“I’ll tell Sam.”
“Oh, Sam again.”
“Bye.”
Herbie finds the number of Olive’s theater and buys a single ticket for the first preview on Friday night. He gets on the motel’s computer and prints out directions from South Carolina to Rochester, New York—fourteen hours or so of driving. If he leaves early this afternoon he’ll even have time to stop for some sleep. He calls Billy to tell her he’s leaving and they make a plan to have a cup of coffee before he gets on the road.
He starts throwing his things into the suitcase and the phone rings.
“Herb Aaron, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Aaron, my name is Sam Harding. I’m the director of Uncle Vanya in Rochester?”
“Yes, Sam, I know who you are. You’re calling about Bob?”
“Yes. I’m terrified that he won’t be able to perform the play. We have our first audience tomorrow night.”
“No, he’ll be okay.”
“Olive just told me you said that, but are you sure?”
“I am.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” He stresses every syllable.
Herbie smiles. “You’re not convinced.”
“No, frankly. I think he’s truly lost it.”
“How about when he’s onstage?”
“Who knows? We can’t hear a bloody word he’s saying. Even the actor standing right next to him can’t hear him.”
“Get an audience in there and you’ll hear him just fine. He’s a crafty old coot. Watch your back and make sure you protect the other actors.”
“How?”
“Don’t let them get sucked down into his hole. Rehearse all the scenes he’s not in. Get them juiced up about opening their play. You know what to do.”
“Are you coming?”
“Are you kidding? Uncle Vanya without the uncle? I wouldn’t be caught dead within a thousand miles of that theater.”
“That’s not even faintly amusing.”
“No, I’ll be there. Opening.”
“How can I believe you know what you’re talking about? What if you’re wrong? My God, I feel as if I’m hanging over a vast, dark pit; I’m about to plunge in and I have no idea what’s waiting for me at the bottom.”
“Really,” says Herbie.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE QUESTION IS THE GOLF CLUBS. HIS PLAN HAD BEEN to take them to the drop-off at the St. Andrews golf resort and leave them—shoes, glove, balls, tees, the whole thing—and just drive off. A symbolic gesture. But now he’s thinking maybe not. Ever since that night when Billy told him to quit he’s actually been enjoying the game.
“What the fuck,” he thinks and hoists them into the trunk of the car next to his suitcase. He locks the car and walks down to Dunkin Donuts to get a coffee, feeling an odd sense of freedom. He has no idea what he’s free from but it’s like he’s lost twenty pounds. Maybe it’s the drive, the anticipation of motion, the leaving of one place for another. Maybe it’s the morning, which has more than a hint of spring in it. Whatever the reason, he feels good. Almost as good, he thinks, as if he had lost the twenty pounds.
He carries his coffee back to the motel and stops in the office to go over his bill and the clerk hands him a package— the movie script from Jeffrey. He feels the weight of it in his hand, gently bouncing it up and down. What’s it about? He thinks of the old joke. It’s about a pound and a half. Chick-a-boom. He goes to his room and flicks through it, finding his scenes, which are not bad. He could have fun with this. He calls Jeffrey.
“What’s the story? Do we have an offer?”
“We do.”
“So when were you going to tell me?”
“I’m still working on the billing. There’s no more money to squeeze out of them so we may as well go to war over the billing.”
Herbie doesn’t care all that much about billing. If he’s good in the movie he’ll get noticed; if he’s not he won’t. It doesn’t really matter where his name is or how big it is on the credit roll.
“I can get you third place—after the kid and the girlfriend— or I can get you an ‘And Herb Aaron’ at the end, which I think is much better. It stands out more.”
“Who’s the kid again?”
“He’s on a TV show.”
He grunts. “And the girl?”
“Her, too.”
“And they really think these kids can put asses in seats?”
“Oh definitely.”
“And I can’t.”
“Well, maybe an old ass or two.”
“See if you can get me a but.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“At the end of the credits, it should say, ‘But Herb Aaron.’”
“Call me when you’re sober.” And Jeffrey hangs up.
When he’s all packed and ready to go, he drives over to the Fleetwood to meet Billy. She’s at her bar stool—third from the left—with a double espresso in front of her. Herbie signals for the same and gives her a kiss on the forehead before he sits down.
“Oh, I’m gonna miss you,” she says.
“Me, too, you.”
“We don’t get people like you down here very often.”
“Disgruntled assholes?”
“You know what I mean.”
They take a moment to silently acknowledge how crazy they are about each other.
“I’m sorry that I had to get Roxanne mixed up in my mess. I didn’t do very well by her.”
“She’s fine. She’s been talking about it all week. She has herself cast as the femme fatale in the whole drama.”
“She was; she is.”
“And you jolted her loose a little bit, which she needed.”
“From what?”
“From that steel rod she had up her ass about men. She was well on her way to being a lonely woman but I think you helped her change direction. She’s feeling sexy again.”
“She is sexy. Tell the next guy that comes along to watch out. He’s gonna have a lot of woman on his hands.”
