Big Daddy

by Ava Sinclair

  By the time I reach the top, the city streets look like a maze filled with toy cars. The rooftops of other buildings are now squares and rectangles. Some have planted gardens that I’ve glimpsed from below. Now I can see that they are manicured courtyards. One apartment building has a community garden. I know that building. Becky and I talked about how we might like to get a place there one day. It’s the kind of place young professionals get when they start to feel successful.

  But this place? This is something else entirely. As the elevator doors open I find myself staring down a long stretch of navy blue carpet. Recessed lights cast a soft glow along the hallway leading to a door. The plate on the front simply says 1A.

  It’s not a long walk, but it feels like one of the longest in my life. Each step is an effort. Each one nearly ends in a retreat. But it’s not just desperation that’s drawing me toward the door. It’s something deeper.

  I know what you need.

  I hear his voice, or heard it, saying those words. I try to remember the tape. I don’t remember him saying that. Did he say it? Or do I just think he did?

  I raise my hand to the door, feeling lost again. Whatever happens now, at least I’ll remember.

  Chapter Four

  It’s perfect. Like, Luxe or Conde Nast perfect, and when he opens the door and steps aside, I feel like I should wipe my shoes or maybe take them off before walking in.

  “Jill?” He says my name, diverting my attention from the splendor of his home and drawing it back to the reason I’m here. “Come in, please.”

  He ushers me in with a businesslike gesture of his large hand, and I’m reminded of my old high school principal, Mr. Edwards, who made the same gesture whenever I was called to his office, which was often. I put my head down, just as I did then, as I walk inside.

  “Put your bag on the foyer table and come with me, please.”

  I comply, and fold my arms over my chest as I follow him to the living room, where there’s a massive sectional sofa arranged like huge square with one side missing. In the space is a large, modern-looking white coffee table with inward curving legs that remind me of flippers. A blown-glass vase holds white lilies that I’m sure were delivered fresh this morning. Max Iver points to the sofa and tells me to sit. I sit.

  He settles in beside me, crossing his impossibly long legs. He’s changed clothes since I saw him. He’d been wearing a business suit when he came to my doomed presentation. Now he’s wearing black pants and a light charcoal gray sweater that molds to his upper chest. He’s huge, and I feel dwarfed in his presence. And it’s not just the size difference that makes me feel so small. He’s staring at me in a manner that makes his authority feel like another presence in the room.

  “Now that you’ve seen the video, I want to make something clear,” he says. “It has nothing to do with your getting fired today. I didn’t intend for that to happen.”

  “Well, congratulations on having the skill to ruin someone’s life without even trying,” I reply bitterly.

  “From what I’ve seen, you didn’t need much help ruining your life.”

  I feel the flush of shame creep over my face.

  “Did you enjoy taping me?” I ask, my tone hurt and sullen. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “Jill, this didn’t start with the taping. You showed up drunk at a private club. Given that I gave you a safe place to say privately what you would have blurted out publicly, you should be grateful.”

  “I’m supposed to thank you?” I ask. “Really?”

  “I’ll let you decide,” he says. “Do you want to know what happened Saturday night?”

  “Does it matter at this point?” Up until now, I’ve done a great job keeping my tears in check. But they come now, unbidden, angry, undignified. He doesn’t comfort me; instead he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket.

  “It matters,” he says, handing me the handkerchief, “because until you fix this, it’s going to just keep happening. And each time it happens, it’ll get worse. The next guy you leave the bar with might be the one who kills you.”

  I think I get it now. He’s just a decent person who saved a blind drunk girl from her own stupidity, and is hoping this will all serve as a wake-up call. I just need to convince him it won’t happen again. If I do, maybe—just maybe—he’ll help me get back the job he made me lose. His next words give me additional hope.

  “The optimist in me wants to think this talk will be a catalyst to change, and with some common sense you will walk out to recover personally and professionally.”

  Hope swells in my chest.

