The Art of Hero Worship (18 page)

My willingness to suppress my own needs at a
time like this is part of the art of loving a man like Liam.

We pull up in front of an enormous, modern
home in a stately neighborhood that overlooks the rocky coastline
of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s the kind of place where once a week,
crews of eight men descend upon each home to mow the lawn and groom
the shrubs and polish the exterior windows and vacuum the pool. The
water view is fantastic and dramatic, but intimidating. And the
gray sky only enhances the somber austerity of the huge, pale
yellow house. It’s so beautiful, yet so unwelcoming.

He parks his car on the smooth black
driveway with a screech. As soon as we’ve come to a stop, I swing
open the door and get out. Liam gets out of the driver’s side, but
makes no move to collect me or to wave at the occupants of his
house or to really do much of anything except stand beside his car
and brood. I’m feeling absolutely nothing in the direction of warm
and fuzzy here. He sends me a got-what-you-wanted glance, and says,
“Come on, Jason.”

I trail behind Liam as he makes his way to a
side door in the third garage bay. He pulls out a key from his back
pocket to unlock it and let us in. We walk past a twenty foot
bright yellow Chaparral boat in the last garage bay, and then
proceed past a shiny black Lincoln Navigator in the middle, and
finally past a sleek silver metallic Jaguar XJ.

“Your dad has a lot of toys.”

Liam shrugs. “They’re Mom’s toys, too.”

We enter into an enormous, sparkling
kitchen—it’s so clean I’d eat off the royal blue and white
decorative tile floor without hesitation. The room sports black
granite counters, oversized metallic appliances, and incredibly
high ceilings. “You have
two
ovens and
two
refrigerators?”

“And two dishwashers.” He isn’t elbowing me
and joking so I know that this is nothing more than Liam’s way of
life.

He told me once before that he was an only
child, and I now know that to be sort of untrue, as he had a
younger sister who’d been killed in a fire. So I decide to see if I
can get him to talk about it. I make a gesture toward the kitchen
appliances. “All this for a family of three?”

Liam thinks about my question, and then
replies coldly, “My parents entertain a lot.”

We stand there waiting for his parents to
come to the kitchen to welcome us, but we wait for nothing. No one
comes to say hello.

“You can sit in the living room. I’ll go
find my folks.” He takes my hand and leads me to another oversized
room, with a black leather sectional couch, several modern charcoal
gray suede chairs with matching ottomans, and a huge widescreen
television. Just about everything else in the room is a shade of
white.

“Shit, Liam. Your television is more like a
movie screen.”

He glances at me. “It’s just a TV, Jase,”
and then he heads for the stairs.

I should have known from his usual humble
demeanor that the size of a television, the showiness of some
vehicles, and the glamor of a house wouldn’t mean a thing to him.
In fact, he’d never before mentioned to me that he lived in a
multi-million dollar mansion with a spectacular view of the
Atlantic. I don’t sit down in the fancy chair or on the huge couch,
but instead I get started on doing what I’m here to do. I walk
slowly around the enormous room, searching for something that will
give me a clue as to what disaster Liam suffered in his youth. I
come upon a small ivory-colored chest of drawers, neatly tucked
behind the picture window’s extravagant light gold velvet curtains,
and on it is a small, framed black and white photograph. The
picture is of two children sitting cross-legged at the end of a
dock, grinning at the person holding the camera.

Despite his toothless grin, I would know
Liam anywhere because the expression in a person’s eyes doesn’t
change over time. Though smiling, he is thoughtful, maybe even
uneasy, and very aware of the tiny blonde girl beside him. The
little girl is everything Liam is not; she is jovial and carefree
and laughing through her broad grin. I assume this is Liam’s little
sister, Lucy.

The wooden frame displaying the photo of
Liam and his sister is old, and its gray paint is chipping on the
edges. It’s probably the only item in the room that isn’t shiny and
new. I pick it up and flip it, and on the reverse side of the
frame,
I love you, Lucy
is printed in
purple marker, complete with two purple hearts, both of which say
LN in the center.

