by Liza Palmer
“Okaaaay,” Rascal says, drawing the word out.
“I’m not going to apologize. I know it’s the right way to go,” I finally say.
“Unbelievable,” Dad says, almost to himself.
“I’m happy,” I say.
“I guess that’s what worries me,” Dad says.
I pick up my wineglass and take a long sip. We’re pretty much done here, I’m thinking.
“I don’t think it’s such a bad thing,” Rascal starts in again. I turn to him, my eyes pleading with him to leave it. He shakes me off, homing in on Dad.
“Rascal, stay out of this,” Dad says, honestly meaning it.
Rascal shifts in his chair, straightening slightly. “No. This adaptation thing . . . it’s awesome, Pop. I mean, this girl . . . she gets me. She gets the book—and I . . . I really think this movie is going to be pretty great,” Rascal says.
“Once again, you would say that,” Dad says, sloughing Rascal off.
“Pop, I’m serious. You know the part in my book—” Rascal begins.
“I didn’t fucking read it,” Dad growls.
Rascal recoils slightly. Takes a second, then leans in to the table. Leans in to Dad. The equivalent of full steam ahead. “What?” Rascal’s voice cuts.
“I knew Rick Danko. I don’t have to read your book about him,” Dad says.
“The book isn’t actually about Rick Danko, Dad. There’s a funny little thing we in the writing biz call ‘metaphor.’ ” Rascal uses air quotes with “metaphor.” He’s bending now, contorting his body over the table.
“Yeah, well, when you actually live life, you don’t have to use bullshit smoke and mirrors like metaphor. You just write from the gut,” Dad says, his voice easy and taunting.
“Now, had you actually read the book, you would see that this is exactly what I was talking about. You guys, you were going to change the world. And instead, you all drank yourselves to death. You don’t . . .” Rascal trails off.
“Don’t what?” Dad says, his voice rising just that much.
“Do you honestly think . . . Do you honestly even . . .” Rascal’s face is bright red.
“Think what? What? Without fucking metaphor, you can’t even form one goddamn real thought?” Dad’s voice is getting louder and louder.
Rascal breathes deeply and situates himself. “Do you think people go see the Rolling Stones to hear ‘Love Is Strong’ or a nice cut off of Steel Wheels? No. They want to hear ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ ‘Paint It Black,’ or even ‘Brown Sugar,’ ” Rascal says.
“Get to the point, son,” Dad says, his voice calm again.
“It’s the Robbie Robertson factor,” Rascal says.
“A point, son. I need you to make your point and stop throwing out random names of people I knew and you didn’t.”
“My point—the point of my novel—is that part of greatness is knowing when to move on. When to evolve and, most importantly, how to evolve,” Rascal finally gets out.
“Evolve into what?” Dad asks.
“Into something other than a relic of a time long past,” Rascal spits out.
“A relic?” Dad says, his voice beginning to climb again.
“Yeah,” Rascal says, nearly bending out of his chair.
“What do you know about relics?” Dad asks.
“How often do people ask you to autograph your last book, Dad? Or are they just constantly quoting The Coward, maybe Jack Tinker—and without the movie adaptation of The Plantation Band, that book would hardly get the attention it does,” Rascal says, taking his deepest breath after the last words.
“These are pretty weighty theories you’re bandying about,” Dad says, his voice the low growl his prey would hear for only a brief second before the lights went out.
“The legacy you’ve left is in some time capsule that plays on A&E every other week. Do you realize what a huge impact your voice would have on the antiwar movement going on right now? But, no—all you do is insist on being a part of the retrospective cheese-fests that just want to jack you off. I mean, where’s your relevance today? Who are you now?” Rascal says.
“Relevance. That’s what all this is about? Hm. What does that make you? I mean, what kind of creature latches on to a remora?” Dad sets his wineglass down on the table. His voice is eerily calm.
“You tell me. My book went where yours couldn’t. I went where you couldn’t. That’s why you didn’t read it,” Rascal says.
