by BJ Knapp
“I’m just going to go and get the measurements,” Antonio says and bolts through the door, closing it behind him. Great. She’s certainly not going to hold anything back, now that her fancy interior-decorator monkey isn’t present.
I frantically grab the hose behind the azalea bush near the front door and turn the water on full blast. “Portia. My God, I am so sorry,” I sputter. I spray down the side of her car. Then I get another idea and start a jog toward the garage. I can probably wash her car really quick and still have time to get changed and get to work.
“TIMOTHY,” Portia screams at the top of her lungs. “TIMOTHY, COME DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!” Of course, Tim left early this morning: a breakfast meeting with Aria about the script for his radio ads.
I drop the hose and sprint back to her side. “He’s not here, Portia,” I tell her, trying to muster up as soothing a tone as possible.
“Do not speak to me as if I am a doddering old woman. I have never before witnessed such animal-like behavior. Who are these friends of yours, Brenda?”
“Portia, I am completely horrified at Keith’s behavior. Please accept my apology.” It’s inadequate, but there really isn’t anything else I can say at this point.
“Your friend will hear from my attorney,” she sputters. “My Birkin will be replaced, and my car will be professionally detailed.” She heads toward the house then turns to me. “You and your friend have humiliated me in front of Antonio Diego. I am disgusted with how you live.”
I have had it with this woman; I can’t hold back anymore. I am trying, but it’s not working. I muster up the politest tone I can again, though I am furious. Who does she think she is? “Portia, this is my home. If you don’t like how I live, then maybe you should call before you come over.”
Her face turns roughly six shades redder. “Before you came along, Timothy didn’t mind if I came over.”
“That may be true, but I do mind. I would never dream of showing up at your place unannounced. It’s rude. And despite what you may think, I have manners.” I turn on my heel and head into the house in front of her, leaving her on the front walk. A leak in the hose lightly sprays the back of her skirt, but I don’t bother to tell her about it. As I enter the house, Antonio is exiting. I can tell he’s heard the whole exchange, and he flashes me a slight sympathetic smile.
“Let’s go, Antonio,” she mutters. She scurries to her car and pulls the microfiber cloth from her purse. She holds it over her side of the car, trying to decide how to wipe away the filth. Instead, she covers her hand with it before opening her car door. I watch from my doorway as she locks the car door and pulls her gigantic designer sunglasses onto her gaunt face. She backs out of the driveway, and I hear her rev the engine as she pulls out and speeds away.
I should head her off at the pass and call Tim before he gets back to the shop, but I am sure she’s already begun calling him, repeatedly, until he answers his phone. I don’t think I’d even get through. Once it’s safe to go back outside, I coil up the hose and hang it back onto the wrought iron hanger behind the bush. When I walk back into the house, I see Toni is standing there with her mouth hanging open. Obviously, she has no idea what to say, either.
I shrug and walk past her, up the stairs so I can get changed and head to work. This is definitely one of those situations where I am glad that my mother-in-law prefers to talk only to my husband and not to me. Maybe I’m a coward, but I’ll let him deal with his mother’s wrath. But boy, did it feel good to tell her what I think for a change.
Chapter 17
“HEY,” I SAY, LOOKING UP from the kitchen table as Tim walks in the back door after work. He sets his jaw, walks past me, and doesn’t answer. I’m sure his mom has been chewing his ear off all day. “Listen, about this morning...”
“Can we not, please?” He turns and holds his hands up in front of me. “I am pretty tired of talking about this morning.” In a way, I am kind of thankful. What can I possibly have to say that would ease his tension?
He walks to the front room and gazes for a few moments out the front window; I know he’s looking at the fan camp. I also know that his patience is wearing thin. “I knew this would be a mistake,” he mutters to himself. “I fucking knew it.”
“Tim...”
“Just leave me alone. Please.” This is awkward. On one hand, I should just give Tim his space. But on the other hand, I know that if I give him too much space, he’ll get distant. Once distance is acquired, our marriage will slowly disintegrate. I am not sure what to do here. And I really wish I could talk to someone about this. But how can I possibly explain Hydra’s presence in our house?
