by Liza Palmer
“Ben’s had several books made into movies,” Mom blurts preemptively, before Dad can say it less civilly. Rascal pours himself another glass of wine.
“Oh? Are you a producer?” Avery leans toward Dad, pulling her blouse farther down in front.
“No, sweetie.” Dad gets up and pours himself another Scotch.
“Dad’s a novelist,” Rascal says, sitting back in his chair.
“Like you?” Avery questions. The entire table cringes in unison.
“He wrote The Coward,” Will whispers so only Avery can hear.
She stares at Will, her eyes on fire. “I saw that in high school. It’s based on a book? I didn’t know he was still alive. He wrote that?” She’s built quickly from a whisper to a near-shriek of horror. Will puts his finger over his mouth and tells her to shhhhhh. I allow the tiniest of smiles to crawl across my face. Will winks at me.
“Fuckers ruined it,” Dad blurts, oblivious to Will and Avery’s conversation.
“Oh?” Avery asks coyly, now completely aware of who Dad is. We don’t come to her rescue. We don’t have to. He’s Ben Page. He gets to talk like this. His boorish behavior has gone unchecked for decades. Unchecked by society, unchecked by his publisher, and unchecked even by his own family. The surlier he is, the more profanity he spews, the more enthusiastically Avery will eat up every F-word.
“Put some bullshit Hollywood ending on it,” Dad says. That was actually quite tame. I breathe a small sigh of relief. Will puts his arm around the back of my chair. Rascal sips his wine; his eyes are unfocused and elsewhere.
“You know, in all my years in the biz, I’ve learned that producers really have the project’s best interests at heart,” Avery oozes. There is a collective hunkering down at the table. We’re all in the movie theater, and the lights have dimmed.
“What did you say?” Dad’s voice is quiet and low. It always amazes me how many people offer themselves up for this battery. It’s as if you open up the cage, believing you’ll be the only one the wild animal doesn’t bite.
“I just think that we’re all on the same side here, trying to put out the best movie that we possibly can,” Avery explains, not catching on at all.
Dad zeroes in. “It must be terrifying to have to worry about something as fleeting as your looks when it comes to your career. I mean, you gain five pounds and—” Dad snaps his fingers. Avery looks as though she’s been shot. Dad continues, “That’s it. Back to Podunk.” Dad forks up a roasted potato and takes a bite.
“I was nominated for a Golden Globe last year when I played that poor retarded girl who sang the national anthem at the Super Bowl, and that was not about looks,” Avery yells. I instinctively lean in to Will as we wait for the fireworks to stop. He curls his hand over my shoulder, steadying both of us. I sip my water. Rascal’s face is expressionless. Avery is merely another offering to Dad, like the overzealous fan. They will share in her evisceration.
“Just a Golden Globe?” Dad sighs. Mom straightens her napkin on her lap. Dad cracks that patented award-winning smile. It still sends chills down my spine.
“Ben,” Mom soothes.
“Do you honestly think that a bunch of Nancy boys with eight cell phones and manicured nails can make a better story out of something that’s already perfect? You think they know better about that life? About what it feels like to look over the edge and not know whether or not you’re going to come back this time? How alone that feels? How your entire life has been about this search for something that matters, something that means something, and how maybe it’s easier to just end it all, just put yourself out of your misery?” Dad’s voice gets louder with each word. We all know this monologue by heart. Rascal toyed with the idea of using it to get into acting school at one point.
“No, sir. I didn’t know . . . I just . . .” Avery stutters.
“Of course you didn’t know. You’re not paid to think. You’re paid to eye-fuck an entire audience, and when that ship sails, you’ll go back to being nothing,” Dad says, swirling the Scotch around in his glass and going for the jugular.
“I’m starting my own production company . . . I’m looking for projects on my own . . .” Avery is rambling wildly.
“You go ahead and do that. And when you find the first wrinkle you can’t Botox away, then why don’t you preach to me how empowered you feel,” Dad says.
“How do you like the ahi?” Mom blurts to Rascal, trying valiantly to interrupt the flow of Dad’s rant.