After listening for the sound of voices on
the stairs and hearing nothing, I continue my exploration of this
grand living room. I walk to the huge fireplace that is built from
piles and piles of pale, flat, smooth stones. Above it is an
enormous painting of the same little girl, but this image of her is
in color. She’s about ten years old, beautiful in an angelic way,
and she’s dressed in an old-fashioned ivory lace dress that makes
her look like a child of the 1800’s. Her smile is more demure than
in the other photo, however, there’s a spark of high spirit in her
eyes she just can’t hide, although I think she might be trying. The
frame, itself, is also a work of art. It’s mostly white but has
been painted golden yellow where the picture meets the frame.
Across the top of the frame, in brilliant gold slanted script, is
painted the name Lily, and across the bottom of the frame are the
words, “The Light of Our Lives.”

I find this bold statement to be rather
cruel.
Because if Lucy is the light of their lives, then what is
Liam?
So as not to jump to an erroneous conclusion, I glance
around the room in search of a similar painting of Liam that boldly
declares how he is the sun in their sky, but I find nothing. Aside
from the painting of Lucy, the walls are all bare and white, with
one small exception.

I step to the narrow wall beside the front
door where there’s a photograph of Liam in a cheap black document
frame, the kind you can get at any pharmacy. Holding my breath, I
lean in to examine it closely. It appears to be Liam’s senior
picture. The boy in the picture is the same Liam I know but his
face is thinner and bare—he has no long squared-off beard—and he
isn’t wearing the thick-framed glasses that provide a decisive
boundary between his face and the world. He’s wearing a simple navy
jacket and a traditional maroon banker’s style tie that I’m pretty
sure he wouldn’t be caught dead in today. On the light blue
background to the left of his face, is a hand written note. It’s
small, written in pencil, so I need to squint to read it.

To Mom and Dad on my graduation day — I will
make you proud. Your son, Liam.

This trip to Liam’s home—not even having met
his parents yet—has already proven to be enlightening.
A picture
tells a thousand words.
How very true. And these
three
pictures, the small snapshot of siblings on a dock in better days,
the huge portrait of Lucy, the light of this family’s life, and the
plain commercial graduation photograph of Liam that marks his
entrance into the adult world, with the pleading message begging
his parents to notice him, tell much of the story.

I’m still staring at the modest photograph
of Liam when he returns to the room. I turn around to see him with
a woman—an obviously drunk woman.

She’s tall and even-featured and blond and
appears as young as twenty-five, although I realize she must be
twice that age. Dressed in crisp black jeans, a silky white blouse,
black heels, and dripping in diamonds, she seems to fit perfectly
into this formal setting. Without saying a word to greet me, she
sits down on one of the suede chairs.

“Mom, this is my friend, Jason Tripp. Jason,
meet my mother, Donna.”

The sound of ice jostling around in the
bottom of a glass brings to my attention that she’s clasping a
small tumbler of amber liquid. I try not to stare at it, or compare
her to my mother, who opened the door yesterday wearing an apron
and an oven mitt, and I say, “I’m pleased to meet you uh….” I don’t
feel like it would be appropriate to refer to her as Donna, so I go
with her married name. “Mrs. Norwell.”

“Call me Donna. Donna, plain and simple.”
She doesn’t look very plain to me at all, and I find her strange
remark disconcerting. I wait for her to look up and tell me how
pleased she is to meet a close friend of her son’s, but she doesn’t
seem to be aware of social decorum.

When it’s clear that she’s not going to
properly greet me, I step across the room to stand before her
chair, carefully avoiding Liam’s eyes because I know they’ll
express what he’s thinking—
“I told you we shouldn’t have come
here”—
and I bend to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,
Donna. You have a beautiful home.”

“Did you notice the portrait of our darling
little Lucy?” She struggles to rise from the chair, only succeeding
with Liam’s gentle assistance, and stumbles past me to the huge
painting of her daughter. “Lucy was ten years old when she posed
for this portrait. The artist said that she was the most beautiful
child he had ever painted. And the sweetest too.” Her voice is
dreamy as she reminisces.

I sneak a glance at Liam. He’s staring at
the floor.

“We lost her when she was twelve.” She sighs
long and loud, and it reminds me of Liam’s sighs. Then her voice
lowers. “But… but we still have Liam.” She sniffs and turns around
sharply, which surprises me because she isn’t very steady on her
feet. “And now our Liam has a
friend
.” Donna grimaces,
making no attempt to hide her disgust at our relationship.

