by Owen Thomas
“Welcome to your nomination party, Sweetheart!”
“Uh, thanks, Dad.”
Hollis had long surmised that Tilly fancied herself as the quintessentially disaffected youth, yearning to express herself with reckless and self-destructive abandon, but ultimately disillusioned only by her own lack of emotional injury or any genuine reason to feel disaffected in the first place. Tilly had been blessed with a loving family and a healthy childhood that included a good education, a reliable if unsavory stable of friends, and economic means beyond most of her peers. What drove Tilly’s anger and frustration was the general absence of anything to be angry or frustrated about except, perhaps, the consequences of her own poor judgment. No one had forced her to leave home or take her clothes off in front of a movie camera or allow herself to be used by men twice – three times – her age. She had done all of that on her own.
Tilly had obviously not expected him to make the call. She had expected Susan’s voice. But that was okay. Hollis understood. He understood it all. He understood that it helped Tilly to have a bad guy in the world, someone to react against, someone to define herself. He supposed that was as much a role for a parent as any.
Susan, of course, certainly did nothing to discourage the misplaced rebellion. Together, his wife and his daughter had made Hollis a point of bonding between them; they compared notes and shared consolations.
And that, too, was okay. Hollis would serve that role for them. He would shoulder the unfairness of their alliance against him. As long as somebody, namely him, knew the truth. And the truth was that, whatever their difficulties, Tilly was still his daughter, and he was not the uncaring, absentee father Susan pretended to believe of him. He would support Tilly’s successes, however shallow or misguided, simply because they were her successes and she was his daughter.
“And Bill and Dana Swenson.”
“Congratulations, Tilly!
“Wonderful performance, Tilly. You know, as your first doctor, I take some small credit for your success.”
“Hi guys. Thanks Doc.”
And, in point of fact, it was an honor of sorts to be nominated. Hollis was not particularly a fan of Hollywood, which he tended to think of as a colossal engine that rocketed entire generations into dark oblivions of glorified violence, sexual debasement, toilet humor and hyper-stylized form over substance. But if one could, for a moment, set aside these larger objections, then one could acknowledge that a Sundance nomination – within the universe of “values” that determined merit in the motion picture industry – was an honor and Hollis was prepared to accept it as such.
“And Mikki and Jude are here.”
“Hi Tilly!”
“Nicely done, Til’.”
“Thank you.”
Not that Hollis had actually seen Peppermint Grove. He did not care to see it. It was for Tilly’s good that he did not see it. For seeing the movie would lead inexorably to having opinions about it; and to have an opinion on that subject was nothing but trouble in his family. This he had learned through painful experience, shouldering heavy accusations that his opinion was calculated to injure and, worse, that he was “clueless” when it came to modern visual narratives of the human condition.
Of course, neither of those things was true. As to the first, he had simply been honest about his opinions; it was certainly not his intention to insult or to injure. If she chose to be insulted or injured, however, then there was little he could do about it. Tilly would never make it in Hollywood if she could not take critical reviews constructively. He had told her this, through Susan, who had played the part of reluctant emissary for a couple dozen phone calls. But reason could never mitigate the personal offense, for which Hollis’ opinion was thereafter summarily dismissed by both daughter and wife with much scoffing and rolling of eyes.
As to the second accusation, it was apparent to Hollis that he actually had better insight into the human condition than his daughter and everyone else associated with the so-called modern visual narratives, which invariably tied the fate of the species to the ill-conceived machinations of over-sexed, twenty-something half-wits who showed their concern for the human condition by hunting it down in a hot car, screwing it and then oh-so-stylishly shooting it in the head.
“And Chris and Amanda Taylor are here.”
“Hi Tilly. I know we’ve never met, but we’re big fans and great friends of your parents and we’re real proud of you too.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you.”
