This
work of
adult fiction, loosely based on
characters portrayed by Russell Crowe, includes adult language and
experiences;
you have been warned.No
copyright
infringement on the original work is intended.
Copyright Reagan Kavanagh 2007.
Author's
Note: There are several
versions of “Save
the Last Dance for Me,”
(Dolly Parton, Favorites,
1984)
but the one by Dolly Parton is the one Reagan's mother
would
have favoured. Clicking the link above or the one in context will
start the song.
MAXIMUS She is inordinately fond of music from
the days of her late mother’s adolescence; I speak specifically of
that popular during the 1960s. She has the player used by her mother
whilst at university and all the old vinyl records that had been
played so many times. The old player – a record player, with
spindles of two sizes to accommodate the vinyl platters of different
sizes – is large and cumbersome in comparison to the playback units
of this day. The records themselves are bulky, prone to warping in
extremes of heat and shattering in very cold weather, and best stored
on their edge to preclude those occurrences. Once warped, the
platters are useless as they will no longer properly reproduce the
original sound; the result of a platter breaking from cold is
obvious.
Shortly before our move to the farm, I
fashioned a cabinet for Cassandra that would accommodate not only her
mother’s player, but all the records my wife holds dear. It is
necessarily large, though nicely fashioned. It was one of the few
pieces of furniture my wife demanded be brought inside the old
farmhouse on the day we moved. She would not consider storing the
player or the treasured platters in the barn with the remainder of
the furniture that awaited completion of our new home and subsequent
movement into that edifice. The cabinet sits in our lounge room; it
will be placed in the media room on completion of the new house.
I can tell when she is melancholy, for
she pulls out old records favoured by her mother and plays them for
hours. When I arrived home this night, she was sitting in the
darkened lounge with one recording playing repeatedly. She looked up
when I entered the room; I could see the tracks of tears on her face
in the light reflected from the kitchen. I put down my briefcase and
removed my coat before going to her, pulling her to her feet and
taking her in my arms to hold her close to my body.
“What troubles you, Cara?”
Her voice was choked with tears as she tried to answer.
“I miss her, Max. I miss her so
much!” There was no doubt in my mind as to the point of reference
for 'her;' it could only be Cassandra's late mother. The dam within
my wife burst, and she sobbed into my shirt front. Emily was born a
month past. My research of breeding women has informed me that women
become more emotional immediately prior and for a time after giving
birth; I trust that is the reason for her now missing her mother so
acutely. I sat on the couch, taking her onto my lap, and continued
holding her close. In time, she ceased her weeping and looked at me.
I put her on her feet and went to check on our daughter; she was
sleeping soundly, and I returned to my wife.
“I fed Emily and put her down shortly
before you got home. I’m sorry, Caro. I’m such a mess
just now, but I miss my mother so. I’d give almost anything if she
could have lived long enough to hold Emily in her arms. She wanted
this for me – for both of us – for so long.” The song was
still playing in the background, and I sought to deflect her
attention from the loss of her mother.
“What particular significance did
this
song hold for your mother?” She dabbed at her eyes and took a
deep breath.
“She loved that song. I think it
represented a wish she always wanted but was never fulfilled …at
least I never saw it fulfilled.”
“In what respect was it unfilled?”
She settled again and I could almost see her travel back in her
memories.
“When I was little, my father’s
company gave him a membership at the country club. He played golf;
golf is a good way to do business outside of office hours.” That
was true enough in certain professions.
“With the club membership came the
golf course, access to the swimming pool and tennis courts, and an
open invitation to all the social functions that gave my father
access to making good business contacts and subsequent deals. There
was a dinner buffet every Saturday night, and everyone who was
‘anyone’ in town was always there. There was either a live band,
or the juke box from the kids’ rec centre was moved into the
ballroom so the adults could dance. Mother always wanted my father
to have the last dance of the evening with her; I don’t recall his
ever doing so. That dance was always with some other woman.” I
was puzzled in the extreme. Her mother’s wishing to have the last
dance of the evening with her husband seemed appropriate and a simple
request to gratify.
“Did he offer a reason for his
refusal?”
“He said it was ‘good business’
to have that dance with the wife of a man he was doing business with
at the time. He’d leave mother and me at the table and take
someone else to the dance floor. After that, we’d go home. I’d
get ready for bed; he’d come in and kiss me goodnight, and leave.”
I nodded as I spoke.
“That last seems reasonable. You
were young, and the hour was late. It was time for him to bid you
goodnight and leave you to your slumber.” She shook her head at
me.
