by Jackie Rose
I stare at him blankly, still unable to speak. All I can think of is Remy’s snarky but vague reference to my boyfriend’s “shortcomings.” Being gay would definitely qualify in that category in this case.
“First of all, I need to apologize for having deceived you these past few months. Oh, and I also want you to know, in case it isn’t obvious, that I never cheated on you. With anyone. I’m not that much of an asshole….” He laughs nervously, waiting for me to concur. When I don’t, he simply clears his throat and continues. “Of course, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression from all this and assume I haven’t enjoyed the time we’ve spent together. I think we get along pretty well, don’t you?… No?… Not ready to go there yet? Okay, I can respect that. I’ll just get to the point then…so where was I?”
The fog begins to lift and I realize I’m still holding his hand. I pull it away.
“Wait! Before you say anything, let me lay it all out for you! What I’m proposing is a mutually beneficial arrangement, with just a few strings attached. But they’re good strings—courtship, engagement, marriage and, of course, children. A life together as close friends. You would be free to pursue discreet extramarital relationships, as would I. Eventually, if the arrangement no longer suited us, we could divorce. Everybody will get what they want—my parents can go on thinking I’m the son they want me to be, we’ll be able to give our kids the best of everything and you’ll have the freedom to do things you never even dreamed of. And if it doesn’t work out in the long run, there would obviously be an ample settlement in it for you in exchange for your discretion and years of…”
“Years of service?” I offer.
“Well, no, that’s not how I would put it.”
“How would you put it, then?”
“Years of marriage…years of love.”
“Love?”
“Come on, Holly…” He reaches for my hand again. “Be my Grace.”
“I don’t want a Will. I want a real husband. Come to think of it, these days I don’t know if I even want that.”
“I’ve worked it out for you, Holly. The pros far outweigh the cons. That much I can virtually guarantee.”
The whole thing sounds a little too well rehearsed.
“Am I the first one you’ve…how should I put this…proposed to?”
He exhales deeply. “Holly, I said I was going to be completely honest with you from now on, so the answer is no. You’re not the first. There was one other woman, last year. But it didn’t work out.”
“Well, I’m not surprised, Vale! What you’re suggesting is a bit…a bit…”
“Holly, please just think about it. It doesn’t have to be such a big deal! It’s just a different sort of life. Not bad, just different. You could have kids, lovers, fabulous clothes… You could even pick out your own engagement ring! My mother knows Fred Leighton personally.”
The waiter approaches to ask if we want coffee, but Vale shoos him away.
“You can’t just pretend the last three months didn’t happen! You seduced me under false pretenses….”
“I did not! I…uh…enjoyed it.”
“I thought you were going to be honest with me.”
“Okay, okay. Just remember that your motives were far from perfect, too, Holly. But since you laid it on the line when you told me about that Moneyed Mates dating service thing you did, knowing full well that most men would hate you for that, I’ll be equally forthright—”
“Wait a sec…how do you know about that?” I ask. “I never told you about Moneyed Mates!”
“Yes, you did. That night at 808. But I was never quite sure if you remembered telling me. We were sitting at the bar and—”
“808?”
“That aquarium restaurant in SoMa…the night we met. Since you were so drunk you didn’t even remember me when I called to ask you out the next week, now I’m thinking you probably also forgot you’d been a little indiscreet in regards to your gold-digging endeavors.”
Vale knew I was hunting for a guy with money this whole time? Throughout our entire relationship?
“I… I don’t know what to say… I’m so embarrassed.”
As the past three months come into focus, every insecurity I’ve ever had careens through my mind like a runaway train. Vale was the one, not I, who thought he’d struck gold the night I opened my big, fat Manhattan-guzzling mouth. I suddenly see myself through his eyes…superficial to the point of transparence, financially motivated in the extreme, unencumbered by the kind of moral values that would make a better woman slap him and run, and to top it all off, desperately single and ready to put an end to it all with a diabolical plan of my own! Vale must have seen in me a kindred spirit, a female alter ego, a perfect partner in matrimonial perversion. No wonder he called me and courted me so aggressively— I was his dream girl. How stunned he must be that I didn’t accept his silver-tongued proposal the instant he uttered it!
