by Liza Palmer
“For fuck’s sake, Rascal. Hi, I’m Dinah.” The Girl extends her hand to me. Rascal turns to her with a full mouth, seeming more than a little indignant. Ohhh, I like this one. Her hair is jet black and cuts across her forehead à la Bettie Page. She’s wearing a lavender shift dress with an ill-fitting shoulder-padded blazer. Dinah looks like she’s been dressed for the prom by her parents—in the 1980s.
“Hi, I’m Rascal’s sister, Elisabeth, and this is Daniel Sullivan,” I say, trying to be the good one.
“Nice to meet you,” Dinah says, tugging at her blazer.
Rascal melodramatically swallows his crab appetizer. “Jesus, give a guy a break,” he announces. We all drop into an awkward silence. “You talk to Mom yet?” he says, leading us over to one of the small cocktail tables set up in the main room. There are copper and deep red silk tablecloths on the tables, finished off with centerpieces of hurricane lamps with copper glass ornaments and threaded red ribbons.
“Yeah, she tagged us first thing,” I say.
“Son?” Dad approaches our table. He looks like a wreck—his hair is unkempt; he has the beginnings of a beard and mustache. He’s tried to dress up for the event, but the clothes are wrinkled. Rascal whips around, nearly dropping his plate. Daniel and I stand back, trying to blend in, disappear. Dinah looks to me and Daniel and, taking our cue, stands back.
“Hey, Pop.” Rascal barely gets the words out as he sets his plate carefully on the table.
“You didn’t return my phone calls.” Dad steps forward. He takes a quick glance at me; I immediately look to Rascal. Dad takes in the black eye. His whole body deflates.
“I didn’t know . . . I don’t know what you could say, Dad, that would make . . . could make this go away,” Rascal says, motioning at his eye.
“I need to tell you,” Dad begins, holding Rascal’s novel out in front of him. The novel is worn with reading, rereading, analyzing, dog-earing, highlighting, and annotating. Rascal looks at the novel in its present state. I can see the magnitude of what Dad is saying hit him.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Dad begins, opening up Rascal’s novel to an already designated page.
“Okay.” Rascal’s voice is quiet.
“I . . . You talk here about greatness. I just wanted to ask if you could understand what it was we were going for. That there is greatness in the attempt—something in the trying. That in trying, we set up a certain scaffolding that a new generation can use to climb to heights we only dreamed of. I . . . I can’t take back what I did, son. I needed . . . I fucked up. Shit, I’ve been fucking up for decades. I just . . . I needed to see you again. Needed to . . . I’m . . . I’m so sorry.” Dad looks at Rascal. My entire body is still. I never thought I’d see the day. The day when Dad finally saw Rascal as a man.
Rascal’s face reddens, and he turns away, obviously searching for something, anything, to say. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing—he is silent. Dad pulls him in for a hug, not letting him go, stroking the mop of curls. I blink back tears, willing them to evaporate. I look up at Daniel, and he’s doing the same thing. Dinah wipes her nose on the shoulder of the lavender blazer. Rascal and Dad hug until Dad breaks it and holds Rascal at arm’s length in front of him. Dad takes the book and holds it out to Rascal with a pen. “Will you sign it, son?”
Rascal’s face loses all color, and I hear him take a small gasp. He takes the book and the pen and signs his name, clearly in a haze. Dad watches him. Then, as if he can’t help it, Dad raises his hand to Rascal’s eye and just breaks down. I see Mom approach the table. Rascal and Dad stand face-to-face. Rascal is focused, but his nose is red, and there is definite moisture in his eyes. He wipes at them as if they’re stinging wasps. I notice a few people glancing in our direction. Daniel is still, just taking it all in. His arm tightly wound around my waist.
“Okay, Dad . . . okay . . .” Rascal manages, nodding and nodding. Mom takes a few more steps forward. Dad notices her. They have a deep, seemingly hour-long moment of eye contact. Just them, in a world by themselves. The first step has been taken to forgiveness, and in that moment it’s as if Mom conveyed the hope to Dad that there could be more. Dad turns to me. My mouth is curling and shaking; I’m biting my lip so much I can taste blood. I’m wringing my hands as Dad approaches. Daniel stands at my side.
