by Liza Palmer
The house has three stories. The entire ground floor is used mostly for entertaining, although Dad’s study lurks moodily in one of the dark corners. Mom and Dad’s master suite is on the second floor, along with several guest bedrooms, a media room, Mom’s yoga studio, and numerous balconies. Iris and Robert stay in one of the two guest cottages in the back gardens. Rascal and I sleep on the third floor. Mom set up this space when we were little: two cubbies overlooking the library. During the nautical phase, she had two wooden plaques installed, one with CROW’S NEST—PORT SIDE for me and one with CROW’S NEST—-STARBOARD SIDE for Rascal. The only way to get to these cubbies is by climbing a ladder.
My bed is made up with white, flowered sheets and a comforter, leftovers from the shabby-chic days. The nautical bell is still right by my bed. The burled wood is untouched. The third floor is where all of Mom’s decorating mistakes go to die slow, painful deaths. Because Rascal is the elder child, he has earned the right to stay in one of the guest cottages while I am still relegated to the Crow’s Nest. Despite lengthy conversations about other guest rooms—all of which are far more luxurious—my parents refuse to see the need for a change. The notion is simply never entertained. I’ve slept in the Crow’s Nest my whole life, and apparently, I’ll continue to do so until the day I die.
Robert sets my bag on the bed and awkwardly climbs out of the Crow’s Nest. I sit down. I have to arch my neck forward so I don’t bang my head on the sloping ceiling. My purse is still around my shoulder, and I’m gripping my BlackBerry. The room smells like lavender. I’m sure there are many sachets hidden about. Being home again brings up all of my reasons for deciding early on that I was going to find a career as far away from Dad’s legacy as possible. I had thought working in a restaurant and becoming a chef would lessen the constant comparisons.
I pull my purse tight and carefully stand, bending and contorting to free myself from the ever shrinking confines of the Crow’s Nest. Onward and downward—to see Dad.
Chapter Five
Dad?” I knock on the heavy wooden door, then stuff my hands in my pockets. I hear the creaking of the old office chair and the violent tapping of a typewriter. On and on. A pause. Tap. Tap. Tap. The music of my childhood. How many years of my life were spent waiting outside this door? After Rascal and I were disciplined by Mom, we’d be told to wait for Dad—he’d want a word with us, too. The hours would pass as we forgot what we were fighting about. We learned over the years to bring a deck of cards or Scrabble.
After several minutes, I hear the magical zip of the paper being pulled from the typewriter and my body straightens.
“Come on in,” Dad yells.
I open the door and see my father behind his desk. His black hair is graying slightly, but it still manages to swoop just over his eyes, never falling into them, somehow floating above, effortlessly. He’s wearing a dark sweater over a white T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and loafers without socks. He’s been wearing this same outfit for decades. He doesn’t look up from his old typewriter as I close the door behind me. I sit down in one of the big leather club chairs in front of his desk and take in the room.
The slightest coating of dust glimmers from every surface as the sunlight shines through the windows. The smell of pipe smoke is embedded in the curtains and lush fabrics of the room. As always, the focus of the room remains a collection of items that Rascal and I have dubbed Dad’s Shrine to Manhood: a black-and-white photo of the helicopters he used to fly in Vietnam, his dog tags, his Colt .45 sidearm, and the small handful of novels he has worn out over the years with reading, rereading, analyzing, dog-earing, highlighting, and annotating. These are the books that shaped the man who sits before me now. Influenced him, if you will. His Pulitzers are displayed unceremoniously as bookends on a sagging shelf of other people’s masterpieces. The framed photos seem more like a time capsule than an accurate depiction of our family as it is now. Rascal and me as babies—I’m propped up in an ice cream bucket with a two-year-old Rascal giggling wildly at my predicament. A baby picture of Dad, sporting long hair and a baptismal gown. A formal picture of Dad in his navy uniform, the ominous snarl in full effect. A faded color picture of Mom posing on a jetty at the shore, looking more like a pinup girl than my mother.
