Then Again

by Rick Boling

  Wait! I said. If this might be the last time we talk, at least you can tell me what’s going on. I assume you’ve been there all along. I mean you told me you were going to be monitoring things. So, how am I doing?

  You’re doing okay. Except maybe for those interventions with your dad and Patsy Cline. Those were inadvisable. The reason I’m not supposed to be interfering is because things seem to be going reasonably well. Oh, and I love that you named your daughter after me. She’s pretty incredible, by the way, and I like Doris a lot, too.

  Listen, I said, if Heyoka gets on your case about this, tell him I want to talk to him. I’ll convince him I need to have you as an advisor.

  We’ll see. Now I really have to go. But before I do, I want to warn you about something else.

  I can use all the help I can get, so let’s hear it.

  Look, I know you’ve been incredibly busy, and I’m not trying to throw a guilt trip on you, but you need to keep a closer eye on Ellie. She’s a beautiful girl, Rix, and I don’t think you’ve noticed how fast she’s growing up. That wouldn’t be so much of a problem were it not for the fact that her intelligence makes her curious about everything, and it won’t be long before her curiosity turns to sex. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that an emotionally immature, sexually ripe virgin rubbing elbows with musicians and famous rock stars will be particularly vulnerable.

  She was right, I hadn’t even begun to think about such things, nor had I paid much attention to Ellie’s physical maturation. But now that I thought about it, there was the growth spurt and the recently appearing breasts; and just the other day she’d told me she’d popped her first pimple. I hadn’t worried about her safety or wellbeing because of her intelligence and logical way of thinking. Plus, she had several dedicated protectors in the studio who’d been looking out for her almost since the day she was born. However, if she decided on her own to do something clandestine, she was so clever that no one would even suspect anything was going on.

  But isn’t that supposed to be Doris’s department? I said, knowing the moment those words entered my mind that it was not only a cop-out, but that hoping Doris would discuss the subject of sex with Ellie was like hoping a bunch of hot young musicians would keep their cocks in their pants. Despite her expertise and creativity in bed, Doris had never been able to loosen up outside the bedroom.

  You know better than that, Rix. Sure Doris should be responsible for seeing to it that Ellie is well informed and cautious, but we both know how uptight she is about discussing sex with anyone but you. If you want to prepare Ellie for dealing with a horde of mercenary rock stars, I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to her yourself. And don’t forget about drugs and alcohol. Even the smartest kids can become awfully dumb under the influence of mind-altering substances, especially when you combine them with adolescent hormones. I hate to say it, but you of all people should know what she’s in for.

  Unlike other studios of the day, we’d been fairly strict about drugs, though only in the sense that open use was not tolerated. Alcohol, on the other hand, was a different story. Had we banned drinking, we would have lost at least ninety percent of our clients. My stupidity in not seeing what was happening to my daughter and the influences she was being subjected to was worse than simple neglect; it bordered on aiding and abetting her potential predators. I’d been so fascinated by her intellectual skills, I had completely ignored her emotional development, and now I began to wonder if it might already be too late.

  Okay, I said. I guess I’ll have to figure out some way to talk to her about it. I could sure use some help, though, so please try your best to stick around.

  She didn’t respond.

  Aurie? Are you there?

  But there was nothing, not even in Cinnamon’s eyes. In fact, after giving me a final, disinterested look, he stretched out on my chest, kneading my neck and purring like a nursing kitten.

  The Empress’s New Clothes

  I broached the subject with Doris as soon as she woke up, but when I pointed out how quickly Ellie was maturing and suggested it was time they had a talk about sex, you’d have thought I’d asked her to jump off the Empire State Building. I explained the dangers that lay ahead and how important it was for Ellie to understand how to deal with them, but all that did was drive Doris deeper into a state of abject terror, this time accompanied by tears of guilt over her reluctance to do what she knew should be her responsibility.

  “I just can’t, Rich,” she whined. “I know it sounds selfish and irresponsible, and I’m worried sick about Ellie. But I wouldn’t even know how to begin, let alone what to say. You’ve had a lifetime of experience, and you told me yourself that where you came from people talk openly about sex all the time. So please, please don’t make me do it.”

  I could have feigned anger, but I wasn’t about to play that kind of game with her, even though I, myself, had never been so terrified in my life—lives; either of them. Fortunately, Blue Note Enterprises was in the process of moving to a brand new facility, and we’d suspended all recording operations for the next couple of months, which meant there should be no immediate temptations for Ellie.

  We’d been dealing with a mounting pile of complaints from neighbors about the traffic congestion, late hours, and noise caused by our growing operation. We’d started out before there were many strict zoning laws in place, so the business had been grandfathered in when it came to certain violations. But disturbing the peace was disturbing the peace, and we all understood that the neighbors had a valid point. Our move to a larger facility had been in the planning stages for some time, and it wasn’t only because of the complaints. Fact was we’d outgrown the garage shortly after Sarah’s second album went triple platinum, and our waiting list for studio time was now so long we were losing clients. Plus, our various other divisions were spread all over town, making it difficult for Doris to manage things.