Tim grinds his jaw as he stares out the window.
Even though Erik had corralled the fans, they are growing in number. Just the other day, they came in with signs they’d made. They hold them up now whenever the band’s minivans come or go. I try not to look over there, because I don’t want to encourage them. But one of the signs reads, Ben, I’ll be your downward dog. Gross. They barbeque on camp stoves, play Frisbee, and act like every day is a Saturday at the park. One of them has a camera with a really long zoom lens. He’s not there every day, and he doesn’t seem to participate with the others. I wonder what he’s taking pictures of. I am afraid to find out.
“I kind of feel like a prisoner in my house lately,” Tim says to me, sighing. So, does he want to talk to me or not? I thought I was supposed to be leaving him alone. Just then, the back door bursts open, and hungry band members and entourage flood in. Toni pulls out foil pans that Angela has warming in the oven.
“Stuffed cabbage,” she says, pulling the foil off the top of the pans. “Salad’s in the fridge. Would you grab it, Jeff?” Jeff pulls a gigantic bowl of salad out of the fridge and sets it on the island. Someone from the crew grabs a stack of plates from the cabinet, and soon band members and crew are lining up to fill their plates. Tim and I manage to score a helping for ourselves, as well. But when we look around for a place to sit, there’s no room at the dining room table or the kitchen table. It seems every seat in the house is filled. I shrug at Tim and gesture toward the back door.
I grab a blanket and spread it out on the deck. “Let’s make it a picnic. We never do things like this.” I’m trying to get Tim to relax and, maybe, start talking to me again. He sits across from me, but from the look on his face, I can tell he’s not amused. The deck furniture had been taken inside to accommodate Hydra’s crew, so we sit cross-legged and balance our plates on our laps. I swat a mosquito. Then I light a citronella candle and place it on the deck between us. The sun hasn’t set yet, but maybe I can turn this into a romantic setting and change his mood.
“My mom called me, like, ten times today,” he says. “She’s very upset. What the hell happened this morning? What did you say to her?”
“Well, she shows up this morning. Keith was passed out on the divan, and she freaked the fuck out on him.”
“Okay, I got that,” he says. “But why did you tell her she was rude?”
“What?” I set my plate aside and sit up straighter. “I didn’t call her rude. I told her that showing up here unannounced was rude.”
“So, basically, you told her she was being rude? Brenda, she’s redecorating our house. She’s hired the best in the industry. How can you call her rude?”
“Tim, who the hell asked her to hire Antonio Diego to redecorate our house? I know I didn’t. Did you? Why does she think she can just show up here any time with swatches and start changing our house? She doesn’t even live here. Don’t I ever get a say?”
“We’ve been over this, and I thought you agreed. My mom is really lonely since Dad died. Redoing our house gives her something to do.”
“Well, I am over it, Tim. I am over tiptoeing around her. She needs to get a life of her own. I can’t have her walking in here whenever she pleases. It is rude of her to do that. And what if I don’t want her snooty furniture? Do we live in a home or a museum?”
Tim doesn’t respond
. How can he possibly think that his relationship with his mother is healthy? At what point will he put me first on this subject? Will I spend our entire marriage taking a back seat to his mom? We hear the band shouting and laughing from inside. They cheer over something we didn’t hear. One of the crewmembers opens the back door and tosses an empty beer bottle into the recycling bin.