“Fuckers ruined it,” Rascal answers. Dad barks out a laugh and beams at Rascal. Avery titters nervously and excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Will and I look at each other. We have the same unspoken conversation we’ve been having all of our lives across a series of dinners that have ended in fireworks. Ours are not unlike the expressions on the faces of two people who just survived a car accident. As the smoke billows from under the hood, you look to each other to see if you’ve made it through in one piece.
Mom finally sips her wine. All is back to normal. Whatever that is. Rascal looks down at his plate. Dad grabs the now-empty decanter and walks into the kitchen, past Iris and Robert. He never asks either of them to do anything for him. It’s his one small act of rebellion against the Foster Family Fortune. Rascal watches Dad exit the room. It’s as if we’re all left to stomp out the glowing embers of the bonfire that Dad absentmindedly started.
Dinner wears on. Avery has been in the bathroom for some time now, and Will jokes about sending in a search party. I joke that maybe we should send in a plumber and an eating-disorder specialist. Mom scolds me, saying that my joke is in poor taste. I’m tempted to make another joke about vomit being the true culprit of poor taste, but I hold my tongue.
“Weren’t you going to make us that famous dessert of yours?” Mom says. She’s getting a little tipsy. We’ve all been hitting the bottle a little hard to get through tonight’s three-ring circus.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to, Mom. But if you want, I can go plate up the berry crumble you have in the kitchen. Is it raspberry?” I ask.
“Mixed. It’s mixed berry,” Mom says, swaying slightly in her chair.
“Mom, that’s enough,” Rascal says, leaning across and sliding Mom’s wineglass out of her reach. She hardly notices. Will is trying to blend in with the scenery as much as possible. It’s a holdover from his childhood. The less of a problem he was, the longer he got to stay at our house. I imagine that’s a hard habit to break. As are others.
I put my napkin on the table and walk toward the kitchen, in search of a mixed-berry crumble and sanctuary. I push open the door and find my father leaning in to an obviously smitten Avery. He has a twirl of her chocolate hair in his long fingers, and she’s giggling quietly with her head tilted slightly down. I can’t move. Avery pulls away from Dad and clears her throat. Dad looks at me over his shoulder and straightens up. The strand of Avery’s flawlessly dyed hair falls from his fingers.
Flash.
This is one of those snapshots that will definitely land in the eternal slide show that runs in my mind. Specific scenes replayed and replayed right before I fall asleep or whenever my mind is idle. Good and bad events burned behind my eyes. This one will definitely live on forever in the pantheon.
“What’s going on in here, Pop?” I keep my voice low, out of some horribly misplaced sense of protectiveness for my dad. Avery starts acting like she’s trying to find something in one of the kitchen drawers. Way to commit to a scene, Avery. Working with props and everything.
“Ben was just—I mean, your dad—Well . . .” Avery has pulled a rubber spatula from a drawer. She’s holding it up with a triumphant “aha” expression.
“We were just talking Hollywood stuff, Bink,” Dad says.
“Then why aren’t you throttling her?” I joke. Avery laughs nervously. I see a bit of spittle land on my dad’s cheek.
I feel sick to my stomach. This is wrong on so many levels. So wrong. But . . . Rascal and I always used to talk. You don’t h
ang out with fucking Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson because you hold monogamy sacred. Dad was a legend in his time, and adding to his celebrity were stories of the long lines of women he’d seduced. I guess I thought all that was somehow in the past. Dad’s pushing sixty now, no longer the kid from the wrong side of the tracks trying to conquer the world one doe-eyed starlet at a time. I thought it was ancient history. I certainly didn’t think he would pull this shit in the goddamn kitchen with Mom just a few feet away. I also never realized that seeing it in person—as opposed to harboring vague suspicions or reading about it in yellowing magazine articles—would be this devastating.
“I’d better get back out there,” Avery says, walking across the kitchen with the rubber spatula. At the kitchen door, she turns to me. “Can you, um, not mention this to your brother?” Her syrupy-sweet perfume wafts over me.
“You know, you really mustn’t mumble, Crystal.” I don’t even bother to look at her. She slinks past me and out into the dining room. I hear the door open and close behind me.
