by Owen Thomas
“What is your name, sir?”
“Hollis.”
“Hollis what?”
“Hollis Johns.”
“Are you a member of this club Mr. Johns?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have your membership card?” The mustache covered a scar along the man’s upper lip.
“No. I’m new. They’re still laminating…”
“Mr. Johns, we cannot allow you in here if you cannot follow our rules.”
“What rules did…it was an accident.”
“You cannot roughhouse in the pool.”
“I wasn’t.” It hurt his neck to look up at the man so he did so only intermittently, preferring to speak to the toe of the tennis shoe that was six inches in front of his nose.
“The witnesses say otherwise, sir.”
“I don’t care what…”
“The witnesses say you were hanging from the diving board and that you had your back to the pool and that you dropped yourself onto that young girl. Is that right?”
“Well…yes, but… hey, not intentionally. I didn’t deliberately…”
“The diving board is made for diving. Do you know how a diving board works?”
“Oh, please. I don’t need the sarcasm. It was an accident. I didn’t see her!”
“Calm down, sir. You should have seen her. The diving board is not a toy. Also, you are in the pool without proper swimming attire. Did you read the sign outside?”
“Yes, I read the sign outside.”
“And so you chose to just ignore it?”
“No.”
“Is there some other explanation?”
“It … was…an…accident.”
“Do you know your head is bleeding?” Hollis felt his head and then looked at the drops of pink water on his fingertips.
“Got hit by the damn diving board. Why is the underside so rough?” he asked, rubbing his cheek.
“Don’t blame the diving board, Mr. Johns.”
“It’s got these tiny little spikes.”
“Don’t blame the diving board. Do you need first aid?”
“No. How is she?”
“Shaken up. She’s fine. I’d stay away from her mother if I were you.”
“I’ll apologize,” he said, even though as he said this he could see the eggbeaters and the children filing out of the pool building. Each of them glared his direction. Mother eggbeater stopped, turned and started in their direction. One of her friends caught her by the arm and pulled her towards the exit. She jabbed a finger in his direction before disappearing through the door.
“It was just an accident,” Hollis muttered, gingerly touching the top of his head. “She swam under the…I didn’t even see her.”
“If you want to follow me to the office I have a bandage for your head.”
“No. It’s fine. Too much hair anyway for a Band Aid.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay then, Mr. Johns …” Mr. Mustache ended his sentence by pointing a finger and arching his eyebrows in unspecified warning. He stood and walked towards the door. Hollis watched him go and then turned to look across the pool. The woman was gone, replaced by a group of adolescent boys comparing tattoos.
“Mr. Johns?” Mr. Mustache was back. “I will ask you again to get out of the pool. If you want to use the pool you must wear proper swimming attire.”
Hollis climbed out of the water and left the pool for the locker room, Mr. Mustache close behind. He stripped out of his sopping clothes stuffed them into his new workout bag and then took a shower and got dressed. He brushed his hair in front of the mirror. His head was still pounding. The very top of his scalp was tender to the touch and would not stop its light seepage of blood. He brushed with one hand while the other hand pressed a towel firmly against the wound. As he did this, he examined his face. He looked like he had been dragged behind a slow moving vehicle on his left cheek.
On his way out Hollis stopped by the pro shop to pick up his new membership identification card as he had been instructed.
“You want a Band Aid for that?” asked the girl behind the counter, nodding at the wad of tissue he was holding to the top of his head.
“No, no,” Hollis said. “It’s stopping. It’ll stop. It’s fine.” He removed his hand briefly to look at the splotch of red on the tissue and then returned his hand to his head. “It’s fine. Too much hair for a Band Aid anyway.”
He left the pro shop and headed for the door, but then diverted to the café upon the whiff of coffee and microwave-radiated snack food. He stood for a minute at the counter utterly failing to get the attention of the woman who was simultaneously working the blender, the microwave and the milk steamer. Three other men were waiting at the “pick up” end of the counter, looking at their watches.
