The Sweeney Sisters

by Lian Dolan

  “Do you regret not telling him?”

  Birdie didn’t hesitate. “Not for one second. Bill Sweeney was a not a reliable person. He drank too much, he was narcissistic. Don’t idolize the father he might have been. Just ask his daughters.”

  “Do you regret not telling me?”

  “I do today,” Birdie said and the two women shared a laugh. “Now, can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you had found out that your father was some sperm donor or the tennis pro, would you have cared this much? Would you want to pursue a relationship with a sperm donor’s children? Or is it because your DNA matches William Sweeney’s that you care?”

  “Oh my God, did you sleep with the tennis pro?” Because Serena had and that was something she didn’t want to share with her mother. One night in college after a few too many shots at the Shoe, she and John Wilton had consummated her high school crush in the back of his Saab. It was a disappointment.

  “Of course not. His mother and I played bridge together,” Birdie said, her outrage real. “But I feel like I’m being punished because your biological father was famous, not because I didn’t tell you, so which is it?”

  “Both.” It wasn’t like Serena hadn’t asked herself this question many times over the last six months, and she was ready with the answer. “I’m angry that you thought you could keep this huge piece of information to yourself, and that would be true if the test had revealed a donor, a tennis pro, or a literary genius. But it especially hurts because my real father was a writer. Like I am. Didn’t it occur to you when I pursued English and journalism in college that maybe that interest came from him? I have been working away in a field that has lost resources and prestige over the last decade. I could have really used one parent who understood what it’s like to face a blank page and think, ‘Well, this is all I know how to do, so I have to keep doing it.’ You’ve acted like my career has been a hobby, something to do while I waited to get married. But writing is more than what I do, it’s who I am. So, yes, it matters more to me that my real father was a great writer. I never got the chance to talk to him about that. And you must have known and you didn’t care.”

  “For the record, your father and I are both very proud of your work.”

  The conversation had taken a lot out of Serena. Birdie, too. They both needed a break, some fresh air. Still, Serena continued with one more question, pursuing the theory that she’d been formulating.

  “Mom, are you Elspeth? From Never Not Nothing?”

  “‘She moved with the confidence of privilege . . .’” Birdie quoted from the book. “Yes, I believe I am.”

  Chapter 21

  “Holy shit. Birdie Tucker is Elspeth. He doesn’t name her. Her calls her Rebecca in Snap like he did in real life according to Serena, but it’s Birdie Tucker, for sure.”

  “Wait, how’d you get ahead of me?”

  Tricia and Raj were holed up in the boathouse reading Snap, each taking up a corner of the ancient couch, a light blanket over their feet despite the fact that it was a warm summer day. Of all the things that convinced Tricia that Raj was predestined, his tendency to have cold feet was the one that hit home. She had cold feet, too. And there was nowhere that Tricia would rather be than in the boathouse reading with Raj.

  “You’re a slow reader.”

  “I’m a careful reader. Don’t say any more. Let me get to the end of the chapter.”

  Tricia valued his opinion. It was worth getting his impression of the book as a piece of writing and for its value to scholarship, an evaluation William Sweeney’s daughters and his best friend wouldn’t be able to make. The two of them were reading the book together chapter by chapter with a discussion in the breaks.

  Bill Sweeney had organized the book in ten sections, each inspired by a snapshot from his life. A childhood photo. A shot from his Yale days. A picture of his writing pals at the 21 Club in New York. The chapter titles were one word: Home, Wine, Women, Money, Time, Work, Love, Play, Death. Except the last chapter, which was called What I Got Wrong.

  The device surprised Tricia. “I don’t think of my father as being visual at all. I don’t remember him ever going to a museum or commenting on a piece of art. Isn’t this weird?”

