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“AREN’T YOU COMING IN?” Tim calls to me from the pool. I’m sitting in a lounge chair finishing Keith Kutter’s book. “The water is amazing. Come on, Bren! You need to come and play with me.”
Tim’s pretty high-strung, and it usually takes a day or so for him to uncoil and enjoy the vacation. While he is in this uncoiling period, I usually spend that time reading—so I’ve gotten the chance to read most of Keith’s book already. Now he’s fully uncoiled and ready to have fun, but I am trying to read to the end. Bad timing.
“Just a few more pages,” I tell him. “I’m almost finished.”
“You’ve had your nose buried in that book all weekend,” he says, playfully splashing me.
Like he’s even noticed. He’s had his phone glued to his ear, frantically checking in with the shop and with Aria. I know that a minute on the phone is better than him constantly wondering what’s going on back home without him. Still, I am pretty pissed that I went to the trouble of planning this whole trip and he hasn’t seemed to enjoy any of it. He answered his phone three times during the habitat tour at SeaWorld yesterday. Even the tour guide started to get annoyed. And he cancelled the couple’s massage this morning because he stayed too long on the phone with Aria. Now it’s like he’s just remembered that he has a wife who has been wanting his attention for the last two days.
Tim has completely missed the point of this trip, which was to get away from the grind at home and relax. I know he’ll be an awesome state senator, and I know he’s a great mechanic. His shop’s reviews on Yelp are all positive; they absolutely gush about his honesty. But I have to admit: sometimes it’s hard to stay supportive when I feel like I have to take the back seat. This trip is not at all what I planned. For example, we were just about to get onto a roller coaster when his mom called. We’d spent forever waiting in line for it at SeaWorld, but we had to let the people behind us take our seats so he could finish talking to her. I don’t know what they talked about, but why couldn’t he just tell her he’d call her back later? I am pretty tired of being the last person on his list. His mother, Portia, doesn’t like me, so it makes me feel even worse, knowing he’ll talk to her before he’ll talk to me.
When Tim and I first met, he’d been on track to go to medical school and then to take over his dad’s very successful ocular surgery practice. Tim’s father was the first surgeon in the state to perform Lasik surgery, and he’d made an absolute fortune off of his practice. Naturally, Portia had wanted Tim to take over the business and continue his dad’s legacy. But Tim hadn’t been passionate about medicine. Instead, his real love had always been cars. He’s the kind of guy who can fix just about anything. He finally made the decision to become a mechanic instead of a surgeon, and now his mother thinks that I “white-trashed” him. Never mind the fact that Tim’s shop is very successful and we are comfortable—not only because of his excellent reputation as a mechanic, but also because of my budding career as a publicist. And now she probably thinks I am extra trashy because I took him to an amusement park in Orlando instead of some exclusive spa in West Palm Beach. But Tim loves roller coasters. He’d rather spend a day riding them than getting massaged and buffed with sugar scrubs.
Just before we came out to the pool, Tim said, “It’s the last day of the trip. I am leaving this thing behind so I can get some sun.” Then he’d plugged the phone into the charger and left it on the bedside table. He raised his eyebrows when I took the book with me; I think he’d hoped I would also leave it behind. But I couldn’t bear to; I am so close to the end.
“Come on,” he says, splashing me again. “I left my phone in the room. You should have left the book.”
“Last page! Shhhh!” I wave him off. He rests his head on the side of the pool and whimpers like a puppy until, a few minutes later, I finally close the book. His red hair is shining in the sun, and he’s sprouted a few new freckles on his shoulders during this trip. “You’re worse than Vito.” I laugh, stepping into the pool. The cool water is refreshing against my hot skin. We left Vito, our beagle, in a kennel near the airport back home; he’d whimpered as the attendant took his leash and dragged him to his home for the weekend, trying to dig in, but hadn’t been able to get a grip on the slippery linoleum floor. Betrayed by his paws, he’d gone with the pull on the leash. When the attendant opened the door to the room with the kennels in it, I could hear the deafening racket of dozens of dogs barking at once. Vito looked back with an alarmed look on his face. Hopefully he’s made some friends while he’s been in the doggie slammer, as Tim calls it. Maybe he’ll learn a trade and get a prison tatt.
“Aaaahhh, this is nice.” I float on my back and feel the warm sun on my face, trying not to think of Vito howling from inside his cage.
I like to call Vito our trial baby, at least until we have a human one. We got Vito from a beagle rescue organization in order to settle my urge to be a mom until Tim decides it’s the right time.
“So, how did it end?” Tim asks, nodding toward the book I’ve left on the chaise.
“I kinda feel like the story didn’t really end,” I say. “Keith doesn’t see his wife or his kid, as far as I know. Where is the big Hollywood ending where he gets forgiven and gets his family back?”
“Well, based on what you told me at dinner last night, why would they want to see him? He tore that family apart.”
