Dear Daughter (26 page)

After Oliver, it didn’t take long to figure out how to game the system. Within a month I’d managed to trade my obscurity for burgeoning notoriety; within six I no longer had to introduce myself to strangers. A year and a half later, just a few weeks before my mother died, I scored my first magazine cover. I didn’t even have to leak a sex tape to do it. (Not that I wouldn’t have.)

And the sad truth is, it wasn’t even that hard. All it took was a drunk hunk and a battered copy of Clausewitz and understanding that when it comes to fame, there’s no difference between being loved and being hated. One’s just much easier to do. If you can stand it.

Behind the Music: “Oliver Lawson”

Transcript, pt. 4

Narrator: Many have said that Lawson hit rock bottom when he embarked on a relationship with Janie Jenkins, the infamous Hollywood celebutante who would later be convicted of her mother’s murder.

Oliver: Obviously it was quite a tempestuous relationship. She was very controlling, and I know that seems implausible given how young she was, but believe me: She never acted her age.

Yes, you said, to me

But I wasn’t thinking

I wasn’t seeing

Which now I know

Was exactly what you wanted

Yes, fantastically

And we moved together

And it seemed like pleasure

Which now I know

Wasn’t ever what you needed

Narrator: After the split, Lawson went to rehab for drug and alcohol abuse. The first song he produced after his release was “Yes/No/Maybe,” the symphonic ballad that would end up being the biggest hit of his career.

Oliver: I wrote that while I was staying in a sober-living house up in Malibu. It was a good time for me, I was really digging deep into my emotions and confronting my imperfections, and that helped me get back in touch with my music. Because I just think that’s where all our great music comes from—from a place of honesty and humility. That’s how we make art.

No, you said, to me

At my weakest moment

When my pride was broken

Which now I know

Was the thing you found most thrilling

No, impossibly

How I tried to take it

How I tried to fake it

Which now I know

Was the plan from the beginning

Narrator: And then, just one year later, Jenkins was arrested for the murder of her mother. Lawson proved to be a key character witness at the trial.

Oliver: The fact that I testified against her shocked some people, I think. After all, she was the one who got me to the hospital that night—I might not be here if it weren’t for her. But I knew her better than anyone, and I knew that it was my responsibility to make sure that the jury heard my perspective. I always said that Jane could do anything if she put her mind to it . . . but I was always scared about what she’d decide to put her mind to.

And maybe, I said

And can’t we, I said

And why not

And I can

And you can

And we can

But no, remorselessly

And you walked away then

With your heart unladen

Which now I know

Is the only thing that saved me

. . . maybe

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“What kind of dinner do we get to have tonight?” I said as Leo and I fought our way into the VFW coatroom.

“Am I the only one who reads the schedule? Why does Cora even bother photocopying these things? We’re not having dinner—we’re dancing.”

I froze. “You’re fucking with me.”

Leo pulled a crumpled piece of yellow paper out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “Not about this.”

He hung up my coat and pulled me out into the main room, where I saw for myself that he was telling the truth. Christ. I hadn’t seen so many bad dancers since I went to that Radiohead concert.

“Cora makes us all take a lesson before the big thing on Saturday,” Leo explained. “The party, ball, whatever she calls it.”

“And you all just—go along with this?”

He shrugged. “It makes her happy. And I heard this year there’s crème brûlée. Come on—but watch out for Cora. She insists that all the out-of-town guests take lessons. If she sees you, you’ll be stuck dancing for hours. Try not to let her catch your eye.”

Cora caught my eye.

She waved, and Leo backed away. “Better you than me.”

I looked behind me on the off chance that Cora had been waving to somebody else.

No such luck.

I headed over. Cora was talking to Stanton, one hand placed entreatingly on his arm. “I would just be so grateful if you could help out with the lesson tonight,” she was saying.

Stanton shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re my only worthy partner, my dear—and you’ll be too busy with the beginners.”

“Now Stanton, charm won’t get you out of this one.”

“I’d be a miserable teacher. Where you see potential I see impossibility.”

“Well, if you won’t teach, at least treat Rebecca here to a dance.” She reached over and pulled me forward. “We can’t leave our single guests without partners.”

He hesitated only briefly—his gaze snagging on my sea-green cardigan—before his manners reasserted themselves. “It would be a pleasure, of course.”

I took his hand. It was solid and callused and strong, and I couldn’t help but look at it in some surprise. He laughed, reading my face perfectly. “I’m not that old,” he said. “Now come, child.”

We moved to the center of the room. He placed his hand precisely under my left shoulder blade. I caught the hint of a frown—I was too short for his arm to be at the proper angle, and I suspected he knew it—but his brow smoothed over when I raised our joined hands to my eye level and firmed my wrists and elbows. I felt an unfamiliar flare of satisfaction. I hadn’t waltzed in years, but goddammit, I still had it.

A new song started, and we began to move, from strong to long to tall step. God, I love the waltz, the way the elegance of the one-count draws your attention away from the restlessness of the two-three. And I’d forgotten how relaxing a compulsory posture could be.

“Is this Prokofiev?” Stanton asked.

“Khachaturian,” I said without thinking—I had the sense that Stanton wasn’t the sort of man who liked to be wrong.

“Yes, of course,” he said. He kept his hand firmly on my back, settling us further into the music, into its rise and fall. For once the noises inside my head surrendered to the sounds outside it.

Briefly, anyway. I’m not going to lie, their speaker setup was pretty crap.

