Stranger, Father, Beloved (15 page)

“Who really knows what he's feeling? He's a little boy,” she replied. The response struck Ryan as peculiar, especially since she sighed after she said it and looked away. She guessed she had hit some nerve in the woman. She quickly scanned everything she had said in the hopes of finding the error in communication.

“Am I bothering you? Did I say something wrong?” Ryan asked, and the question seemed to hang there awkwardly.

“What do you mean by bother? I just hate pity. It is so ugly to pity another person.”

“Well, I don't think you can really understand,” Ryan replied, trying to control her shaking voice. “But I can see what a hard time he'll have throughout his whole life, how much social torture. It's easy for you to be abstract because you've never met him. Your family is as close to perfect as is humanly possible.”

Lydia laughed. “My dear, you think we're perfect? You have no idea the things Mr. Winston and I have been through—the betrayals, the heartache, and how my children have suffered.”

The conversation was quickly taking a dive into the strange. Ryan fumbled to recover it.

“I'm sorry I offended you. I had no idea stuff went wrong for you.”

“It's okay, honey, don't worry so much,” Lydia reached out and stroked the side of Ryan's face. “Such a pretty face, and always so stern and preoccupied. You could never offend me if you tried. For all we know, Max could be just fine. He could turn out very well. You never know which child is going to head off into the land of broken dreams and which one is going to rocket off into the best expression of him or herself. You just never know. If someone were to look at you, they'd think your life was perfect, right? You have it all—brains, beauty, et cetera. But look how much you suffer, look how much you worry about everything and struggle just to feel good. Don't pity your brother—he may end up just fine. Look at our daughter Kumiko—rescued from a slum in Japan, abused, neglected. It would seem her life would follow suit into disorder, but, no, she is our shining star. She could be preoccupied with the fact that she is the only one who isn't
of us
, but she isn't. She is the most integrated and healthy one of us all. Oh, I'm so excited. She should be home any minute.”

The Winstons had an adopted Japanese daughter, Kumiko, whom they adored. Ryan had met her when she had returned from music camp. She was eight years old and very small for her age. Ryan recalled how Kumiko had walked into the house and been embraced by everyone. She'd kept her eye on Ryan the whole time, suspicious of who was in her house. It was clear that she felt it was, indeed, her house, and the way she was treated did much to affirm her theory.

Everyone was chattering around her. Even Mr. Winston was home for the occasion, no doubt to see her. She smiled up at them and then glanced shyly at Ryan.

“How was it, Kumiko? Did you make friends?”

“I made a few. Bill was with me, so I didn't need to make that many.”

“Who's Bill?” Ryan asked.

Kumiko turned and looked squarely at Ryan. The rest of the family looked over as well.

“That's Ryan, Kumiko. Dari's friend.”

“Hi there,” Ryan said and waved.

“Bill is my soul mate,” Kumiko answered and walked into the other room.

Dari whispered in Ryan's ear, “Don't ask questions about it—she's really touchy about Bill.”

“Is he an imaginary friend?”

“No, not really. Bill was her husband in her last lifetime. He hasn't been born yet in this lifetime.”

Although she spent most of her time at the Winstons' now, Ryan was careful not to overstay her welcome. She would leave occasionally and return to Jill's instead of to her own house. Jill and Ryan commented little on the fact that Ryan came by so infrequently now
and instead tried to revert back to their old ways. But something had changed, marring their easygoing exchange.

They watched movies together more and more to ease the tension and to avoid speaking to each other directly. Ryan lay on the couch, while Jill was spread out on the carpet with a pillow behind her neck. They were watching
Should I Dance?

“You're prettier than that girl. You could be a movie star, you know?” Jill had taken to flattering Ryan more and more, which Ryan enjoyed, yet after every instance of praise, she liked Jill less than she had before.

“Not really. That's a little bit of an exaggeration. But thanks anyway.”

“No really. You have better bone structure than all these girls in this film.”

“Thank you, Jill.”

“Do you want to go hiking with me next weekend? I've been dying to check out this new trail.”

“No, I don't think so.”

Sometimes Carol joined them, and that made everything somehow less awkward. Carol could sense that they had lost their intimacy and felt less threatened by them. The best night they had had in years came one evening when they were cooking a Mexican feast of fajitas and tacos with Max there, mashing up the guacamole with Carol as she sat on a stool by the counter. They had been playing Spanish music and all were laughing and peaceful. Ryan had felt a camaraderie with Carol, and the two had even joked in their old way. After eating the feast in the living room, they began watching
Signor, Don't Shoot
.