Okay, I know I’ve been complaining, but dinner last night with Tim really was pretty great. In fact, it was how I’d hoped the whole trip would be: no Aria; no shop. Just the two of us talking about what we had going on. We even got into a debate about whether Keith should have been arrested for driving drunk. I bet it was one of those situations where his manager did some fast talking and got the charges cleared. Maybe the chief of police was a big fan.
We used to have debates like that when we first got together; nothing too competitive, just friendly discussions about particular issues. They were a lot of fun, and I always learned something new. Until last night, we hadn’t had one for quite a while, and I’d missed it. At dinner, it was as if we were back in the initial stages of our relationship. We learned a lot about each other from the debates back then. Now that we’ve been married for a while, I wonder if we can ever learn something new about each other again.
“It was a moment of weakness,” I argued at dinner.
“Even in a moment like that, you are still supposed to know right from wrong,” Tim shot back. “You don’t get behind the wheel with your kid in the car after you’ve been drinking. And you sure as hell don’t take your son’s painkillers,” he insisted. “Not cool. Plus, if his wife hadn’t got rid of him, that boy would have had nothing but trouble, with a drug-addicted dad. I don’t blame her for not allowing Keith near her son anymore. I’d probably do the same thing.”
“I’m just saying that you haven’t walked a mile, you know? He’s telling his side of the story...”
“And which side is that? The side where an irresponsible drunk got behind the wheel and nearly killed his family? The side where a drug addict couldn’t stand to be the father of a quadriplegic? I feel no sympathy for the guy. It sounds like the whining of a has-been rock star to me. He should have been tossed into jail for driving drunk. He’s a selfish prick for having gotten behind the wheel in the first place.” He paused to take a sip of his wine. I wish I liked wine; it has this exotic mystique to me, and I’m fascinated about how people describe the different flavors of what are really just crushed grapes. To me, it all tastes the same. Bad.
“And another thing,” he said, dabbing a bite-sized chunk of his prime rib in the au jus. “He gets to take off on his yacht while his poor wife is left to care for this kid on her own. Must be nice, not to have to deal with the consequences.” Then he popped the steak into his mouth.
Today in the pool, the debate continues. I hold the tiled side and let my legs float out behind me. “Yes,” I say, “he made some poor decisions. So many people do. But I think he’s trying to make it better. He donates all that money from the book to the Rainbow House. I am sure he’s got round-the-clock care and the best of everything for Damien. I think he’s looking for a second chance.” I pause for a moment to let that sink in before I go further. “Aren’t you always saying that everyone deserves a second chance if they are truly sorry for what they did?”
“But how do you know if he’s truly sorry?” Tim asks me.
“Because I just finished a three hundred page book where his guilt is spilled on every single page. He gets it. He knows he screwed up.”
“I don’t know, Bren. Guys like that are too big for their own good.”
“But you haven’t read the book at all. How can you possibly say that?”
“Obviously, he fast-talked his way out of going to jail for committing a crime. He should have been thrown in jail.”
“So, the only way to show that you’re sorry is to go to jail? I’ll bet that every day Keith regrets getting behind the wheel. That’s still kind of like a jail, isn’t it? At what point does he finally get forgiven?” I pause to wet my hair. “What about Jimmy?” I ask. “You gave him keys to the shop, even though he’s gone to jail for stealing cars. How can you possibly trust him?”
“Jimmy’s changed,” Tim said. “He’s not that punk kid anymore. He wants to move forward, and you think anybody’s going to hire him with his record? He’s a great mechanic, and he never would have gotten the chance to make a living from it.” Jimmy’s story is a pretty interesting one. He came out of jail armed with car mechanic skills but couldn’t get a job. What shop owner in his right mind would give a car thief a job, right? But Tim recognized Jimmy’s talent and hired him. One of Tim’s reviews on Yelp actually said that Jimmy is the car whisperer. And it’s true. That guy can fix just about anything.
“So, Jimmy wanted to change,” I said. “I think Keith does, too. You were quick to give an ex-con a second chance, Tim.” One of Tim’s most important issues on his campaign is the problem of finding jobs for people who get out of prison. So many ex-convicts go back to committing crimes because they have no other way to survive. Tim wants to set up a formal state-run program to change that.
“You know, you’re right, Bren.” Tim runs his fingers over the surface of the pool and makes small ripples. “I think that I have a bad attitude about this guy because he’s so famous. I hold people like that to a higher standard because I think they should be doing more with the position they have. Sure, he donates the money from the book, but what else has he done lately?”
I would love to know the answer to that question, too. I can’t stop thinking about Keith and his image problem. If someone like Tim—who’s not a fan—is barely convinced that Keith is really trying to be a good guy after having made some unfortunate choices, then how will the rest of the world ever be convinced? I would love to sit Keith down at my kitchen table and have a long talk about his behavior. Where is his publicist? Why aren’t they doing anything to quash the negative stories going around?
“I’m surprised that they just didn’t get another bass player and move on,” Tim says. He leans his back against the side of the pool and lets his legs float out in front of him. “Sounds to me like he has too much drama.”