  After graduating high school at the tender age of fourteen, Ellie had decided to take a year off to evaluate the dozens of scholarship offers she’d received. With her schooling temporarily on hold, I’d asked her to help Doris oversee the planning and design of the new facility. They’d tackled the job with enthusiasm, working with the architects and interior designers to develop a sprawling complex that would include five recording studios, two labs and a machine shop for Sam, a cafeteria and attached fitness center, offices for our other divisions, and housing for visiting artists.

  One idea Ellie came up with was to build a small performance hall or club, where artists could hone live performances in parallel with their studio sessions. It was a concept that never would have occurred to me, and when I ran her proposal by the rest of the gang, everyone agreed it was a great idea. Ellie suggested we called it the Shindig Club, and insisted that we not serve alcohol. This, she said, would make it a safe, politically acceptable destination for teenagers, who would be drawn not only by the talent, but because the club would have the look and feel of an adult cocktail lounge. And, with a clientele representative of the audiences most rock acts were targeting, we could offer our artists a convenient test venue for new material. We presented the idea to our team of lawyers, and they were unanimous in their approval, pointing out that it could help us get past some of the political hurdles we faced in our efforts to purchase a tract of city-owned property on which to build our expanded operation.

  Situated on the banks of Tampa Bay, about half a mile from our house, the property included twenty acres of prime real estate just north of the abandoned Vinoy Park Hotel and the world-famous Million Dollar Pier. The pier, which had recently been remodeled, had always been an important destination for tourists who pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into the city’s coffers every year. Needless to say, St. Pete was extremely protective of its waterfront, so gaining approval for our new complex was going to be a delicate matter.

  To help garner public support for the project, our attorneys had suggested we designate half the land to be used as a municipal arts an
d entertainment complex, splitting the construction costs with the city. This would eventually house a theater in the round, a children’s hands-on museum, an after-school arts-and-crafts learning center, and two Little League baseball fields. I couldn’t have cared less about the city politics, but, as a favor to me, Carol Henderson had agreed to come on board to handle most of that, putting aside her disdain for rock & roll and using her political influence to grease the wheels of government. However, everyone agreed it was the Shindig Club that tipped the balance. Ellie put together a stellar promotional campaign aimed at the region’s teenagers, who, along with their parents, bombarded the city council with thousands of letters and phone calls in favor of the project.

  The grand opening of Blue Note Enterprises’ new complex was set for August 30th, two days before Ellie’s fifteenth birthday. David, Jackson, and Patsy flew in, along with several other industry folks and artists, including Tony Orlando, B. J. Thomas, and Glenn Frey of the Eagles, all of whom had recently cut tracks at the old Blue Note Studios. The formal ceremony—a boring litany of speeches by city officials—was capped by an elaborately staged ribbon cutting, at which Doris and Ellie shared the honors. Both wore identical designer outfits—slinky pantsuits of silver lamé, with tight-fitting bodices that showed off their figures and made them look more like sisters than mother and daughter. I was marveling at how much they looked alike, when I realized I was undressing them with my eyes—both of them.

  That realization was not only shocking, it added an exclamation point to what Aurélie had said: that Ellie was rapidly becoming a woman. And it was then that my planned talk with her—which I’d been putting off for weeks—took on a sense of urgency.

  The Facts Of Life

  When Ellie was eleven, she decided she wanted to check out some of the other churches around town. Mom didn’t much care for the idea, but Doris and I convinced her that not allowing Ellie the freedom to choose her own religious path could very well lead her to rebel against religion in general. So with me as her chaperone, the two of us set out to make the rounds of several local churches.

  Ellie soon realized that the similarities among Protestant churches were much greater than their differences, though she was intrigued by the high ceremony of the Catholic Mass we attended, particularly when the priest would swing the smoking thurible. On our way home that afternoon, she assumed her sweet-little-girl persona and begged me to buy her a thurible of her own, a request I dodged by employing the standard parental “We’ll see.” Knowing that “We’ll see” almost always meant “yes,” and being the crafty diplomat she was, she dropped the subject and waited. It took me a couple of months to find an elaborate brass model similar to the one she’d seen at the Mass, and I’m sure she was not surprised when she found it under the Christmas tree that year.

  The thurible now hung in the corner of her bedroom, and the waning aroma of incense set an ominous tone when I snuck in to wake her on the morning of her fifteenth birthday. On any other day that lingering odor of sandalwood would have been a pleasant addition to the cozy, predawn atmosphere, but after having stayed up all night fretting over what I had to do, the thurible’s religious symbolism only added to my sense of foreboding; as if I were being watched over and judged by an invisible priest.

  “Happy fifteenth, honey,” I said as I sat on the side of her bed.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she murmured. “What time is it?” Even crusty-eyed and disheveled, her sleepy smile illuminated the early darkness like a warm, glowing candle.

  “I think it’s time we had a little talk,” I said. “Here.” I handed her the slim book I’d brought with me.