“You dance very nicely, Miss Parker.”

“I had lessons.”

“How unusual.”

I turned my head toward Leo. He was standing with Eli, a bottle of beer hanging loosely from his hand.

Stanton and I whirled away.

When Leo came back into view, he was watching me. He tipped his beer in my direction. Then we whirled once more, and he was gone. I searched the room, but he’d disappeared. The faint glow of pleasure the waltz had kindled in me was snuffed out.

“I wish my son shared your interest in classical music,” Stanton was saying. He maneuvered us into the corner where Mitch was sitting with a group of other mid-to-late-forty-something men and a case of Coors. I felt the distaste shudder through him. “But I suppose not all parents can be so lucky.”

Mitch crushed a beer can and lobbed it toward the trash can. It missed.

“John Mitchell Percy,” Stanton barked.

Mitch and his friends sat up.

“While I realize that you are beyond humiliation,” Stanton said, “at least try to pretend otherwise in my presence.”

He led us to the other side of the room with a grunt of displeasure.

I felt the strangest urge to defend Mitch. “He seems very popular,” I said.

“You say that as if it were some kind of achievement.”

“Isn’t it?”

Stanton drew me into a neat little arch turn, his movements so deft that I felt as if my hand was floating up over my head of its own accord. As I spun, the cuffs of my slacks—the closest thing I had to petticoats—rose up, and a draft blew against my exposed ankles. I looked behind me. Someone had left the door ajar.

When I was brought around to face Stanton again, his smile had waned. “There’s no need to pretend you like the look of him either,” he said.

“I’m hardly one to comment on a person’s looks.”

His arms sagged momentarily before snapping back into position. “And here I thought you were going to be interesting.”

“Excuse me?”

He spun me out and back in. “I loathe self-deprecation.”

“Because it’s phony?”

“Because it’s easy.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“If it’s easy, it’s not worth doing.”

“Try telling that to a sixteen-year-old boy.”

His eyelids flickered. “Wit, my dear, is even easier.”

“So what does that leave?”

“Strength of character, of course.”

The music came to a close; I pulled away two beats early. Though I’m sure no one else noticed.

•   •   •

Just after Stanton withdrew, a crackle of laughter from Mitch’s table caught my attention. Mitch’s hands were moving in huge oily swoops that could have been outlining either a woman’s body or a hot-air balloon. He leaned over and whispered in his buddy’s ear, eliciting a smirk, then stood up and headed to the restrooms that were located off a dark little hall. When he got to the men’s room, he looked back over his shoulder—scanning the room but missing me—and stepped inside.

Moments later, Rue pushed away from her table full of teenagers. She opened the same door.

Interesting. And gross.

I mean, sure, there’s something to be said for bathroom assignations. There’s no awkwardness about whether or not anyone is going to stay the night. There’s no room to get creative, so you don’t have to worry about anything other than the bare (ha ha) minimum. Sure, you never feel too good about yourself after, but at least you get it over with.

But it isn’t quite the same when the parties in question are a man in his forties and a girl in her teens.

I glanced around the room, but other than Mitch’s beer-bellied friend, no one else seemed to have noticed what was happening. I kept my eye on the bathroom doors and waited for them to reemerge.

Rue returned after a few minutes, unnecessarily smoothing the ends of her hair—it was only mussed on top. A growl tried to fight its way out of my chest, but I shook it off. Rue was a big girl; she could protect herself. And right now, it was Mitch I cared about—I couldn’t imagine catching him in a more vulnerable position. It was the perfect time to ask a few questions.

I slipped across the room and down the hall. When I opened the door to the men’s room, Mitch was tucking in his shirt. His belt, I noticed, wasn’t even undone.

“Well, hello there,” he said easily.

I took a step back. Didn’t he realize he’d been caught? “I beg your pardon,” I said.

He put one hand on the doorframe above my head, positioning his armpit directly in front of my face. “I do love it when they beg,” he said.

I realized then that I just might have miscalculated. This man wasn’t remotely vulnerable.

I glanced to my left, but my view of the dining room—and my escape route—was blocked by the open door. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought this was the ladies’ room.”

His other hand shot out and grabbed my elbow. “You’re the one who was dancing with my father. You sure you don’t want to trade up to a newer model?”

“You sure you don’t want to rethink being such a
dick
?”

The hand above me clenched, and a vein throbbed in his neck. I took a breath and another step back.

Calm the fuck down, Jane.

“Look,” I said. “I just wanted to use the bathroom.”

His brow furrowed.

“This
is
the bathroom, right?”

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked. “I mean, before tonight.”

“The other night at the bar, maybe.”

“No—before that.” He tilted his head, and his eyes caught the light from above the sink. They were a familiar shade of navy blue. (“Like the blood of a horseshoe crab,” Oliver once told me, and he didn’t mean it as a compliment.) Crystal’s words from the night before came roaring up into my mind:

Instead I had to watch him with girls like fucking Tessa Kanty.

I couldn’t keep myself from saying the words: “Do you have any kids, Mitch?”

He reared back. “What? Um—yes, three. Why?”

“Any daughters?”

“One.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t understand—”

Something even uglier than usual burrowed up out of me, crowding out all the questions I should have been asking.

“What’s her name? Your daughter, I mean.”

“Uh—Madelyn.”

“Tell me, Mitch, what would you do if you found out that Madelyn was sneaking into public restrooms to suck some middle-aged man’s cock?”

He paled. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“You’re a father,” I said. “Fucking act like one.”