“How are you, Bink?” he asks. I had a penchant for pacifiers, or “binkies,” when I was a baby. So the nickname “Binky” still follows me around, though only Dad and Rascal still call me that. Thank God. Dad takes the piece of paper and lays it facedown in a neat pile on his desk. He walks over to me and gives me a kiss on top of my head, making a big thwack noise, as he always has. I can’t help but smile.
“Doing good,” I say.
“How’s the restaurant?” Dad asks. He rests his body against the large oak desk, crossing one leg over the other and placing his arms across his chest.
“Doing good,” I say.
“And they say you don’t have a future in words,” Dad stabs.
“There’s hope for me yet, Pop,” I parry.
“I saw they gave this year’s James Beard Award to some guy in New York. Have you thought about relocating there so you could be taken more seriously?” Dad begins, forgoing the usual newspaper clipping as proof of his argument.
“That guy is a twenty-five-year-old wunderkind who’s opening up another restaurant in the newest casino in Vegas,” I say.
“Have you thought about going to Vegas?” Dad presses.
“You know I don’t like to gamble,” I try. Dad doesn’t break a smile. The first bead of sweat drips down the side of my face.
“When am I going to see that restaurant you’ve been thinking about opening?” Dad stands and walks over to open the large window that looks out onto the grounds.
“I’m working my five-year plan,” I say, hoping no one notices that my five-year plan has morphed into a bloated eleven-year plan. Dad looks as unimpressed as ever. His heroes change the world. My heroes just feed them.
“I’m serious here. You can’t work in that kitchen forever,” Dad says, turning away from the window. The sunlight hits his face and his almost-black eyes.
“Why don’t we wait until dinner, get all liquored up, and then have ourselves a real party,” I say, lifting myself from the chair. I have to get out of this interrogation room, where I’m forever depicted as a trapped baby in an ice cream bucket.
“I’m just asking the questions you should be asking yourself,” Dad says. You mean the questions that wake me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat? Yeah, they’ve crossed my mind. Dad stands in front of me. He still has that quiet power. He’s gotten no less intimidating as I’ve gotten older.
“You know, Tolkien said that if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world,” I say, turning for the door. That churning in my stomach is back.
“You’ve been working on that the whole way up here, right?” Dad says, linking my arm in his.
“Pretty much,” I say.
“Well played,” Dad allows.
“I saw the Corvette outside. Nice,” I say, a wide smile stretching across my face.
“It’ll work.”
“You’ve only wanted it your whole life,” I say. Dad shrugs and allows himself the smallest of smiles.
“Is Will here?” he asks, opening the door to his study.
“Yes,” I say.
“He part of your five-year plan, too?” Dad asks.
“Who are you now, Mom?”
“Well, say hi to him for me, before Rascal starts putting lipstick on him or something,” Dad says.
“Yes, I’ll look into that,” I say. Dad gives me a big bear hug and heads into the kitchen. In between the Spanish Inquisition and big thwacking kisses on the top of my head, Dad has insinuated that I’m going nowhere fast and that Rascal is an effeminate disappointment. Definitely a great start. Also, the Will question is coming up more and more of late. I wish I had an answer.
I bolt into the backyard in search of Will. Or Rascal. Or my
dignity. Or my confidence. Or my independence. Or benchmarks I can reach before they change again.
I pull out my BlackBerry and scroll through the e-mails as I walk across the grass past Mom’s massive rose garden. Even though it’s late into September, it’s been so warm that Mom hasn’t pruned them yet. They are blooming and gorgeous. They smell incredible. I finally reach the small guest cottage. I turn the door handle as I read an e-mail from Chef Canet talking about a great little restaurant he jetted to in Taos this morning. He’s signed the e-mail Christian. I type back that the restaurant sounds great.
“Always the height of efficiency, I see,” Will says from one of the large chocolate-brown mohair chairs. I quickly slip the BlackBerry in my pocket.
“Takes one to know one.”