“I could ask you the same thing, Brenda.” He gestures toward the house. “Do we live in a home or on a tour bus? With the amount of beer these people drink, the garbage men are going to think we’re alcoholics. Hell, Mitch Goldstein could just take a picture of our bin on trash day and use that in an ad. I can just see it—‘Take a look at Tim Dunkirk’s habits. Do you want a drunk in the state Senate? Vote Goldstein, the sober choice.’”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a state Senate candidate run an ad like that,” I point out. “Besides, beer isn’t illegal, Tim. You could turn it to your advantage and talk about how recycling creates jobs. And you could also say that Mitch Goldstein has nothing better to do but snoop in the garbage.” But I know he’s still worried about how the state of our home life looks right now. All it takes is one “Tim Dunkirk can’t control his house guests—do you think he can control the state Senate? Vote Mitch Goldstein and get a man who’s in control” ad to derail Tim’s progress in the polls. He’s making waves with his campaign, lately. As much as I don’t like Aria, I have to admit that she’s getting him some amazing exposure. He’s done a debate with Mitch Goldstein on NPR’s Political 360, and he had ol’ Mitch scrambling for rebuttals a few times.
But my fear isn’t just Hydra derailing Tim in the polls; I just couldn’t live with the idea that I was the one to derail his dream. Running for office is something he’s wanted to do since we met. He always talks about what he’d do differently, and he has great ideas for making Rhode Island a friendlier state for small businesses. He wants the state to pay more attention to hiring Rhode Island-based companies for state contracts, for example. I really hope he gets his chance to be voted in and implement some of those ideas. I honestly believe Tim could change the world—or, at least, our little part of it.
He picks apart his stuffed cabbage; I can tell he’s done with our conversation. So now what? He’s pissed at me about so many things—his mom, the band. And right now, it feels impossible to get back into his good graces. I don’t even feel like trying anymore, at this moment. And I know that this feeling is what sends couples to divorce. But right now, I just can’t deal with his mood. Where is the Tim who used to say he loved me, even when he was mad at me?
I spot Keith through the kitchen window. He stops and looks at me; instinctively, I sit a bit straighter. Keith rubs his eyes and makes his way toward the dining room. Tim watches me as my eyes follow Keith through the window.
“Look at you—you’re like a lost puppy over him,” he says.
“I am not.”
“If you weren’t married, you’d be all over him.”
“Well, I am married. So I have no need to be all over him.”
“So, how much longer are they going to be here? It’s been, what, three weeks? Four weeks? I’ve lost count.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. I watch Keith stare out the kitchen window at something behind me. I don’t think he’s looking at Tim and me; it’s more like he’s looking through us. He has his plate in his hand, but he’s not eating. I wonder why he isn’t participating in the conversation. His eyes are far off. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s hashing out some lyrics? Thinking about his family? Maybe the pressure of this album is getting to him, and he’s getting tired?
He never seems to participate when the rest of the band and crew are doing something together. Isn’t the whole point of all of them living here to get them to bond? I wish I could tell him that this behavior is precisely why the American audience has moved on from him, regardless of how talented he is. This, right here, is why he’s often called “unapproachable” on social media. If only I could record his behavior and play it back to him, then he could see what he looks like and change his ways.
“Bren,” Tim says, breaking my train of thought. “As much as I love you in that tank top, I don’t think you should wear it anymore while the band’s here. It’s a bit revealing, don’t you think?” I look down. He’s right: my shirt did slip down a bit in the front when I straightened my back. “He was just looking at you through the window like you’re a piece of meat.”
“No, he wasn’t” I say, brushing him off. “Stop it.”
“Oh, my God, Bren. He so was! You are so blinded by these people. I don’t get it. We can’t even eat in our own house anymore, and we have freaks camped out on the front lawn. I am so fucking sick of this.” He stands and takes his plate in through the back door. Ben is loading the dishwasher; Tim plunks his plate in, too, but doesn’t say a word. I am so over this mood of his. Why do I need to deal with his bullshit? I get it: he’s frustrated. But does it always have to be such a nightmare to live with him when we have guests?
“Full service rock star, eh?” I joke, as I hand Ben my plate.