Hollis decided that lunch was more trouble than it was worth. He would just have to stop someplace on the way home.
“Quentin?” He turned toward the voice, which came from over his right shoulder.
She was standing on the other side of a small metal and glass table with four chairs; taller than she had seemed from across the pool, but no less lovely. Neurons fired, dropping an oxygen mask from his brain and inflating his chest.
“I’m sorry?” he said with his left hand still glued to his scalp trying to look pleasantly intrigued rather than confused. He took a step next to the table.
The Mocha Maiden hesitated as she looked at him approach, as if not knowing what to say next. She was older than he had thought. Early forties he guessed. Her hair was tucked behind her ears. She had pulled a floral miniskirt and a bright blue jacket over the black triangle that had barely covered her body.
“Oh,” she said. “No, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“I’m Hollis.” He slipped his new identification into his pocket and extended his free hand. She took it and squeezed.
“Elena,” she said. “I saw you back at the …” She gestured with her thumb towards the pool. “You look so much like Quentin. From behind. From a distance.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” Hollis said with a twinkle.
Elena smiled and wrinkled her nose like she might sneeze. “Ex-husband, so I guess it’s mixed. He’s a good guy. Long time ago. Very short marriage. I saw you and, like, twenty years collapsed. I don’t suppose you have any family in the Miami area?”
“No.”
But she wasn’t really listening. “God, you really do resemble him though. I saw you across the pool and I just thought… whoa! And I was gonna come over and get a closer look but then, well, I wasn’t really sure and you were kind of … preoccupied.”
Hollis felt himself blush. “I didn’t even see that kid,” he said.
“Oh, she totally swam underneath you. I saw her jump in but I thought she went the other way. How’s your…” She pointed to his head.
“Oh… it’s fine.”
“Bleeding?”
“Nah. No. Not really. I do this just to keep from floating away.”
She laughed, flashing her white teeth.
“I’m very buoyant, you see.” He lifted his hand and simultaneously rose up on his toes then pushed himself back down.
It was good for a fresh wave of mirth. She reached out and pushed against his arm with her fingertips; the international gesture for stop, stop you’re too charming.
“You should put a Band Aid on that,” she said.
“Nah. It’s fine. Full head of hair anyway.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Hollis blinked.
“Come on. Don’t be shy. Have a seat. Let’s see it.”
He removed his hand and sat down in front of her, leaning forward.
“Oooo,” she said. “That’s a nice little cut.” He felt her fingers moving along his skin, parting his hair. His eyes scaled her naked legs. Her torso burned against his face. He felt her presence in his spine. “Probably should have this disinfected,” she said.
“And what’s going on here?”
It was a new voice, but very old, registering in his gut. Hollis looked up into the face of Charles Compson III. Two decades of time and experience buckled and collapsed.
“Hey!” Elena said. “Where have you been? I’ve been at that damn pool for an hour. I was about to leave.”
“We said twelve-thirty. Hello there, Hollis.”
“We said eleven-thirty. No way! You guys know each other?”
“Hello Charles,” said Hollis.
He stood up and shook the outstretched hand. For a man only a few years older than Hollis, Charles Compson was remarkably well preserved. He was tan and fit and looked to be in his early fifties. He wore cowboy boots and jeans with a big oval brass buckle and a white western shirt with silver snaps that hung open to the sternum. His sleeves were rolled up almost to the elbows. His arms were muscular and toned, the tendons like ropes beneath weathered skin. His hair was the same chestnut brown it had always been, only longer, wet and freshly combed. He had a black leather workout bag slung over his shoulder.
He was the same man Hollis had once known, and yet someone entirely different. Gone was the expensive suit. Gone the guarded, formal demeanor. Gone the implacable reserve. Here was a man altogether changed.
“How’ve you been?” he said, sizing Hollis up. “Heard you retired.”
“Yeah. Yep. Life’s too short.”