“Come on, Holly. Was what I did really so wrong? Is what I want really so bad?”
I shake my head in an attempt to clear it. “Vale, even if you think you’ve found someone who might agree with you, you can’t just go around being the gay Don Juan, proposing marriage to anyone who looks at your Rolex with goo-goo eyes! Some woman’s gonna kill you one day!”
“Is it my fault my family’s proof of the genetic basis of homosexuality?”
“Are you saying there are more of you? One of your parents?”
He snorts and gulps down the rest of his port. “Distinctly unlikely. Must be a recessive gene somewhere.”
“You’re probably right, but remember that you and your sister were raised in exactly the same environment by the same people…so maybe it’s partly nurture as well as nature after all.”
“There wasn’t a lot of nurturing going on in my house, Holly. It isn’t exactly a quality I would ascribe to either of my parents. But I do think you and my mother would get along really well, by the way. You should meet her….”
“Meet her? I don’t want to meet her! I want to smack her…for, like, a thousand different reasons! Vale, forget it!”
Crestfallen, he leans back and starts slowly rubbing his temples. “I’m under so much pressure to marry… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He’s so sad, so pathetic. My outrage melts into pity, and my pity into empathy. Here is someone who’s even more confused than I am, no matter how together he appears to be.
“God, you really are a mess.”
He nods, unable to look at me.
“While I’m not condoning any of…of this…I guess I am the teensiest bit flattered that you consider me suitable heir-producing material. And you’re right about one thing, at least—I do think we get along well. You’re a good guy, Vale. But you seriously need to figure some stuff out if you wanna get happy.”
“Or find the right girl.”
“Uhhh…yeah. Maybe, I guess. But as for me, well, I just don’t think I’m the right girl. I don’t have a strong enough stomach for decades of deception.”
Or do I?
Briefly, ever so briefly, I consider it.
For here I am, poised on the brink of success. This is my chance to put The Plan into motion, my chance to achieve everything I’ve ever dreamed of, just like he said. Or, I could turn around and walk the other way, possibly giving up my one and only kick at the can. But what if it did work? Vale’s Plan may not be traditional, but then again, neither was mine. Who’s to say it couldn’t work out? Maybe I should ask him for some time to think about it….
The clink of champagne glasses from somewhere behind us gathers my wandering thoughts and leads them back to the face of the man sitting across from me. It’s a face I know well, but it’s also the face of a stranger.
“…but are you one hundred percent sure, Holly? Have you really thought about what this would mean for you? Every success imaginable, every excess imaginable…all of it awaits if you just say yes!”
“I know,” I sigh. “I know
.”
An inkling of hope puts some of the fire back in his eyes. Vale grabs my hand again. “Have you ever shopped the Ginza in Tokyo? Been on safari in the Serengeti? Bought your parents a Bentley?”
No, no and no.
But…is what Vale offering me really success? More likely, it’s the worst kind of failure, all wrapped up in a pretty blue box with a big, fat bow. The kind of success that spoils once it’s been sitting out in the sun for a while.
“I can see it for you, Holly…” Vale’s normally staid expression begins to twist, revealing a curious grin I’ve never seen, and his fair complexion is overcome by an angry purpling “I’m offering a life of unmitigated luxury.”
Vale stares me square in the eyes, and I meet his gaze dead-on.
Might this be my True Defining Moment?
All I know for sure, in this instant, is that the more seriously I consider accepting Vale’s offer, the more disgusted I become with myself, and the less I want to be a person who would live her life like that. Even if I ask for some time to think about it and walk out of here in limbo, I’d hate myself for it, and I’d never be granted a do-over. My entire body hums with the certainty that I was meant for greater things than what Vale Spencer had to offer.
