Stranger, Father, Beloved

by Taylor Larsen

  Michael observed the tall green glass building as he parked his car, and for a split second the beauty of it viscerally took him over before he recognized it and processed it as an ordinary image and the sense of beauty vanished. He had decided to come in to the office, even though it was a Saturday. He kept going over in his mind the events of the morning.

  His own daughter had slapped him today. He could laugh about it or cry about it. He wondered how such a thing could have happened.

  When Michael had caught her walking through the side door at seven in the morning, he had assumed she had been at her friend’s house for the night, but obviously something else had gone on. Something was different about her. Her hair was disheveled, there were ridiculous purple marks on her neck, and she had a grotesque smile pasted on her face. She had just come in the door, looking strung out and mesmerized. He was leaning against the stove, contemplating making some eggs, when she slipped in the door and just stood there, smiling to herself, guilty of God knew what.

  “Ryan, I may not be the world’s greatest dad, but I am your parent. It is clear that something inappropriate happened.” He recalled saying something to the effect of that. “You are too young to have sex, honey. Boys at this age are really too aggressive . . .” He tried to give her a sympathetic look and thought that maybe she would open up about the experience and he would get something right as a parent. He actually could not remember if he had said exactly this or practiced saying it in his mind. He had said something in an attempt to parent.

  Michael remembered the look of horror that had spread across her face as she turned to look at him. Then, the damnedest thing, she had slapped him and run upstairs. What had hurt him worse than being hit was what she had said: You are totally crazy. He thought he remembered her saying it, but he wasn’t sure. She might not have said it. It had been mumbled. It was like those moments with his father; he could not trust that he heard correctly the insults from other people. And he could not remember how hard she had slapped him. Stunned, he had walked out to his car and drove to work. And here he was. For once he was glad to be inside his glass-walled, fluorescent-lit office building.

  * * *

  Michael walked past his secretary, Rebecca, giving her an easy smile. One Saturday a month, everyone was required to work, including ­secretaries—Michael had forgotten that this was her extra day. He was in go mode, and office protocol was streaming through him. He felt that people in subordinate positions, such as secretaries, seemed to love it when people of higher authority possessed a certain aura. It was a breezy aloofness that was firm yet kind, benevolent. Communication was clear, and smiles were saved up and delivered at the end of interactions. But, most important, everyone was crystal clear on his or her position and standing—there was no confusion in that sense. It was all laid out in simple terms, conveyed through tone and body language.

  Today, because Michael was in recovery from the morning’s events, he was fueled by an internal anger that was safely contained in his body, cruising on a beautiful kind of autopilot. Rebecca looked up at him, attentive, waiting, and he thought she seemed relieved that he was finally executing his role as boss and acting like a regular male. She had been waiting for this. On the days when he was meek or guilty or excessively negative, she shrank from him, automatically avoiding eye contact. Today he was inspiring her confidence in this existence they were acting out.

  Rebecca was young, in her early twenties, had brown hair, and was always very well dressed in blue skirts with white silk shirts and elegant jewelry. Her face was average, though her skin was sort of milky, pasty, as if it belonged to someone five minutes dead. Her teeth were chalky, as if the milk in her skin had slipped down into the cave of her mouth, drop by drop, to hang on her teeth like stalactite rocks, or strands of mucus.

  What would become of her? he wondered.

  Her figure was maddeningly attractive; he was supposed to think so. The other men at the office did. She had those full and supple breasts that men become insane over, and she also possessed coy movements. Even though she had the look of the perfect woman, something about her repulsed Michael. Overall, she stank of fertility in a kind of overdone way that both disgusted and pleased Michael.

  “Hey, Mr. James!” She beamed up at him as he strolled in. “How are you?”

  “Just fine, Rebecca. Thanks. Good to be here, get some work done.” With that he raised his eyebrows for emphasis, indicating that she was part of the team, a team that was motivated and purposeful.

  Michael headed toward his office door, then turned and said, “You look lovely today, Rebecca.” Oh God, he thought, have I blown it, gone too far, been too forward?

  No, she was blushing and obviously pleased. She turned to her computer screen to start working, refreshed by his energy.

  She did look lovely, he thought. Lovely and rank. That was no lie. With his door closed, he sat down and gave a full-bellied, shaking laugh at the ridiculousness of Rebecca, of his stupid analysis of her. Then he stopped and looked at the family picture of the four of them on his desk. Why the hell had they named their daughter Ryan? Perhaps a boy’s name had made her more willful, masculine. He picked up the gold frame and turned it onto its face in front of him.

  Michael couldn’t bear the thought of having the picture in his office for another second. How could he get it out of there? He put it into his wastebasket and shoved some papers over it.

  To have his perfect little girl become a woman, a sexual being, was one hundred percent terrifying. She could get pregnant, she could, God forbid, be taken advantage of—an older boy could get her drunk and use her. As she became more and more of a woman, her happiness seemed to fade more into the distance. It was as if sexuality were a curse and would transform even the sweetest of children into sullen monsters.