  She yawned, then reached out to take the book from my trembling hand. Scratching the sleep from her eyes, she read the title out loud: “Life and Love for Teenagers.” She looked at me and started to giggle. “Oh,” she said, “thaaaat talk. I thought moms were supposed to handle the big sex lecture.”

  I started to answer, but she held up a hand. “Sorry, Dad,” she said. “I didn’t mean to belittle your brave attempt to do what you felt was your duty. I knew Mom would never have the guts to talk to me about the birds and the bees, so I really do appreciate you’re caring enough to make the sacrifice. I’ve read this one, by the way, back when I was, let’s see, maybe ten? It’s not bad for preteens, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the medical books in Grandpa’s home library. Now, what can I help you with?”

  My clever, sarcastic daughter had decided on a preemptive strike intended to sabotage my attempt to have a serious conversation. And although I knew I was no match for her intellect and needle-sharp wit, I did have a lifetime and a half of experience with things she could never find in Dad’s medical books. One lesson she had yet to learn was that the real facts of life had little to do with a technical knowledge of anatomy.

  “Okay,” I said, “I guess you know more than I gave you credit for. So tell me, what do you know about rape, or how to protect yourself from sexual predators? What’s the difference between having sexual intercourse and falling in love? Between dreamy fantasy and the reality of losing your virginity to some creep you’ve inadvertently let go too far? Is a kiss really just a kiss, like the song says, or a prelude to loss of innocence, emotional pain and irreversible consequences? And by the way, since we’re being so honest with each other, when was the last time you had a tongue jammed down your throat, or a finger shoved up your vagina?”

  By then, she’d lost her bravado and was staring at me open mouthed.

  “Don’t tell me you’re shocked by these questions,” I said. “It’s obvious from your statements that you know a lot more than I expected. So, let’s have it, the cold, unadulterated truth. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll want to listen to your old man and see if he has anything of value to add. And while we’re at it, take a look at this.” I handed her a Polaroid photo I’d taken of her and her mom at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. “I can’t for the life of me decide which one is sexier. But if I weren’t your father, I think I might go for the one on the left.”

  She fingered the photo, turning it toward the dim light from the window, then looked at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes. I could see her chin start to quiver, so I dropped the tough-guy act and put my arms around her. “Oh, honey,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you bully me into sidestepping what we both know is something you need to deal with, and deal with sooner rather than later. All I want is for you to—”

  “Daddy?” she said, the word a breathy gasp.

  “What, honey?”

  She pulled away and leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes, then opening them again and looking away. “Please don’t hate me,” she whispered barely loud enough for me to hear, “but I … it’s already too late.”

  Ellie refused to tell me who it was, even after I calmed down and promised not to kill him (although I crossed my fingers when I made that promise). It had happened after the grand opening, she said, while everyone was preoccupied partying and jamming.

  “I guess you can gloat now,” she said, wiping her tears on a corner of the sheet.

  I was still in shock, but I managed a weak smile. “I’m not going to gloat, honey. I’m a little thunderstruck is all. Can you … can we talk about it? I promise not to get angry, but I would like to know what happened, if you were forced or anything.”

  “I wasn’t forced, Daddy. Except maybe a little right at the end when I got really scared. It wasn’t rape, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wanted it to happen.”

  “But why, honey?” I said, sounding childishly whiney. “What could possibly lead you to make such a life-changing decision at your age? Was it something your mom and I did? Were you lashing out at us?”

  “Don’t be silly. It had nothing to do with you or Mom. It was something I needed to do for myself. And it wasn’t one of those heat-of-the-moment things. I didn’t go all brain dead and lose my self-control. I’d been planning it for a long time, waiting for the right guy and the righ
t opportunity.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t. “Are you okay about it now? I mean, was it all you thought it would be?”

  “No,” she said. “In fact, it hurt like hell—heck, sorry. But that wasn’t the point anyway.”

  So there was a point, I thought. “Listen, I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you hoped it would, and I hate to be redundant, but could we go back to the question of why? I’m not looking for reasons to chastise you. I swear. It’s just that you’re obviously not happy about it, and when you’re unhappy it makes me unhappy. So I’d like to help if I can.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m not all that unhappy. Oh, it would have been nice if things had gone a little smoother, if it had lived up to my naïve expectations. But I don’t regret losing my so-called innocence. As for why, that’s a little hard to explain. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I’m just not sure I can put it into words.”

  “Would you rather talk to your mom or Grandma about it? I mean, maybe it’s, you know, a female thing, something too embarrassing to tell me.”

  “God no,” she said with a grimace. “I’m not embarrassed at all. A little disappointed over the physical part maybe, but not ashamed or embarrassed. The problem with talking to Mom or Grandma is that they could never understand what’s going on inside my head. You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to about serious stuff, so I’ll be glad to fill you in on all the details if you think you can handle it. By the way, we did use a prophylactic—a condom—so you don’t have to worry about any ‘irreversible consequences.’”

  “Well, that’s one positive thing,” I said. “Are you in love with him? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Not a chance,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done it with anyone I cared about in that way.”