The Golden Boy, page 28
“My God, she’s a stupid woman. No wonder her son’s in rehab. You know what it does, don’t you?”
“It puts you to sleep.”
“Hallucinations, anxiety, memory loss, aggression, confusion—shall I go on?”
“Stafford, how do you know all this?”
“I ran a network, Agnes. Half my VPs were on it.”
“Should we check on them?”
“They’re still asleep. I checked when I got home from the clinic.”
“You checked?”
“Oh, don’t act so surprised, Stafford. I’m not completely devoid of maternal instinct. They pushed the beds together and they’re all tangled up in a great steaming pile of sheets and pillows. They are out.”
“We should wake them up.”
“Okay, let’s add to the list, shall we? No guns in the house, no mystery pills from Cheryl’s medicine cabinet, no cell phone phobia, and no waking up exhausted children unless they’re teenagers who arrive home drunk and after curfew and throw up in the front hall.”
“Did you ever do that?”
“Nobody ever waited up for me, Stafford.”
“I know, Agnes. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t cry, Agnes. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I’m insensitive. I’m selfish. I’m a shit, Agnes, a royal Canadian asshole, just like they said.”
“You are.”
“Can I get you something?”
“You mean like four children?”
“Four? I left Toronto with five.”
“All right, that’s funny. For that you can hand me another Kleenex.”
“There’s something I want to ask you, Agnes.”
“Please, Stafford, a moment, okay?”
“Why did you come to Kingston that day, Agnes?”
“Oh, Stafford, he looks just like you. Same eyes. Same hands. Same mouth. Same everything.”
“He has a different last name.”
“And the boy with the red hair?”
“That’s Bobby.”
“Who does he look like, Stafford? He doesn’t look like the others.”
“He looks like his grandfather. He looks like Bobby Shepherd.”
“The red hair?”
“Yes.”
“And what did the grandmother look like?”
“Her name was Carrie Ann. We were all in the same class. No, that’s not right. She was a year behind us.”
“Stafford, please.”
“She looked like Bobby Shepherd. They both had red hair. They were lovers. Well, that sounds ridiculous. They were teenagers and they were having sex. I tried to break them up. Did, in fact. I moved in on Carrie Ann, and when Bobby found out, it killed him.”
“Moved in on?”
“I was drunk and she—”
“‘She’? She what? Seduced you? Had her way with you? Come on, Stafford.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then take the blame.”
“I’ll take it to my grave, Agnes. I know what I did. Every awful detail. We were at a dance. It was winter. We were on Wolfe Island. We were drinking. I was unhappy. My best friend—only friend—was happy and I couldn’t handle it. There was a raffle, and he went to buy a ticket for his girlfriend. He didn’t have enough money. Could he borrow some money? ‘I’ll bring you back the change,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on Carrie Ann.’ There was a lineup. He might be a while. Sure, no problem, Bobby. Take all the time you need. Do you want to hear the rest, Agnes?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Settle down. This isn’t helping. Wow. Can you believe I’m the one saying that? But I do have a question if you could wipe your nose. It’s distracting.”
“Anything.”
“What happened to Bobby?”
“He froze to death.”
“Suicide?”
“No. Bobby wanted to live. I was the one who wanted to die.”
“What changed?”
“I met you, Agnes.”
“Heavens. Well, here we are. Four children of indeterminate parentage in our guest suite. Does anyone else know?”
“My uncle Christy. And there’s a church caretaker in Kingston.”
“Oh my God. You couldn’t wait for the priest? You had to tell the caretaker?”
“Agnes. I want them to be Bobby’s grandchildren, not mine, but if you ask me to, I’ll have them tested.”
“To see if they’re yours?”
“To make them ours.”
“No, I don’t want that. I really don’t. Is that the last Kleenex? I mean, think about it. We take them to a lab or a hospital and have somebody stick a needle in their arm and draw blood to figure out whose sperm cracked whose egg, what—forty years ago? Welcome to Maui. Who cares who slept with who at this point? Your uncle Christy won’t talk, and the little caretaker—well, honestly, Stafford. You are such an idiot sometimes.”
“Whom.”
“Excuse me?”
“Who slept with whom, Agnes.”
“I still have the gun, you know.”
“And I have the bullet.”
“Why did you come to Kingston, Agnes?”