“You don’t get it, Max. He would
leave, as in kiss me goodnight, and then leave the house
to meet some other woman, usually the woman he’d had that last
dance with an hour earlier at the country club. I didn’t realise
what was happening until I was about ten, and I heard my mother
crying one night as she begged him to stay with her. I crept out of
bed and down the hall in time to see him toss her hands away and walk
out the door. I went back to my room and stood at the window …I
watched him drive away. From that point forward, I watched the
scenario play out every Saturday night until I left home for
university. By the time I was 12, I realised he stayed home long
enough to shave before leaving the house and why he was doing
it.
“That’s what I was referring to on
the occasion I told you my father screwed around with every woman in
the county. I’m only surprised he wasn’t shot by one of their
husbands. As if what he did wasn’t bad enough, he’d drag mother
and me to Church every Sunday morning and sit there feigning piety
and familial duty. He forced my mother to endure the whispers about
him and whoever he was fucking at any given point in time. In truth,
I don’t think he ever wanted to marry her, but marriage was
expected in that day, so he got married. An unmarried man wasn’t
considered responsible enough to advance professionally, so my mother
was the window-dressing for his career. He never wanted children,
but when I came along, I added to his so-called respectability. He
had a beautiful wife, a charming, well-mannered daughter, and for all
outward appearances, we were the perfect family. It was a sham, Max,
all of it was for show. All he ever cared about was what people saw,
and he gave them what they wanted to see. He showed them what was
good for him professionally.”
I pondered her thoughts for a time
before speaking once more. I now understood her question of me
regarding herself and the child she carried when I had challenged
Terry for leadership of our firm; she asked if I had married her as
‘window dressing’ for my profession. Given the experiences of
her childhood and youth, she had good reason to ask.
“Cara, I have told you of my
family and the experiences I knew as a child. I have told you of my
relationships with women in my past …first Lucilla, then my wife
and Ethelinde; you know that which I had with you in the first life.
You have never told me of your childhood other than the drunken
episode in which you and Ellen participated that lead to your
incarceration whilst yet a girl. Will you speak of it to me now?
Perhaps in the telling you will enlighten yourself.”
REAGAN Wow. The tables had turned, and my
husband was now in the position of therapist. I’d never even
considered telling Max about my family of origin or my admittedly
dysfunctional childhood and wasn’t at all sure I wanted to go
there; however, things are different now. We’re parents and
talking about my own screwed up childhood might be one of the keys to
making me a better parent to our daughter as well as any future
children we may have. I truly didn’t want to think back on those
years, but if I didn’t do so now, I could very well be risking
re-enacting some of the dynamics at work in the house in which I was
raised. I took a deep breath, got off his lap, and sat in my own
chair before beginning my journey back in time.
*
“The earliest memory I have is when I
was three-years-old. I was peeking round the refrigerator and
looking down the length of the kitchen toward the lounge. Mother was
making dinner, and my father was sitting in his chair reading the
paper. I’d probably been there for several minutes when my mother
turned to my father and told him I was trying to get his attention;
she said she’d appreciate it if he would reciprocate.
“He lowered the newspaper and looked
at me. He asked if I know how old I was. I recall nodding; I held
up three fingers and said I was three. He nodded and looked at my
mother. I’ll never forget his comment …‘At least she knows how
to count.’ That may have been the moment my awareness that I’d
never be able to please him began.” Max reached over and took my
hand in his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb as he watched me
closely and listened.
“I honestly don’t remember a great
deal of interaction with my father. When I was six or seven, it
snowed, and he helped Ellie and me build a snowman. He said even
girls should know how to build something. When I was
eight, I was accused by a classmate of stealing one of her pencils.
The teacher didn’t think I’d done it, and I certainly didn’t
have the bloody thing because I hadn't taken it, but all such
accusations were reported to parents. The pencil had red and white
stripes on it …I think the girl had got it at the fair …and I
liked it. What child wouldn’t? I’d told my mother about it the
day I saw it, and she said perhaps we could find one like it for me.
That was that; we couldn’t find one, and I didn’t take the one
belonging to the other child.
“The principal called my father at
his office; he left work and was waiting for me when I got home. He
interrogated me in much the same manner I’ve interrogated the
accused over the years. I tried to explain that although I liked the
pencil, I hadn’t taken it. The child had left it on her desk when
we went outdoors for recess; perhaps someone else had taken it, or
perhaps she’d put it in her book bag and forgotten about doing so.
My father stopped me at that point and said I was lying. I said I
wasn’t and hadn’t done anything wrong. His response was that any
time someone started ‘explaining’ their actions – and he
managed to make that a dirty word – he knew they were lying. That
was the last time I ever attempted to justify anything to him.”
