“You are the last person I expected to run into here,” he said. “What a surprise.”
“Yeah, I was out walking, ended up down here. I’m just taking a break.”
“May I?” he said.
“Sure.”
Mike smiled and sat down next to me. I could feel the heat of his body through my jacket.The iciness I felt thawed. I looked down. “Nice view,” he said, looking out at the Statue of Liberty.
I watched the passengers disembark from the ferry that had docked moments ago.“Yeah, the ferries just come and go. I mean, that is what they are supposed to do, right?” I didn’t need the Committee to remark on the stupidity of that comment.
“Right,” he said warmly.“So, how’s it going? Been able to get them talking again?” He pointed at my head.
“What are you talking about?” My heart pounded in my chest.
“Your friends. Holly, I know your secret.”
My surroundings blurred. “How?” I forced the word up and out of my throat.
“I’m observant.” Then, turning back to the water, he said, “That, and I have a cousin with the same setup, as it were. He’s also fully functional.”
The award ceremony video flashed in my mind. It worked much better than squeezing my toes to bring my errant spirit back into my body. “Are you sure? I bet there isn’t a video, with a million hits, of him knocking himself out at the Emmys,” I said sullenly.
“I’m really sorry about the show, Holly. You can’t imagine the position I was in.” I realized it had never occurred to me that auditioning my replacement might have posed a real dilemma for him. “Forgive me?” said Mike.
I had no reason to, and it was completely out of character for me, but I did forgive him; and, for the first time in my life, I spilled the whole story about the Committee, including their departure after the Emmy awards and group therapy, to someone other than a trained professional or a family member who had to love me no matter what. He was still sitting there when I finished. And, while I spoke, we exchanged eleven flirtatious glances and had two accidental brushes of the hand. Not that I was counting.
“So, you see them twice a week for an hour?” he said.
“Yeah, I’m trying to get back to the way things were. I’m trying to get my life back.”
“Have you thought about moving forward instead?”
“You sound like my sister and my shrink.” The tone of my voice was like a warning growl.
Mike nodded, and I reveled in the experience of having someone besides family or a paid professional read my thoughts. It was like driving a car for the first time. Odd but thrilling.
“While you’re working on that, how are you fixed for money?” said Mike.
“Not well.” I had just told him about my Committee and twice-weekly psychoanalytic sessions; how could financial ruin be any more embarrassing? He had to know that all my commercials were canceled and the royalty checks had dried up. Nobody wanted a voice of scandal behind their product.
“Well, I can get you some work if you’re up for it.”
“Really?” I said, surprised.
“It’s not what you’re used to, but you can do it, no problem.”
“What is it?”
He hesitated, then said,“Doing the recording for a company phone system.” Now I felt like a car stalled in the middle of a busy intersection, and all I wanted to do was get out and leave it there.
“You want me to do phone work? Me? The voice that used to be your star? The voice that people used to request for commercials and movies? You want me to be on some company’s phone system?”
“I know it’s not glamorous—”
“You bet it’s not glamorous,” I snapped.“I guess this is all you think I’m good for?”
“Holly.” He covered my hand with his. I wrenched it away.
“You have your ratings without the crazy lady with voices in her head. Or, in this case, without the voices. Either way, good to go for phone work.”
“Holly, I was just trying to help,” said Mike.
Where had I heard that before? “Yeah, well, where’s your blonde girlfriend?” I said.
“Huh?” said Mike. I shook my head.“Take the number anyway,” he said, pulling out a pen and a business card. He wrote a number on the back and handed it to me.
I looked at it. Looked at him and said,“Thanks.Thanks a lot. I appreciate knowing what you think of my talents.”
“Holly,” he said, shaking his head.
I stood up.
“I thought you needed—”
“See ya!” I said, turning and stalking off.
“Holly!” he called after me.
This is what happens when you think a perfect stranger can read your thoughts. I kept walking.
DECLINED. I waited for the sirens to start and the A & P grocery security guards to come and escort me away.
The cashier snapped her gum and said, “Declined.” The people behind me groaned collectively. Holiday cheer and patience were definitely not in play in the supermarket. They probably wanted to send me to Guantánamo.
“I see that. Hang on,” I said, mortified. I didn’t know what to do; that was my last credit card. Now my options were either skulk out in shame or try the emergency card. I had been using it a lot too, so the chances were my meager purchases of milk, coffee, cigarettes, and cat food were not going to make it. “Try this.” I surrendered the emergency credit card.
I held my breath.The screen read, PROCESSING. We all watched. APPROVED appeared, and the cash drawer sprang open. I signed the charge slip, grabbed my bag, and left vowing never to return.And this was one place where I could make good on that promise.
When I got home, my cats were at the door to greet me. They must have sensed their last meals coming down the street. I didn’t have the means to keep them in Fancy Feast much longer. They tripped me as I tried to get into the kitchen. I normally didn’t give them canned food at night, but I figured,Why not? At our rate of decline, they might be reduced to catching their dinner by the weekend.
As I scooped the food into their bowls, I thought of the number Mike had given me the other day. Resentment burned a hole in my stomach. I called my bank to check my balance. Negative three hundred sixty-six and change. The gall flipped over into panic.