Susan was capable of completely fabricating her impressions for the sake of Tilly’s feelings. He was not. Susan always found something to rave about, however small – the wardrobe, the lighting, the thirty-second scene with the baby in the back of the taxi – and was able to ignore all the rest. Hollis, by contrast, was incapable of seeing his daughter’s performances outside of their greater context. His mind was trained to see the whole and he could not bring himself to artificially isolate the individual components. One did not rave about the color of a berry in a moldering fruit pie.
Tilly was, he knew, a good actor. Indeed, Hollis had come to think of her later teenage years, with all of her lying and over-wrought, raw-throated grandstanding, as a series of unconscious auditions of her underlying talent. She had, back then, associated herself with a series of young, stubbled men – which she initially attempted to pass off as merely old-looking boys – and a stringy-haired coterie of unhealthy, haggard-looking girls who all served as a supporting cast of sorts, playing stereotyped roles in a poorly written coming-of-age drama about rebellion and finding oneself.
Even at twelve, Tilly’s talent was apparent. Heinrich Van Susteren had certainly seen it. Standing in the dusk at the end of the street, they had watched together as the police cruiser disappeared around the corner. Heinrich had assured Hollis that he and Inga were not pressing charges over the break-in of their home, the ruination of their flooring, and the clumsy massacre of at least a dozen rare fish. “What to do about children, eh? I was a little monster of a boy. And you too, yes? We will send you a bill for the damage.” Heinrich had then remarked in that understated, diplomatic way of his, about Tilly’s ferocious defense of her brother, marveling that she seemed to have convinced herself that the break-in had all been her idea; that she had wanted the football back so badly and that David had tried to stop her.
“She’s a little actor, that one,” Heinrich had said, laughing and slapping a still freshly mortified Hollis on the back, “not a football player.”
Now a professional, Tilly had obviously refined and constructively applied her natural acting ability. Lying and grandstanding had become legitimized entertainment for which non-captive audiences were willing to pay increasing sums of money. Nevertheless, looking at the whole, Hollis believed that in some respects, little had changed. Tilly still tended to carelessly lend her talents to wholly unworthy endeavors; movies inspired by impulses far more masturbatory than noble or true or even artistic. He understood that the reviews for Peppermint Grove had been offering no end of gushing assurance that Tilly had finally found a quality showcase for her abilities. But Hollis had never trusted what passed for wisdom from America’s entertainment culture; he had been so grievously mislead so many times before. Even now, the praise for Tilly’s performance was so frequently laced with titillating allusion to her sensual physicality and her raw appeal, that Hollis suspected, once again, he would not like what he saw: his daughter writhing beneath a series of unshaven young men in an over-wrought, in-your-face drama that showcased and celebrated a culture without values or respect.
“And Harris and Peaches are here.”
“Hi’ya, Tilly! Uncle Harris here. Way to knock ‘em dead kiddo. Peaches, get out here. Peaches is in the kitchen. She says hi.”
“Tilly, tell your old man to get some good Scotch for these celebrations. Can’t celebrate without Scotch.”
So Hollis had resisted whatever temptation there might otherwise have been to see the movie for which Tilly
had been nominated. It was for her sake that he not see it; that he not have an opinion. Of course, he was damned either way, for Tilly would inevitably hold even this measure of restraint against him, as would Susan. Nevertheless, everyone was better off if he stayed out of the theater.
“Hi Peaches. There’s a utility drawer to the left of sink, right above the floor….”
“Tilly…” Hollis tired to abort the scavenger hunt for the Scotch and usher the introductions past Peaches Pinkle. But Tilly was determined to do her damage.
“Pull the drawer all the way out and reach your hand back behind the drawer. Always a good stash of booze back there.”
She was right, of course. There was some old Scotch back there, and the clear implication to the uninformed was that Hollis had a drinking problem; that he had taken to hiding his booze. But what he could not tactfully explain to his guests – and Tilly knew this – was that he had begun hiding his liquor, years ago, hiding it from Tilly, who, as a Junior in High School with a revolving parade of thirsty, drop-out boyfriends, was so fond of raiding the liquor cabinet that he and Susan had both grown concerned, albeit for different reasons that dictated different solutions. Hollis, who was primarily concerned about thieving and illegality and the shocking disregard for the rights of others, had resorted to a series of Inquisition-inspired lectures and discussions, usually over rapidly cooling dinners, by which he intended to attack the root of the problem, which he understood was a fundamental lack of respect.