Tim wanders off to the living room and picks up his laptop for his meeting with Aria on Skype. Aria, Aria, Aria. A couple of minutes later, I can hear him laughing at something she’s said. He saves all his lively conversation for her and none of it for me. I know she knows about Hydra, but does she know about the freaks on the front lawn? Tim’s done a great job of keeping her out of the house the last few weeks. They’ve been meeting at the shop or on Skype. I know that Hydra’s timing isn’t the best for him—which is probably why he is so annoyed with them. But there’s never a good time for a disruption to Tim’s life, of any kind. I stand in the doorway of the living room and watch him as he starts his meeting. He rifles through his backpack and pulls out a few file folders.
Tim doesn’t look up at me; he’s already engrossed in his conversation. I leave my perch in the doorway and head back into the kitchen, where Ben and Jeff are washing the rest of the dishes by hand. I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“What, you thought we didn’t wash dishes?” Jeff asks. “What do you think we do in our own homes?”
“I just assumed you guys had butlers and staff,” I say, laughing.
“A butler? Rock drummers don’t have butlers.” Jeff smiles. “We have topless women cleaning our homes.”
“Perhaps you could suggest it to Angela, so you’ll feel more at home,” I say.
“No way,” Ben says. “I am terrified of that woman.” We all laugh until Keith comes into the kitchen, and then we grow quiet. I’ve noticed that Keith has that effect on the rest of the band. I don’t know if it’s because he’s really the serious-minded one of the bunch or because nobody really knows what to say around him. Either way, it’s weird. These are the people he’s been around for his entire adult life, and he seems like a stranger to them. It’s fascinating and odd, all at the same time.
“Am I interrupting? Well, don’t stop on my account.” He’s obviously offended that we didn’t include him, and I feel a little bad. He looks at me. “Brenda, may I speak to you?” He gestures out the back door to the deck. I throw a curious glance at Ben; he only shrugs. I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and follow Keith out the backdoor. I look back at Tim, but he is so locked in to his computer screen that he doesn’t notice us going outside. I’ll just go out for a minute and talk to Keith; it’s probably no big deal. Maybe he has rock-star demands for more creature comforts. Still, I feel a bit funny being alone with Keith, especially in light of Tim’s mood tonight.
I wait as Keith watches a hummingbird drink from one of Tim’s feeders. He runs his hands through his wavy hair and tucks it behind his ears. “They are such beautiful creatures,” he says before turning to face me. Really? We’re out here to talk about the birds? I resist the urge to look back at Tim through the window and try to be patient. “Brenda, I heard you talking about my lyrics a week ago, and I think you’re spot on with what you said. I app
reciate your honesty and would like to impose on it one more time.”
“Sure,” I say cautiously. Usually when people ask for honesty, they really don’t mean it. I wonder if this is a moment where I am supposed to be an adoring fan, or if I am really supposed to be honest.
“What do you think of me?” he asks.
Oh, boy. What a loaded question. Is he going to next ask me if he looks fat? “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what is your impression of me as a person?”
“Why do you want to know?” I figure this is a good question to ask; I can formulate a more tactful response if I know why he’s asking me.
“According to market research, I am distant and unapproachable. A cold fish.”
I pause to collect my thoughts. He’s not completely clueless, apparently. He’s probably read the nasty things that people have been saying about him online, and I’m sure it’s hurt his feelings on some level. But to get that report in a formal market research study? Ouch! Poor guy. No wonder he mopes around the house all the time. Anyone would, right?
I wonder what else the market research has said about him. I wish I could see it all and formulate a more thoughtful response. I need to stop thinking like a publicist, though, and start thinking like a friend. I really don’t know what he expects out of this conversation. Yeah, I suppose I could go all the way and tell him exactly what I think. I look over my shoulder; Tim’s still in his meeting. How much time do I have?
When I imagined giving the band my opinion, I never thought I’d be telling Keith what I honestly thought of him. But he did open the door, right?
“Why are you asking me now? Is it because of what I said that day? I’m sorry if I was insensitive,” I blurt out. Now I’m not sure where I’m taking this conversation. I hate talking when I feel unprepared. The last thing I want to do is hurt this man’s feelings after all he’s been through.