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“HEY,” I SAY, LOOKING UP from the kitchen table as Tim walks in the back door after work. He sets his jaw, walks past me, and doesn’t answer. I’m sure his mom has been chewing his ear off all day. “Listen, about this morning...”
“Can we not, please?” He turns and holds his hands up in front of me. “I am pretty tired of talking about this morning.” In a way, I am kind of thankful. What can I possibly have to say that would ease his tension?
He walks to the front room and gazes for a few moments out the front window; I know he’s looking at the fan camp. I also know that his patience is wearing thin. “I knew this would be a mistake,” he mutters to himself. “I fucking knew it.”
“Tim...”
“Just leave me alone. Please.” This is awkward. On one hand, I should just give Tim his space. But on the other hand, I know that if I give him too much space, he’ll get distant. Once distance is acquired, our marriage will slowly disintegrate. I am not sure what to do here. And I really wish I could talk to someone about this. But how can I possibly explain Hydra’s presence in our house?
Tim grinds his jaw as he stares out the window.
Even though Erik had corralled the fans, they are growing in number. Just the other day, they came in with signs they’d made. They hold them up now whenever the band’s minivans come or go. I try not to look over there, because I don’t want to encourage them. But one of the signs reads, Ben, I’ll be your downward dog. Gross. They barbeque on camp stoves, play Frisbee, and act like every day is a Saturday at the park. One of them has a camera with a really long zoom lens. He’s not there every day, and he doesn’t seem to participate with the others. I wonder what he’s taking pictures of. I am afraid to find out.
“I kind of feel like a prisoner in my house lately,” Tim says to me, sighing. So, does he want to talk to me or not? I thought I was supposed to be leaving him alone. Just then, the back door bursts open, and hungry band members and entourage flood in. Toni pulls out foil pans that Angela has warming in the oven.
“Stuffed cabbage,” she says, pulling the foil off the top of the pans. “Salad’s in the fridge. Would you grab it, Jeff?” Jeff pulls a gigantic bowl of salad out of the fridge and sets it on the island. Someone from the crew grabs a stack of plates from the cabinet, and soon band members and crew are lining up to fill their plates. Tim and I manage to score a helping for ourselves, as well. But when we look around for a place to sit, there’s no room at the dining room table or the kitchen table. It seems every seat in the house is filled. I shrug at Tim and gesture toward the back door.
I grab a blanket and spread it out on the deck. “Let’s make it a picnic. We never do things like this.” I’m trying to get Tim to relax and, maybe, start talking to me again. He sits across from me, but from the look on his face, I can tell he’s not amused. The deck furniture had been taken inside to accommodate Hydra’s crew, so we sit cross-legged and balance our plates on our laps. I swat a mosquito. Then I light a citronella candle and place it on the deck between us. The sun hasn’t set yet, but maybe I can turn this into a romantic setting and change his mood.
“My mom called me, like, ten times today,” he says. “She’s very upset. What the hell happened this morning? What did you say to her?”
“Well, she shows up this morning. Keith was passed out on the divan, and she freaked the fuck out on him.”
“Okay, I got that,” he says. “But why did you tell her she was rude?”
“What?” I set my plate aside and sit up straighter. “I didn’t call her rude. I told her that showing up here unannounced was rude.”
“So, basically, you told her she was being rude? Brenda, she’s redecorating our house. She’s hired the best in the industry. How can you call her rude?”
“Tim, who the hell asked her to hire Antonio Diego to redecorate our house? I know I didn’t. Did you? Why does she think she can just show up here any time with swatches and start changing our house? She doesn’t even live here. Don’t I ever get a say?”
“We’ve been over this, and I thought you agreed. My mom is really lonely since Dad died. Redoing our house gives her something to do.”
“Well, I am over it, Tim. I am over tiptoeing around her. She needs to get a life of her own. I can’t have her walking in here whenever she pleases. It is rude of her to do that. And what if I don’t want her snooty furniture? Do we live in a home or a museum?”