  “But that’s not what’s going to happen,” he says.

  The hope vanishes, leaving me numb.

  “Why not?” is all I can think to say.

  He reaches for a controller on the coffee table in front of us, pushes a button, and a wall panel across from us moves aside, exposing a huge flat screen television. And then the image I saw on my small phone appears. It’s Jill’s Humiliation, the sequel.

  “I’m not going to watch this,” I say, but he takes hold of my arm, and his words allow for no defiance.

  “You will watch this, young lady. Sit.”

  I sink back into the sofa, feeling queasy. If watching the first part alone was painful, watching it with him is agony. It feels unbearable, watching it as he watches me.

  You’re nice. Will you be my daddy?

  This last part picks up where the other one ended.

  A daddy? You’re all grown up, his off-screen voice is saying.

  Yeah, but I have a secret. My voice is high again, childlike. Want me to tell it to you?

  Yes, Jill. Tell me your secret.

  On-screen Jill taps her shoulders. I’m grown up on the outside. She puts a hand on her chest. But inside? Where it hurts? That’s where the little girl lives. It’s like… On the screen, I’m raising my eyes, trying to focus on what I want to say. It’s like I’m grown up on the outside, but I can’t grow up inside, where it counts.

  I watch as the woman I was on Saturday night leans forward, laughing as she puts her face in her hands.

  Ohmygod… I can’t believe I’m telling you this. On screen, I sit up, shaking my chestnut hair away from my face. Besides. You probably like grown-up girls, but I can be grown up, if that’s what you want. On-screen me affects what was probably supposed to be a seductive smile, but it’s kind of lopsided. I run my hands over my breasts as I stare at the light. So, are you going to fuck me now? I mean, we are in a hotel room…

  No. I’m not going to fuck you.

  Why not? On the video, I’m pouting.

  Because I don’t take advantage of drunk girls.

  Come on… please?

  No.

  There’s a noise and the camera goes in and out of focus. And I realize a moment later that it’s because Max Iver put it against something so it would continue filming what happens next. He appears in the frame, looking down at me. I’m looking up at him.

  I’m not going to fuck you, he says. You’re going to tell me where you live, and I’m going to take you home and put you into bed. As drunk as you are, I don’t expect you to remember any of this tomorrow. But I will. And I’m already thinking about how to give you just what you need.

  I’m still staring up at him. You don’t know anything about me, I slur.

  On the screen, he’s lifting me to standing. And just as I pass out in his arms, he utters the words I remember, but couldn’t place.

  You’re wrong, he says. I know just what you need…

  The screen goes black. The room is quiet. I keep my eyes on the television.

  “Jill, look at me.”

  I can hardly see him through my tears of shame.

  “God, you must think I’m a fucking wreck of a person.” I look away, embarrassed. Even with the video over, I can’t help but replay the image of me begging him to fuck me.

  “Jill.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I don’t know you, but I know enough to recognize when someone’s
on the edge of self-destruction. I’m thinking that lost little drunk girl I saved on Saturday night has come out before. Am I right?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “It’s too late. We’re already talking about it. Answer me.” His tone is steely.

  I nod again. “Yeah.”

  “I want to help her. To help you.”

  I look up at him, hopeful. “Are you going to help me get my job back? Mr. Brinkman was mad, but once he cools off…”

  “No. You don’t need to worry about a job right now. You don’t need to worry about anything but growing up.”

  “It’s a little late, Mr. Iver. Regardless of what I said on that tape, I’m a grown-up, with grown-up bills to pay. I can’t abandon them.”

  “You won’t have to. I can take care of your bills. But on Saturday night, you said you needed something, and it happens to be something I’m uniquely qualified to provide—the guidance of a father figure.”

  I stand up. “Look,” I say. “Just because I did something stupid when I was drunk doesn’t make me a stupid person. I know there are men who like to role-play, who want to fuck some girl while she calls him Daddy. Whatever weird sexual arrangement you’re looking for…”

  “This isn’t about a sexual arrangement,” he says quietly. “I told you, Jill. If I’d wanted to fuck you, I’d have already done it. This is about something more.”