Dad reaches up into the liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Macallan Scotch, 1949. Must be some night—that vintage runs into the thousands. He takes out an old-fashioned glass from another cabinet. He pours. He drinks. He pours again and turns to walk out of the kitchen, leaving the empty decanter behind and choosing to just go with the bottle. I’m still standing in the doorway.
“Nothing happened, Bink,” Dad says, his voice loose and grumbly. I close my eyes, and the copperplate of an image burns behind my eyelids. He’s right; there was no kissing. It’s not like she was straddling him or anything. But Jesus, it was far from nothing.
“I just came in to get the mixed-berry crumble,” I explain. He’s standing so close I can smell him. He still smells the same: like a forest with a hint of pipe smoke.
“Good thing it wasn’t your brother. Would have landed in his next book for sure,” Dad jokes. He ruffles my hair and pushes open the door.
Chapter Seven
I open the cabinet and take out six of Mom’s dessert plates. The routine of the kitchen is the only thing that can calm me again. Iris comes into the kitchen, asking if she can help me with anything. No doubt I’ve taken too long. I would apologize or try to explain, but I don’t think Hallmark makes a card for walking in on your father wooing your brother’s lollipophead. Iris opens the big Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulls out a beautiful mixed-berry crumble. She sets it on the counter, and I begin plating the dessert.
“Thanks,” I say, a little too intensely.
“It’s good having you kids home,” Iris says as she takes the first two plates into the dining room. Robert comes in and takes out two more plates. I take the last two. I back out of the kitchen and turn around just as Robert is setting the plates in front of Rascal and a very twitchy Avery. The plates I have are for Will and me. Iris and Robert are trained to serve in order of importance. Good to know where I stand.
“Are you working in our kitchen now?” Dad says, laughing, as I put a plate in front of Will. Are you still cheating on Mom? I want to scream. At almost sixty? With this useless piece of shit? I stare at Rascal. Does he know?
“Thanks,” Will whispers, almost in my ear.
The image of Dad in the kitchen with Avery doing “nothing” is playing on a loop inside my head. Rascal hasn’t looked at Avery since she sat back down. Does Mom know? Has she done the same math that Rascal and I have? Does she think it’s all in the past as well, or is this something she just lives with? I take the napkin from my lap and lay it carefully beside my plate. I take a long drink of my wine and set the glass back on the table. Just sit. Stay quiet.
But I can’t. “Excuse me.” I push my chair back from the table and head for the deck outside the dining room. I hate myself for being so weak, so emotional. I knew this information. I knew Dad was a womanizer. But God—seeing it. Seeing him. Seeing them. Will stands and follows me out onto the deck. Mom takes this opportunity to ask if anyone wants the mixed-berry crumble à la mode. Rascal mumbles yes. Avery pushes the plate of calories as far away from her as possible, ensuring that her career will last for at least a few more moments.
“You okay?” Will asks.
“No,” I whisper, plotting out the fastest route to the farthest mountaintop. Will puts his arm around me.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says. He tilts his head and looks right into my eyes.
“Can I stay with you tonight?” I ask, moving away enough so that Will’s arm falls away. I catch a blur of Avery in the dining room. She’s sitting back in her chair and signaling to Iris to take her untouched plate.
“Absolutely,” Will says, pulling me back to him. I breathe in deeply, trying to calm my stomach.
“I walked in on my dad and Avery,” I whisper. Will doesn’t move. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I add.
“Okaaaay,” he says. We’re both rocking back and forth. “Let’s go back to my place.” Rascal ambles out onto the deck, carrying a cup of coffee.
“Dad just said I look like Ted Neeley from Jesus Christ Superstar,” Rascal announces.
“Not even close. You’re more Paul McCartney, you know in that one photo, the one where he’s got the baby in his coat,” I say, trying to sound light and unaffected.
“The baby? I believe it’s actually his child, Elisabeth,” Rascal corrects.
“Well, yeah, I knew that,” I say.
“That’s a great shot,” Will absently adds. An awkward silence falls.
“You let me know when you’re ready to go,” Will says to me. He smiles at Rascal and then walks back into the dining room. I straighten myself up.
“Bit overly dramatic, don’t you think?” Rascal says, eyeing Will.