“Yep,” says Billy, who seems forlorn.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
She smiles. “I don’t know. I think your leaving’s got me feeling like I’m sitting still.”
“Are you?”
“Worse—I’m sitting in a hole. When Mari died I poured myself into my work, which turned out to be a great way to find out what a stupid piece of shit my work is.”
“Teaching?”
“Golf. I mean, Jesus. Hitting a little ball into a little hole? What’s that? Maybe when it wasn’t my whole life it was okay— kind of a lark, teaching people something they’ll never be able to do and we all get a good laugh out of it—that’s fine. But when it’s the only thing on God’s earth that I’m about, that I’m defined by—it’s a bad joke.”
“You’re starting to sound like me.”
“Well, it’s all your fault. You got me going.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” Then after a short pause, “I did have a thought.”
He just listens.
“Maybe I’ll ask Candy and Maurice for a job in their film company.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know, at some starter level, like an apprentice of some kind. I’ve got some money saved up; they wouldn’t have to pay me much. I could learn a whole new business, live in a whole new place with different people; just shake things up a bit, you know?”
Herbie purses his lips and looks into his coffee cup.
“You don’t like it,” says Billy.
“No, I do. You could do it for sure—brilliantly I imagine. It’d be a hoot to have you in New York. No, it’s a great idea.”
“I’m hearing a but.”
He thinks about how to say it. “It’s not about the place, Billy.” She looks at him like she knows exactly what’s coming. “You’re a lover,” he says. “And
you don’t have anybody to love.”
After that there’s not much to say. They have a big hug and promise to see each other soon, at the wedding. Then Herbie gets in the car and rolls out of Myrtle Beach. His plan is to make a lot of miles by this evening and then he’ll have an easy drive up to Rochester tomorrow. Today, he’ll clear the Baltimore Beltway, find a motel north of the city somewhere and crash. Just as he gets on the interstate and up to speed, the phone rings.
“Where are you?” It’s Maurice.
“Driving out of town. Why?”
“Candy wants to talk to you.”
“Put her on.”
“No. She says she has to talk to you in person.”
“Why in person?”
“She’ll explain it to you.”
“Oh Jesus Christ, Maurice, just tell her to call me.”
He gets no reply.
“Look, I don’t want to cast any aspersions on your wife-tobe, but she has never been able to do anything in a simple way. I’m in the car all day; just tell her to call me.”
“Let her do it her way, will you? This is how she wants to do it.”
“You guys are coming to Rochester for the opening, aren’t you? I’ll talk to her then. In person.”
“No, it won’t hold that long.”
“What is it? What’s so important? You tell me.”
“It’s something that came up for her this week with her shrink and then she and I kicked it around a bit. She’s hit on something about herself and she wants to talk to you about it.”
Herbie doesn’t like the sound of this at all. Candy can get totally indulgent with her psychological stuff and it’s always about something that he did wrong when she was a child. He’ll have to sit there and apologize and tell her he understands how difficult that must have been for her to be his daughter. He hates that shit.
“She felt bad when we left you the other day,” adds Maurice. “I know you were upset after your lunch together and Candy was, too. She said she felt like she had hurt you and she didn’t understand why she did it. That’s what started this whole thing, so she wants to square it with you.”
“What are you, her attorney?”
“Yeah, I’m on the clock.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Ditch the car and I’ll send the plane for you. We can have dinner together in New York; then they’ll fly you up to Rochester tomorrow. It’ll be easier on you, too.”
“No, no. I’m not flying in the plane. I need my car up there anyway. No, I’m driving to Rochester.”
“You need to do this for her, Herbie.”
“Is this what kind of son-in-law you’re going to be? Hocking me all the time?”
“Where are you stopping tonight?”
“North of Baltimore somewhere.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Ten minutes later the phone rings again.
“Okay,” says Maurice. “There’s a town called Cockeysville. I swear to God, that’s the name.”
“I know Cockeysville.”
“Oh, the world traveler. You should get there between eight and nine tonight. There’s a Ramada Inn right at the Cockeysville exit—there’s only one. You have a room booked. We’ll meet you at a bar called the Hitching Post, right up the road. They have burgers and shit like that.”
“How’d you get all this? Your guy the spy?”
“I can’t divulge. Be there by nine.”
“This is a lot of shit to go through, Maurice. For what?”
“Look, if you don’t know that you want to straighten things out with your daughter as much as she does with you, then you don’t know yourself very well.”
“Straighten out what?” He’s getting exasperated.
“You know when she looks at you with that look that drives you nuts? I’ve seen her give you the look and I’ve seen your response to it. You know what I’m talking about.”
Herbie chews on that. “Yeah, maybe. And this going to be about that?”
“That’s what I think, yeah.”
“What are you going to do, drive all the way from New York?”
“Helicopter. We’ll fly back right after you and Candy have your talk and you can get drunk and stoned and go to sleep.”