“Hi, my sweet girl. Come here,” Dad says, pulling me to him. His arms envelop every bit of me, and I tuck myself in to the crook of his neck, smelling that same smell—the forest that’s steeped in pipe smoke. “You made a lunch box, just like when you were little,” Dad says softly. It’s one of those moments that stabs at my throat, my heart, and that pantheon of old photographs playing in my mind. The man I thought I knew just said something I would have staked my life on his never uttering. My mind is officially blown, and the embarrassing need to intellectualize what’s happening pulls me in to a schizophrenic seizure of trying to understand the gravity of it all instead of letting my dad hug me. I feel a sting of agonizing joy and raw emotion. I tighten my arms around Dad. I can feel him convulsing, mumbling that he’s sorry, repeating that he’ll work to earn my trust back. He doesn’t let go, and I have to be in it—force myself to get lost in him, settle in to him, let him hug me. Let him love me. He breaks away and stands back, taking us all in. Then he slowly turns to Daniel. “Ben Page,” he says, extending his hand to Daniel.
“Daniel Sullivan,” Daniel says.
“You’re . . .” Dad trails off, his voice still a bit raspy.
“Here with Elisabeth,” Daniel finishes. Dad turns to Mom, then to Rascal—a look that says, “Just how long have I been gone?” Please don’t ask what happened to Will. Please don’t ask what happened to Will. Wait. Why? Why not? Where is all this coming from?
“And you’re . . .” Dad says, turning to Dinah.
“Dinah Larter. I’m here with Rascal,” she says, following Daniel’s cue.
“Nice meeting you both,” Dad says.
In the silence that follows, we all become a tad embarrassed about our little love fest. I’m sure some aspiring actor/waiter can’t wait to get home and blog about it. The flood of emotion was way over the top, and none of us knows how to deal with the aftermath. Do we keep hugging? Do we talk about the changes and the future? Do we frolic arm in arm up and down the magnolia-draped sweeping staircases? Dad excuses himself in search of a tissue and probably a Scotch. Rascal takes Dinah’s hand and walks toward the auction tables. Mom greets another well-wisher. I stand there feeling like the wind has been knocked out of me, and more than a little exposed.
“Do you want to see how the silent-auction item is going?” Daniel asks.
“I sure got lucky the last time I did,” I say, squeezing Daniel’s hand, looking at him to see how he fared through the whole family drama. He looks a bit dazed, but his demeanor has softened. He asks if he can get us some drinks. I tell him I’d love a glass of champagne and that I’ll meet him back by the silent-auction tables.
* Baskets filled with exotic lotions and a gift certificate for a stay at the Golden Door in Escondido, CA: eleven bidders
* Two tickets to the UCLA season opener: twelve bidders
* An autographed football along with a weekend in San Francisco and fifty-yard-line tickets to a 49ers game: two bidders
* An exalted bottle of wine paired with a five-day jaunt through the Napa Valley: nine bidders
* Signed first-edition Ben Page: nineteen bidders
* Signed first-edition Rascal Page: sixteen bidders
* A day on the set of Life Is Sweet with Elisabeth Page: thirteen bidders
I snatch up my clipboard, skimming the names. I don’t know any of these people. The writing is all different. Is this some kind of scam? If it is, it’s quite an elaborate one.
“You’re not bidding on that one, are you, dear?” A woman in a low-cut white silk gown sidles over to me, cradling her bubbling flute of champagne.
“Oh, no. I was just . . .” I set the clipboard down
. Why wouldn’t I bid on this, you pruney old bat?
“Good. I just put in a bid I hoped would knock out all the competition,” she says, sipping her champagne. I pick up my clipboard again and look at the last name on the list. This woman has bid a thousand dollars. For a day with me.
“I think it’s lovely,” I say.
“It seems to be a hot ticket tonight,” she says. I’m a hot ticket tonight? I’m a hot ticket? And yet she had no idea who I was. Interesting.
“Always the height of efficiency, I see.”
I whip around, almost dropping the clipboard. Will. His gray dress shirt is open at the collar; no tie. We are a perfect matching pair—little salt-and-pepper-shaker outfits. I smooth my gown and wish I could magically change it to any other color besides the exact color of Will’s shirt.