  Michael remembered being young and looking at the world with wonder, expecting his father to love him, waking up every day with complete trust that it would be so. But after several years in the same house with him, he knew his father didn’t love him, would never love him.

  When he was young, he always knew he would have a bright future, and then midway through high school, he stopped believing it. He knew he was different from other people, but he was not sure in what way. He had learned so many things from school, and his mind became burdened with facts and he lost his sense of wonder, and more and more, people looked past him in the hallways in high school. His heart finally understood that life was cruel and people would not always give you what you deserved. He didn’t want Ryan to learn that.

  * * *

  Michael got a lot of work done and made several important calls. Rebecca was in and out of the office delivering files, asking if he needed anything. The hours were just falling away. It was getting close to five o’clock, and he began to have a feeling of panic. He just wanted to stay here and keep going. There was no way he could leave the building tonight. Yes. He would stay and work. It was safe here. He could work alone, impress the senior partners. Impress everybody.

  Then the thought of being here at sunset without the aid of Rebecca seemed intolerable, impossible even. How could he make her stay? He called her station and asked her to please come in for a moment.

  “Rebecca, is there any way you could stay for a few more hours? We’re getting so much done. I’m finally getting my workload caught up.”

  She looked down, dismayed, struggling to answer.

  “I would pay you double for the overtime hours. You are just such a big help to me.”

  Her eyes lit up at that. There he was, number-one boss, his aura of authority perfected.

  “No problem,” she said.

  “Let’s order in dinner. What’s your favorite food again? Thai. Let’s order some Thai takeout to be delivered. What do you say?”

  “Great, Mr. James.” Michael was sure Rebecca was wondering who this magnificent creature was in front of her who had re
placed her somewhat sulky former boss.

  “I’ll get right on that,” she said respectfully and marched off, no doubt to email her friends and tell them how incredible he was being to her. He loved her at that moment. Then a thought popped into his head: this woman would sleep with me. It would be an awful exchange, though, and Michael shook his head, dismissing the idea.

  Michael sat back down and thought of John Randolph. His family was in chaos, he was in chaos, and John was the only person Michael could think of who could calm the situation. He called his house and asked Nancy if he could speak with John. He heard her walk out onto the patio, and in a matter of moments, John came on the line with an uncertain “Hello?”

  “John!” Michael exclaimed, for he was genuinely happy to hear his voice. “How are you? It’s Michael James.”

  “Oh, good. I’m in your backyard right now, putting up some beams.”

  “I’m glad you’re there. I was just calling to ask you for a favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to be working late here tonight at the office. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay for dinner with my family after you’re done working outside.” Michael paused. “Nancy gets lonely, and the kids love you. I’d appreciate it, buddy. You could order something to be delivered. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Okay. Are you sure? Should we save some food for you?”

  “No, I’ll eat here, and I won’t be back until nine or ten. Did you have other plans for tonight, John?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Great. Maybe you guys could watch a movie or something too.”

  * * *

  Lying on the carpeted floor of his office, Michael imagined his family seated at a table with John Randolph at the head of it. The image was perfect. Nancy would be at ease, and with his gloomy presence deleted from the picture, she would finally be allowed to just be herself. John would bring that out in her. John was devoid of any hint of pretense, of malice, and would appreciate all the simple pleasures she had to offer: food, stability, kindness, sexual pleasure, family—the very things John had sought in his own failed marriage. Michael knew that his wife had left him—he shied away from giving Michael more information beyond that, but John had admitted that much to him. He could tell that John had been an honest husband and that his wife had eventually grown tired of him, just as Michael had of Nancy. There was no doubt that John and his wife had also been mismatched from the start.

  At first, he thought, Ryan will stare inquisitively at the man, wondering where her father was and nursing a constant sense of guilt for having attacked him in the kitchen. Then, over time, she’ll just enjoy the new atmosphere without him. It smacked him in the face how innocent a bunch they would be with him gone. They would be perfect. He was all right, sitting here, thinking of it, as long as the family photo was no longer in sight. But he could feel the gold of the frame burning in the wastebasket, radiating in his direction, unstoppable and smug. He fished it out and carried it, picture facing down, out of the office and down the hall to the men’s room.

  Once safely inside, Michael relished the fact that no one would come in there. They had all left for the day or had not even come in at all, since it was a Saturday. And Rebecca would have to use the women’s room. Of course she wouldn’t be in here. He was safe.

  Normally this room was such a purgatory—Michael would have a moment of silence in the sterile calm, his facial muscles would relax as he peed or washed his hands at the sink, no expression, nothing, and then the door would blast open and in would breeze a suited man with a doughlike face, pursing his lips and giving him the short, overconfident greeting. They would both know how much they hated the moment and hated each other for creating this awful and awkward scene of uncomfortable acknowledgement. Not to mention the undraping of measly shriveled-up penises that dangled tentatively over the cold bowls and emptied-out bladders, only to be refilled an hour later, when the task would have to be repeated, multiplying its demeaning effect on a person as a urination machine.