*
“Just before my ninth birthday, I
screwed up my courage and asked my father why he didn’t like me.
Rather than trying to reassure me that he did like me, he actually
told me the truth. He said it wasn’t that he actually disliked me
specifically, but that he’d never wanted children at all.
He fathered me because children were necessary as a part of his place
in the community. A responsible man was married and had children,
and that was why he allowed my mother to have me.
“He went on to say that even though
he hadn’t wanted me, I was a reasonably good child, and he would
certainly do his best to ‘do right’ by me. I asked what that
meant. His response was that he would make sure I always had a roof
over my head and enough food and decent clothes to wear. He didn’t
plan on sending me to college, as girls just grew up and got married
and pregnant, and he wasn’t wasting his money when I’d never use
my education anyway. That was the day I determined to make him eat
those words.
“By the time I was 14, I was taller
than most of my peers, boys included. I was slender and didn’t
have the adolescent acne that plagued so many of my friends. Mother
and I made a trip to Dallas during the Christmas holidays to shop and
went to Neiman Marcus. We were browsing through blouses, hoping to
find one for a cousin when a woman walked up to my mother and
introduced herself. Her name was Susan Calvert; she was the fashion
coordinator for the store. She put together all their fashion shows,
selected the clothing and accessories, and basically set the tone for
what the Dallas elite would be wearing each season. As a former
fashion model herself, she also chose and trained all of Neiman’s
runway models for both the Dallas and Houston stores. She asked my
mother if I’d ever done any modelling. I had, but only as a child,
and had done nothing since I was eight-years-old. Susan said she
would take care of that, and before we left Dallas, she’d had me
with a photographer, and I had my first adult portfolio.
“Susan made arrangements to put me
with a modelling coach in Tyler and enrolled me in diction lessons
because as she said, ‘Sooner or later, someone is going to ask you
a question, and I don't want you to sound like an Irish Mick who's
been living in the East Texas Piney Woods. You reflect Nieman-Marcus
stores; you need to sound the part.’ She never minced words.
Susan originally wanted me to model clothes for teens, but within six
months, she realised she had a true clothes horse on her hands. She
also discovered that when I was in full make-up, I looked 25. I
modelled teen clothing for less than a year, and then went into haute
couture. I was wearing clothes by Dior, Givenchy, and de la
Renta before I was 16. I was making good money and socking it away
for college because I knew damned well that going to university would
be on my nickel.
“Susan brought me to Dallas for every
show they had here, and sent me to Houston for most of the shows
there. She also sent me to New York and Boston and to London a
couple of times. The store paid my trips and my mother’s expenses
as well; I was far too young and inexperienced to be globe-trotting
by myself. A couple of the big name designers on the North American
continent picked me up, and I modelled for Carolina Herrera at her
New York salon, as well as for Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren.
“Thinking back on it, my last three
years in high school may have been the best of my father’s life. I
was making money and investing it for my education; that meant he
wouldn’t have to listen to me whine – his word, not mine –
about not being able to afford to attend university. I spent half my
time on the road even though I was still in school, and mother went
with me; her degree was in secondary education, and she tutored me.
Our frequent absence from home meant my father was free to cat around
on mother as much as he liked; I’m surprised someone’s jealous
husband didn't kill him during that time frame.”
I stopped talking, becoming aware that
my husband’s usually impassive face had lapsed into melancholy. I
should have known my retrospective would upset him. It’s just this
side of inconceivable to Max that anyone could – much less would
– speak so scathingly of a parent.
“Max, the reality is that though I
loved my father and respected him, I didn’t like him; I know
he didn’t like me. I have no idea as to whether or not my love was
returned. I know the respect wasn’t. To him I was a financial
burden he undertook to make himself more professionally acceptable.
Men of his generation were expected to marry and have children.
That’s how the ‘game’ was played, and he played by the rules,
at least on the surface …the
screwing round on my mother wasn't in the 'rule book,' but he got
away with it. It took me years to realise and accept it, but the
simple fact is that parents and children don’t always love each
other, and they don’t always like each other. My father and I fit
very neatly into that descriptor.”
He was silent for a few moments before
speaking.
“And what of your mother? What was
the relationship between the two of you?” I finally felt the smile
break through my still unresolved anger at my father.
“She was the most incredible woman
I’ve ever known. She was born to be a mother, and I can’t
imagine any woman having a better and more loving mother than I did.”
“Tell me of her.”
*
How do you tell your husband of the
person you loved most in the world until you met him?