And this growing visceral reaction within me leads me to a thought, and then to another, and then another, and another, until I arrive at a thought I’ve never thought before: that maybe there is something I want more than a moneyed mate, more than a bestseller, more than bigger boobs or a bigger byline. More, even, than a plain old boyfriend.
Peace.
I want peace. Quiet in my own mind. Release from the burden of worrying all of the time about all of these things, these instruments of self-torture and yardsticks of failure that have shadowed me as far back as I can remember. For the longest while, I believed that rejecting my need for them outright, denying them, was the only way to be free of them. More recently, I decided that achieving them one by one was the way to go about it. Now I see that letting them go with a smile is the only way I’ll ever be happy. And that’s what I really want. To be happy.
Isn’t that all anybody wants?
“So, Holly? Will you at least think about it?”
With an evil grin of my own, I squeeze his hand. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you think, Vale. I want no part in this. Any of it.”
Now it’s he who pulls his hand away from mine. “A fortune lands at your feet and you step over it to get to the unemployment line?”
“Why do you care so much about the money, Vale? Aren’t you rich enough already? Wouldn’t you rather be free from pretending you’re someone you’re not?”
“I know exactly who I am, Holly. Make no mistake about that. And I also know exactly what I want. Being a lawyer will never afford me the kind of life I need to have, the kind of legacy I need to leave for my children. It’s like…the difference between flying first-class and owning the plane.”
“Seems to me a better legacy for your kids than a private jet would be a father they knew loved their mother. Or, better yet, a father who loved their other father.”
He smiles. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
“So this is goodbye, then?”
“Yup,” I say, getting up quickly while the adrenaline is still pounding through my veins. “Good luck, Vale.”
On my way out, I pay the bill.
The house is dark when I walk through the door. George is out again, probably staying at Max’s place, so I call Remy. I gather up the strength to tell him what happened—that he was right about Vale, of course; that I’d been a fool—but I get his machine.
I leave a short message and hang up.
A second later, the phone rings.
“Remy?”
“Hi, Holly.”
“Asher? Is that you?”
“Yeah—”
“God, I’m so glad you called. How are you?” I so need a friend and his voice is like music to my ears.
“Not so good. Zoe’s dad died.”
chapter 19
Back to Buffalo
My old bedroom doesn’t look quite the same as it did six months ago. Granted, I hadn’t actually lived in it for almost ten years, but I’ve always enjoyed knowing my room’s there, just as I left it the day I moved out during my second year at Erie. Time waits for no woman, I suppose.
My mother, in her zeal for change, had torn down all my posters and taken my bulletin boards off the wall. My once-beloved stuffed animals had been rounded up and summarily dumped at Goodwill. The contents of my closet? Boxed and put in the basement. Even my old-fashioned gumball machine was gone (it didn’t work—I’d once tried to turn it into a fish tank by waterproofing all the cracks and moving parts with a glue-gun—but was that any reason to put it out with the trash? I think not.)
Greeting me instead are built-in glass display cases (locked!) crammed full with an impossibly odd assortment of sixties’ TV memorabilia. Auction catalogues and photographs of garish figurines and old lunch boxes cover my desk. Against one wall, stacks of cardboard boxes overflow with foam packing peanuts; against another, empty prefab shelving. God only knows what she has planned for that. Bonanza trading cards? Gilligan’s coconuts? Mister Ed’s riding tack?
It’s amazing how much shit she’s managed to amass in such a short time, and if I weren’t so shell-shocked already, I probably would be extremely weirded out, not to mention angry. Heaven forbid she move a single football trophy or model plane from one of my brothers’ rooms, but my entire pre-adult life? No problem—we’ll just get rid of it!
“I changed the sheets,” my mother says by way of apology as my dad places my suitcase at the foot of my bed.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“What time’s the funeral?”