They all cleaned up together after the movie and then ate their
dessert of cupcakes. Then Ryan drove Max home, took him inside, turned around, and drove back to Jill's house.

Jill was up in her “study” but came back downstairs as soon as she heard the car door slam.

“Carol went to bed,” she said, staring intently at Ryan.

“Let's make drinks,” Ryan said and breezed into the kitchen. Jill followed her and watched as she poured the two glasses of vodka and cranberry juice. Jill said nothing and stood near her, pretending to look through a catalog. Ryan despised Jill for her lack of spine, her lack of boundaries. She was seized with the sudden urge to do whatever she wanted.

“Let's go into the living room,” she said and went into the living room before Jill answered. Jill followed her and sat down across from her on the floor.

“Why do you just keep staring at me?” Ryan asked as they sat in silence taking guzzles from their drinks.

“I don't know, Ryan.”

“I'm getting another—you want?”

“No, not really.”

“I insist.”

“Fine, if you insist.”

“You have to learn how to stand up to people, Jill,” she said when she returned, handing her the full glass of dazzling bright pink liquid. She tried to say it lovingly, putting a hand on Jill's arm. “Otherwise people will walk all over you.”

“You mean I should stand up to you?”

“Me, everyone. I mean, I'm sitting here drinking in your house and I'm a teenager. You should lay down the law.”

“I know I seem like a doormat, but you're a hard person to say no to.”

“I know, I know.” Like wildfire, thoughts were catching in her brain one by one: Jill was helpless around her. Jill was weak. Jill was hers to do with what she wanted.

“Let's put in another film,” Ryan said. “Your choice. Whatever you want, Jill.” She crawled over to the box of films under the TV and read out names.

“These all suck, never mind.” Ryan made herself another drink and lay down on the rug beside Jill.

“Do you like girls, Jill?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“I get the sense that you like me?”

“You're beautiful, irresistible, and if I were a guy and not an old lady, I'd like you,” Jill responded.

Ryan found her way back up and sat facing Jill with her knees folded under her. She put her hand on the side of Jill's face and pulled it closer to her own. Jill was breathing quickly and had a drugged look in her eyes. Ryan could have kissed her if she wanted to.

“Yep, it's what I thought,” she said and let go of Jill's head.

Ryan woke up on the couch in Jill's living room and remembered vaguely the events from the night before. Shame seized her, and she felt as if she might throw up. She got up, her head still buzzing slightly from the alcohol, picked up her stuff, and left. It was just after six in the morning. She felt entirely out of control. Had she kissed Jill? She couldn't remember for the life of her. She only knew that she had gotten drunk and she remembered Jill's face looming before her intently, studying her. If she had indeed kissed that woman, it would be the worst thing she had done in her life so far.

When she went upstairs, at first no sounds were heard and she felt
she could make a clean getaway. But then Jill rounded a corner and stood before her.

“I'm so sorry, Ryan,” she said and reached out a hand. “I shouldn't have let you have all those drinks.”

“Why are you sorry? We didn't
do
anything. Did we?”

“Well, I kissed you for a minute, I think. It's a little foggy. I think that's all. I think you got upset and went downstairs,” Jill said.

“Oh, you do, do you? You think that's what happened, but you don't know. Well, thank you for explaining that.” Ryan tore past Jill and out into the yard. Her first kiss was with Jill? Jill followed her out, striding across the grass. Ryan stopped walking and turned.

“I think I'm done, Jill. I think I'm done with all this. With you.”

Jill stood as if bracing herself and then cleared her throat.

“But thank you for the class.”

“What do you mean, thank you for the class?” Jill responded.

“Just thanks. I met someone great there. Someone young and fresh. Good-bye, Jill.” Ryan got into her car and backed out, the image of Jill standing in her cargo pants, tank top, and long gray braid looming the entire time she reversed down the driveway. She wanted that image to break.

Ryan walked into the house and literally almost ran into her father, who was already up drinking his coffee by the kitchen door. It had been so long since it was just the two of them alone in a room together. She had avoided this moment for weeks. Why hadn't she just come home in the evening when he was in his study? She could have slipped upstairs without his knowing she had come in.

He looked at her with the strangest of expressions and said, “I can smell alcohol on you.” His eyes widened, and he had the most intense
look of shock on his face. In a soft, slow voice he said, “You smell like a brewery.” They stood there staring at each other for what felt like a full minute. Ryan couldn't move; she was planted there, unable to say or do anything. After the horrible evening with Jill, Ryan knew she was just not up to speaking with her father.