“You
know
what he is to me…
who
he is to me.” Liam steps up beside me protectively, but
her words don’t hurt me. Her bitter attitude toward her son,
however, does.

“Ah, yes, Liam. But what’s another
disappointment for your father and me?”

The silence is awkward and deafening. Liam
breaks it by suggesting quietly that we leave. I’m about to take
his hand when Donna calls out in an overly loud voice, “That’s
right, Liam. Run away. Just like you did on the night of the
fire….”

Liam and I gasp. “Come on, Jase… we’re outta
here.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the front door, but
before we can open it, it swings into us and a man who I figure is
Liam’s father bursts through the door, holding four take-out cups
of coffee in a drink holder.

“Liam!” He places the tray of coffees on a
desk near the door and reaches out to hug his son.

Liam embraces his father half-heartedly, and
says, “Dad, we were just leaving.”

“Hey—I cut my golf game short to see you and
your… your
boyfriend,
or whatever you wanna call him.”

Liam looks at me with a question in his
eyes, and I nod in response. “Okay, Dad, but we can stay for one
cup of coffee.”

“Well, good because that’s all I brought!
Your mother wouldn’t know how to brew a pot of coffee to save her
life.”

Donna snorts and asks, “What do I want with
coffee, David?”

“Think about what you just said, Donna.”
Donna doesn’t seem to pick up on the
you-are-a-drunk-and-need-coffee-to-sober-up message. “And remember,
you
said it, I didn’t,” Mr. Norwell snipes and turns to the
desk to get a cup of coffee. “Help yourselves, boys.”

Liam removes two cups of coffee from the
desk and returns to me. He doesn’t take a cup to his mother, who
needs one more than the rest of us put together. “We might as well
sit down.” He’s wary, to say the least.

Liam’s father gestures toward the couch,
where we sit. Donna drops into the same chair as before, but Mr.
Norwell remains on his feet by the fireplace. “So, introduce me to…
to this
fine young man
you have brought home to us.” The man
laughs as if he’s joking but I’m pretty sure he’s not.

What an asshole,
I think, but resist
the urge to roll my eyes.

“Dad, this is Jason Tripp. Jason, you’ve
kinda already met my father, David Norwell.”

Once again, I’m not greeted with the offer
of a proper handshake, but this time I’m not surprised and I don’t
bother to get up.

“Where are you from, Jason?”

“I’m from Wilson, NH, sir.”

“I know where that is. Shackville, USA, if I
remember correctly… near the border of Vermont, am I wrong?” He
laughs again. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, son.”

Liam stands up abruptly as if to confront
his father, and a drop of black coffee from his paper cup drips
onto the white carpet.

“Jesus, Liam, stop by for a visit and trash
my house, why don’t you!” Donna is suddenly furious. She stands up
and staggers to the stairs. “I need a drink.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Donna. Just go upstairs
and leave me alone with the pansies… you know I’ve never cared much
for flower arrangement.”

“That’s it, we’re out of here.” Liam holds
his hand out. I take it and rise to my feet. “And this, Jason, is
just another day in the life at the Norwell house.”

“Your life is
so damned
tough, Liam.”
After delivering his last comment with even more sarcasm than he’s
used so far in our conversation, if that’s possible, David Norwell
sucks down the end of his coffee and crumples the cup. “I’m an
investment banker, Jason.” He looks right at me. “A very successful
banker from what you can see.” He gestures to the gorgeous living
room. “My wife and son don’t appreciate all I do for them… all the
sacrifices I make for them to keep them living in this style.”

I have no idea how to respond, but Liam
starts tugging at my hand, and I know that this visit has come to
an end. I came here to find out more about Liam’s pain and I think
I have a pretty decent picture of it now.

“But Lucy… all I had to do was look into her
eyes and I could tell we were on the same page, in a way Donna and
Liam never could be and never will.” He rubs his eyes in a show of
emotion, and I want to rub mine because I can’t believe what I’m
seeing—the most dysfunctional family in the humble state of Maine.
Make that in all of New England.