by Ethan Hawke
—Psalm 139:12
My father had written me again and included this biblical quote as the subject heading. I knew it well. I had memorized it for my confirmation. In a strange act of need or anger, I wrote him back. If he was serious about helping me, I told him, I had the kids closing weekend, no babysitter, a four-hour Shakespeare play to do once on Friday, twice on Saturday, and then the closing performance on Sunday at three. If he wanted to come lend a hand, I’d appreciate it. I knew he wouldn’t come.
He answered, “I can be there Friday before the show, and cover the two on Saturday, but I’ll have to leave Sunday morning. Monday starts a big week for me at work.”
And he did it. My father arrived from Houston with my two younger brothers, and they were all committed to the idea of giving me a hand. My fourteen- and twelve-year-old brothers took great care of the kids, while my dad and I felt each other out. We’d seen each other from time to time over the years; this was not our first attempt at reconciliation. He’d visited when the kids were born and on a handful of other occasions, but usually I had angrily demanded apologies or emotionally avoided him. Every encounter had begun with an expectation of healing and ended in an air of quiet disappointment.
“A wrong can be undone,” my father, now fifty-one years old, said in his slight southern accent, “but it cannot just develop magically into something good.”
We were walking down Sixth Avenue after my last two-show Saturday, and I was smoking a cigarette without even worrying what he thought. I hid my cigarettes from my children now, but not my parents. I had just finished telling my father how much I wished he had seen Edward play the King and not his understudy, and wished he could stay for when the King made his return for closing. Edward had died, but only for seven minutes. Closing night would be his first performance back. He had missed eighteen shows due to that heart attack. The EMTs made their way to center stage, blasted him with electricity, restarted his heart, and rushed him to the hospital, and that evening’s performance was canceled. J.C. had been called in, but arrived too late. He sat in the empty wings of the stage softly crying, “Not now, Teddy, not now. The ride isn’t over yet. Please not now.”
* * *
—
“Everything does not always work out for the best. It’s not ‘all good,’ ’’ my father said. We were taking the puppy on her evening walk. It was about midnight but the lights of NYC were still bright and the sidewalks glittered in the taxi’s headlights. Dirty Christmas and New Year’s decorations still hung from some negligent storefronts.
“Time does not heal anything all by itself. Time can make you forget—but it doesn’t right anything just by its passing. You have to go back to the source and heal the break.”
My dad had just seen the play, and Shakespeare was making him philosophical.
When he was backstage after the show, he’d enjoyed all the actors in a goofy, fan-like fashion. I don’t think he’d seen a play since the twelfth grade. He stood around in the hallways backstage, shaking hands politely and complimenting everyone in his gracious way. It was interesting to see how much respect everyone gave him. I had rarely seen him in relation to anyone but me.
He approached the King’s understudy effusively, referencing certain lines: Sons what things you are! He turned, looking back at me. Ezekiel and he were fast friends. They ended up hugging when we left.
“Most folks I know in Houston spend all but a few days of their lives totally under this false spell that they are in control of their future. Society supports the delusion…But funnily enough, it is when we are wounded and vulnerable that our love gains its real power. Like Christ himself, you understand? Nailed up and bleeding like that.”
He looked over at me as I was taking my final inhale of a cigarette. I didn’t understand, but I could see that my dad was charming when speaking softly about his religious passion. My whole life, his faith was as real to him as his hands. Whenever he was comfortable, Jesus was all he talked about.
He continued, “The point of staring up and praying at a crucifix is that we don’t need to fear being wounded: being wounded is the point of this life. I know it’s hard to grasp, but by being wounded, your heart is just breaking open. Let it. That’s what I say…Let your intellect or your will, whatever you want to call it—your personal agenda—be transformed into faith.”
Most grown men I’ve known take on a posture, an affectation—a mask of masculinity that becomes their face. It’s a way they identify themselves to the world. My father has none. There is an innocence about him that is unaffected and disarming.
“And, remember, when I say ‘faith’—it is not faith that God exists…Faith is simply a way of being completely open to the possible presence of love.”
There is a bar about ten minutes from the Mercury that is always open late, and lets me bring my puppy inside. My father and I made our way through the doors. Two gay guys in leather jackets were making out heavy in the doorway, saliva wet on their beards. My father passed them by. On the bar in a basket there was some stale candy left over from Halloween.
My father was happy to be out of the cold. He is a Texan. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright behind his glasses.
We sidled up to the bar.
I introduced the bartender to my dad. They were cordial to one another for a moment while my dad ordered a beer. I had a whiskey and a ginger ale. The barkeep walked away and we moved over and sat at a table in the corner underneath a green dusty neon Budweiser sign.
“I know this is a long way around, but maybe just when you think things are going terribly wrong, something may really be ‘righting’ itself in you.” He smiled a slow, gentle grin and took off his thick glasses. His eyes were instantly much smaller than usual.
This whole period of my life, I was like a burnt-out van, or something people always tried to fill up and fix. Everywhere I went people tried to take care of me—give me advice—put me back together. I always felt a little off balance listening—like I was waiting. Waiting to leave. Waiting for a cigarette. Waiting for someone else…In that moment at the bar I realized I’d been waiting for my dad.