“I didn’t read your book, Rascal, because I can’t seem to justify how I was saddled with a kid like you. That, son, is why I didn’t read your book,” Dad says, breaking out that patented smile.
“That’s enough, Pop,” I snap.
“Elisabeth, be quiet.” Dad doesn’t look away from Rascal.
Rascal takes his napkin from his lap and stands. “Dad, this may come as a shock to you, but you not being able to justify being saddled with a kid like me . . . Well, I take that as a compliment,” Rascal says, beginning to walk out of the room.
Dad quickly gets up, standing over him. “Don’t you get up from this table,” he says.
“We’re done here, Dad,” Rascal says, his voice fixed in a monotone.
“Sit your ass back down,” Dad says, moving closer to Rascal.
“No,” Rascal says, his body tight and unmoving. Dad’s entire body is shaking. Rascal powers past Dad. Dad swings and connects directly with the corner of Rascal’s left eye. Rascal whips to the side, his wiry body hitting the wall of the dining room. I recoil into my chair. Mom immediately stands.
“Ben, that’s enough,” Mom cuts in, going over and seeing to Rascal. Dad looks horrified.
“How long have you wanted to do that?” Rascal says, his hand over his already swelling eye.
“Rascal, I didn’t . . . you—” Dad’s voice is still a low growl.
“Probably about as long as I’ve wanted to tell you to fuck off,” Rascal says, low and controlled. Dad is taken slightly aback.
“I said that’s enough,” Mom says again, a little louder, but not at a yell. She looks at Rascal, taking in his reddening face. Not one tear. His eyes are clear and defiant.
“This is Thanksgiving dinner, and we are all going to sit down like a family and finish this goddamn meal,” Dad announces.
Mom comes over to the table. “Kids, I want you to go back to the guest cottage. Your father and I need to talk.”
“Yes, Mom,” Rascal and I say together.
“Ballard?” Dad says as Rascal squeezes past him. I stand and set my napkin on the table.
“Ben, I need you to be quiet until the children leave,” Mom says. She says to Rascal and me, “I’ll come out to the cottage when I’m done. Please give us some privacy until then.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Holy shit . . . holy shit . . . holy shit . . .” I say, opening the door to the cottage and going directly into the kitchen for some ice. Rascal follows, his hand over his eye. He looks completely dazed. I crack the ice from the trays, bundle it in a dish towel, and hand it to Rascal. He puts the bundle on his eye and collapses onto one of the bar stools in the kitchenette.
“I totally thought you were going to bring up Avery,” I say, breaking the odd silence.
“No, no, Mom doesn’t need to know about that,” Rascal says absently.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Rascal says mechanically, his face reddening more.
I drag the other bar stool over and sit next to him. “You stood up to him. You held it together. That was fucking incredible,” I say, taking the bundle of ice and holding it on his eye myself.
“He fucking hit me, Bink. Dad fucking hit me.” Rascal’s good eye is glassy.
“I know. I know. I can’t explain . . .” I can feel my throat closing and burning with tears.
“I’m moving to Montana. I bought that cabin—the one I wrote the novel in. I can’t . . . I’ve worked too hard to try and stop this. I can’t keep running.”
“So you’re leaving?” I ask, sniffling up the welling tears.
“I think I have to,” he says. I shift the melting ice. He cringes at the pain this action brings.
“I can’t believe this.” Anger bubbles over, spilling out onto the counter.
Rascal looks shocked. “What?”
“If you ever want to pinpoint the moment, you know, run it back in your head—the exact moment your little sister figured out you were full of shit—yeah, it’s this moment. Right here,” I say.
“What the fuck are you talking about? This is the least amount of shit I’ve been filled with in my entire life.” Rascal’s voice is soft.
“You finally stand up to Dad, say you don’t want to run anymore, and then you announce you’re moving to Montana? I thought you liked being in the kitchen with Dinah. I thought there was something . . . You don’t see the irony in all this? I’ll wait for the light to go on.” I stare right at him.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. My eye hurts too much for you to be a smart-ass.” Rascal pleads.