  “You want to help me?” I ask. “Then help me get a job.”

  He shakes his head. “That won’t help you, not the way you need to be helped. It won’t fix the hurt.” He stands up. “Listen to me, Jill. For once in your life, think about what you need, instead of how to avoid it. I’m offering to give it to you.”

  “I have to leave.” I turn away.

  “Jill.” He says my name like a command and I stop in my tracks. “You have twenty-four hours to consider my offer.”

  I turn back to him. “Or what?” I ask. “You’ll release the tape?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks past me to the door. “Twenty-four hours,” he says, opening it.

  “What happens if I come back?” I ask.

  “What do you think would happen if you did the things you did and then came home to a daddy who cared about you?” He pauses. “There will be consequences, Jill. And forgiveness. You’ll stay with me until you’re capable of being on your own. If you absolutely can’t handle what I have in mind, I’ll give you enough money to get back on your feet. No strings attached.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say angrily, and head to the door. I don’t say I’ll call him, because I don’t plan to.

  Chapter Five

  I start dinner when I get home. I’m a good cook, and tonight I make an Italian soup with organic tortellini, smoked sausage, and fresh spinach I picked up on the way home.

  My mother taught me to cook, and my hours in the kitchen with her were the only happy memories I have of her. When she was teaching me how to bake bread from scratch or make a perfect glaze, I could pretend this was how she always was—patient, serene, helpful. When she was instructing me on how to whip meringue into stiff, glossy peaks, I’d tell myself she’d be this same mother tomorrow, rather than the one I’d find passed out on the floor when I got up to go to school.

  Becky likes my cooking. The dish I’m cooking tonight is her favorite, and I’m pulling out all the stops by pairing it with a homemade Parmesan rosemary cheese bread and tiramisu. I was going to pick up a bottle of wine, but decided against it, not wanting to trigger a fresh memory of Saturday by serving alcohol along with my bad news.

  I must make this right, and the best way to start is with a home-cooked meal. If I can get Becky to give me one more chance, I’ll look for a new job tomorrow. I’ll take anything I can find. Then I’ll sort out the headache of this situation with Max Iver. But first things first.

  I’m relieved to see Becky in a good mood when she comes home. Work went well for one of us, at least. I got fired, but she got a raise.

  “Good, we can celebrate,” I say, forcing a smile. “I made dinner.”

  “Oh… honey,” Becky says, staring at the table. “That’s sweet, but I wish you’d have asked. Megan and Lou are taking me out.”

  I look down at the table, already neatly laid with our good dishes, the brimming soup tureen, and the bread board holding a loaf of piping hot bread. Tears well in my eyes and I turn away.

  “Jill.” Becky drops her attaché case on the sofa and walks over. “Don’t cry. Honestly, if I’d known you’d gone to all this trouble, I would have told them another time.” When I turn away and hastily wipe my eyes instead of replying, she walks around to face me. When I catch her expression, I know she sees right through me.

  “You didn’t just cook all this to be nice, did you?” Her mouth is a grim line. “What happened, Jill?”

  I sink down on the sofa.

  “I got fired.”

  “You got fired.” It’s a statement from someone who’s more disgusted than sympathetic. “How, Jill?” She throws her hands up in the air. “You were doing so well. Just last week you were going on and on about that presentation. You said it was a big deal.”

  “It was,” I tell her. “But the client came in today. He hated it. He actually said that, in those words.” I pause before continuing. “I blew my top, Becky, and Brinkman fired me.”

  My roommate sighs heavily and sinks into the chair across from the sofa.

  “Becky,” I begin, ready to plead my case. But she cuts me off.

