The Best of Good

by Sara Lewis

  Then I said, “I was just hoping to, you know, meet him, and maybe, like, hang out with him, or something. I thought maybe I could take some kind of a role in his life.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “And can you take me home now?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What did I say? Why are you getting so upset all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not upset all of a sudden. I’ve been upset for a while now, but I guess you haven’t noticed that!”

  “I noticed! Of course I did. I let you wipe your nose on my—

  “Just take me home! This was a mistake!”

  “I’m sorry, God, I didn’t mean for this to turn into—” I got off the freeway at the next exit, I crossed the overpass and waited for the left turn arrow to get back on the freeway going the other way. “I thought, I just, I was trying to—you know, maybe you might need some money sometime, and I could—”

  “Money?” she said. “He’s in fifth grade!”

  “They don’t need money in fifth grade?"

  “I mean, I’ve been managing fine on my own for some time, I didn’t ask you for any help.”

  “No. You haven’t asked me for anything. I’m just offering.”

  “No, thank you.” She folded her arms.

  “You don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to—”

  “Now is fine. I took full responsibility for having him. And now you just decide one day to get in touch, and poof! There you are! You knew I wouldn’t want this. If I’d wanted you to participate, I would have contacted you, wouldn’t I?”

  “I guess you would. But how can you refuse—”

  “Easy. Look. I have a good job. We live in a nice neighborhood. He’s fine. He doesn’t need—he’s fine!”

  I glanced sideways at her. She was looking straight ahead with her chin tipped up a little bit. She exhaled upward, and her bangs lifted for a second, then came to rest on her forehead again. I looked back at the road.

  I suddenly had a flashback of the way she looked at The Club and the way she squeezed her eyes shut to memorize her drink orders. This wasn’t right at all. Here she was, yelling at me about serious, weighty matters, and I was thinking about how cute she looked more than ten years ago. She still did that thing with her eyes when she tried to remember something.

  “I didn’t think you’d react this way,” I said. “If I’d known, I—”

  “How did you think I’d react?”

  “I thought, I don’t know, that you might be, um, glad?”

  “You really have some kind of, I don’t know, learning disability.”

  “I do? Well, maybe I do.”

  Now I couldn’t get to her house quickly enough, but I had driven a long time in the opposite direction, so it would take a while. I figured I could just drive and not talk. Hang on. You’ll make it. Soon this will be over, I told myself. I passed an In-N-Out Burger we had gone to together long ago in ancient times. I didn’t say, “Remember that time we—” But I saw her looking at it too. In those days she had been living with her parents, saving money. I met them. They weren’t bad. She looked a lot like her mother. I would hate to run into them again, though, now that, well, now. “Why did we do this anyway?” Diana wanted to know again, “This is torture. What were you trying to do? I mean, really.”

  As I’d already answered this question, I didn’t say anything.

  “I see you finally got a car,” she said. She looked around herself, not at all impressed. It was an unimpressive vehicle, to be sure. It was used when I bought it. “When did you get it?” she wanted to know.

  “Almost eleven years ago.”

  “Really? Oh. Well.” She seemed a little startled. “So—I don’t understand. You bought the car because I wanted you to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t tell me. So how could I—”

  “You never called. I thought you would come back for the stuff you left, but you didn’t.”

  “Did you really think—” She brushed away a thought with her hand. She looked out the window. “So do you play guitar for people now? Or is it still just you and your closet?”

  “Closet,” I said, “Still just the closet.”

  “Do you still get your shirts at Kmart and your jeans at—”

  “Still. Yeah. The same.”

  “I see, well. Good, why don’t you get some therapy? It might really help.”

  As you might imagine, this wasn’t my favorite topic of conversation. So I went in another direction. I said, “Listen. Now, don’t get mad. I’m trying to be helpful. I may not be the most conventional father, you know. I may not be exactly normal in a lot of areas. But about money—if there’s anything you need for Jack, just tell me, OK? I’d be happy to give you something every month if you want, or just help out whenever you feel you—”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her turn her head toward me in this curious way. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “What money do you have? Since when do bartenders make—well, I guess your expenses are pretty low, but I don’t think you have any idea how expensive a kid can be.”

  “Probably not. I’m just saying I’m willing to contribute—I’d like to contribute—and—”

  “What money are we talking about? Are you suggesting twenty-five bucks a month, something like that, or—”

  “No, sorry, I meant more than that. I mean, if you’re OK for the regular expenses, then let’s say for college or if he—”

  “So where do you get all this money to give away all of a sudden?”

  “I’ve had money for a long time. Years and years. So if later on, maybe, or if all of a sudden you need—”

  “Really, where did you get money? I want to know.”

  “Oh, just—it’s—” I started stammering and scrambling in my head about what to say. “You know, my songs. The songs I wrote for Point Blank. They still earn royalties, and as you’ve noted, my expenses are pretty low.”

