“Aren’t you going to be hiking at home? You want to go again?”
“Well, it’s not really a hike, more like a nice walk, but don’t knock it till you try it, mister.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Okay. I’ll hike with you. It’ll be fun. Listen, that’s my other line. Have a great time in Wolf. Text me when you get there.”
“Okay, I will. Have a good weekend, Craig.”
Apparently he’s already disconnected because Adele’s voice comes through the speaker as the iPod comes back on.
My car eats up the miles into the Sierras. Through the desert I have to set the cruise control to avoid speed traps. But now that I’m into the mountains, I like to actually drive this part and pay attention to the terrain. Soon enough, my exit appears and then I see the cheesy wooden sign that says WELCOME TO WOLF COUNTY, POP. 4500. The knots in my shoulder muscles automatically ease up a bit. I’m home.
Filled with giddiness and nostalgia, I make my way across the main road through town. The strip is dotted with inexpensive motels and fast-food places that were built when I was a kid. The town hit a boom in the ’90s when tons of fancy houses were built near the slopes, and all these hotels cropped up to satisfy the weekenders. But it’s starting to look a little run-down already.
When I get to the intersection of Main Street and Old Forge Road, I am shocked to see that Terry’s craft store, Crop Till You Drop, is boarded up. I went to school with Terry’s daughter, Jill. It was open when I was here last April. I guess it didn’t survive the off-season this year. That seems to be happening more and more frequently with all of these beloved mom-and-pop shops. The economic downturn has hit Wolf County harder than I’d thought. I make a mental note to call Jill while I am home and check in.
It’s just after noon but I can’t go home yet and ruin the surprise—my mom has no idea I’m even coming—so I decide to pay Brian a quick visit first. I pull off onto Pine Cove Road, a street I know as well as my own. I rode my bike here after school pretty close to every day, until I saved up for my first car—a used Jetta I was ridiculously proud of—and then I drove over pretty much every day. I pull up in front and knock on the door. I hear a dog barking and then what sounds like a stampede. Twin four-year-olds appear at the door, still squabbling over who gets to open it this time.
“It’s my turn, Luke.”
“Ow! Stop it! It was your turn last time!”
“Hi, Luke. Hi, Liam.” I kneel down and hug Brian’s children close. Behind them is Brian’s wife, Lily.
“Maddy, you’re early! I didn’t think we would see you until the party! Come on in.” She pulls both boys off me. I look around the warm, cozy living room that looks as if a cyclone has just passed through.
“Lily, so good to see you.” We hug, and Lily smells like milk and honey. In the TV version of my life, I would surely despise Lily, the woman who scooped up my ex months after we broke up. And there was probably a week or so, ten years ago, that I did. But then I realized (or rather, my brothers didn’t hesitate to spell it out for me) that I left Wolf and Brian. What was he supposed to do—pine away for me for years? Well, okay, that would have been nice for my ego, but the more generous part of me wanted Brian to be happy. And the truth is, Brian had waited for me. We did the long-distance thing for a while, still thinking that I would eventually return and we’d settle back into the life we’d had before. But when I got offered my first major promotion, script supervisor for a network show, we both realized there was no going back for me. To be offered this job, working on a network show? It was a huge opportunity. One I wanted.
“More than you want a life back here?” Brian had asked.
“Yes. More than that,” I admitted. What else could I say? He deserved my honesty. But I knew I had to let him go. Fast-forward ten years, and I am standing in the kitchen he and Lily inherited from his parents, which Lily has given a makeover straight out of Real Simple magazine.
“I love what you’ve done, Lily. The mosaics on the backsplash are amazing.”
“Oh, thanks. I did them all myself,” she tells me as she hands me a bottle of water from the fridge dotted with the twin’s artwork.
Of course she did. Lily does things like make mosaics and apple pies and organic baby food. But she’s so damn sweet, you can’t hate her for it.
“Come on, let’s go out back. Brian has been out here all day working on that damn dirt bike of his,” she says, rolling her eyes affectionately. The first time I heard Lily curse was when I knew she and Brian were going to work out. The sweetness is sincere, but she’s feisty too. “He’s going to be so happy to see you.”