“No one told me you were coming,” I say.
“Is Finn MacCool here?” Will says, sipping easily at his drink.
“The mythical Irish character? Uh, noooo, he’s sadly still entrenched in folklore,” I parry.
“You know who I’m talking about,” Will presses.
“Of course he’s here,” I say. Will’s eyes flare, just as they did when he was eight years old. I’m positive he’s going to call me a stupid fuck-it any minute.
I look past Will and see his mom, Anne. She’s wearing a bright red gown that accentuates her supermodelian height. Her blond hair is cut short, and her alabaster skin is as flawless as ever. She looks healthy and glowing.
“Elisabeth! Oh, sweetheart, you look beautiful,” Anne says, kissing me on the cheek and wiping away the lipstick.
“It’s so good to see you. How was Aspen?” I ask, not knowing what to say, feeling the heat of Will and the deafening pendulum swing, not knowing when Daniel is going to round that corner with a glass of champagne and a confused look on his face about why I’m standing here chatting with my ex-lover.
“Boring, darling. Utterly boring,” Anne says, raising her mineral water in a mocking toast.
“It was only boring because you refused to take on the Scrabble master,” Will says, back on his best behavior.
“Do you listen to yourself sometimes?” I say easily. Anne barks with laughter as she pulls Will in close, ruffling his hair. I melt a little in that moment. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Will is rocking back and forth. Over his shoulder, I see Daniel and Dad walking toward us. Daniel is carrying a flute of bubbling champagne and a bottle of Heineken. Dad has his usual—Scotch neat. They’re talking about something. Daniel is gesticulating with his beer-holding hand—over there . . . over there. Dad is nodding and agreeing. Daniel hands me my champagne and takes a long swig from his beer, easing his other arm around my waist. Will, quite out of character, stares as Daniel’s arm slides around my body. Dad eases in beside me. Daniel stares at Will, taking another long swig of his beer. Dad is checking the clipboards. Mine catches his eye.
“Will Houghton,” Will says, extending his hand slowly to Daniel.
“Yes, W-I-L-L. We’ve met,” Daniel says, shaking Will’s hand. I see Will wince.
“Oh, that’s right. I didn’t recognize you in a suit,” Will says, taking his hand back, shaking it out a bit.
“Yes, that would be confusing,” Daniel says, wrapping his arm tightly back around my waist, languidly sipping his beer. Will tilts his head just enough, and a wide smile breaks across his face—the polite, upper-class equivalent of slapping an expensive glove across Daniel’s cheek.
“Daniel Sullivan, this is my mom, Anne Houghton,” Will introduces, easily remembering Daniel’s full name. Daniel extends his hand to Anne.
“Nice to meet you, Daniel,” she says politely. I watch them try to figure out exactly who the other one is. We all stand in awkward silence. I know that Will is behaving like a jealous brat, but I can’t help feeling exhausted by all of this change. I know that things are better than I ever could have imagined. I guess I just thought that “better” would feel like home right away. Instead, I find myself in this odd purgatory, much like a goldfish having to assimilate to a new aquarium by spending time in the safety of a plastic bag from the pet store. It’s unnerving how much I seem to like my plastic bag; I’m in no rush, apparently, to fully dive into the new aquarium, despite the beautiful waters just beyond.
Will breaks the silence. “Mom, can I get you anything?”
“No, sweetheart. I’m perfect,” she says, pulling him close. The introductions and well wishes continue as Dinah, Rascal, and Mom join our circle. Will and I make eye contact in the stir of it all. Something has changed in us. There’s a quick moment when I know that what’s changed is what’s missing. It’s funny, but we were each the worst and the most beautiful thing about the other. We stumbled through life together as two cripples would, leaning on each other and grasping for something to steady ourselves. But we’ve come to find out that we weren’t holding each other up; we were dragging each other down with our own emotional handicaps. Will looks at me once more, and I look away, curling in to Daniel. Daniel pulls me close. Time to think about moving into that aquarium.
The next week Anne will move into Will’s Hollywood Hills home. The next morning Rascal will leave for Montana. Dad will see him off, patting the trunk of his car as he drives away.