“So, how into Avery are you?” I say.
“Why? Are you soliciting new members for your book club?” Rascal toys.
“Will you be serious?” I plead.
“Oh, let me guess. Avery doesn’t know who Dad is; Dad gets pissed. Avery excuses herself for the world’s longest trip to the bathroom and is soon joined by the world-famous author, who has to prove how memorable and relevant he is. Jesus, Bink, I couldn’t even write that into a novel. People would think it was too predictable.” Rascal leans on the banister overlooking the grounds.
“It’s not as if Avery is some big loss, for the love of God,” I say.
“It’s not about goddamn Avery,” Rascal says, his voice a low growl.
“No, I guess it’s not,” I say, backing down. I decide not to ask Rascal why every woman he “dates” has the IQ of a cotton swab, or point out that had he brought someone halfway intelligent, she probably would have acted quite differently in the kitchen. Maybe—maybe I just hope she would. I think about the fan in the bookstore, an offering. A trapped mouse. Another way Dad and Rascal compete.
“You better fucking believe it’s not,” Rascal says, straightening up.
“You’ve walked in on him before?” I ask, prodding a little.
“Yep,” Rascal spits out. The statement hangs in the crisp air between us. Rascal looks over at me, and for a second, he lets me in on the pain he vigilantly keeps from everyone else. The weight of it smothers me. He continues, “And Avery and I just met, so, really one common denominator in this little equation.” His head dips. There is a darkness to him right now that scares me. I break our eye contact and look into the dining room. Rascal slowly leans back over the banister. Once again he’s a million miles away.
“Are you at least going to tell them your option was picked up for the book?” I ask, trying to get back on solid ground.
“Are you kidding? On the same day we were treated to the legendary ‘bunch of Nancy boys with eight cell phones and manicured nails’ monologue? No way.” Rascal imitates Dad’s voice to a T. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, not missing a beat.
“I can’t believe her name is Crystal,” I say quietly, finding a napkin on the teak patio table and wiping my nose. It’s freezing out here.
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�Are you going back to L.A.? Do you want to stay out in the guesthouse with me?” Rascal takes the napkin away from me and puts it in his now empty coffee mug.
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m going to stay at Will’s tonight. At least I won’t have to sleep in the goddamn Crow’s Nest.”
“I thought sleepovers were only reserved for girlfriends—or don’t adults use the word ‘girlfriend’ these days?” Rascal lets that hang in the air awhile. He continues, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a gal named Crystal to break up with.” He squeezes my shoulder as he walks past me. The briefest of jolts passes between us, connecting us in whatever this night has revealed. Best not to talk any more about it. We’d have to actually admit that Dad was . . . well, that Dad is the common denominator that connects us and everything that we question about ourselves.
I follow Rascal inside and sit down next to Will at the table. He lays his arm on the back of my chair as I settle in. Dad is eating his crumble. Apparently, he didn’t want it à la mode. Avery keeps blathering on about the weather and how it’s so much cooler up here than it is in Los Angeles.
“I’m going to stay at Will’s tonight,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. I nervously get back up to pour myself a cup of tea from the sideboard.
“Why wouldn’t you stay here, for crissakes?” Dad says.
“Yes, darling, why not stay here? Breakfast is going to be early. Two seatings would be inconvenient for Iris and Robert,” Mom says, slurring her words slightly.
“We’ve talked about this before. The Crow’s Nest, Port Side, feels a little claustrophobic. That’s all,” I say. It’s ideal weather for a cup of tea and the confrontation I should have had with my parents years ago.
“It’s the same room you’ve stayed in your whole life, Elisabeth. All of a sudden it’s claustrophobic? Aren’t you being a tad dramatic?” Mom demands. Rascal pushes the now-melted ice cream and crumble around his plate. Will sets down his fork and seems startled by the loud sound it makes. Dad breaks the smallest of smiles.
“Come on, Ballard . . . Mr. Page. I’d like Elisabeth to come and stay with me. I’ll have her back in time for breakfast, I promise.” His voice is velvety, with just the right hint of self-conscious awkwardness. Mom smiles broadly as Will finishes. Avery smiles at Will and flutters her eyelashes.