  “It’s a bit of a gimmick, but it’s working. The chapter on his childhood was new material, not recycled from his essays or from My Maeve. I liked the update on his sister Frannie and the bit about visiting the cemetery where their parents are buried. Some very powerful passages on the abuse he endured as a child. New information is good for scholarship and for sales. The Yale chapter, too. I thought I’d heard every Yale story, but there are some new ones. And he’s very honest about his teaching there, suffering from jealousy over his talented students and bias against certain stories.”

  “Yeah, like stories from women, people of color, and the entire LGBTQ community. I feel like we should definitely push to have the Yale ceremony in his honor before this book comes out.”

  “Your father was no different from other professors there. They all have biases; they’re just different biases. Plus, despite his shortcomings, he managed to get a lot of his students published. Ultimately, that matters more than anything that might have been in his heart.”

  “That lapsed Catholic guilt is good for something.”

  The two went silent as they read the fourth chapter titled Women, an assessment of the influence of the female sex on his life, his work, his humanity. Somehow, this chapter managed to be more about manhood. Bill Sweeney ran through a list of former girlfriends, lovers, bosses, and female writers who got under his skin, thanking them for being agents of change, making him a better human being. There was a surprise appearance by Dyan Cannon as his perfect Hollywood Moment and, of course, an apologia to his wife for his many failings as a provider, subjecting her to the feast-or-famine school of family finances but ultimately letting himself off the hook because that’s the “writer’s life.”

  Tricia thought his excuse was a bit cavalier, the sort of explanation that a man who was contrite, but not truly sorry, would make. It verged on the solicitous language she’d heard a half dozen male lawyers use when accepting their Partner of the Year award, explaining that they’d “married up” and thanking their beautiful wives for “making it all possible” and “being my much better half,” instead of simply saying thank you and moving on. Tricia witnessed one partner hold up his engraved Tiffany glass bowl and declare, “We made it, baby,” as if they’d achieved a meaningful lifelong dream instead of a hokey award for working a hundred hours a week and barely seeing your wife and kids. The sentiment made her teeth hurt. She looked around for other horrified audience members who felt as sorry for the wife as she did, but instead, saw that some people, men and women, had tears in their eyes. Audiences loved men who claimed to love their wives.

  Tricia was taken aback that her father had fallen for that trope.

  But primarily, the chapter was about Birdie Tucker, as a girlfriend, archetype of the One That Got Away. There was a photo of a stunning young woman in a wrap dress with long tanned legs and platform shoes sitting on a stoop in Greenwich Village. She stared right into the camera, her knees together, her long, straight, golden hair framing her face. Underneath the photo were the words Rebecca on the Block 1975. Tricia recognized the pre-helmet-head, pre-tennis-elbow Birdie immediately. She was so young and carefree, no sign of the tight lips and the disapproval that would mark her later years, the memory Tricia held of the mother next door. This Birdie was something else.

  Tricia had no idea that their relationship started that early. At Vassar! In 1972! How was that possible? By the time she had finished the chapter, two truths had emerged: William Sweeney was mesmerized by Birdie Tucker and Birdie Tucker was Elspeth.

  “I think you’re right,” Raj said as he put down the last page of Chapter 4. “He uses the same language to describe Birdie as he used in Never Not Nothing to describe Elspeth: patrician, poised, and of course ‘t
he confidence of privilege’ is a direct quote from Never. This is important. He never confirmed that Elspeth was based on a real girl, a real person, before.” Raj noticed Tricia’s strained face. “Does this upset you?”

  “I assumed Serena was the product of some drunken flirtation at a library fundraiser that went too far. Straight-up suburban boredom,” Tricia said, getting up off the couch and moving toward the big window that looked to the east, toward the Tuckers’ old house. “It never occurred to me that there was a relationship, a real relationship. She was actually the product of something meaningful and, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but poor Serena. Her biological parents made her feel like her parentage didn’t matter, was inconsequential. And then I piled on that.”