“We were about to send in the ground troops, but we thought we’d get drunk first,” Rascal says, emerging from the kitchen. He’s carrying a newly opened bottle of white wine with four glasses dangling from his other hand. A smile cracks across my face. Rascal’s dark, curly hair is as unkempt as usual. And in just the couple of weeks since I’ve seen him, he has grown a very noticeable—and apparently highly controversial—beard. His delicate, refined features are beginning to be obscured.
“Thanks for that,” I say, taking a glass from Rascal as I perch on the arm of Will’s chair. He rubs my back absently. My eyes fall on this Sarah Somebody Mom has been talking about.
“This is Avery,” Rascal continues, introducing me to the New Girl. I’ve seen her before. Or I’ve seen fifty other girls who look just like her. The emaciated body that somehow manages to support a giant lollipop head. Her lustrous, chocolate hair flows past her tiny yet muscular upper arms and pools perfectly on her perky, and fully purchased, breasts. Avery smiles. I am nearly blinded by a full set of veneers.
“Have we met?” I ask, shaking her hand. Rascal hands Will a glass of wine.
“No, I don’t think so.” Avery has an odd expression on her face.
Rascal absentmindedly lights a cigarette: Pall Mall—the anti-Gauloises. Will pats his pockets for his own cigarettes as Rascal throws him his lighter.
“Have you come in to Beverly? You know the restaurant on—” I start.
Avery interrupts, “Beverly Boulevard? I’ve been in there, but I don’t think we met there.” Her tone is polite. Will throws the lighter back to Rascal. I let out a cough. Vacations with the folks are just the time to throw the threat of lung cancer right out the window.
“Oh,” I answer, holding out my empty wineglass for Rascal. He stands and pours me a glass.
“Avery’s one of them fancy movie stars,” Rascal says, topping me off, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Avery blushes and sputters, feigning embarrassment. Rascal hands her a wineglass and pours.
“Oh, would I have seen you in anything?” I ask, perching once again on Will’s chair. He resumes rubbing my back. I take the most giant gulp of wine I can manage.
“Do you just want the bottle?” Rascal asks.
“Yeah, you can leave that right there,” I answer. It’s one of those conversations that no one else really hears. We speak between pauses. I’m not sure he even finished the question before I knew what he was going to say and had planned the proper sarcastic response. On the surface, Rascal’s detached demeanor remains intact. He looks like he has the innate security of someone who has never had to worry about anything, least of all money. He wants to be taken seriously, yet he always falls into allowing himself to be a product. He’s put his name on some embarrassing Hollywood screenplays so the resulting film will get more attention. He goes to every club opening on the promise of free booze and hot girls. Rascal has pretty much whored the family name for Jack Daniel’s and pussy.
About two years ago, he vanished for nine months. He didn’t tell anyone—not even me—where he’d be. He finally turned up in a broken-down log cabin just outside Missoula, Montana, with the finished manuscript for The Ballad of Rick Danko.
The novel debuted three weeks ago on the New York Times best-seller list. It’s been there ever since. At first the book was a curiosity, the work of the “heir to the throne.” And writing about a tragic character from the sixties, no less. But as the great reviews came in and word of mouth spread, the book began selling on its own merit.
Rascal asked me not to read it—not in manuscript form, not when I saw a galley sitting on his coffee table one afternoon, and not even when he called me over to his Santa Monica bungalow to pop open a bottle of champagne in honor of the first official copies of the book arriving at his door. But I couldn’t help myself. I stole a copy from the bottom of a stack taunting me from a slightly opened box by the front door and read it that very day. When I finished it in the wee hours of the morning, I went back to Rascal’s. The book was brilliant. We hugged and cried. Of course, the moment fizzled a bit when his latest lollipophead strolled out of the bedroom completely nude. But she saved us both from the awkward moment when I would have to answer the question of whether his book was better than The Coward. I still haven’t answered the question, and Rascal has yet to ask it again. Comparing the two books is like comparing the two men. Dad is obviously the original. The Coward launched an entirely new literary subgenre. But The Ballad of Rick Danko, well, it has more heart—like Rascal.
“So, is she your girlfriend?” Avery asks Will, trying to change the subject. Rascal pours himself a hefty glass of wine and sets the bottle down on the small side table. I take another drink. Will’s hand has stopped rubbing my back. Avery waits. As do I.