We head to the backyard where the twins run to Brian, screaming, “Daaaadyyyyy” at the top of their lungs. Lily hands him a beer and kisses his forehead. Taking in their easy affection, I look around at the swing set, the trampoline, the white picnic table, and Weber grill perfect for a family of four. It feels like I am stepping into exactly the life I thought I wanted back then, and I feel a quick pang of nostalgia thinking about the road not taken.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Brian comes over, wiping the grease from his hands, right onto his T-shirt. Same old Brian.
“Hi, friend.” We exchange a good squeeze, and somehow I don’t mind that I might end up with motor oil on my T-shirt. Brian immediately starts quizzing me about the drive, work, and my life. I know it’s just a matter of time before he says, “And the men, Maddy? How are they?” with a raised eyebrow. Now that he and Lily have settled in so well to married life and parental bliss, they are both determined for me to find the right guy. It’s sweet, but annoying. I do love telling him the stories of what guys are like in LA. We have laughed until we cried over the ridiculous things that are considered “normal” in Hollywood. But he’s still on me about the men I date and refuses to believe there aren’t any “real” guys in the entire city. Hopefully I can ward off the romantic inquisition until after I have had a few glasses of wine at the party.
“So is your mom going to be surprised?”
“Hopefully. The plan is for Matthew to call her to say his Jeep broke down in front of Pete’s Tavern, and ask if she can come pick him up. When she does, we’ll all be there. You guys are coming, right?” I take in Brian’s greasy shirt, realizing I am not the only one who needs to freshen up soon. Although for Brian, freshening up is trading one concert tee for another. I can’t help but think of Craig’s $125 Burberry T-shirts.
“Of course, we wouldn’t miss it. We can all head over together. I just hope no one saw you pull in here. You know the phone tree would spring to life immediately once someone spotted our local celebrity.”
“Oh right, my celebrity status. Don’t worry, daaahling… I’m still the same old Maddy From the Block,” I say with a Rita Hayworth old-Hollywood lilt. “Anyway, I am glad I got to see you before I face the wolves.” A little local Wolf Humor, but not that far-fetched. Once I’m at the party surrounded by my parents and their friends and everyone who’s been “auntie” or “uncle” to me, I will be deluged with questions about my life and demanded to tell my Hollywood tales.
After many fantastic stories from Luke and Liam about four-year-old life in Wolf, I make my excuses and head out. Mike, Matthew, and I agreed to meet at Pete’s Tavern at 1:00 p.m. to go over everything. Since reception is so spotty up here in the mountains, I know better than to keep them waiting. Sure enough, they are standing on the street waiting for me as I pull up to the coffee shop, and my heart soars at the sight of them—my brothers, loyal, irritating, lovable protectors. Mike envelops me in a bear hug before I can even get out of the car, as if it had been decades since we’d seen each other, rather than a few months. Which, I’ll be honest, I love. My older brother doesn’t express himself a lot, but when he hugs me tight and says, “How ya been, kid?” I know he means “I love you, I missed you, and if anyone is not treating you right, I will kick his/her ass.”
Matthew is next, looking charming and adorable with his long floppy hair. He�
�s just moved back home after a year in China teaching English, followed by two in Portland, bartending and substitute teaching and, “you know, rocking out”—whatever that means. Now he’s back in his old bedroom, strategizing his next step. He loves teaching and is amazing with kids, who worship him and his effortless coolness. He’s waiting to hear if he got a placement at our alma mater Brook Haven High (home of the Wolverines, obviously). It’ll be hysterical that he’ll be working alongside a few of the same teachers who had us way back when.
“Okay, guys, we have to get to it.” I feel myself going into what they call “Maddy mode.” “I never got a final head count for the party. How many people do you think are really going to show up?”
“This is Wolf, Maddy, not some Hollywood gala. Everyone is coming.” Mike is not your sugarcoating type.
“Oh God. I sent out so many e-mails. And the Andersons asked if their cousins could come, which means an extra five people. I said yes without even thinking.”