“Oh, we’re back to that, are we? You know, Stafford, there are some secrets we really should take to the grave, but if you insist, I was working as a chambermaid at a motel across the border. It was Labor Day weekend and some guys from Queen’s were there to party it up. They picked me up and we all got drunk and stoned in their crappy little motel room and I had sex with one of them in the bathroom. They all thought that was great and said I should come to Kingston for the homecoming weekend. I thought they meant it, so I bought a new dress, a party dress, all wrong of course, and took the bus to Kingston, where I made a fool of myself to the delight of my Canadian friends and their real girlfriends, who viewed me as the slutty little interloper I was.”
“Well, you met me.”
“I did.”
“And I’m a big success.”
“Huge.”
“And they got what they deserved.”
“Bitchy wives and cirrhosis of the liver.”
“I don’t want to go back to LA, Agnes. I know how much you love it—the parties, our houses, the life we had there—all of it. But they fired me, Agnes. Me—the philosopher king of network TV.”
“I was surprised it took them so long.”
“Well, the settlement my lawyers got may have been a factor.”
“Lawyers, huh? Good for something.”
“Fucking eh.”
“Seriously, Stafford? Six days in Canada and you’re back to eh.”
“It’s deep.”
“Do you want to go inside, Agnes?”
“No, I’m feeling a little better now. Is my nose red? Let’s sit out here until they wake up.”
“How about a cup of tea?”
“Sure, why not. Where are you going?”
“To the bar shack. I make tea there. I have a special cup.”
“Oh, I bet you do. Help me up.”
“Should you be walking on that foot?”
“No, but I can’t walk on my hands.”
“I could carry you.”
“Not a chance. I’ll hobble at my own pace, thank you. But I’ll take your arm.”
“Do you think we should hire a nanny?”
“No. But we’ll need a better housekeeper than Kelly, who quit by the way. And we’ll need a lifeguard. Maybe a nice teenage girl who likes to babysit. That would solve a lot of problems.”
“A lifeguard?”
“Well, they have to learn to swim, Stafford. We can’t have them falling into the pool and drowning. And you should take lessons with them. The next time you get swept out to sea, you’re on your own.”
“Noted.”
“Okay,” she said when they reached the bar shack, “let me sit down for a minute. Why don’t you use the kitchen in the pool house? There’s nothing in here except a minifridge, which seems to be leaking, a blender, and a microwave. You’re not supposed to boil water in a microwave, Stafford. I read that somewhere. Where’s the teapot?”
“Well, I like to steep the tea in the cup. And then I add condensed milk—we should open a fresh can—and of course, sugar. Three lumps per cup.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It is the mark of an educated mind, Agnes, to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”
“Aristotle.”
“Good guess.”
“He must have been quite the party bore. Are there any more cups in here? This one’s broken. We really need to fix up this little kitchen.”
“The broken cup’s mine. You can have any of the other ones.”
“Oh, I get it. This is your let’s-pretend-we’re-still-poor hangout. Where are we going now?”
“Just over there,” he said. “There’s a place to sit on the wall.”
Agnes had never had a cup of tea sitting on the stone wall that marked the lower edge of their property, but when he settled her there and put the cup into her hands, she smiled at him, and to her surprise, she didn’t flinch when he kissed her.
It was going to be a warm day, she thought, perhaps even a hot one. They would need to get some groceries in and cook something nice for dinner. The children would need bathing suits and sunscreen. The little girl needed a bath and a comb-out.
It was going to be a cool day, he thought, maybe a windy one. Was there a fast-pitch team on Maui? Did the boys know how to ride a horse? Would they like the Maui schools? Should he build a new one? He would have to get the barbecue fixed. The grill didn’t get hot enough for really good steaks.
“This is a lovely spot,” Agnes said.
“How’s the tea?” Stafford asked.
“Sickening,” she said. “A tea milkshake.”
“Callie,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“What do we say?” he asked.
“We tell our daughter that we are the guardians of four children whose parents died in a car crash.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, Stafford. That’s the whole thing.”
CHAPTER 27
Love
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Friday, March 28 2003 10:58 PM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Are you freaking kidding me?
Parents—thank you for sharing the news you have found yourselves a new batch of children to ruin. Judging from my own experience, it shouldn’t take long.
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Saturday, March 29 2003 06:23 AM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: Re: Are you freaking kidding me?
Dear Callie—thank you for taking my phone call. I am so, so sorry our news has caused you such distress, but really, do you honestly think a tubal ligation is the best way of coping? Yes, we were terrible parents. Agreed. But we might be better grandparents, adopted or otherwise. At least that’s what we’re hoping. So yes, we are keeping the Shepherd children, and yes, we would like you to come to Maui and meet them. They’re quite nice actually and I like them. Which doesn’t mean that I don’t love you more.
