it.

  To Mom and Dad on my graduation day — I will make you proud. Your son, Liam.

  This trip to Liam’s home—not even having met his parents yet—has already proven to be enlightening. A picture tells a thousand words. How very true. And these three pictures, the small snapshot of siblings on a dock in better days, the huge portrait of Lucy, the light of this family’s life, and the plain commercial graduation photograph of Liam that marks his entrance into the adult world, with the pleading message begging his parents to notice him, tell much of the story.

  I’m still staring at the modest photograph of Liam when he returns to the room. I turn around to see him with a woman—an obviously drunk woman.

  She’s tall and even-featured and blond and appears as young as twenty-five, although I realize she must be twice that age. Dressed in crisp black jeans, a silky white blouse, black heels, and dripping in diamonds, she seems to fit perfectly into this formal setting. Without saying a word to greet me, she sits down on one of the suede chairs.

  “Mom, this is my friend, Jason Tripp. Jason, meet my mother, Donna.”

  The sound of ice jostling around in the bottom of a glass brings to my attention that she’s clasping a small tumbler of amber liquid. I try not to stare at it, or compare her to my mother, who opened the door yesterday wearing an apron and an oven mitt, and I say, “I’m pleased to meet you uh….” I don’t feel like it would be appropriate to refer to her as Donna, so I go with her married name. “Mrs. Norwell.”

  “Call me Donna. Donna, plain and simple.” She doesn’t look very plain to me at all, and I find her strange remark disconcerting. I wait for her to look up and tell me how pleased she is to meet a close friend of her son’s, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of social decorum.

  When it’s clear that she’s not going to properly greet me, I step across the room to stand before her chair, carefully avoiding Liam’s eyes because I know they’ll express what he’s thinking—“I told you we shouldn’t have come here”—and I bend to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Donna. You have a beautiful home.”

  “Did you notice the portrait of our darling little Lucy?” She struggles to rise from the chair, only succeeding with Liam’s gentle assistance, and stumbles past me to the huge painting of her daughter. “Lucy was ten years old when she posed for this portrait. The artist said that she was the most beautiful child he had ever painted. And the sweetest too.” Her voice is dreamy as she reminisces.

  I sneak a glance at Liam. He’s staring at the floor.

  “We lost her when she was twelve.” She sighs long and loud, and it reminds me of Liam’s sighs. Then her voice lowers. “But… but we still have Liam.” She sniffs and turns around sharply, which surprises me because she isn’t very steady on her feet. “And now our Liam has a friend.” Donna grimaces, making no attempt to hide her disgust at our relationship.

  “You know what he is to me… who he is to me.” Liam steps up beside me protectively, but her words don’t hurt me. Her bitter attitude toward her son, however, does.

  “Ah, yes, Liam. But what’s another disappointment for your father and me?”

  The silence is awkward and deafening. Liam breaks it by suggesting quietly that we leave. I’m about to take his hand when Donna calls out in an overly loud voice, “That’s right, Liam. Run away. Just like you did on the night of the fire….”

  Liam and I gasp. “Come on, Jase… we’re outta here.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the front door, but before we can open it, it swings into us and a man who I figure is Liam’s father bursts through the door, holding four take-out cups of coffee in a drink holder.

  “Liam!” He places the tray of coffees on a desk near the door and reaches out to hug his son.

  Liam embraces his father half-heartedly, and says, “Dad, we were just leaving.”

  “Hey—I cut my golf game short to see you and your… your boyfriend, or whatever you wanna call him.”

  Liam looks at me with a question in his eyes, and I nod in response. “Okay, Dad, but we can stay for one cup of coffee.”

  “Well, good because that’s all I brought! Your mother wouldn’t know how to brew a pot of coffee to save her life.”


  Donna snorts and asks, “What do I want with coffee, David?”

  “Think about what you just said, Donna.” Donna doesn’t seem to pick up on the you-are-a-drunk-and-need-coffee-to-sober-up message. “And remember, you said it, I didn’t,” Mr. Norwell snipes and turns to the desk to get a cup of coffee. “Help yourselves, boys.”

  Liam removes two cups of coffee from the desk and returns to me. He doesn’t take a cup to his mother, who needs one more than the rest of us put together. “We might as well sit down.” He’s wary, to say the least.

  Liam’s father gestures toward the couch, where we sit. Donna drops into the same chair as before, but Mr. Norwell remains on his feet by the fireplace. “So, introduce me to… to this fine young man you have brought home to us.” The man laughs as if he’s joking but I’m pretty sure he’s not.

  What an asshole, I think, but resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Dad, this is Jason Tripp. Jason, you’ve kinda already met my father, David Norwell.”

  Once again, I’m not greeted with the offer of a proper handshake, but this time I’m not surprised and I don’t bother to get up.

  “Where are you from, Jason?”

  “I’m from Wilson, NH, sir.”

  “I know where that is. Shackville, USA, if I remember correctly… near the border of Vermont, am I wrong?” He laughs again. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, son.”

  Liam stands up abruptly as if to confront his father, and a drop of black coffee from his paper cup drips onto the white carpet.

  “Jesus, Liam, stop by for a visit and trash my house, why don’t you!” Donna is suddenly furious. She stands up and staggers to the stairs. “I need a drink.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Donna. Just go upstairs and leave me alone with the pansies… you know I’ve never cared much for flower arrangement.”