Susan, on the other hand, ever inclined toward over-reaction – and usually to mere symptoms rather than causes – was convinced Tilly was on a fast track to irreversible alcoholism. She turned to prohibition as the first line of defense, banning all liquor from the house. Rather than fighting this hysteria, and refusing to allow Tilly’s behavior to curtail his own freedoms, Hollis had taken to stashing – secretly he thought – whatever liquor he purchased. Hidden Scotch was a vestigial sign of Tilly’s rebellious heart, and certainly not evidence of a drinking problem that Hollis did not have.
Once Tilly had moved out of the house, Hollis had continued to use the dead space behind the bottom left kitchen drawer simply out of practical necessity, as when Harris and Peaches Pinkle or others came to visit who would think nothing of draining his spirits down to the last tumbler. Sometimes, it was true, he forgot to empty his stash, and the space behind the drawer became unintended secondary liquor storage. And that’s all it was. Tilly’s party was only minutes old and she was already taking cheap shots at him by revealing false evidence of a drinking problem. Hollis should have resented this, and maybe he did; but he easily rose above such feelings and let them go.
“Peaches, don’t bother with that,” Hollis said. “Tilly’s just pulling your leg. Tilly, if you can behave, I want to continue with your fan club.”
“It’s your show, dad.”
The evening unfolded before him, gracefully over and around loaded remarks and conversation that should have caused him that familiar longing for escape, the need to retreat down to his study and to be alone with his thoughts and his music where the irritation of being misunderstood and under-appreciated in his own home could be effectively soothed and medicated.
But nothing got to him tonight. Nothing could touch him. Not his daughter’s road map to the hidden Scotch, not Tilly’s unfortunate need to correct his attribution from Buddha to Shakespeare, and not even Tilly’s childish quoting of Oscar Wilde.
It was as though he was completely insulated from these affronts and, more astounding still, as though they were not affronts at all but simply streams of irrelevant sound, like the burbles and shrieks of small children, too immature to understand their own lack of consequence. He felt large and magnanimous and strong. He felt warm and satisfied and bathed in yellow.
For she was pure and she was his and they could not touch her.
Bethany stayed close; or, perhaps it was the other way around, he staying close to her. They shifted and turned and traversed together through the evening like September leaves on the surface of the water, bound by their likeness and moving with a silent tide. They did not touch one another much; they did not hold hands and such as they had in the park. Although when she laughed – which was delightfully often this evening given Hollis’ irreverent repartee with his guests and his humorously apocryphal memory in such settings – she tended to grip his shoulder with one of her hands. She did this not with any particular force or urgency, but just enough to steady herself, as if in the swell of laughter from those around them and in the tumult of her own mirth, Bethany longed for some physical support or confirmation that Hollis was actually flesh and blood.
Tilly’s celebratory teleconference ended abruptly as his youngest son, in a fit of over-exuberance that will sometimes take hold of him in groups of people, danced Mae Chang across the telephone and into the coffee table. The phone let out a high-pitched electronic shrieking sound and splintered into shards of bone-colored plastic beneath Ben’s foot before going completely dead and silencing Tilly in mid-word:“Wha–”
Hollis had tried to catch them as they fell, but Mae’s struggle to free her arms spun them in the other direction, glancing off an arm of the couch and directly into the table. Her head made a hollow thok sound as it connected with the sturdy wooden frame.
Susan had warned Hollis not to place the phone in the middle of the floor, albeit entirely for reasons of aesthetics having nothing whatsoever to do with safety. He was certain to be reminded later, tomorrow maybe, that she had told him it was a bad idea. The fact that no one could have possibly foreseen these events would not be relevant.
