would I even say to her? How would I even find her?"
"I don't know ... They go to this club all the time, her friends and her. The Den..." Her cigarette had burned to the nub. She let it burn, holding it up beside her head. With her other hand, she pinched the bridge of her nose. She shut her eyes. A crystal tear shone on her lashes.
"Lauren..." I said. "Really..."
"Shit. Just do this, will you, Jason. For old times' sake. I'm scared, okay? Every day, I'm so scared ... I can't sleep at night ... Will you just do this? Please."
I'm not sure what I was about to tell her. Something, some excuse, to get me out of there. It all just seemed wrong to me somehow. Wrong, suspect, illogical, bizarre, maybe even dangerous. I was an idiot to have come. I had let myself be tempted by—whatever had tempted me—the promise of schadenfreude or the sexual charge of an old flame or the vague, imaginary prospect of an emotional adventure. And I was tempted now, too—by her ridiculous faith in me and by the chance to play her knight in
shining armor and the chance to play Big Daddy to some pretty teenaged girl.
But no. I was finished here. I was sorry I'd come. I was sorry I'd left my sweet house on the Hill for this shabby rental with its secondhand couch and its furniture that came in boxes. I wanted to get out of here and get the hell home as fast as I could.
I started to push back from the table. I started to say, "I'm sorry, Lauren—"
But she dropped her hand—the hand that was pinching the bridge of her nose. She dropped it to the photograph lying between us. She lifted the photograph by its frame. She waggled it in front of me, grimacing in her anger.
"Shit, Jason," she said. "Look at her, would you? You have to do this. I mean, come on. Look at her! Why do you think I called you? She's not Carl's kid. She's yours."
Waiting for Dark
I waited for dark in the television room. I was supposed to be upstairs. I was supposed to be cleaning out my mother's room so the Realtor could stage the house for potential buyers. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I waited in the television room instead.
There was a talk show on the massive screen. Some hip young host, a fidgety young guy, was sitting behind a desk against a backdrop of the Manhattan skyline. He was interviewing a pudgy, dissolute older actor and frantically working his hands and flashing glances at the audience as if he feared they might be as bored as he was.
I didn't recognize the guest at first. Then—wait a minute—yes, I did. Just as I was about to change the channel, I thought:
Son of a gun, that's Patrick Piersall.
So it was.
God, look at him,
I thought. Of course, I had no idea just then the part he would ultimately play in all this, but still, I was riveted. When I was a miserable twelve-year-old, he was the admiral of
The Universal
on the TV series of the same name. Augustus Kane, the wise, battle-hardened leader of an international crew of humans and androids sent into space to find a new home for the denizens of a dying Earth. He was sleek and muscular then in his skintight spaceship unitard. He had coiffed, wavy red-brown hair. Smooth, classic matinee-idol features highlighted by a hot, steady gaze. Oh, and the famous, mellifluous voice, its
signature syncopated rhythm.
Ram. The force field. Full speed! If those Borgons escape. The galaxy. Is done for!
No wonder I hadn't recognized him at first. What a roly-poly little wreck of a man he'd become. The dark jacket he'd closed artfully over an orange V-necked pullover couldn't hide his bowling-ball belly. And the once-dashing features were puffy and distorted, with a complexion like veiny yogurt, the sign of a lifelong drinker. His toupee was awful and sat like a hat over his grizzled sideburns.
Only the voice was the same, the liquid tone and the clipped, charged phrasing. And the dramatic gestures of his hands, too, as they chopped the air.
"Television. I think. Is such a wonderful vehicle for.
"I don't know ... They go to this club all the time, her friends and her. The Den..." Her cigarette had burned to the nub. She let it burn, holding it up beside her head. With her other hand, she pinched the bridge of her nose. She shut her eyes. A crystal tear shone on her lashes.
"Lauren..." I said. "Really..."
"Shit. Just do this, will you, Jason. For old times' sake. I'm scared, okay? Every day, I'm so scared ... I can't sleep at night ... Will you just do this? Please."
I'm not sure what I was about to tell her. Something, some excuse, to get me out of there. It all just seemed wrong to me somehow. Wrong, suspect, illogical, bizarre, maybe even dangerous. I was an idiot to have come. I had let myself be tempted by—whatever had tempted me—the promise of schadenfreude or the sexual charge of an old flame or the vague, imaginary prospect of an emotional adventure. And I was tempted now, too—by her ridiculous faith in me and by the chance to play her knight in
shining armor and the chance to play Big Daddy to some pretty teenaged girl.
But no. I was finished here. I was sorry I'd come. I was sorry I'd left my sweet house on the Hill for this shabby rental with its secondhand couch and its furniture that came in boxes. I wanted to get out of here and get the hell home as fast as I could.
I started to push back from the table. I started to say, "I'm sorry, Lauren—"
But she dropped her hand—the hand that was pinching the bridge of her nose. She dropped it to the photograph lying between us. She lifted the photograph by its frame. She waggled it in front of me, grimacing in her anger.
"Shit, Jason," she said. "Look at her, would you? You have to do this. I mean, come on. Look at her! Why do you think I called you? She's not Carl's kid. She's yours."
Waiting for Dark
I waited for dark in the television room. I was supposed to be upstairs. I was supposed to be cleaning out my mother's room so the Realtor could stage the house for potential buyers. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I waited in the television room instead.
There was a talk show on the massive screen. Some hip young host, a fidgety young guy, was sitting behind a desk against a backdrop of the Manhattan skyline. He was interviewing a pudgy, dissolute older actor and frantically working his hands and flashing glances at the audience as if he feared they might be as bored as he was.
I didn't recognize the guest at first. Then—wait a minute—yes, I did. Just as I was about to change the channel, I thought:
Son of a gun, that's Patrick Piersall.
So it was.
God, look at him,
I thought. Of course, I had no idea just then the part he would ultimately play in all this, but still, I was riveted. When I was a miserable twelve-year-old, he was the admiral of
The Universal
on the TV series of the same name. Augustus Kane, the wise, battle-hardened leader of an international crew of humans and androids sent into space to find a new home for the denizens of a dying Earth. He was sleek and muscular then in his skintight spaceship unitard. He had coiffed, wavy red-brown hair. Smooth, classic matinee-idol features highlighted by a hot, steady gaze. Oh, and the famous, mellifluous voice, its
signature syncopated rhythm.
Ram. The force field. Full speed! If those Borgons escape. The galaxy. Is done for!
No wonder I hadn't recognized him at first. What a roly-poly little wreck of a man he'd become. The dark jacket he'd closed artfully over an orange V-necked pullover couldn't hide his bowling-ball belly. And the once-dashing features were puffy and distorted, with a complexion like veiny yogurt, the sign of a lifelong drinker. His toupee was awful and sat like a hat over his grizzled sideburns.
Only the voice was the same, the liquid tone and the clipped, charged phrasing. And the dramatic gestures of his hands, too, as they chopped the air.
"Television. I think. Is such a wonderful vehicle for.
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