“Then again, things may just be getting worse. There’s no real way to be sure.” He laughed.
I slugged back my whiskey and hailed another. There was a lull between us. Sports highlights continued playing on the two televisions in the corners of the bar. Our puppy licked the remains of French fries at our feet. My dad put his glasses back on and his eyes were large again. A man in his sixties was coming on to a much younger woman across the darkness of the bar over by the restrooms.
“It’s freedom,” he whispered, “that’s the thing I’m talking about. Not freedom from anything. That’s not important—what you want is freedom for something…or if you must, you want freedom from your own selfish will, for the love for others…for reality. I think for some reason we can’t understand, it’s important for life’s most precious realities to remain hidden. Why’s there a moon?” He smiled. “I will speak to you in parables and reveal to you things hidden since the foundation of the world. Matthew 13:35,” he quoted.
The only thing my dad and I usually discussed at this length was the NFL, the Bible, or movies. We both had a great memory for certain football plays or lines from films. It was as if Shakespeare had prompted him, or maybe it was because I seemed so injured and weak that he felt safe to speak freely about anything without fear of a counterattack.
“My divorce from your mother nearly killed me,” he said. “I was scared that I would lose you; that I would lose my ability to be with a woman, or to love anything…”
He reached out and lightly touched my arm. “See, God is trying, right now, I think, to free you, William, from the false idols you have made of yourself, your relationships, possessions, feelings, behaviors, work, even your own success—all of that. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth an
d dies, it remains just a single grain. John 12:24. Freedom is subtraction, you understand? I know you hurt from losing me, for example. And so did I…”
Aha! I thought. So here it is, the reason for this little talk. My father was gearing up to get at his point:
“I don’t own you—you’re bigger than anything I could create,” my dad said. “I couldn’t love you right when you were a kid. I was in too much pain. I wasn’t grown up. Your mother was extremely…complicated,” he said, carefully choosing a word that was without judgment, “and I failed you.” He smiled simply in the dark of the Chelsea bar.
“But I think that, in many ways, you grew in magnificent ways because I couldn’t love you properly. I know that might sound like I’m letting myself off the hook, but that’s not what I mean. I mean…I’m not off the hook, but you are. You understand? I’ve been ‘around’ a lot more with your brothers and, believe me, they will tell you, you didn’t miss much, you know?” He laughed. “And, obviously, the credit of your success is to you. That does not mean that I don’t feel shame—Oh boy, I do, and I am so sorry for the ways I’ve hurt you. For years, I have been trying to go back and find the source of the hurt between us. Where is the moment I need to go back to and heal? It’s hard to find the exact place.”
I sat, gobsmacked. I’d been waiting for a conversation like this for what felt like a hundred thousand years. Like a dry field hit with rain, I just absorbed everything.
“I don’t pray for anything specific anymore…,” he said, gaining momentum, “I watch, and am as a sparrow alone on the housetop. Psalm 102:7. I’m not praying for a healing between you and me; not forgiveness from you; not even for all our health; not for…nothing. Because I sincerely realize that I don’t know even what the right thing to pray for is. All I ever pray for is a depth of understanding in regards to love, that’s it.”
He took a breath. I knew he wanted me to say something, but I was stunned. When the silence became too much, he went on.
“I guess, William, I’ve been thinking a lot about heaven. What happens to us when we die. I thought a lot about it watching your show tonight. What will we all do in heaven?”
“I don’t know, Dad, do you really think heaven is a place?”
“Of course. Where else will we be for eternity?”
The puppy found a chicken wing and I had to pull the damn thing from her mouth.
“I think about eternity. And then I think about when you called me when you were eighteen and asked me for money to go to theater school.”
“I was seventeen.”
“I know I wasn’t supportive. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Made me work harder, that’s all.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in you. I didn’t believe in acting, you know?”
“I know.”
“But I really just didn’t think you could make a living. But then watching all those actors tonight—how wonderful they all were…and I started thinking about how I’ve dedicated my life, the insurance business, ya know…It’s funny—but there will be no need for insurance in heaven. None at all. And there will be so much need for poetry and songs and jokes. People will value what you’ve learned. It doesn’t matter if you can make a living. Shakespeare will be important. You will be so valuable, William. And I will just sit there listening, realizing how I’ve misspent my life.”
He smiled and we finished our drinks. The puppy was anxious, pulling at my feet.
“I guess maybe we should go,” I whispered, “or else I’ll have to get drunk.”
We paid and started the walk back to the Mercury. I tried to understand who this man walking next to me was…He seemed almost like an actor I recognized from the movie of my childhood. Now the makeup was off and I was meeting the real man.
We stepped into the Mercury. Some junkie was sitting on a couch in the lobby, devouring a carton of ice cream. Two young men were bickering about the price of their room with Bart at the front desk.
“You need a hand?” I asked.
“Nope.” He smiled.
My father and I were silent in the elevator, rising to the seventh floor.
Once out, we stepped through the shadows of the ancient hallway and found our door. I fumbled through my pockets looking for the key.