If Mae ever lost consciousness, Hollis could not tell. He was kneeling at her side in an instant, pulling Ben off of her, handing him off to Susan and then tending to Mae. He rolled her over carefully by the shoulders and she looked up at him from the carpet, eyes wide and unseeing. Hollis sensed Bethany immediately behind him, as if they had lunged together to avert disaster. She kneeled next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other finding and stroking Mae’s arm.
“Mae… Mae…” Said Bethany, like a nightingale, like an angel. “Are you hurt?”
“Mae? Can you hear me?” Asked Hollis, his voice firm and brimming with take-charge authority. She blinked at them slowly, saying nothing.
“Okay, let’s give her some air,” said Dr. Swensen, calmly from behind. “Let me take a look.” Hollis stood to let him in and shepherded his guests back towards the dining room where they all watched in silence as Dr. Swensen checked for signs of a concussion. David hovered over them nervously, squatting and standing, squatting and standing, wanting to do something but obviously having no idea what that might be.
After a few moments, Mae sat up with Dr. Swensen on one side and David on the other. She blinked slowly and seemed to take stock of her surroundings. She touched her head above her eye gingerly and winced. A few moments after that she was able to stand. The guests applauded as though it at all been for their amusement. She smiled meekly and sat down on the couch; David like a second skin.
“You’ll have a headache tonight and a helluva bruise tomorrow, but I think you’re fine,” said Bill Swensen. “If this couch hadn’t broken your fall, you’d probably be in the hospital. And you missed that corner by inches.”
Hollis was rummaging through a drawer in the hallway bureau for some ibuprofen when the phone rang. He looked around for Susan, but she had not yet returned to the party. She was still in the back bedroom with Ben, who was certain to be upset, calming him as only she could, putting him back together. Holding him. Rocking him.
“Beth,” he said, suddenly loving the sound of what he resolved would be his name for her, “I’ve got to get that. Somewhere in here is a bottle of Advil. Will you…”
“Go,” she said, kneeling and slipping her hands into the drawer of plastic pill bottles and adhesive bandage cans and ointment sprays.
As he made his way to the phone, Hollis thought of Ben and smiled, reconnect
ing with the feelings he had been forced to abandon as Mae had plummeted to her fate. He found again his swell of emotion in the first moment Ben had appeared in the foyer, intercepting Mae Chang in mid-retreat for the door, enfolding her in his doughy arms and dancing with her, clamping her arms to her sides and spinning her around in circles.
More than the dancing and spinning, it was the look of unmitigated joy on Ben’s face that Hollis now remembered. It was possible for Hollis, in his mind’s eye, to isolate that look; to carry it with him and to consider it quietly without the distractions of Mae’s plaintive cries and useless thrashing to free herself. In that look, with his mouth open in laughter and his eyes lit from within, Ben had given Hollis a glimpse of his own burgeoning emotion. As though reflecting his own heart which all evening had been filling with a feeling that yet had no name, origin or destination, but that now had a look.
“Hello?”
“Dad? What the hell happened?”
Hollis explained to Tilly the situation with a practiced calm, pouring himself a glass of Chablis as he spoke. Everything was fine, he told her. A bump on the head. Nothing serious. The speakerphone had met an untimely demise, but all the humans were okay. Mom was taking care of Ben. Beth was getting Mae some aspirin.
“So I guess that’s that,” she said when he was done.
“Guess so.”
“Tell Mom to call me, you know, whenever.”
“Will do.”
“And, oh, tell everyone there I said thank you for the party.”
“MmmHmm.”
“Okay then. Bye, dad.”
“Bye.”
Hollis glanced at his watch. It was suddenly later than he thought. It was time.
When he returned to the living room, the party seemed on its way back to full swing; conversations overlapping and tangling in the air as they fought for dominance. Harris Pinkle and the Taylors were picking at the hors d’oeuvres and commiserating over the scourge of liberal blame-laying in all matters concerning the war in Iraq.