  “Does this make it harder to compartmentalize Serena?” If this question had come from Liza, or Maggie, Tricia would have lashed out, reacting to the notion that she could neatly separate her life or her work from her emotional needs, a tired accusation her sisters had tossed at her over time. But Raj had made it clear that he admired her clear-eyed approach to finding the manuscript, settling the estate, and processing the complications that came in the form of Serena Tucker, so she heard his question as a call for more information, and not an accusation.

  “It does,” Tricia said. “I guess I felt like she hadn’t truly earned the distinction of being a Sweeney simply because Bill Sweeney was the sperm donor. Big deal, he was your biological father, but he wasn’t your dad. Now, it’s like Serena’s in our club. Birdie Tucker meant something and still my father was unwilling to acknowledge Serena in real life. It’s the same level of disappointment that we all felt in my father at some point. From small stuff, like missing out on our games or our plays because he was too involved in his writing or too absorbed in self-promotion to care about anyone but himself. Or watching him move about the kitchen with the heavy head of a hangover, barely able to make coffee. To the big stuff, like his inability to cope on any level after my mother’s death and his hubris at thinking that he was the only one who missed her. I got so angry reading the first chapter of My Maeve at prep school, I literally threw it in a bonfire one night. When I met Serena, with her normal, stable, living parents, I felt like she hadn’t earned the status.”

  Raj stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. Tricia had gotten used to his comfort with intimate gestures. “You’re allowed to work through this however you need, Tricia. At whatever speed. There’s no road map for this.”

  She turned around to face Raj, running her own hands over his shoulders. “Thank you. I don’t always like being the uptight sister, you know.”

  “I like uptight girls.” He kissed her. He tasted like blueberries.

  She pulled away slowly. “Thank you. Do you think less of him reading this book?”

  “No, but I’m not reading this book to form an opinion of who William Sweeney is. I knew your dad and I liked him. He was smart, curious. He made me laugh. Plus, now I know he slept with Dyan Cannon. That’s pretty cool.”

  “That will be the headline in the Esquire review, won’t it?”

  Raj nodded. “Yes, it will. And I predict a photo will emerge and it will be unbelievable. But I’m reading it to understand how he came to be and what mattered along the way. He’s not my father, Tricia.”

  “You never know. Have you done an over-the-counter DNA test?”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “As creepy as the mom next door being the muse for Elspeth? That’s stunning to me.”

  “It’s a blockbuster piece of information. Elspeth is such an iconic character. I mean, every man who ever read Never Not Nothing was in love with her. But knowing what we know about a later relationship and an unintended pregnancy, your father didn’t exactly come clean. Nor did he mention that she lived next door for decades. He pulled his punches. I thought you said he was going to let it all hang out in this book.”

  “Cap said he was hoping to update the manuscript, add a coda. Maybe he was going to own up to it. He does write they ‘tried again,’ but that their moment had passed,” Tricia said, still staring out the window. “That’s quite a euphemism. Not exactly the full story, huh?”

  “No, but Never fanboys will go crazy. It answers the question of why there was never a sequel.”

  “We have six more chapters to go. Should we skip ahead and search for Serena’s name? Or mine?” Tricia was impatient now. So far, the memoir was better that she had expected. Funny, sharp, filled with memories new to her, insights about his process. There was a certain attitude about the pages, like he was letting the world in on some Bill Sweeney secrets. The next chapter started with a photo of her father with Reggie Jackson. It would be about baseball or gambling or both. She was afraid to read how much money Bill Sweeney actually had lost.

  “No, let’s read it the way your father meant us to read it, one page at a time. What time is the opening at the gallery?” Raj asked.

  Liza had been adamant that it was all hands on deck. She had texted early in the morning that the book and the rain and the hangovers were no excuse. She needed backup. Her text had read: You all owe me. Think of all the Thanksgivings. Be there at 6. Doors open at 6:30.

  “We have at least three more hours before we have to be at the gallery, but I want to make a stop beforehand.” Tricia’s phone pinged. It was a text from Maggie. “It’s Maggie. She’s trying to smooth things over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tim is making tacos with the extra tri-tip. Wants to know if we want to join them for lunch. That’s her way of saying ‘I’m sorry for last night.’”