He stared at her, inhaled, and began to speak. “You've just had sex, haven't you? You have got to stop acting out and slinking around or your life is really going to go in a terrible direction. Who is this boy? Is he your age?”

Ryan's right arm shot back, and then, without premeditation, she slapped his face.

“You're the one who's always drinking,” she said through teeth mashed together into a grimace. “I bet you don't even remember biting me when you were drunk! Don't you dare lecture me on how to live life.”

She did not know why, but she felt it was his fault for what she had done the night before with Jill. His brooding presence had caused her to flee their house and kiss an old woman. They both stood there, stunned, as he raised a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. Her senses returned, and she forcefully pushed past Michael, ran up the stairs to her room, and slammed the door. He was saying something in the hallway, but she could not hear it. He seemed to be mumbling it or speaking in a low and stern voice. She locked the door, but she stood and watched it just to make sure it stayed shut. She sat still, breathing hard and looking at the door, for more than fifteen minutes. Eventually, she saw his car leave but she still waited for ten minutes before leaving her room to go into the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door, took off her clothes with trembling hands, and sat under the hot water in the shower, tears streaming from her closed eyes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There loomed the impression—the glass on Michael's office building was sea foam green that reflected the sunlight in one brilliant facade. The silver letters that spelled “Phairton” gleamed and stretched across that green glass. Michael remembered his first few years there, when he had been the one to recruit the talented William Young to work for them and his ideas about computer programming had revolutionized the industry, allowing Phairton to become a major company in a matter of six months. What a thrill that year had been. At Phairton no one had cared about Michael's tense demeanor; they were too busy admiring his innovative achievements.

Michael observed the tall green glass building as he parked his car, and for a split second the beauty of it viscerally took him over before he recognized it and processed it as an ordinary image and the sense of beauty vanished. He had decided to come in to the office, even though it was a Saturday. He kept going over in his mind the events of the morning.

His own daughter had slapped him today. He could laugh about it or cry about it. He wondered how such a thing could have happened.

When Michael had caught her walking through the side door at seven in the morning, he had assumed she had been at her friend's house for the night, but obviously something else had gone on. Something was different about her. Her hair was disheveled, there were ridiculous purple marks on her neck, and she had a grotesque smile pasted on her face. She had just come in the door, looking strung out and mesmerized. He was leaning against the stove, contemplating making some eggs, when she slipped in the door and just stood there, smiling to herself, guilty of God knew what.

“Ryan, I may not be the world's greatest dad, but I am your parent. It is clear that something inappropriate happened.” He recalled saying something to the effect of that. “You are too young to have sex, honey. Boys at this age are really too aggressive . . .” He tried to give her a sympathetic look and thought that maybe she would open up about the experience and he would get something right as a parent. He actually could not remember if he had said exactly this or practiced saying it in his mind. He had said something in an attempt to parent.

Michael remembered the look of horror that had spread across her face as she turned to look at him. Then, the damnedest thing, she had slapped him and run upstairs. What had hurt him worse than being hit was what she had said:
You are totally crazy.
He thought he remembered her saying it, but he wasn't sure. She might not have said it. It had been mumbled. It was like those moments with his father; he could not trust that he heard correctly the insults from other people. And he could not remember how hard she had slapped him. Stunned, he had walked out to his car and drove to work. And here he was. For once he was glad to be inside his glass-walled, fluorescent-lit office building.

Michael walked past his secretary, Rebecca, giving her an easy smile. One Saturday a month, everyone was required to work, including ­secretaries—Michael had forgotten that this was her extra day. He was in go mode, and office protocol was streaming through him. He felt that people in subordinate positions, such as secretaries, seemed to love it when people of higher authority possessed a certain aura. It was a breezy aloofness that was firm yet kind, benevolent. Communication was clear, and smiles were saved up and delivered at the end of interactions. But, most important, everyone was crystal clear on his or her position and standing—there was no confusion in that sense. It was all laid out in simple terms, conveyed through tone and body language.

Today, because Michael was in recovery from the morning's events, he was fueled by an internal anger that was safely contained in his body, cruising on a beautiful kind of autopilot. Rebecca looked up at him, attentive, waiting, and he thought she seemed relieved that he was finally executing his role as boss and acting like a regular male. She had been waiting for this. On the days when he was meek or guilty or excessively negative, she shrank from him, automatically avoiding eye contact. Today he was inspiring her confidence in this existence they were acting out.