“Don’t I know it, friend. So you’re making the most of it, then?”
“Absolutely. Lots of travel. Lots of family time. Lot of projects.”
“Been to Australia yet?”
“Soon. Soon. That’s definitely on the list. Japan. India. Egypt.”
“Don’t know about Japan, but you should go to Australia, Hollis. Just do it. We first spent three months Down Under couple years back. Loved it. Now I fly out there I bet maybe four, five times a year.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of air miles.”
“Helps a bit to have your own plane,” said Charles with a wink.
Hollis nodded inadequately, not knowing quite what to make of what could only be taken as ostentation uncharacteristic of the modest man of great means he had known so many years ago.
“Well, I guess I should say that the business owns the plane. I’ve got some contracts out there. It’s all nicely deductible. Got a nice little place in Sydney, but I’m building a big-ass ranch a ways north of Adelaide. Quarter-million acres. Prime grazing.”
Hollis whistled at this. Charles Compson nodded.
“We’re headed out next week to look at livestock. Can you believe that?”
“Livestock. So, just you and Alice… or all the kids or …”
Charles and Elena exchanged glances and laughed. “No, no. Alice was never a big traveler. And not so big on livestock either.” More laughter. “No. Alice was almost twenty years ago, Hollis.”
“Oh. I...”
“Hey, no big deal. She and the kids moved back to Tampa and got a house near her folks. Kids are all grown now.” His hands floated above the table, fingers like dandelion seeds. “Scattered to the wind. We don’t really keep track much. A couple of ‘em make sure I’m still alive. Katie. Nate. But mostly, you know, not much. Alice’s folks died. She’s still out there though. Into antiques I hear. Married an insurance guy.” Charles shook his head, marveling at something secret. “Christ Almighty.” He looked up at Hollis. “No, Alice wouldn’t have taken to Australia.”
“Oh, I just… you said we and I just assumed… I mean you and Elena here…”
“Ha! You thought she was my daughter, didn’t you?!”
“Oh, Charlie, don’t…”
“Sush, Elena. You did! Admit it.”
“Well…” Hollis said uncomfortably. “She could be. I mean…” He felt the beginnings of a fresh bead of blood swelling into a trickle. He reapplied the tissue.
“See, there?” Charles Compson lowered his voice and swatted Elena on the rump with the cup of his hand. “Everyone thinks we’re father and daughter.”
“You’re sick Charlie,” Elena said with playful derision, squirming from his touch. She sat down in mock disgust. “Pay no attention, Hollis.”
“Hey,” says Charles, “I’m not apologizing for livin’ large. Hollis is right. Life’s too short. Gotta grab what you can. Am I right, Hollis?”
Hollis gave a deprecating chuckle and shuffled on his feet.
“So, then, are you and, wait, don’t tell me… Sandra?”
“Susan.”
“Susan. Shit, that was close. You’re still…”
“Yep. Yep. Still at it.”
“Ah, well, that’s great, I guess. Not for me, but whatever turns your crank. Good lookin’ woman, your wife. Been awhile but I’m sure she’s the same as I remember.”
“Oh yeah. Same as ever.”
“Wait, now,” said Elena to Hollis. “How do you two know each other?”
Humiliation and disgrace were dark, frantic birds suddenly ramming the inside of his head, again and again and again, peering out at their master, Charles Compson, through Hollis’ eyes, calling to him in panicked cries. He wanted to let them out; to set them free. He wanted to explain that this man, Charles Compson, the paragon of self-made millionaires and the one whom every banker from Cleveland to Chicago to Indianapolis seemed to know and fawn after, had singled out Hollis Johns as a man of singular quality and character. Trusted him. Sought his counsel in matters of investment. Commiserated with him over the state of politics and social decay. Shared the intimacies of his family life. And, having taken his measure of Hollis, Charles Compson had generously propped open the door of opportunity and extended the hand of acceptance. The Vanguard Academy had been built for the few. Exceptional children from exceptional families destined for exceptional accomplishment. … And then David.