“We’re going to need a bigger boat,” Matthew deadpans. My parents think I’m bad—Matt is a movie-quoting machine. He was by my side when Hogan started indoctrinating us in TV/film history. No doubt it’s annoying to anyone who doesn’t get it, but we don’t care. We crack each other up. So, I can’t help but laugh at the classic Jaws reference but quickly get him focused on the task at hand. “The party is in less than an hour. Does Pete have the final numbers so we have enough food? Is everything else ready?” My brothers have assured me they could handle all the party details since they were right here, but thirty-plus years of experience makes me a bit skeptical. Reflexively, I reach into the car to grab my notebook.
“Everything is set. But I know you won’t relax until you see for yourself,” Mike says. “Go on in. I’m going to pull your car around back so Mom doesn’t see it.” Matthew and I file into Pete’s Tavern, a dive bar and Wolf County landmark since forever and Carson family favorite since we came of age. Pete Jr., the second-generation owner, is the warm grandfather figure everyone loves. He has the perfect white beard to play Santa in the town Christmas fair every year, although I suspect all the kids know it’s Pete. Mike, Matthew, and I always did, but we were happy to go along with it.
Despite playing warm, jolly old Saint Nick once a year, Pete is a lovable grump, so I am not at all surprised when all I get is a head nod from the other side of the bar. “Maddy, you’re home.”
“Yep, Pete. Thanks so much for having us.” I look around at the rustic setting. It’s like a warm sweater to me, but it’s also not very festive at the moment.
“Would it have killed you guys to get more than a few balloons? Some flowers? Maybe a centerpiece?” I am getting a little exasperated; a party is taking place here in thirty minutes. Dare I ask if they remembered to pick up the cake? I knew I should have demanded they reply to the checklist e-mail I sent with more productive responses than, “There goes anal Maddy” jokes.
“Flowers? Why? No one’s died.” Matthew doesn’t look like he’s kidding. I don’t bother to explain; I just grab my purse and dash out.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to race to Forever Flowers and the grocery store to grab a few bouquets and ribbons. I channel Bernie, our expert set designer, whom I have seen turn a dark and smelly back alley into a Paris café. I feel like Mary Poppins on crack, rushing around the room, assigning tasks to my brothers and Pete. Soon the room exudes birthday cheer just in time for guests to start streaming through the door. Bernie would have been proud.
Within ten minutes, my arms are tired from all the warm embraces of friends and neighbors. Everyone comes in for hugs and how are yous, and I feel like a cross between a visiting dignitary and a shy teenager.
My phone buzzes just as Mr. Tanner is telling me about his niece’s latest baton-twirling recital:
The Eagle Has Landed.
“Shhhh, everyone, she’s here, she’s here!” Everyone manages to stop talking just in time to scream, “SURPRISE!” when my mom walks in.
The look on her face is priceless, and then she locks eyes on me.
“Maddy?? Oh my God, Maddy, what are you doing here? This is too much.” And she’s in tears. Good tears.
“Hi, Mom. Happy birthday!” I give her a Mike-size hug. I love her smile and the way she is touching my cheek with the back of her hand as if to see if I am really there. Meanwhile, my dad jumps in to grab me around the shoulders and pull me in to his chest. I tuck in under his chin and it’s a perfect fit.
“Daddy.” I squeeze him tightly around the middle and then pull back. He’s a big teddy bear; the whole mountain man persona suits him well.
“I can’t believe it all worked out without her figuring out the surprise!” he says with such pride. My parents are sort of notorious in town for not being great secret-keepers. “For weeks, I’ve been so nervous I didn’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.”
Looking at his neatly kept beard, the workman’s shirt, and Wranglers, it’s hard to imagine that he once routinely wore suits to work from nine to five and was working his way up the corporate ladder in accounting for a Fortune 500 company. Then he met my mom. She’s five years older than he is, and he loves dragging out the part about how he had to convince her that the age difference didn’t matter, while Mom rolls her eyes. The romantic story we heard from infancy is that they came up here for a summer getaway, fell in love with the place, and never left. Secretly, I’ve always admired how brave they both were to take such a risk. Clearly, that risk-taking gene is recessive. I had to be pushed out of the nest, and no matter what fantasies I have for my life, deep down I am not the type to willingly take that kind of leap of faith.