“Do adults still use the word ‘girlfriend’?” Will asks. His voice is clear and smooth. Rascal sits on the couch opposite me and crosses his legs. He dangles the wineglass languidly over the side of the couch.
“Avery is an interesting name,” I blurt. Will takes his hand off my back.
“It’s actually not my real name. My agent thought it sounded more sophisticated,” Avery says. The elephant stands boldly in the middle of the room.
“Than?” Will asks.
“Crystal,” Avery admits. Rascal barks with laughter. The elephant begins to waddle out.
“Are you actually passing judgment on someone else’s name?” I’m laughing a little too loudly. Rascal puts out his cigarette and gives me the finger.
“Where did you two meet?” Will asks.
“I’m in talks to star in the film adaptation of Rascal’s novel,” Avery announces.
“You’re not starring in it, dear. The lead is a male. Obviously,” Rascal corrects.
“They picked up the option?” I ask.
“Yeah, didn’t I tell you?” Rascal says.
“That would explain the BMW,” Will adds.
“That fucking car . . .” Rascal shakes his head as if he’s disgusted with himself.
“Do Mom and Dad know?” I ask.
“I’m going to wait until I know more,” Rascal says. Despite the handful of Oscars for the film adaptations of his books, Dad has never been happy with the movie versions of his novels. The ripple effect means that, as a people, the Pages believe that nothing good comes out of Hollywood.
“To the bastardization of another great novel,” I toast, standing and raising my glass. Everyone joins me.
“Hear, hear!” Will slams his glass into mine.
“Long live the bastards!” Rascal toasts while Avery tinks her glass into Rascal’s but says nothing.
Chapter Six
Dinner is business as usual. Dad questions Will on his latest trip to hell; political theory is bandied about like a shuttlecock; and Will and I stifle giggles at Avery’s complete cluelessness. When Dad asks the poor girl whether she voted last year, she says yes, she voted for Crash and was happy it took home Best Picture. Then she went on a long tirade about how she didn’t even bother to see Brokeback Mountain because she heard it was slow and Heath Ledger was a mumbler—and mumbling is not acting, despite what everyone thinks.
Dad takes a long drink of his Scotch and gently asks Av
ery if she’s in the movie business. She beams and “confesses” that she is. Mom asks her what movies she’s been in, using the tone of voice she uses to speak to the kids at the local elementary school where she volunteers. Avery rattles off a list of movies none of us have seen, action/adventure stuff. She tells us a few of the plots and whispers conspiratorially that the movie she’s working on now is so secret she shouldn’t even be talking about it. No one presses her further.
“So, Dragon? How long were you in Lebanon?” Dad asks, sipping his Scotch.
“I just got back. I was in Israel before that. I’m just finishing that piece for Esquire. Then I had to fly to London for a story. But that was for the Washington Post,” Will explains, not missing a beat. Once again, we are forced to compare the two boys: Will, the world-traveling war correspondent who looks every bit the part, and Rascal, someone so burdened by his delicate beauty that his whole life has been about proving how bad he is despite the angelic visage.
“But I can tell you guys!” Avery interrupts.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Avery, just—” Rascal soothes.
“The movie! The super-secret movie! Do you guys wanna know about it?” Avery looks around the table. Will leans forward. Rascal downs the rest of his wine.
“Sure,” Mom obliges. She couldn’t be less interested. Her idea of entertainment is sitting in her garden with a good book and a cup of tea.
“It’s not like we’re ever going to see it,” Dad says. Will clears his throat. Rascal glares at Dad. The look that passes between them isn’t really anger. Just disappointment that once again the bar is inches from Rascal’s fingertips.
“I’d love to know what it is,” Mom says, trying to smooth over the moment. Avery smiles and excitedly tells us about the movie and how it’s based on this video game and how the script stays really—and I’ll quote her here—“true to the original work.” Oh, God. Poor Avery. She’s blissfully unaware of the hornet’s nest she’s swatted. Dad stares at her from the head of the table.