“One step forward, two steps back,” I say, taking the dish towel and dumping some of the melted ice in the sink.
“Oh, stop it. Calm down. Sit. Just . . . Will you sit down?” Rascal stands and takes my hand.
“What?” I say, bringing the ice back over and resting it once again on Rascal’s eye. I sit.
“It’s not like that. At least it didn’t sound like that when I worked all this out earlier.” Rascal runs his hand through his unruly curls. I bite the side of my cheek and wait. He sits back down and scoots his stool in.
“I just can’t be around him anymore. I have to find my own place. I have to put down roots and try, at least try, to see this thing through,” he says, his voice cracking.
“Why does it have to be in Montana?” The tears let loose down my cheeks.
“I’m so sick and fucking tired of it. The heir apparent. The scion of this, and the prodigal son, and fuuuck! I don’t want it. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to be like him. But I can see I’m turning into him. Sometimes, at night, I’d just sit there and . . . there’d be nothing keeping me here, you know? Nothing worth sticking around for.” Rascal turns his face away and wipes at his good eye.
I lean in. “What are we talking about here?”
“I had these fantasies where I’d take his Colt .45 right out of that Shrine to Manhood. Maybe even let my blood splatter on the pages of his next masterpiece. Poetic, right? My book would sell millions. Posthumous shit always sells tons.” Rascal’s jaw is tight and cruel. He scoffs out a small laugh and turns away.
“What? You’re joking? You’re making jokes about . . .” I can’t even say it.
“It’s not as if it’s something that I’m still thinking about.” Rascal breathes deeply and tries to compose himself.
“I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .” I get out.
“No, it’s . . . Jesus, you’re the only thing that kept me around sometimes,” he says, reaching across the counter. I lean over the counter in tears. The bundle of ice falls to the ground. Rascal scoots his stool around and puts his arm around me, holding my head tightly to his chest. I look up, my eyes wet, and try to smile. Rascal kisses my forehead. Always the big brother.
“Montana, huh?” I say.
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s worse. Death or Montana,” Rascal jokes.
“Not funny,” I say, looking up at him.
“I know,” Rascal says, wiping away one of my tears.
“Are you still coming to New York with me?” I ask, sniffling and heaving, trying to regain a modicum of composure.
“My kind of town,” he says, letting my head fall back on his chest. We hear the door to the cottage open and close. Rascal wipes his face, and I hop down to pick up the fallen ice. Mom walks calmly through the swinging door into the kitchenette.
“Your father needs some time by himself. I’ve asked him to spend some time at the studio in Laurel Canyon,” she says.
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” Rascal says, standing.
“Oh . . .” Mom bites her lip. Her eyes well up. She continues, “You’re sorry? You’re sorry? Oh, my sweet, sweet boy . . .” She pulls Rascal to her. Only then does he crumble into tears. I hold on to the bundle of ice and feel tear after tear roll down my face.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Mom says, holding out her arm to me. I dump the ice and quickly fall in to Mom’s embrace. She holds us tight. Tighter than she ever has. “I’m so sorry. Please . . . please . . . you must forgive me,” she says, her voice breaking with each word. Rascal and I pull back from her, taking her in.
“Mom, you didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Exactly. I didn’t do anything. I was so horrible to Anne. I was so judgmental about how she treated William all these years. How she’d neglected him for whatever it was that caught her fancy. I thought I was so much better. My perfect little family. And here I was, so blind. I need you . . .” Mom’s eyes are on fire, boring into us. “I need you to know that I will never allow something like this to happen ever again.”
“Okay, Mom,” Rascal and I say in unison. He leans on the counter, picking up the bundle of ice and resting it once more on his swelling eye.
“I just didn’t see it . . . see how bad it had gotten. And now I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I made a vow to myself—God, I must have been sixteen—it was right after Daddy died, and I was spending yet another Christmas at boarding school. Such a . . . It was lovely. They really tried to make us feel at home. But I swore that when I had a family, I would keep it together no matter what. I just never . . .” Mom trails off.