I picked up the phone and dialed. A woman answered. I told her who I was and said I had gotten her name from Mike Davey.
“I can’t believe we’re going to have a celebrity do our phone system.You must really owe Mike a favor.”
What a laugh. “Yeah. So, when would you like me to do this?”
We made arrangements for the week after the holidays.The pay would be enough to tide me over with a small loan from Sarah. And she said there would be more work if I was interested.
I called Sarah. She said no problem with the loan. I closed the blinds on my windows and sat in my dark apartment.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Is this Holly Miller?”
“That depends,” I said.
“This is Bill Rhode,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Who?” I said.
“Neil’s father.”
“Oh.” Pam had warned me that I might get a call from a parent. This must be the one. He’d called Pam in a huff about my Jesus disparagement. She thought she’d smoothed it over. And enough time had passed that I had thought she did too. Apparently not. I wonder if he’d believe me if I said, “Wrong number.”
“Is this Holly Miller?” he said again.
I may as well light a cigarette and listen. “Yes, it is,” I said.
“Ms. Miller,” said Mr. Rhode. Who does he think he’s talking to, my mother? “I understand you contradicted my son when he said Aslan was Jesus.”
“Contradicted? No, I didn’t agree,” I said.
“Yes, well, the thing is, my son thinks very highly of you, and I’m thrilled to see him so engaged.That said, faith is important to us.
My son and I spoke about your remarks. He told me he thought you dismissed the idea that Jesus is Aslan because you’re lost.”
Out of the mouth of a child, I thought. “Well, he’s certainly right on that front,” I said.
“And this is why you direct so much anger at the idea of Aslan as Jesus?” said Mr. Rhode.
Why does he care? “Trust me, God, Jesus, or whatever you want to call him, and I parted ways many years ago and continued in opposite directions. I’ve long since gotten over my anger.”
“Do you really believe that?” he said.
“What? The opposite directions or the anger?” Come on, Holly. I sighed. “I’m sorry to be so terse, Mr. Rhode. It’s just that I’ve been having a bad time on and off for most of my life. Right now the bad times are on. And, frankly, God’s certainly never done much to help me.”
“And you’ve asked for help?”
“Asked and been ignored enough times to stop believing in God,” I said.
“Well, if you are looking for God to solve your problems, then I’d like to suggest a different approach. A paradigm shift expanded to human experiences, if you would.” This had to be the weirdest conversation I’d ever had, but his reference to science made it hard for me to dismiss him as I had his son.
“Okay,” I said, “continue.”
“Rather than viewing God as the solution to anything, try having faith that there is something larger at work on all our behalf.Those who have faith generally find comfort, and it’s that comfort that helps them do amazing things. My son’s esteem for you makes me think that you must believe in something. Call it whatever you like,” said Mr. Rhode.
Even though he reverted back to a more existential argument, I engaged, and we debated the meaning of faith and the idea of a belief in God for twenty minutes.
Finally I said,“I still don’t buy most of what you’re saying, but you’ve made your point, and I promise to be more respectful of your son’s beliefs.”
“Thank you, Ms. Miller.”
“Oh, you can call me Holly.”
“Thank you, Holly.”
“Just don’t send me any literature,” I said.
He laughed. “My son also said you’re funny.”
“I used to be,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, and thank you for your positive influence on my son.”
Mr. Rhode hung up and I sat in the dark thinking about what he had said. Between him and Mike, my fragile new facade was starting to show cracks.Then I thought about Peter and how much I had loved having these kinds of debates with him. And before I could stop myself, I picked up the phone again, dialed star-six-seven to disguise my number to make sure there was no trace of me just in case the call went unanswered, and then punched in the seven digits I’d spent the last seven-plus weeks trying to forget.
He answered.When I heard his voice all I felt was ambivalence.
“It’s me,” I said.
Silence.The silence transformed my ambivalence into deprivation.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
Silence. My breathing quickened.
“I miss you too,” said Peter.
I exhaled. “Can I see you?”
“How about tonight?” said Peter. I relaxed. “We can grab a bite after my class.”
I called and checked whether the emergency card could cover a bikini wax, manicure/pedicure, and dinner if I had to pay for it. When I heard the card had no limit, I almost wanted to send the Father a thank-you note. Almost. Instead, I ran down the block to take care of outside business, then home to wash my hair and choose my outfit. I wanted to look careless and casual but also irresistible.
“You look fantastic,” said Peter, giving me an awkward hug. Did he think I was going to look awful? That I had gotten fat? What was Pam saying to him?
“And I love those jeans on you.”
Refocusing on Peter, I said coyly, “I know.”
I flirted with Peter all through dinner. It felt as if I were someone else. Later, back in my apartment, Peter poured two glasses of wine while I put on some music. For the first time, I didn’t have to wait for the Committee to leave the room.