“But he also writes the lyrics,” I remind him. “And these guys are like a family. You don’t turn your back on someone when they’re having hard times, right?”
“I guess. But there comes a time when you have to break up with a friend when they start dragging you down, you know?”
I don’t answer him. At that moment, a couple with a toddler comes into the pool area, distracting me. The mom lays down an enormous tote bag filled with everything the little girl could possibly need. I can just picture Tim doing that. He would have our child’s snacks alphabetized in the tote bag. Maybe he’d fashion a belt with holsters that would contain something to eat, something to drink, wet wipes, Purell, toys—nothing frivolous, only educational or nutritious. I smile as I watch the family settle in at the other end of the pool. The toddler stands waist-deep in the kiddie pool and smacks her palms against the surface, beaming into the sun. The dad snaps a picture, and I wonder if it’ll get framed and put up in their house. I would totally frame a picture like that.
I’m sure that Tim has caught me staring, so I turn my gaze to him and see that I am right. It comes out before I can even stop it: a longing sigh.
“Bren, come on. We’ve talked about this.”
“I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m ready for that.” I point to the family. The mom and dad are sitting in the shallow kiddie pool, trying to teach their daughter to put her face in the water and blow bubbles.
Here we are again: the Dunkirk family impasse. Though, lately, with how busy we both have been, who would parent this kid? What I really want is for us to be that family in the kiddie pool. The mom and dad are laughing and splashing with their daughter and working together to teach that little girl how to interact with the world. I want that to be Tim and me, an infallible wall of family. But will it really be like that? I’d wanted just one weekend for the two of us to reconnect, and he couldn’t even do that. Maybe he’s right: it’s not the right time. Tim and I are just not on the same page. Hell, we’re not even in the same book right now. Sometimes I look at him when I come home from work and think, Who the hell is this guy? I don’t even know him anymore.
“Can we please talk about this after the election?” Tim asks. “I just have way too much on my plate right now.”
“Why would the election matter? It’s not like you’re going to have morning sickness while you’re campaigning. It’s not like you’d have to take maternity leave from the state Senate. Getting pregnant won’t really affect you, Tim. Why is it all about what’s on your plate?”
“You have a lot on your plate, too,” he says. “How the hell do you expect to become a vice president in your firm if you’re just going to turn around and immediately go out on maternity leave? Vice presidents of PR firms don’t leave work right at five to pick up the baby from daycare.” He swirls his fingers through the water. “It’s one more thing to think about, one more thing to worry about. I’ve got a lot going on, between the shop and the election. And what about your job? Won’t it stress you out, knowing that our kid is in daycare?”
“So, what you’re saying is that women who have executive level jobs can’t have children? It won’t stress me out that the kid is in daycare, Tim. That’s just what people do—it’s a part of life. When you have a family you find a way to make things work. It looks to me as if you aren’t even interested in trying to become a family. You’ve been on the phone this whole trip, and frankly, I’ve mostly had to sit around and wait for you to pay attention to me.”
“Bren, come on. You know I have a lot going on.”
“I do, too, Tim. The difference is, even with as hard as I work at my job, you are still number one on my list. Where am I on yours?”
I see the stricken look on Tim’s face; I think I need to stop. This disagreement won’t get resolved today. I just hate waiting around for him to make a decision that will affect my life. I feel like he’s not hearing me lately, and I hate that, too. I don’t want to turn into some nagging wife who has to beg her husband to pay attention to her. We float in silence for a few moments, not knowing how to change the subject. I don’t want to change it, because I want his answer to change. He probably won’t move on from the conversation because he probably thinks he’ll look insensitive. Then there’s the awkward pause, while we both silently try to decide when would be an appropriate moment to move on. I decide I can put us out of this misery right now. Radical subject change.
“When we get back,” I announce, “I want to see if I can find any underground copies of the album that Hydra tried to write without Keith Kutter.” I recall having read that they’d tried to produce something new but then scrapped it because it just wasn’t the same without him.
Tim smiles at me, looking relieved but trying not to show it, and pulls me close at the side of the pool. He kisses me deeply, but it still feels like a mercy kiss. “So,” he says, “are you now going off on one of your research projects?” He knows me well enough to know that I am heading toward one of my full-blown mini-obsessions. I get that way sometimes: I investigate the hell out of a particular topic until I make myself sick of it. Then he gets to hear about every single piece of new information I uncover along the way. He’s usually pretty supportive while I bombard him with it all, but I am sure that gets annoying after a while. Still, it’s nice to have a new hobby while he’s on the campaign trail.
Colors Fade came out a few years ago. What I want to know is what has happened since then. The way it stands right now, Keith isn’t in contact with his family, and the world hates him for driving drunk and being rude to his fans. There’s got to be more to the story than that. Is he just donating to the Rainbow House because it makes him look good? Or is he actually out there doing good? Based on the band’s lousy reputation, how can they ever hope to fill an arena again? I doubt I am the only inquiring mind that wants to know, but maybe I can be the one to find a way to change the world’s mind about Keith Kutter.