My mom is over the moon with the party and being surrounded by all of her favorite people. She backs up his story, claiming she had no idea this surprise party was even happening. I find that hard to believe because my dad has not successfully kept a secret from her, well… ever. But if she’s faking it, she’s doing a great job.
Earl and Louise, my parents’ best friends, immediately step up and hand them champagne glasses.
“To Helen!” Louise sings out. Everyone echoes her and the cheers fill the house. I clink glasses with my parents and my brothers (Mike’s drinking his champagne out of a beer mug) and take a sip.
I wish that Hogan could have been here for this. We had been secretly texting all week as he tried to rearrange some sort of important meeting to make it. But since he couldn’t get out of it, I’m glad I didn’t let my dad know it was even a possibility. I would hate to have gotten his hopes up. They usually only see Hogan in the winter months.
“Mom, Dad, Hogan sends his love. He really wishes he could be here to celebrate.”
“Oh, of course, sweetheart. What fun that would be, but I understand. He has so much going on. He e-mailed me a birthday poem this morning. I swear, that man can write anything.”
“He says you two are overdue for dinner.” Hogan and I get together every few months—stealthily. Hogan doesn’t think it’s a big deal that we are practically family and always reminds me that I earned my success fair and square, but I am still leery of people knowing about our relationship and feeling like there’s any whiff of favoritism. We’ve both just been so busy now that shooting has started that we haven’t found time to get together. And honestly, another reason I haven’t been so eager to book dinner is that I will have to tell him about Craig. Unless Craig already told him—which I doubt, because one whiff and Hogan would’ve been on me like white on rice. I don’t know how Hogan is going to feel about it, but I guess I am going to find out soon enough. For now, I put the thought out of my head so I can focus on the party.
I look up in time to see my dad dipping my mom on the dance floor. They look so young and in love. I know how lucky I am to have these parents, this family, this community. Mom and Dad have each given Matthew, Mike, and me countless pieces of relationship advice over the years and have refrained during any heartbreak my brothers and I experienced, or when
ever we marveled at how they did it when our other friends’ parents were getting divorced. My dad always said, “Remember, honey. A leopard doesn’t change his spots. People are who they are; they don’t change too much. Your mom always loved me for who I was, and I loved her for that.” Or from my mom: “Make sure he loves you just a little bit more than you love him. And surprise him with lingerie at least once a year.” I could have gone without that last tidbit. But as I see my parents dance into the night and as I cry through my father’s moving toast, all I can think is, I’m so glad it’s worked for them. I also try to imagine Craig dipping me on the old parquet dance floor under a moose head strung with Christmas lights, but somehow my brain can’t process an image that includes Craig and a moose head. I text him a picture of the moose:
Me: Bongo says hi from Wolf County.
I laugh out loud when seconds later he texts back.
Craig: Does that thing bite?
Scene 008
Ext. Mountaintop bonfire—dusk
The next night, my brothers and I are at a clambake at Wolf Lake, clinking beer bottles to toast a wonderful surprise party. Matthew can’t stop replaying the iPhone video of Mom blowing out her candles and accidentally blowing a bunch of frosting into Dad’s beard. Tonight is another perfect night, cool and crisp. My legs are a little sore from hiking all day, but a good kind of sore. And once again, I’m surrounded by old friends. I didn’t know who was going to show up, when Molly, a friend from high school who now works as a waitress at Pete’s, sent out the Facebook invite—and the answer was everyone. Or at least everyone who went to Brooke Haven High School between 1998 and 2008. The only difference is, back in the day, we would have had beers and joints (well, me just the one time), and now there’s beer and… kids running around. Brian’s twins are currently having a heated sword fight with two long sticks, and I am hoping that no one loses a cornea tonight. Snuggled together on the other side of the fire, Brian and Lily seem unfazed by their boys’ antics. Actually, Lily seems much more concerned with finding the perfect song on her iPod to play on the Bluetooth speakers they brought. Mike’s best friend, Jacob, claims that he should get to pick since he won the afternoon’s hacky sack game and that that’s always been the rule (a rule no one remembers). Eventually Springsteen fills the air.
Scared Scriptless Page 6