  Michael stood by the metal trash receptacle and raised the picture up, then stopped. He turned it over in his hands and forced himself to look, a mistake he instantly recognized. There they were: a colorful bunch against a shining white backdrop. His eyes turned first to Ryan. They had had this photo taken five years ago, before she had begun rebelling. She looked as beautiful as ever, silently tolerating the group, sitting there beside her mother, who looked like a cooked potato next to her. Max, hopeful and disoriented as ever, even as a one-year-old, was dressed in his white turtleneck and green cords. And then there he was. He was dressed very rigidly, in brown tones and wearing glasses, and he noticed that he looked about as smug as was possible for a human being. He could just see himself, looking out at the expanse of the tacky department store in which the photography station was nestled before the picture was taken, making his whiplash-quick judgments on Americana and then linking it to chain-store culture in general. So uptight, so haughty! The typical intellectual’s dilemma caught and immortalized in one photograph.

  Yes, he knew he was a cliché. Look how he even stood a foot away from Nancy as she had tried to stand closer together, he mused. He thought about how happy he could have made her if he had just put his arm around her for the photo. How easy it would have been for him to make her happy! Looking at her in her tan skirt and the blue cashmere sweater he had given her as a present when they were dating, he felt his throat tremble with emotion—how simple and good-natured she was. She loved that sweater and always wore it to show her gratitude to him for buying her an expensive gift. Why had she never gotten angry at him for withdrawing from her? he wondered. Why hadn’t she stopped him, made him respect her by threatening to leave if he didn’t change? Why did she trust him so completely? This trust, so complete, so perfect, was something, try as he might, he could not conquer. It waged no war and only sought to draw him in further.

  Michael took one last look at the photo and tossed it into the trash. It immediately passed through the airy layers of paper towels and landed with a thud at the bottom. He imagined it beaded with moisture from soggy dripping paper left from the many pairs of hastily washed hands. He was glad that it was buried there, yet it also made his skin crawl to visualize it caught in the refuse, sad and ridiculous. Panic gripped him for a moment as he thought of the situation with Ryan. Where was she?

  Something began to creep at the edge of his mind, something that had not occurred to him for a long time. It felt like a sickness and it seemed to seethe somewhere in his depths. An image was taking form. He pushed the thought away and thought about Nancy.

  Michael went over the choices that made up his life again. He had gone willingly into a situation, a marriage, that he knew did not have the magic that binds two people. Yet there had been a momentum at the time; things had been set in motion, heading in a definite direction, right or not. He realized that he and Nancy must have come together to create Ryan, to breathe life into her restless soul and make her real, physical. And his thoughtful, quiet little son. Michael had been born and had married Nancy for the sole purpose of creating those two children, both unique and beautiful in their own way. That must have been it, he mused. Now Michael knew it was time for him to bow out of the picture.

  He sat down on the bathroom floor at the thought, one hand wrapped around the edge of the sink. God, it was all so clear, he realized. He slapped the tiles. So remarkably clear! He sat for a minute enjoying his clear mind and then he stood up, covered his hands in the pink soap from the dispenser, and washed and dried them.

  He began to recall a wonderful family trip to the Grand Canyon when Ryan was eight years old, almost nine. They had gone rafting down the canyon and camped at night with their guide and two other families. That was the year before Max was born and it had been a good one for the family as a little happy threesome. The water had reflected off the canyon walls as they drifted down, and
Michael could remember the burnt salmon color of the steep rock walls alongside the river. They had of course chosen a very easy route since Ryan was little, so they all drifted along, silenced by the beauty of nature, often happy in their own thoughts and smiling at one another over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when they stopped for lunch. At the end of the three-day rafting trip, they had stayed in a little cabin on the edge of the rim of the Grand Canyon. Their little one-room cabin had a fireplace, which Michael had lit and sat in front of, holding Ryan as the two read at night. Nancy had joined them with a novel, too, and the three had sat there together. Michael had not wanted to leave at the end of it. He had been aware that he might never be this happy again for quite some time. He remembered standing on the edge of the canyon, snapping photo after photo with his plastic disposable camera until the clicks ran out. Then he had just stood there, peering out at some eagles circling overhead the rows and rows of dazzling colored stone.

  * * *

  Michael went back to his desk and looked through the pile of papers on it. It was obvious that there was no more work to be done, and it was well after nine o’clock. There was no way he could keep Rebecca there any longer and not seem as though he were either insane or perverted. He would have to go it alone.

  Michael went out to her cubicle. She was filing her nails absentmindedly while she read an email. She looked tired. He observed her. No doubt she must be as confused as he was. She must have often felt incomplete in this meaningless job. She probably wished she were famous, a movie star or something. She probably felt she was movie star material, secretly, and treasured that knowledge like a precious jewel inside her—silly women and their fantasies of grandeur.