  “What songs? You wrote songs for Point Blank? Royalties? Seriously? What songs?” She looked at me. When I didn’t say anything, she said, “You told me you used to be in a band. A band, you said. Half the male population used to be in a band. You never said anything about Point Blank. How could you possibly not mention that?” For a minute she looked straight ahead. Then she turned to me again. “OK, Good. What songs are we talking about here? I want to know.”

  I exhaled. Here we go. I really didn’t like talking about this, as I’ve mentioned, but I named the songs. Then I said, “I started the band.”

  She gasped and said, “Oh. My. God. Are you telling the truth?”

  I focused on the road ahead of me.

  “Good.,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  She was quiet for a minute, processing. I picked up our speed a little. I was almost to her place.

  “Really?” she said, turning sideways in her seat to face me. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “It was a long time ago. I was pretty young, and I—”

  “How come you never told me? I mean, why would you keep a huge piece of information like that from me.”

  “Oh, I—I don’t know.” I tried to think of an answer. “I—I don’t know. I guess it never really came up?”

  “You’re the Tom Good who left Point Blank way back when?”

  “Well,” I said, “yeah”.

  “All these years, and I didn’t even know who I—I can’t believe this!”

  Any second, she might start crying again or maybe yelling at me. I got off at the next exit.

  Diana was shaking her head, stunned by the information that I had written famous songs. “God, well, that’s just—gee, so that’s why you called me. You wanted to finally tell me that?”

  “No, I, well, there were a lot of things I wanted to go over actually. And I just wanted to ask about—Jack.” It didn’t really matter now what my original plan was. This had all gotten away from me a long time ago. My original pl
an seemed remote.

  I drove into Diana’s condo parking lot. I got a space right near her unit. She had her car door open before I’d turned off the engine. She hopped out pretty fast, but I could be fast too, if I wanted to. I hurried around the car and walked her to the front door, even though, clearly, she would have preferred it if I’d screeched out of the parking lot before she got inside; it would have gone better with her image of me. Too bad though, because I wasn’t going along with it. She had the key out already and opened the door.

  “Good night,” she said, as she stepped through the door. Then she closed it.

  “Good night,” I said to the closed door. It was blue, and there was a tiny nail at about nose level where she would probably hang a Christmas wreath in a few months.

  fifteen

  At home, the house was dark. Not just my side, but both sides. Upstairs was bright. Jeanette was probably logging me in right now. I managed to find the keyhole and get in the front door. My answering machine light was blinking. Blink blink. Pause. Blink blink. Pause. Two calls. I closed the door, locked it, and flicked on the light. I didn’t listen to the messages yet. I went into the kitchen and boiled water. I hadn’t eaten dinner. I got out a little can of that flavored instant coffee. They ought to sell this stuff in bigger containers, I was thinking, jumbo drums of it, the way they did with laundry detergent, This would be great for people like me who could never get enough of the stuff I put a couple of tablespoons into a cup.

  The problem with seeing old girlfriends was that the things that initially attracted you to them are always still there. You didn’t expect that, for some reason. You thought it was going to be all neutral, and it just wasn’t. You could still picture them happy or wet or surprised or asleep, and just what were you supposed to do with all that stuff? Then the reasons you were not still with them were there too, right on top, and what were you supposed to do with that?

  The phone started ringing, but I didn’t answer it. It was probably The Club, saying that it was unexpectedly busy and would I come down and work the front bar? Well, no, I wouldn’t. I let it ring.

  The answering machine went on. It wasn’t The Club. It was Diana. “Good? It’s me,” she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so—well, see, the thing is, I—you know, I should have been more appreciative of your offer. So thank you for offering. And, well, that’s all, I guess. Bye.”

  Another confusing thing. People should be one way or the other, not several ways at once, and I’m including myself when I say this. They should hate your guts or love you. They shouldn’t have both feelings at the same time. The water boiled. I poured it into the powder and stirred. Then I played the other messages. They were both from Diana. First, could I call her back? Then, she guessed I wasn’t home yet, but when I got home, could I call her back?

  I turned on the TV. Then I turned it off again. I sipped from my cup. She hadn’t shown me a picture of Jack. I really wanted to see what he looked like. She probably had a picture of him in her wallet, if I’d just asked to see one. Or maybe she wouldn’t have wanted me to see him. I sipped again. I put the cup down on the floor and took the phone off the desk. I dialed. I had the number memorized from calling it so many times over the last several days. She answered right away.

  “Diana?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Good. Really. I shouldn’t have been so—”

  “You weren’t. It was me. I shouldn’t have expected you to—”

  “It was just kind of a lot to deal with all at once. I didn’t really expect to hear from you and then there you were, and it brought back all my—God, the whole thing. It was so hard, trying to figure everything out. I was pregnant, and you were so—I don’t know. I just didn’t think you were ever going to…”

  She stopped here. “Amount to anything?” I suggested. “Change? Get a real job? Get a real house? Get real clothes? Get a car?”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say, I didn’t think you were ever going to want to have a family. That was what I was going to say.”

  “Oh,” I said, “that.”