“She was loving and warm and funny,
and everyone but my father adored her; I don't think he actually
disliked her, but she was an appendage, an accoutrement to his
success. She embraced life and all it had to offer, even when what
it offered wasn’t pleasant; she accepted the less than wonderful
things and made the best of them. I’d like to think she taught me
to do the same; most of the time I think she succeeded.
“She was amazingly intelligent and
not only in the academic sense. She had native intelligence. I
suspect you would have found her a match for Lucilla in the brains
department.”
“I find you to exceed
Lucilla in that area. It does not surprise me to learn that your
mother was very intelligent.”
“She was more than just intelligent,
Max …she was wise. She had the ability for discernment and
discretion, she wasn’t judgemental, and she was fair in every sense
of the word. She raised me to understand that life wouldn’t always
be fair, but that I could still make the most of it and be reasonably
happy as a result. She was a lady, Max, and that isn’t something
I’m willing to say about many women. She was gracious and
charming; she was without doubt the best professional asset my father
had, and he was too foolish to realise it.” I fell silent for a
moment, and he spoke again.
“Have you photographs of them? I
have heard Ellen say you greatly resemble your mother, but I should
like to see for myself.”
“Yes, I have photos; they’re in the
album in my cedar chest.” I walked to the bedroom, stopping to
check on Emily who was sound asleep in her crib, collected the album
and returned to the lounge and sat beside my husband.
“I think my mother was a beautiful
woman, but I’ll also admit to being biased. You may judge for
yourself. After all I’ve said regarding my father, you likely
expect him to look like an ogre; he didn’t. Although I disliked
him intensely, even I could see that he was a very handsome man, for
all the sternness of his appearance.” He took the album from where
it sat in my lap.
“Are there photos of you in this
book?”
“No …this album only has photos of
my mother and father. The ones of me are in the barn. I know what I
looked like as a child and adolescent, so I’ve never bothered to
keep them out and accessible.” The smile on his face told me we’d
be in the barn soon and digging for those old albums. He opened the
book and stopped at the first page. It was blank but for a photo in
each corner of the page. I’d positioned the photos so that my
parents were facing away from each other. I’m not sure that had
been a conscious act on my part when I put the album together, but it
certainly struck me now. They didn’t communicate in life, so why
should they be facing each other in death? The implication – for
lack of a better term – wasn’t lost on Max.
“They are facing away from each
other. Was that intentional on your part?”
“I truly don’t know. I do know
that in life they were always at opposite ends of whatever continuum
they happened to be on at any given moment, so it was probably
intentional though beneath conscious awareness on my part.” He
returned his attention to the photos for a few moments before
speaking again.
“It is not difficult to see from
whence your beauty derives. I have never seen a more handsome
couple.” I smiled.
“They were a good looking pair;
there’s no doubt about that.”
“From what you tell me, they were
completely opposite in demeanour. How did they come to marry?” My
laugh was bitter.
“That’s the easy part. My father
was his company's regional manager in East Texas; his firm was
headquartered in Houston. At one of the managers’ meetings, the
company president took my father aside and indicated that he was
slated for bigger things, i.e., a potential move into headquarters,
but he needed a wife to make the corporate photo complete.
Basically, the president did to my father what Caesar did to you …he
ordered him to marry.
“My father started scouting women in
Palestine – it never hurts to marry a home-town girl – and my
mother came home from college on Christmas Holiday shortly
thereafter. They met at a party; she had a ring on her finger when
she went back to school. They married when she came home on spring
break. I suspect that was the only precipitous decision my mother
ever made. God knows, she paid dearly for it.” His smile was
there, but it was sad.
“Making that decision resulted in
your conception. I doubt she regretted your birth.” God, I hope
she didn’t.
“Well, there is that. I don’t
think she ever regretted having me, but I do know she regretted
marrying my father.”
“Why did she not divorce him?”
“Are you kidding? Palestine, Texas
in the 1960s? Add to that the fact that she was Roman Catholic, and
she would have been the social outcast if she’d done that.
Her family was still alive, and she’d have died before she’d have
left him and embarrassed her parents by being divorced and
excommunicated.” He thought on that for a bit before speaking
again.
“You have shown me her grave, but
your father is not at her side. Is he still alive?” I knew he’d
eventually get round to that question, and I knew I had to answer.
“I don’t know. He left town on a
business trip whilst I was away at university. He never came home.
He didn’t call on his arrival at his destination, which he always
did for some perverse reason, and when Mother checked with the hotel
he was supposed to stay at, he’d never checked in. She called the
police in Palestine, then in Shreveport where he was supposed to be.