“How could you know?” I ask.
Mom looks at me, right at me. “You know. They don’t change, darling.”
“But—” I begin.
“They don’t, darling,” Mom says. It’s clear to me that she’s also talking about Will. I now understand why Mom was so alarmingly keen on Daniel. Had she been secretly hoping I’d find someone . . . anyone?
“Okay, okay,” I say, nodding and not knowing where to look—where to focus my eyes. I can’t look at Mom. I can’t look at Rascal. This whole time they’ve known. They’ve known. Everyone’s known. Will is never going to be the man I need him to be. Ever. He’ll never change.
“You’re feeling pretty good about that high-speed-chase story right about now, huh?” I say to Rascal.
A smile breaks across his face. “Yes, I’m truly a prophet,” he says. He wipes snot off my face.
“So where do we go from here?” I ask.
“You and I go to New York,” Rascal says.
“No, I know that. I just . . .” Rascal and I look to Mom.
“Your brother’s right. You go to New York,” Mom says.
“But—” I start.
“This is something your father has to make right. We didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mom says.
“But—” Rascal tries.
Mom cuts in, her voice final. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. This is his mess to clean up.” Rascal softens.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ve decided to take Anne Houghton up on her offer to join her in Aspen. I got a flight for first thing in the morning,” Mom announces.
“Holy shit, Mom,” Rascal yelps.
“Language, dear,” Mom corrects, giving him the smallest of winks.
Chapter Thirty-five
Rascal and I are packed up and riding in the back of a Town Car on our way to LAX. It’s just after six in the morning. We’ve already made a Starbucks pit stop in search of tea, coffee, and a nice caffeine buzz. I eagerly await my tea to cool from temperatures like those found near the center of the Earth. Last night is still thick in our throats. Dad left within minutes. He had scribbled a long manifesto to Rascal, apologizing for his behavior, and left it on the kitchen counter. By the time he was entering the 101 in his Corvette, Dad had already left three messages on Rascal’s cell ph
one, apologizing and pleading with him to call. Rascal couldn’t bring himself to listen to the messages but saved them anyway. The limousine service to LAX picked Mom up first thing in the morning. The house was near empty within hours of the punch heard around the world. How am I going to explain last night to Daniel? Oh yeah, my family got together for Thanksgiving—it was great, we had turkey, mashed potatoes, and a fistfight.
Rascal’s cell phone rings from his jacket pocket. He takes it out, checks the number, and beeps the phone on. “Hello?” He’s quiet, listening. Who’s calling him at six o’clock in the morning? Dad?
“Who is it?” I mouth.
He waves me off. “Oh, good. Tell her we’re thinking of her.”
“Who is it?” I ask again.
Rascal mouths, “Will.” He says into the phone, “Yeah, she’s here.” He listens and then answers, “Oh, thanks, man, but we can’t. We’re flying to New York for a business thing.”
“What? What is he saying?” I whisper.
Rascal whispers back, “Shut the fuck up,” and turns his body away from me so he’s looking out the window. I notice the morphing of the pumpkin patches is finally complete; Christmas-tree lots have sprouted on random corners throughout the streets of Los Angeles. The odd mixture of holiday cheer and melancholy is thick in the morning air. I don’t know what it is about this time of year that makes me feel so dreamy and elsewhere. Maybe it’s the twinkle lights that make every house look that much more fairy tale–ish.
“Okay, well, give our regrets to your mom,” Rascal says, signing off. I wait. He says, “Mom called Anne from LAX. Her plane is on schedule.”
I look out the window.
“It’s weird that he called, right? That’s weird.” I say.
Rascal puts on his sunglasses over what is now officially a black eye. “Things aren’t important if people aren’t important,” he muses. One high-speed chase story and the guy thinks he’s Aesop.
“Oh, okay, Yoda,” I say, digging my own sunglasses out of my purse. It’s not even gray dawn yet.
“Copycat,” Rascal says.
I put on my sunglasses, sigh as loudly and dramatically as I can, sip my tea, and promptly burn my tongue.