Chapter Forty
Our numbers were huge.
We got a nice slot on Tuesday nights at eight P.M. The last few days have been a frenzy of trying to fit in to this new life. I don’t miss the restaurant as much as I thought I would. I also don’t miss Will as much as I thought I would. Funny how you can get used to not having things you thought you couldn’t live without.
By the time I walk down Slaughterhouse Hallway, I’m already getting excited about the holidays, beginning with Samuel and Margot’s housewarming/Christmas Eve/get this baby out dinner party tonight. Before I get to Daniel’s door, I scroll through my e-mails and see the confirmation that the movers have successfully completed the job of moving me into the Santa Monica house and have left the extra key under the mat. I’m excited to tell Daniel, but then I have a slight twinge. He’s never fully warmed to the idea of the house. I slide my key into the lock and let myself into Daniel’s apartment.
“Surprise!” Daniel pops out from behind a six-foot-tall Christmas tree wearing a Santa hat.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s gorgeous!” I say, running over and hugging him. The tree is bare, save for the white twinkle lights Daniel has carefully woven in and out of the lush green branches.
“What do you think?” he asks, fluffing it up a bit with his hands.
“It’s just lovely,” I say, kissing him. Again and again.
“But wait, there’s more!” Daniel says, running into the kitchen. He comes out with a washed Gatorade bottle with a bent paper clip speared through it, and hangs it on the tree.
“Awwww, our first ornament,” I say. Daniel hustles back into the kitchen and emerges with a pitcher of water. He pops and creaks into a kneeling position, busying himself with pruning and twisting off stray branches, finally pouring the water into the tree stand. I just watch. The curve of his body. That snippet of bare skin from his belt to where his shirt has fallen forward on his back. The mountain range of muscle on his long arms as he pours the water. I put out my hand and smooth that patch of forbidden skin exposed to the light. Mine to touch. Daniel turns his head from underneath the tree branches and smiles. He takes the pitcher back into the kitchen, emerging once more with it filled.
“Thirsty little sucker,” Daniel says. He bends back down and pours the water in. Something seems off about him tonight.
“What’s going on? You’re . . .” I trail off.
“Nothing. Well, nothing big,” Daniel says, leaning on his good knee to get himself into a standing position.
“Nothing big?” I repeat, getting a bit nervous.
“I know it’s last-minute, it being Christmas Eve and all.” Daniel hesitates. “I’ve decided to go home for Christmas,” he says, almost into the pitcher.<
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Aaand kerplop. The other shoe has officially dropped.
“What? Wait . . . why? I thought you were going to stay here—didn’t we . . . You said the basketball schedule was too tight. You were going to celebrate with us at my parents’ house. Did something happen? Oh, God, my family’s too weird. They’re too weird, aren’t they? When did you decide? God, it could have been . . .” I’m babbling. The flickering lights on the tree are shadowing Daniel’s face—on . . . off . . . on . . . off.
“No, they’re not too weird.” Daniel lets his hands drop to his sides, his head bowing slightly.
“What, then? Did I do something?” I ask, gently taking his hand.
“I was . . . That party was just overwhelming, that’s all,” Daniel admits.
“Where is this coming from? You didn’t say anything—you never said anything,” I stutter.
“I know. It wasn’t the time, and I didn’t know how I felt, but it got me thinking.” Daniel pauses, carefully choosing his words. “I just wouldn’t fit in at your parents’ house at Christmas. I’m sorry, I know they’re your family, but . . .”
“They are too crazy for you? You can tell me. God, I knew it. It was just—” Daniel cuts in. “They’re not too crazy. I thought it was awesome how your dad and Rascal—I mean, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“My parents took you to Islands, Elisabeth. Islands. You ate chicken soft tacos, and my dad drank Budweiser. Shit, I drink Budweiser. Your parents’ friends have valets and servers. My dad is Santa Claus. That was his goal. To be Santa Claus. Those people at that event—I’ve never even been around . . . I couldn’t even open my mouth.” Daniel pauses again, fighting with himself. “You know, I could have handled all that. It was the fact that—” He breaks off, his eyes darting around, connecting with mine and then darting away again.