Rebecca was young, in her early twenties, had brown hair, and was always very well dressed in blue skirts with white silk shirts and elegant jewelry. Her face was average, though her skin was sort of milky, pasty, as if it belonged to someone five minutes dead. Her teeth were chalky, as if the milk in her skin had slipped down into the cave of her mouth, drop by drop, to hang on her teeth like stalactite rocks, or strands of mucus.

What would become of her? he wondered.

Her figure was maddeningly attractive; he was supposed to think so. The other men at the office did. She had those full and sup
ple breasts that men become insane over, and she also possessed coy movements. Even though she had the look of the perfect woman, something about her repulsed Michael. Overall, she stank of fertility in a kind of overdone way that both disgusted and pleased Michael.

“Hey, Mr. James!” She beamed up at him as he strolled in. “How are you?”

“Just fine, Rebecca. Thanks. Good to be here, get some work done.” With that he raised his eyebrows for emphasis, indicating that she was part of the team, a team that was motivated and purposeful.

Michael headed toward his office door, then turned and said, “You look lovely today, Rebecca.” Oh God, he thought, have I blown it, gone too far, been too forward?

No, she was blushing and obviously pleased. She turned to her computer screen to start working, refreshed by his energy.

She did look lovely, he thought. Lovely and rank. That was no lie. With his door closed, he sat down and gave a full-bellied, shaking laugh at the ridiculousness of Rebecca, of his stupid analysis of her. Then he stopped and looked at the family picture of the four of them on his desk. Why the hell had they named their daughter Ryan? Perhaps a boy's name had made her more willful, masculine. He picked up the gold frame and turned it onto its face in front of him.

Michael couldn't bear the thought of having the picture in his office for another second. How could he get it out of there? He put it into his wastebasket and shoved some papers over it.

To have his perfect little girl become a woman, a sexual being, was one hundred percent terrifying. She could get pregnant, she could, God forbid, be taken advantage of—an older boy could get her drunk and use her. As she became more and more of a woman, her happiness seemed to fade more into the distance. It was as if sexu
ality were a curse and would transform even the sweetest of children into sullen monsters.

Michael remembered being young and looking at the world with wonder, expecting his father to love him, waking up every day with complete trust that it would be so. But after several years in the same house with him, he knew his father didn't love him, would never love him.

When he was young, he always knew he would have a bright future, and then midway through high school, he stopped believing it. He knew he was different from other people, but he was not sure in what way. He had learned so many things from school, and his mind became burdened with facts and he lost his sense of wonder, and more and more, people looked past him in the hallways in high school. His heart finally understood that life was cruel and people would not always give you what you deserved. He didn't want Ryan to learn that.

Michael got a lot of work done and made several important calls. Rebecca was in and out of the office delivering files, asking if he needed anything. The hours were just falling away. It was getting close to five o'clock, and he began to have a feeling of panic. He just wanted to stay here and keep going. There was no way he could leave the building tonight. Yes. He would stay and work. It was safe here. He could work alone, impress the senior partners. Impress everybody.

Then the thought of being here at sunset without the aid of Rebecca seemed intolerable, impossible even. How could he make her stay? He called her station and asked her to please come in for a moment.

“Rebecca, is there any way you could stay for a few more hours? We're getting so much done. I'm finally getting my workload caught up.”

She looked down, dismayed, struggling to answer.

“I would pay you double for the overtime hours. You are just such a big help to me.”

Her eyes lit up at that. There he was, number-one boss, his aura of authority perfected.

“No problem,” she said.

“Let's order in dinner. What's your favorite food again? Thai. Let's order some Thai takeout to be delivered. What do you say?”

“Great, Mr. James.” Michael was sure Rebecca was wondering who this magnificent creature was in front of her who had replaced her somewhat sulky former boss.

“I'll get right on that,” she said respectfully and marched off, no doubt to email her friends and tell them how incredible he was being to her. He loved her at that moment. Then a thought popped into his head: this woman would sleep with me. It would be an awful exchange, though, and Michael shook his head, dismissing the idea.

Michael sat back down and thought of John Randolph. His family was in chaos, he was in chaos, and John was the only person Michael could think of who could calm the situation. He called his house and asked Nancy if he could speak with John. He heard her walk out onto the patio, and in a matter of moments, John came on the line with an uncertain “Hello?”