Hollis closed his eyes in a slow blink.
“Hollis and I did a lot of banking business back in the day. Hollis was my money man and I was the one that made him look so good on all of those quarterly reports.” Charles winked at Hollis, who smiled and nodded.
“Charlie,” Elena chirped, “doesn’t he look exactly like Quentin?”
“Quentin?”
“Yeah. You know? In the face? If you were to look at him real quickly?”
“Hmm.” Charles Compson took a half step backwards and cocked his head. “Now that you mention it, there’s a resemblance. Yeah. He does favor Quentin. God forbid there should be two Quentins in the world.”
“Oh, you’re just jealous after all these years. You did win, you know.”
Charles let out a shit-eating grin. “Man, like candy from a baby. He didn’t know what hit him. Where’s my wife? Where’s my wife?!”
“Charlie. Oh, poor Quentin! Did we really do that?”
“Please. He had it coming. What’d he expect? He’s a prude, that guy.”
“Quentin’s not a prude. He’s just…very certain about the order of things.”
“He’s a Jesus freak is what he is.”
“He has a highly refined moral sense to him. The world is very clear. People are very clear to Quentin. He’s fine unless you threaten to upset that understanding.”
“He’s a judgmental prick is what she’s saying, Hollis. Haven’t seen him in nearly twenty years but you just know he hasn’t changed a bit. Still layin’ down his little laws.”
“Quentin’s big in the Pentecostal church,” said Elena. “In Pensacola.”
“What she saw in him I’ll never know,” said Charles.
“Charlie. Quentin means well. He always has good intentions.”
“Can’t judge a man by intentions, Elena. Intentions mean nothing. Nothing. Intentions are a hoax. An empty suit. The big lie we tell ourselves so that we can sleep at night. We fail, but our intentions were good. See how nice that works out? We are venal and heinous but, hey, what about those good intentions?”
Elena rolled her eyes and swatted at Hollis’ arm, missing. “Here he go
es.”
“Damn right, here I go,” he said, not in anger but matter-of-factly. He dropped his bag on the floor and sat down in a chair. Hollis felt like he had wandered uninvited into someone else’s kitchen, conversation already well in progress. “You want to know why I will never marry you or any woman?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Elena asked.
Charles flicked his fingers across the table. “Sit, sit, Hollis. Like the old days without the suits and ties.” Hollis sat. Charles answered.
“Because marriage is an institution not founded on reality. It’s founded entirely on good intentions. It’s one long political ad. I’m a husband and I approve this message. It separates us from our true selves. Quentin thinks of marriage as a liberation of a united soul, but it’s just consensual bondage, which is just plain unnatural. Is it any wonder most marriages end in divorce?”
“Not always,” said Elena. “Not always consensual bondage. Right Hollis?” She cocked her head and smiled as though they were old friends. “Marriage can be nice. Between the right people?”
Hollis opened his mouth to agree, but Charles cut him off.
“You tellin’ me, Elena, that you did not feel like a prisoner in that nice marriage?”
“No, but that’s just because Quentin was a real ass sometimes.”
“Oh, right, but he had good intentions.”
“Yes. He did. Mostly.”
“At least I know how to be a gentleman. That’s a rule with me.”
“Yes you do. But that’s about the only rule you ever acknowledge.”
“I was raised to be a gentleman and a gentleman never disappoints a lady.”
“You never disappoint, Charlie. Except when you stand me up like today.”
“Twelve-thirty, Elena.” He held out his wrist to show his watch.
“Eleven-thirty, Charlie.”
“I ask again, do you want to know why I will never marry you or any woman?”
“Time,” said Elena wearily.
“Time. Right. Time. It’s running out. My life is for me.”
“We don’t need to do this here, Charlie. Poor Hollis.” She reached out and patted him sympathetically several times on the knee. Charles ignored her.