The bass from the stereo crawled up my legs, making me want to throw off the last vestiges of who I was. I looked at Peter. He smiled. I started dancing, running my palms slowly up my legs, across my hips as I moved closer to him. Then I tipped my head forward and took the ends of my shirt, pulling it slowly over my head. Peter looked puzzled. I threw my shirt on the floor and moved closer, removing one bra strap at a time. Then I reached behind my back, unhooked my bra, and let it drop. Peter leaned back, nodding. I undid the top button on my pants and slid the zipper halfway down. I stood right in front of him and playfully slid my finger back and forth on the top of my panties. I leaned closer and touched his top lip lightly with my tongue. Then his bottom lip. I kissed him softly as I reached down to unbuckle his jeans. I put my right knee down on one side of him and then my left knee on the other side. Straddling him, I brushed my nipples against his mouth, pulling away when he tried to catch them with his lips.Then I kissed him again, pressing harder and harder as I slid one hand into his pants and put the other one in mine. He pulled my hand out and took over. Lifting up, he pushed me back against the couch and pulled off my jeans.When he pushed inside me, I felt numb. He brushed back my hair.With his hands on either side of my face he started to move faster, pushing harder until he came. He shook and then dropped on top of me.
“Did you?” he said. Nice of him to ask now.
“Yeah,” I said. He didn’t move, and the weight of him on top of me was crushing. It felt good. I put my arms around him and he fell asleep inside me.
When Peter woke up, he kissed me lightly and said, “You’re different somehow.” The dark room closed in on me. I felt like a flower shrinking back from too much sun.
“In a good way,” he said, touching my chin. “Yeah, I like this.”
I felt a hardening in my chest. His comment bugged me on so many levels. Maybe he really did like me regardless of my job. But then, he also liked me without my Committee, and I felt like I was nothing without my Committee. But as long as I was nothing, maybe I deserved less than nothing.
“So, what are you doing for Christmas?” I said to the ceiling.
{ 22 }
I wore the wrong outfit to a funeral. I don’t remember who died, but I’ll never forget my mother’s displeasure over my choice of attire. Keeping my mother’s displeasure at bay was my excuse for taking Peter with me to California. I kept the part about who called whom vague.
“Whose funeral?” said Milton.
“Oh, who cares,” snapped Sarge.
“Yes, let’s talk about something else,” said Betty Jane.
“Let’s talk about the funeral,” said Ruffles.
“What did you wear, Holly?” said Milton.
Ever since I’d eaten those damn chips, Ruffles had become very pushy about unearthing the past, and Milton latched onto anything Ruffles supported. Just like that day when I had a good feeling turn bad with Mike, Ruffles’s pushing me to peruse the past felt odd and thrilling. I wanted to run, but because she pushed, I continued forward, hoping I didn’t end up with the psychological equivalent of taping a phone recording for a business.
“I was six and a half, and I thought the world should be purple,” I said.
My father, who left me to dress myself, was to blame for my funeral fashion faux pas that day. I chose everything purple in my wardrobe—socks, underwear, velvet hip huggers with bell-bottoms and a drawstring fly, and a sweater. My choice of shoes were toe-biting black Mary Janes or bright blue clogs with a tiny red heart on the outside edge.You can guess which shoes I picked. It didn’t matter, because by the time my father presented me, he’d already dulled the day with his standard whiskey and cigarettes. Not even my mother’s wrath penetrated that protective armor.
“Look at her.” She swept my outfit with her hand as if to wipe away my clothing bligh
t. My mother always behaved as if I wore purple to spite her, but this time it definitely was the clogs that caused the deepest offense. “My daughter in bohemian clothes, clashing colors, and wooden shoes at a funeral. People will think we can’t afford to dress our children properly.”
My father was saved by the priest, who interrupted and said, “We’re ready for the family now.”
Sarah took my hand and said, “Holly, come on.”
My mother sat in the front pew next to her sisters and other family members. My aunt motioned to Sarah to come to their pew. Sarah shook her head fiercely and shoved me into the second pew right behind them. She pressed her body into the wooden corner where the side, bench, and back all met. I sat near her with my legs dangling impishly.
Organ music began to play. Everyone stood and turned. My father and uncle walked up the center aisle carrying something. The church filled with plaintive notes and muffled sobs. I smelled frankincense mixed with wax when I climbed up on the pew. My clogs clacked on the wood. I raised my arm and waved hard at my father and uncle. My aunt reached over and tried to pull my arm down. I leaned away from her and kept waving.
“Let her do it,” Sarah whispered angrily.
The procession passed slowly by our pew. I waved harder. My father and uncle ignored me. My grandfather walked behind my uncle. Someone was opposite him. On their shoulders was a doll-sized casket. My aunts’ husbands walked behind the procession of four. They lifted the small white box up in the air and placed it gently on the gurney set up at the front of the church altar.The music stopped.
“You may be seated,” said the priest.
The church filled with the noise of people dropping down heavily. Sarah pulled me down and tucked me back into the corner of the pew.The priest started speaking. People crossed themselves, stood up, sat down, then stood up again.
“Holly?” I rolled my eyes up, straining to see inside my head. Two people—a man and a boy with a blurred face—had been in there for three days now. I called them the Silent One and the Boy because the man had not said a word since he had appeared and the boy seemed to be afraid of everything or crying.Today at least he’d stopped crying.
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