“John!” Michael exclaimed, for he was genuinely happy to hear his voice. “How are you? It's Michael James.”

“Oh, good. I'm in your backyard right now, putting up some beams.”

“I'm glad you're there. I was just calling to ask you for a favor.”

“Okay.”

“I'm going to be working late here tonight at the office. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay for dinner with my family after you're done working outside.” Michael paused. “Nancy gets lonely, and the kids love you. I'd appreciate it, buddy. You could order something to be delivered. I'd really appreciate it.”

“Okay. Are you sure? Should we save some food for you?”

“No, I'll eat here, and I won't be back until nine or ten. Did you have other plans for tonight, John?”

“No, I don't.”

“Great. Maybe you guys could watch a movie or something too.”

Lying on the carpeted floor of his office, Michael imagined his family seated at a table with John Randolph at the head of it. The image was perfect. Nancy would be at ease, and with his gloomy presence deleted from the picture, she would finally be allowed to just be herself. John would bring that out in her. John was devoid of any hint of pretense, of malice, and would appreciate all the simple pleasures she had to offer: food, stability, kindness, sexual pleasure, family—the very things John had sought in his own failed marriage. Michael knew that his wife had left him—he shied away from giving Michael more information beyond that, but John had admitted that much to him. He could tell that John had been an honest husband and that his wife had eventually grown tired of him, just as Michael had of Nancy. There was no doubt that John and his wife had also been mismatched from the start.

At first, he thought, Ryan will stare inquisitively at the man, wondering where her father was and nursing a constant sense of guilt for having attacked him in the kitchen. Then, over time, she'll just enjoy
the new atmosphere without him. It smacked him in the face how innocent a bunch they would be with him gone. They would be perfect. He was all right, sitting here, thinking of it, as long as the family photo was no longer in sight. But he could feel the gold of the frame burning in the wastebasket, radiating in his direction, unstoppable and smug. He fished it out and carried it, picture facing down, out of the office and down the hall to the men's room.

Once safely inside, Michael relished the fact that no one would come in there. They had all left for the day or had not even come in at all, since it was a Saturday. And Rebecca would have to use the women's room. Of course she wouldn't be in here. He was safe.

Normally this room was such a purgatory—Michael would have a moment of silence in the sterile calm, his facial muscles would relax as he peed or washed his hands at the sink, no expression, nothing, and then the door would blast open and in would breeze a suited man with a doughlike face, pursing his lips and giving him the short, overconfident greeting. They would both know how much they hated the moment and hated each other for creating this awful and awkward scene of uncomfortable acknowledgement. Not to mention the undraping of measly shriveled-up penises that dangled tentatively over the cold bowls and emptied-out bladders, only to be refilled an hour later, when the task would have to be repeated, multiplying its demeaning effect on a person as a urination machine.

Michael stood by the metal trash receptacle and raised the picture up, then stopped. He turned it over in his hands and forced himself to look, a mistake he instantly recognized. There they were: a colorful bunch against a shining white backdrop. His eyes turned first to Ryan. They had had this photo taken five years ago, before she had begun rebelling. She looked as beautiful as ever, silently tolerating the group, sitting there beside her mother, who looked like a cooked
potato next to her. Max, hopeful and disoriented as ever, even as a one-year-old, was dressed in his white turtleneck and green cords. And then there he was. He was dressed very rigidly, in brown tones and wearing glasses, and he noticed that he looked about as smug as was possible for a human being. He could just see himself, looking out at the expanse of the tacky department store in which the photography station was nestled before the picture was taken, making his whiplash-quick judgments on Americana and then linking it to chain-store culture in general. So uptight, so haughty! The typical intellectual's dilemma caught and immortalized in one photograph.

Yes, he knew he was a cliché. Look how he even stood a foot away from Nancy as she had tried to stand closer together, he mused. He thought about how happy he could have made her if he had just put his arm around her for the photo. How easy it would have been for him to make her happy! Looking at her in her tan skirt and the blue cashmere sweater he had given her as a present when they were dating, he felt his throat tremble with emotion—how simple and good-natured she was. She loved that sweater and always wore it to show her gratitude to him for buying her an expensive gift. Why had she never gotten angry at him for withdrawing from her? he wondered. Why hadn't she stopped him, made him respect her by threatening to leave if he didn't change? Why did she trust him so completely? This trust, so complete, so perfect, was something, try as he might, he could not conquer. It waged no war and only sought to draw him in further.