A helicopter, he thinks. Perfect. Now she’s the star of her own Fellini movie.
Nine hours later, Herbie’s in the bar. He’s already put down a burger and three vodkas and he’s feeling pretty good. The drive was easy and he made good time. He’s already checked in, showered and shaved, and now he’s sitting alone at a table for four in the back. The Hitching Post is a typical bullshit-cowboy place. Herbie’s been in a million of them. There’s sawdust on the floor, a jukebox with country songs, the beer is in pitchers, and the waitresses are all dressed up like little cowgirls. All total bullshit. Why can’t a bar just be a bar, he wonders. In Italy or France, a bar is a bar, a restaurant is a restaurant. They don’t have a theme; they don’t have costumes; they don’t have a list of cute drinks that relate to the theme in some way. Like the Buckaroo. I’d have to be pretty fucking loaded to drink something called the Buckaroo. They better come soon, he thinks, or I’m going to go to bed.
Then, at the exact stroke of nine, he sees them come in and the guy at the bar points them over. They’ve both tried to dress way down but it’s obvious their clothes are worth more than the whole building. Candy is nervous. Herbie can see it from across the room. She’s not crazy about this place and she’s letting Maurice know it.
“Jesus,” she says when she gets to the table, “maybe we should have done this over the phone.”
Herbie raises his eyes to Maurice, who shrugs. “I’m going to leave you guys to yourselves. I’ll be at the bar. Be nice to each other.” And he takes himself around to the far side of the bar.
“He’s been great about this,” says Candy as she sits across from Herbie.
“Yeah, a helicopter.”
“Proves he really loves me, huh?”
“Or that he’s trying to kill you.”
She kicks him under the table. “Don’t even say that.”
“You want a drink?”
“No. And you could slow down a little, too. I’d like you to actually hear this.”
Oh shit, he thinks. This is going to be awful.
“Anyway, Maurice is responsible for this. He pushed it. He doesn’t like it that we don’t like each other.”
“Tell him we do.”
“I was pretty nasty to you about Olive the other day, telling you that she’s seeing the director.”
“Seeing?”
“Well, you know. I don’t know why I did that and when I told Maurice, he said—in his typical way—‘What is this shit between the two of you? Can’t you do something about it?’ So I did. I went back to Dr. Pelzner.”
“And she thinks I was a bad father, right?”
“She knows you were a bad father. She’s known that for years. She’s already published a whole paper about that. This is something else.”
Herbie takes a big pull on his drink and braces himself. Then he gestures with his hands—come on, give it to me.
“Okay.” She takes a breath. “You know the myth, the family myth?”
“What myth is that?”
“You know. That mom was the center of it all, the source of all the stuff that made our life so fantastic?”
He nods. This is making him nervous.
“That’s the story I grew up with. You sold it to me like other parents sell the Catholic Church or the Bible. I cut my teeth on it. And I have to tell you, Daddy, it sucked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all, can you imagine how intimidating that was? How confusing it was to a little girl? How could I ever live up to that, you know?”
He nods, reluctantly.
“And second—and this the worst part—it wasn’t fucking true! You made it up. You sold me a load of crap. This… myth … was something that you neede
d to be true for some reason. That Mom was the source; Mom was the genius; Mom was everything to everybody. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she was great—amazing.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“But she wasn’t the source of our good life, Daddy. You were. You were the one who made the Ferris wheel go around. And Mom thought so, too. She said without you, her life would have been pretty dull.”
“When did she say that?”
“Not long ago. Just before she died. All those things we did, the amazing places we went, the brilliant people we hung out with all the time. It wasn’t her, Daddy; it was you.”
He shakes his head.
“I used to sit there when I was a kid and watch you do it. You always started with her—you lit her up about some idea, some trip, some new adventure; you got her going. You rubbed her up like Aladdin’s lamp until she shined like gold. And then whatever you wished for just showed up for us—seemingly out of nowhere. It was magic.”
“I didn’t have any magic.”
“You did, Pop. Especially with the girls. They couldn’t resist you. Still can’t. Every actress you ever worked with, the wives of all your friends—remember Sarah Ruskin? I mean my God, that woman was as boring as dirt until you walked into the room.”
“Well she was an outrageous flirt.”
“Only with you, Pop. And remember my friend Sylvia?”
“I never flirted with your friends.”
“No, her mother—remember her? She had a big thing for you.”
“She was actually a problem, as I recall.”
“You have a gift, Daddy. Admit it. And you did too flirt with my friends! Are you kidding? Like all of them. I don’t mean you came on to them or anything creepy like that. You just liked to light them up—like the bulbs on a Christmas tree. It’s always been so easy for you. When I was little, you made them giggle; when I got bigger, you made them blush.”
“Well…”
“You did, Daddy. All the girls except me.”
Herbie sits frozen.
“That’s the other part I want to talk with you about.”
“What?”
“How you never did that for me. Every other girl except me.”
“You’re my daughter, for God’s sake. I can’t… that’s child abuse.”
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