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, and if her first words are sympathetic, her next are not. “I’m sorry this happened to you again, but I wasn’t kidding yesterday when I told you I’d reached my limit.” She’s businesslike as she drops the next bomb on me. “Megan’s lease is up, and she’s looking to downsize from her apartment. She wants a roommate, Jill, and, honestly, I’m ready for someone who’s not a drunk or a perpetual fuck-up. I’m looking for an adult who will pull her weight, someone I can go out with who I don’t have to chase down and bring home, someone who won’t embarrass me or herself…”

  “Becky, please…”

  “No, Jill. I’m done. Our agreement on this place is up at the end of this month. That’s three days. I need you to get your stuff together and get out.”

  I stand up, extending my hands in a pitiful plea.

  “Becky, no!” I cry. “You’re supposed to be my friend!”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re supposed to be mine. And frankly, Jill, I’m sick of what’s become a pretty one-sided deal. I’m sick of you screwing up, your selfishness. Even this…” She rises and walks over to the table and picks up the bread. “This is nothing more than home-cooked manipulation.” She tosses the bread back onto the board. “I’m ready for an adult roommate, Jill, not a perpetual adolescent. I’m done.”

  “Becky!” I try again, but I’m talking to her back now, and the worst part is that I know everything she says is true. I know she’s past arguing, past excuses, past promises. But still I call after her until she walks to her room and shuts the door. I’m four years old, begging again for someone I care about to care back. And the same feelings of guilt are there, only this time I know I deserve them. I start to cry when I hear her stereo blasting Florence and the Machine, a band we used to go see in happier times. We used to dance to this music. Now she’s using it to drown me out.

  I stand in the hallway outside her door, listening to the bass thump through the walls, feeling helpless. When it becomes apparent that she’s not coming back out, I go back to the kitchen, divide the uneaten soup into Tupperware containers, labeling each one before putting it in the freezer the way my mama taught me. I bag the bread, put the tiramisu in the fridge, blow out the candles, put away the dishes and silverware, and wash the tureen. Then I put on my coat and leave so Becky can come out of her room.

  So now what? The only place I can think to go is down to the lakefront. There’s no one on the beach this time of night. It’s nea
r freezing as I sit down on a bench and pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling through my contacts until I find my mother’s number. I imagine her as she probably is at this moment, sitting in her cracked vinyl Barcalounger, smoking cigarettes she bought with her disability check.

  I imagine packing up my belongings and moving back out to the rural farming community, back to my bedroom in the back of the doublewide Mom rented for us after she lost her job and the house when I was fourteen.

  The idea makes me sick, but I can’t afford an apartment on my own. Even if I could afford the rent, I don’t have enough in the bank for a security deposit.

  Still, what choice do I have? From where I’m sitting, I can see Ingram Tower. I can even make out the top floor, his floor. I think of Max Iver, of his terrifying offer.

  Drop-dead gorgeous millionaires only save borderline alcoholic misfits in movies and romance novels. In real life, things like this don’t happen. There’s always a catch, a hitch, some fine print. He said he’d give me what I need, but what I need is a time machine so I can go back to my shit childhood and find a way to undo whatever I did that made my mother drink, that made my father leave. No one can give me that, not even a millionaire whose charmed life has no resemblance to mine.

  I pull my coat tight around my body as I stare out at the lake. The breeze is raising angry dark breakers that look like jagged teeth. The lake looks as cold and dark as I feel. I pick up my phone and dial my mother.

  “H’lo?”

  I close my eyes and sigh.

  “Mom? It’s me, Jill.”

  “Jill?” she asks, as if trying to place my name. Then she brightens. “Oh, hey, sugar.” She stops and I can hear her take a drag of her cigarette, then exhale the next words along with the smoke. “How are you, baby?”

  “Not good, Mom. I lost my job.”

  “Oh, no. Really? Hold on. Let me turn the TV down.” I hear her recliner creak as she leans forward. Jeopardy is on. I can hear the theme song, which grows fainter. “You mean the job you had in that pretty building you sent me a picture of?”