The police in Palestine contacted the Highway Patrol to look for his
car …nothing between home and the state line. Texas DPS contacted
the Louisiana State Police, and they checked the roads from the Texas
border to Shreveport …nothing there either. Nothing was ever found
…not his car, his suitcase, no wallet or chequebook ever surfaced,
and there were no charges to his credit cards. He just drove off one
day, and no one who knew him locally or professionally ever saw or
heard from him again.
“I suppose he could have run off one
of the roads in Louisiana and into a bayou …the ‘gators might
have eaten him, or he could have been bitten by a cottonmouth and
died. I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. Physically dead
or not, he’s dead to me and has been for more than 20 years. What
I do know is that the last years of my mother’s life were happy
without him, and that’s all I
care about.”
MAXIMUS I knew my wife could be controlled when
called upon. I had seen that in Cairo and had been told of her
strength whilst I was missing. This was the first time I had
witnessed her anger at her father. I had long known she bore him no
true affection but was caught off guard at the depth of her antipathy
for him.
I held my tongue and continued looking
through the photo album, coming upon a collage of photos Cassandra
had compiled of her parents.
I tapped the top left of the collage as
I looked at her.
“Who is the boy?” She shrugged her
shoulders before speaking.
“You tell me. Mother found it in a
box of photos when we were cleaning out my father's effects a year
after he disappeared …she
hadn't even known he had any photos stored anywhere. He never
showed me any affection – I always knew he wished I’d been a boy
– but his affection for that child is certainly apparent, isn’t
it?”
It was indeed. I did not ask the
question, but she answered it.
“I suspect it was his son, though who
the mother was, Mother and I had no idea. You can tell it wasn’t
done with a good camera or quality of film. I suspect the child’s
mother took it and had a print made for my father. There’s a date
on the back; it was made when I was six-years-old. The boy looks to
be about seven or eight, which would have made him born after my
parents married. My guess is that I have a brother out there
somewhere. In truth, I’d like to know who he is and meet him …and
I pray he’s nothing like our father.”
Adultery takes on far greater
significance in this day than in mine. Roman men were expected to
have sexual relations outside of marriage; it was accepted, and no
one thought the less of a man for having his share of bastards. This
time is different, and a male child lacking the presence and love of
his father feels that loss keenly. For my wife to see an example of
her father’s care expressed to another child – whether that child
was his or not – must have been painful for her in the extreme.
“Why did you include this photo in
the collage?” She shrugged and shook her head.
“Every photo included shows a
different aspect of my parents. It seemed appropriate to have one of
my father in which he actually looked happy, even if that happiness
wasn't directed toward me or my mother.” Perhaps I had best change
the subject.
“Who is the man your mother is
embracing?” She smiled at last.
“That was the man she should have
married and didn’t. They dated through high school and put the
relationship on hold when she went off to university. He went to the
Texas A&M University, and Mother went to Vassar.
Gabriel Forrest Hallowell …Gabe. He wasn’t at home when she met
my father. He was an oceanography major and on a cruise in the Gulf
that year. By the time he came home, my parents were less than a
month from their wedding. That photo was taken at my grandmother's
funeral. My father had disappeared several years earlier, and Gabe
was my mother's mainstay when Grandmum died; my mother and her mum
were as close as my mother I were.”
“And what of Gabe? Has he children
now? They must be close to your age.”
She shook her head in the negative.
“Gabe never married, though I suspect
he's come close a couple of times. He lives in Galveston. He's a
professor of Oceanography with the Texas A&M program there. I
think my mother was the love of his life, and if he couldn't have
her, he just decided not to marry. He's a wonderful man, Max …you'd
like him, and I know he'd like you.”
“I should like to meet him one day.”
“I think that can be arranged. He
comes home each Christmas and Easter to spend time with his parents –
they're both alive and still live in the house where Gabe grew up –
and we could go to Palestine for Easter. I should contact him and
let him know we'll be there and like to see him. He does know I've
remarried …I invited him to
our wedding, but he sent his regrets.” He declined to attend the
wedding of the daughter of the woman he loved; most curious.
“Do you know his reasons for not
attending?” She smiled sadly before answering.
“Yes …he
called me two weeks before we married and apologised in advance for
not being there. He said it would be too painful to watch me walk
down the aisle and marry, that it would be too much like the night he
watched my mother marry my father. Gabe was at their wedding, and he
said it almost killed him to lose her. He said that if I could
forgive him for not attending our wedding, he'd really like to meet
you at some point in time. I promised him that would happen.” I
pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair as she nestled
into my chest.
“And so it shall.” The music was
still playing and she she straightened, I stood and pulled her to her
feet.
“Dance with me, Cara. I
promise you, my last dance will always be with you.”