“Umm…tomorrow at 11:30, I think.”
“I’ll check the paper and find out for sure. Your dad and I are going to come, too.”
“Yeah? That would be nice. I’m sure Zoe will appreciate it.”
“I always liked that Douglas Watts,” she says. “He certainly had his plate full raising those girls alone. He struck me as a very decent man.” My dad nods in agreement, though I can’t remember them ever having met face-to-face. “Imagine? Beating the cancer only to slip in the bathtub like that. It just goes to show, when it’s your time, it’s your time, and there’s not a whole helluva lot you or I or the good Lord can do about it.”
“I suppose.”
“Oh, and did I tell you? Cole’s having a Fourth of July barbecue on Sunday. And then we’re off again on Monday.”
“This Monday? Where?”
“A show in Atlantic City. Peter Tork is speaking.”
“Who?” I mouth to my dad.
“He’s one of the Monkees, dear,” he whispers.
“I can hear you, Larry. You’re standing three feet away from me. I don’t expect you to know this, Holly, but if Peter Tork signs the TV Guide I recently acquired from the week the show first aired, it just might fetch us a pretty penny in Anaheim this fall.”
“Anaheim?”
“Big collectibles show,” my dad says loudly in her direction.
“Not just big. The biggest! Frankly, Larry, to say the N.A.C.’s annual event is just big is an insult to the participants who travel there from all over the world—”
“Watch it, Louise, or we’re going to start cutting back on some of your budget and redirecting it to our portfolio like we talked about. So don’t push me!”
“You’re right. I’m…I’m very sorry, dear,” my mother stammers, then blushes.
“It’s okay,” he says and kisses her on the cheek. “Just remember we have to keep things in perspective.”
It’s by far the longest conversation I’ve seen them have in years, and the first public display of affection ever. Obviously, they’re completely insane, but it seems to be working for them.
“Okaaay…so, um, you guys are leaving when? Tuesday, right
? I took the whole week off so I’m going to stay until Saturday, if that’s okay.”
“You’ll have to show her how to work the alarm, Larry.”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“I’m just saying, is all.” She checks and then rechecks the lock on a case.
My dad’s eyes meet mine and he smiles. He clears his throat. “Leave that alone for now, would you Louise?”
“Fine.” She turns her attention to me instead. “Holly, you look drawn. You want a cup of tea?”
“No thanks. It was a long flight. I’m just going to try and get some sleep.”
I had a Gravol and four bloody Marys on the plane (part of my plan to eat more vegetables), so even though it’s only 11:30 East Coast time, I can barely keep my eyes open. All I want is to sleep for ten hours, get through tomorrow and spend the rest of my time in Buffalo doing whatever I can to make things easier for Zoe.
It doesn’t take long for my subconscious demons to wake me. The wisp of a dream escapes into the darkness as I rub the sleep out of my eyes and squint at the time—2:13 a.m.
By 3:00 a.m. I’ve counted a thousand sheep and named all my therapists in alphabetical order. By four, I’ve named all the neighbors on my block, which unexpectedly brings back the dream that had awoken me….
Rena Helmdry was a take-no-shit kind of girl who lived across the street from me growing up and whom I envied desperately because her parents were never home and because she was allowed to smoke in her room.
Anyway, Rena’s older brother Rob had an impressive collection of true-crime books which I never tired of reading. In one of them was this incredibly haunting photograph of Marilyn Monroe, dead, and laid out on a slab in the morgue. Just like that. Her eyes were closed, she had a strange double chin, and her face was dark and discolored. You could hardly tell that it was her.
What fascinated me about the picture was how surreal it was. I found it amazing that they just sort of stuck her in a drawer, probably next to some homeless drunk or stroke victim. Like who she was didn’t matter anymore because she was dead. And you’d think that if anybody could look good in an autopsy photo, it would be her. But she didn’t. Not at all.