We brushed our teeth side by side for the first time in over twenty years.
“I love hotel towels, don’t you?” he asked.
“Thanks for coming out and seeing the kids,” I said, “and thanks for bringing my brothers, and thanks for coming to the show.”
“Oh, Jeez, William. I think”—he looked so sweet and happy, and gestured over to my brothers sleeping on the couch—“this is the best day I’ve had in a long time. I’m probably going to cry myself to sleep.” He laughed a hearty chuckle. “I hope that’s OK.”
“That’s fine.” I smiled. “I do it all the time.”
We washed our faces, turned out the lights, and got into bed together. I hadn’t slept in the same bed as my father in God knows how long.
“I just want to apologize for one more thing,” my dad said out towards the darkness.
“For Christ’s sake, Dad”—I laughed—“leave something for the morning.”
“You remember your ninth birthday, when I drove out to Atlanta?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything.
“Well, your mom called me the next day when I got home to Austin and she was really upset and she told me she would take me back. She invited me to move back in with you two. And I couldn’t do it.” I could hear his voice scratching in pain, beginning to sound like me. “I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t believe she was serious. I thought she’d hurt me again. And I was too…I don’t know, fragile.” He said the last word as if it were a curse. “I thought that if I tried again and it didn’t work, I would break. Like I would die or something. And I’m sorry. I simply wasn’t strong enough. I hated myself for a long time because of that weakness.”
“Dad,” I whispered, “it’s not that you weren’t strong enough. It’s that you were smart. You can feel bad about missing aspects of my childhood if you feel like it, but you were never, never, never going to stay married to my mother. I promise, I know her a lot better than you do.”
“I understand you believe that,” he said in his emotional raspy voice, “but the truth is, you don’t know the same woman that I do.”
We were quiet again.
“I’m just glad you’re here now, Dad. I really am so glad you came.”
We lay next to each other under the sheets, a safe distance between us.
“I’m not saying the right thing to do would’ve been to run back to your mom,” my father added quietly. “I’m just sorry I was afraid.”
Adopting a British accent, he added, “ ‘Peachy, can you ever forgive me for being so bloody stupid and so bleedin’ arrogant?’ ”
“ ‘Ahhh’ ”—I smiled with recognition—“ ‘that I can, and that I do.’ ”
* * *
—
Closing had arrived. For some reason, I was suddenly so nervous all over again. I put my dad and my brothers in a taxi for the airport and then hustled off, kids in tow, to the 1 train.
As we were riding the subway uptown to the theater, my son turned to me and said, “Dad, I’m really worried about something.” He was seated in my lap, still with his Star Wars pajamas under his overcoat and boots.
“Yeah, bud, what is it?”
“I think I have a drinking problem,” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ve been trying and trying but I just can’t stop. I drink in the mornings, in the afternoons. I have way more than two drinks a day.”
“What are you drinking?” I asked.
“You know, everything.”
“Everything?”<
br />
“Orange juice, mostly.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I said.
“There isn’t?”
“No.”
“On TV, they said if you have more than two drinks a day, you have a problem. And I have way more than that, Dad, I really do.”
“They’re talking about alcohol.” I laughed.
“Oh,” he said, pausing for a moment. “What’s that?”
“Like beer and wine, stuff like that. Champagne. You can have as much juice and water as you want.”
He hugged me. I hugged him back. His sister leaned over next to us wondering what was wrong. We just smiled and hugged her, too.
I wished all my problems could be like that, some giant misunderstanding.
When we arrived at the theater with fully charged iPads, stuffed animals, and colored pencils, the last quote was on the dressing room door. It was a Dostoyevsky quote about the joys of breaking things.
I pulled the small paper off, brought it inside, and taped it to the mirror with all the others. There were a shit ton by now. This secret admirer of mine had left close to thirty of these kinds of quotes. I still had no idea who it was; neither Ezekiel nor I had ever seen anyone loitering suspiciously. They were clearly for me, as each was taped to the door with masking tape marked in black ink “To W—”
For a while, I thought it was Lady Percy who had left the notes, but I confronted her and it wasn’t her. Then I thought it was King Edward, but they continued to arrive even when he was in the hospital. Then I got worried that maybe they were from my understudy, Scotty, but the penmanship didn’t seem to fit.
The stage manager welcomed Edward back over the intercom.
For more than two weeks we’d done the show without our King. His understudy was quite capable. In several scenes, we missed Edward—but in others it was possible to say the understudy played the role a little better. There was no denying that the understudy was funnier. He got a lot of laughs that Edward had let go. Edward was the greatest, wisest actor I had ever worked with—and in some ways, the show was better without him. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea. With Edward, the show had more depth, more sensitivity, more sadness; but with Jerome, the show ran six minutes faster, was unquestionably angrier and more humorous. We got standing ovations on all eighteen shows Edward missed. It was as if nothing had changed. I preferred Henry IV with Edward, but I know many audience members considered themselves lucky to have caught the show with this “undiscovered gem.” All this worked to unravel me. For if Edward was replaceable…