Love, Mom
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Sunday, March 30 2003 12:37 AM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Are you freaking kidding me?
WJATEVETRRRRRRRR!!!
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Wednesday, April 2 2003 08:23 AM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: Not freaking kidding
Dear Callie—I am flying to LA on Friday. Don’t worry about picking me up. Your father has arranged a limo. Rather than stay alone in the apartment, I’ve decided to stay with you. Don’t fuss about the room. We need time together.
Love, Mom
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Wednesday, April 2 2003 11:37 AM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Re: Not freaking kidding
Please don’t come. I’m in a new relationship and I don’t want to screw it up. I need time to figure some stuff out, okay. And your news kind of interrupted that. I’m asking you to respect my privacy. Callie
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Thursday, April 3 2003 2:23 PM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
Dear Callie—well, alright. If that’s what you want. I can respect that. I just don’t want you to think that your parents are going out of their way to replace you. We’re not. You’re not replaceable and I’m not really sure what will happen with these “new” children, although I think your father has a few ideas up his sleeve. I probably should have found a better way of telling you about them than blurting it out on a phone call. Anyhow, long email but good luck with the new man in your life. You deserve to be happy.
Love, Mom
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Friday, April 4 2003 04:28 AM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
It’s not a man.
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Saturday, April 5 2003 03:16 PM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
Well, I hope it’s not an actor. Your father hates actors.
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Sunday, April 6 2003 09:19 AM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
Her name is Cynthia and she’s a pediatric resident at LA General. We met at a gallery opening. She’s wonderful.
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Monday, April 7 2003 03:13 PM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
Wonderful is good. You deserve wonderful. Can I call you tonight?
From: Callie Hopkins [c@hopkins.com]
Sent: Monday, April 7 2003 6:51 PM
To: Agnes Hopkins
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Not freaking kidding
Let’s wait. I’ll call you next week.
From: Agnes Hopkins
Sent: Tuesday, April 15 2003 08:43 AM
To: Callie Hopkins
Subject: New frontiers!!
My dear daughter,
I feel a long email coming on, so settle in. First and foremost (your father hates it when I say that), thank you for calling. I’m glad we talked and it went better than expected don’t you think? I promise not to bust into your private life without an invitation and I promise to let you decide how, if, and when you share information about Cynthia with your father. He may be passive-aggressive, uptight, pretentious, intellectually arrogant, and furtive, but he’s not prejudiced unless of course you’re an actor, studio executive or agent. But let’s put that aside. I agree that our venture into the “orphan biz” as you call it is bizarre, but it’s been a month and I think we’re making progress after an awkward start.
The little girl is sweet and follows me around the house now the way you used to before I hired professionals to raise you. What an idiot I was!! I was lazy and afraid. Bad combination in a mother. Lucky you. The truth is your father and I were a couple of new money pretenders who didn’t have a clue how to live in a place like LA. But now—and you’ll love this—according to our friends on Maui, we’re a couple of delusional seniors getting fleeced by Canadian orphans. We’ve had numerous complaints about the noise from the pool and have, I found out this morning, been dropped from our foursome at the club’s annual tournament & ball. Apparently, the Sassons have found new golfing partners! Free at last, your father says, and for once I agree with him. In the meantime, he’s busy helping the older boys with a building project he’s cooked up. It seems this little beach shack of ours doesn’t actually have enough bedrooms. Aside from ours, I mean, there’s just the guest suite (reserved for you, darling) and the pool house, which won’t work for kids who can’t swim and seem to want to be in the same room most of the time. Where one goes, the rest follow. They’re like ducks!
Anyhow, your father is turning his palatial upstairs office into—are you ready for this?—a bunkhouse. Goodbye Aristotle. He’s bought some kind of pickup truck to haul huge quantities of wood from the local lumberyard (I didn’t know we had one) back to the house. And the nails! He’s bought thousands of them and enough tools to tear this house down and start from scratch. Fortunately, he seems satisfied building a bunkhouse, and I must say it has really turned things around with the oldest boy. He doesn’t say much, but he’s upstairs hammering away day and night, and I think it’s good for him. Anyhow, the Berlin wall is down, yes? Please come and see us soon and bring Cynthia if things work out.
Love always, Mom
P.S. Sorry. Forgot to mention their names. The little girl is Lucy. The oldest boy is Donald but we call him Donny. Then there is a boy named Bobby who is about twelve I think, and a sweet little boy with glasses who seems a bit slow. I think he’s six. Sticks very close to his brothers.
P.P.S. Andy—the little one with glasses is Andy. Very sweet.
CHAPTER 28