  “Works for me. You know, I like Tim. He has a lot of thoughts on craft beer.”

  “Does he mention us at all?” Maggie asked, handing Tricia a plate of three carne asada tacos. The two sisters were sitting at the kitchen table while Tim and Raj plated the food. There had been no conversation about the previous night and both women were on board with that strategy.

  Tricia knew she meant the book. “Not yet. But it’s good. Revealing to a point. There are some classic passages with his signature biting humor laced with humanity. He had some good writing days with this one. You’re never going to read it, are you?”

  Maggie swooped her loose hair up into a scrunchie. “Probably not. Maybe bits and pieces. Let me know the good parts.”

  “I suggest Chapter Four.”

  “What happens in Chapter Four? CliffsNotes version.”

  Tricia paused, then said, “In Which We Discover That Birdie Tucker Is Elspeth and All Our Romantic Notions About Our Mother and Father Die.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me that. Now I’m never going to read it. That will kill me.” Maggie used to say dramatic things like that all the time when she was in high school and the family reacted with mockery. Her father called her Sarah Bernhardt and went on about the vapors. They’d all laugh until Maeve insisted they stop, patting Maggie’s hand and telling her to breathe. But after the family got the call from the hospital in Providence informing them of her overdose, they stopped accusing her of being overly dramatic. Though it had been a long time and Maggie was more stable now than at age twenty, Liza and Tricia listened more than they laughed.

  “If that’s the way you feel, don’t read it. I give you permission to pass on it.”

  “I know I’m supposed to be comfortable with the idea of Dad as a flawed human being, but I prefer to think of him as Dad, you know?”

  “He did date Dyan Cannon.”

  “I knew that. He told me once after Mom died. I didn’t know who she was, so I looked her up. He was very proud of that.”

  “Oh, and you were right about the Russian professor! They did have an annual weekend together. A long-running affair.”

  “How long running?”

  “He’s vague, of course, about the number of years to shield his marital status, but he writes that it continued after she was married. In the book, he calls her Ludmilla, not Nadia, which I’m guessing is some kind of inside joke
because, you know Dad, he liked feminine names for his female characters. He writes that it ‘fed his intellect,’ which is some sort of bullshit justification.”

  “Classic Dad. Feminist scholars will have a field day with this book,” Maggie said, taking a bite of her taco. Then she said, “Birdie as Elspeth. That’s a disappointment. Now you must feel really bad about Serena.”

  “Thanks. I do.” They laughed liked they always did when something hit too close to home emotionally.

  Maggie’s phone buzzed and she looked down. It was a text from Liza. “Well, I guess she’s forgiven me for last night, because now she needs a favor.”

  “Neither of us have forgiven you, Maggie. But you know what Mom would say: ‘Let’s not dwell . . .’ What does Liza need? Can I help?”

  “Nope, she needs Tim,” Maggie said, then raised her voice a bit. “Tim, do you want to bartend tonight at the gallery opening? Liza’s in a jam. Twenty-five bucks an hour.”

  “Do I actually have to know how to bartend or is it a white wine thing? Because, like, I don’t know how to make a Singapore Sling or anything.”

  “You don’t really need to know how to bartend.”

  “I’m in,” Tim said, shaking his long hair like a happy golden retriever. Maggie responded to Liza with the good news and added a few beverage emojis for fun.

  Tricia nodded toward Tim. “How is it he’s even upright? I think he drank all the beers last night.”

  “He’s twenty-six, that’s how.”

  Tim turned around. “That’s not how. Age has nothing to do with it. It’s the patented Tim Yablonski Hangover Cure. Get up early, drink two cups of coffee, run five miles, take a cold shower, and then eat a meat product that’s heavily salted, followed by electrolyte water. Today, after the run, I dove into the sound and then took a cold shower. Well, we took a cold shower. That was killer. I feel great.”