  “And at first, I didn’t think it was a good idea to get together, but now, I’m really glad we did.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, and I was thinking, would you want to do it again sometime? Maybe now that I’m used to the idea, I won’t be so—so emotional.”

  “OK,” I said, “Sure,”

  I had just spent the past half hour getting used to the fact that I would not see her or my kid. Now I might after all. “Take your time,” I said. My heart was pounding, and my hands were sweaty. Hope flooded in, and I absorbed it, like a paper towel sucking up a cupful of grape juice in one of those old TV commercials.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

  Words started rushing out of me. “You will? OK, because I didn’t want you to be mad at me. I was really trying to, to, uh, you know…”

  “Help. I know that. Thanks.” She wanted to hang up. She had called me three times, and now she wanted to get off the phone. More conflict.

  “I’ll let you go now,” I said, taking her lead. By the time I hung up, I was feeling pretty good. I would have to be very careful, though, I saw that now. I’d be following her one way, and any little change in the wind could send her off in a whole different direction. But I was up to the challenge.

  sixteen

  I dreamed about the band, my old band, Point Blank. I saw Diana sitting in a theater lit to be taped for TV. She was dressed in a shimmering silver gown, her hair arranged in a complicated twist, earrings dangling. I was sitting beside her wearing a tux. “And the winner is Tom Good!” said a voice, Diana screamed with happiness and threw her arms around me. I had tears in my eyes as I held her tight, kissed her, then let her go and walked to the stage.

  OK, I didn’t dream it. I thought it. I daydreamed it. I wanted that, not the TV part, necessarily, but the part where I was a winner at something and she loved me for it. I used to have a chance at that. I hadn’t always been a bartender who had once, accidentally, had something to do with some hit songs a long time ago.

  I remembered the band’s disbelieving stares when I told them I was quitting. What had done it for me was the interviews, people asking about my life. I couldn’t say, “My brother died. My teacher died. Everyone was looking at me, so I had to act busy. My brother was the talented one, not me. I have nothing. It’s not a real band; it’s just something I made up to get me out of a bad situation!” I couldn’t tell them that, because it would just lead to more questions. Besides, all I wanted to do was hide. So I quit.

  I couldn’t know then that once you started something like this, once you made a band and wrote some songs, it could go on forever without you, whether you wanted it to or not. Nobody told me that. How would I know?

  Looking back on it, I could see why everybody was so shocked when I left the band. From here at the other end of a couple of decades, I supposed that band might have seemed to people as real as any other band. At the time, however, this idea had not occurred to me.

  Now I got out a cassette of some songs I’d been working on. I put the tape in the machine and pressed play. The songs seemed to have melodies, singable lyrics, and even, well, meaning. People might accept these as the real thing. If I could Just get in touch with the guys in Point Blank and let them know I was available again, they could use some of these. I pictured Diana singing along with one of my songs as it played on the radio, my son bragging to his friends. It was my band, after all. I started it. I picked those guys out of everyone who auditioned. I’d listened to their last CD. Some fresh energy couldn’t hurt. They needed me. And once I got going writing songs for the band again, well, anything could happen.

  I made a new tape of fifteen songs. It took me a whole day. I’d pick a song, put it on the tape, listen to it, think about the ones that led up to it, choose one to come after it. Twice I had to change the order completely, starting over
at the beginning. It had to be right. I thought fifteen was the right number to start with. I didn’t want to overwhelm them with too many, but still I had to let them know I had plenty. I looked at my tapes shelved by date. Lots and lots of songs. There were certainly plenty to choose from.

  I thought about the life I could have been having. I pictured Diana and Jack in a house with a pool. I heard one of my songs floating through the air. “This is my house,” I sang. “And this is my family…” There was a whole song there, I could tell, but I didn’t have time to write it down now. I was focused on another project; I was creating my real life. I looked in the phone book for the number of Point Blanks management company. I dialed, and a receptionist answered. I said, “Bill Gladstone, please.”

  “Mr. Gladstone is no longer with the company. Is there someone else who could help you?”

  “Oh, well, who represents Point Blank these days?”

  “Point Blank, the band? Oh, I don’t know. I love Point Blank! Do you work with them?”

  “What? They don’t—no,” I said. “Never mind. Well, thanks anyway,” I said. I hung up.

  I must have one of their CDs around here somewhere, I thought. I dug around for a long time until I came up with one. Luckily, they thanked their manager and everyone at their management company, which was in New York, of all places. Well, fine, whatever. I called information and got the phone number.

  I got another receptionist. “Hi, my name is Tom Good, and I need to get in touch with the band Point Blank.”

  “Could you hold, please?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Very polite, I thought. They ask you if you can hold, they don’t just force it on you. I waited a long time. A song played in my ear. It was new, thank goodness, a girl singer whose name I couldn’t remember. It started with a P. It was a seemingly simple melody that stuck in your head and lyrics that also seemed straightforward but had resonant meaning that twisted back on itself a couple of times.