Tim doesn’t respond. How can he possibly think that his relationship with his mother is healthy? At what point will he put me first on this subject? Will I spend our entire marriage taking a back seat to his mom? We hear the band shouting and laughing from inside. They cheer over something we didn’t hear. One of the crewmembers opens the back door and tosses an empty beer bottle into the recycling bin.
“I could ask you the same thing, Brenda.” He gestures toward the house. “Do we live in a home or on a tour bus? With the amount of beer these people drink, the garbage men are going to think we’re alcoholics. Hell, Mitch Goldstein could just take a picture of our bin on trash day and use that in an ad. I can just see it—‘Take a look at Tim Dunkirk’s habits. Do you want a drunk in the state Senate? Vote Goldstein, the sober choice.’”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a state Senate candidate run an ad like that,” I point out. “Besides, beer isn’t illegal, Tim. You could turn it to your advantage and talk about how recycling creates jobs. And you could also say that Mitch Goldstein has nothing better to do but snoop in the garbage.” But I know he’s still worried about how the state of our home life looks right now. All it takes is one “Tim Dunkirk can’t control his house guests—do you think he can control the state Senate? Vote Mitch Goldstein and get a man who’s in control” ad to derail Tim’s progress in the polls. He’s making waves with his campaign, lately. As much as I don’t like Aria, I have to admit that she’s getting him some amazing exposure. He’s done a debate with Mitch Goldstein on NPR’s Political 360, and he had ol’ Mitch scrambling for rebuttals a few times.
But my fear isn’t just Hydra derailing Tim in the polls; I just couldn’t live with the idea that I was the one to derail his dream. Running for office is something he’s wanted to do since we met. He always talks about what he’d do differently, and he has great ideas for making Rhode Island a friendlier state for small businesses. He wants the state to pay more attention to hiring Rhode Island-based companies for state contracts, for example. I really hope he gets his chance to be voted in and implement some of those ideas. I honestly believe Tim could change the world—or, at least, our little part of it.
He picks apart his stuffed cabbage; I can tell he’s done with our conversation. So now what? He’s pissed at me about so many things—his mom, the band. And right now, it feels impossible to get back into his good graces. I don’t even feel like trying anymore, at this moment. And I know that this feeling is what sends couples to divorce. But right now, I just can’t deal with his mood. Where is the Tim who used to say he loved me, even when he was mad at me?
I spot Keith through the kitchen window. He stops and looks at me; instinctively, I sit a bit straighter. Keith rubs his eyes and makes his way toward the dining room. Tim watches me as my eyes follow Keith through the window.
“Look at you—you’re like a lost puppy over him,” he says.
“I am not.”
“If you weren’t married, you’d be all over him.”
“Well, I am married. So I have no need to be all over him.”
“So, how much longer are they going to be here? It’s been, what, three weeks? Four weeks? I’ve lost count.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. I watch Keith stare out the kitchen window at something behind me. I don’t think he’s looking at Tim and me; it’s more like he’s looking through us. He has his plate in his hand, but he’s not eating. I wonder why he isn’t participating in the conversation. His eyes are far off. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s hashing out some lyrics? Thinking about his family? Maybe the pressure of this album is getting to him, and he’s getting tired?
He never seems to participate when the rest of the band and crew are doing something together. Isn’t the whole point of all of them living here to get them to bond? I wish I could tell him that this behavior is precisely why the American audience has moved on from him, regardless of how talented he is. This, right here, is why he’s often called “unapproachable” on social media. If only I could record his behavior and play it back to him, then he could see what he looks like and change his ways.
“Bren,” Tim says, breaking my train of thought. “As much as I love you in that tank top, I don’t think you should wear it anymore while the band’s here. It’s a bit revealing, don’t you think?” I look down. He’s right: my shirt did slip down a bit in the front when I straightened my back. “He was just looking at you through the window like you’re a piece of meat.”
“No, he wasn’t” I say, brushing him off. “Stop it.”
“Oh, my God, Bren. He so was! You are so blinded by these people. I don’t get it. We can’t even eat in our own house anymore, and we have freaks camped out on the front lawn. I am so fucking sick of this.” He stands and takes his plate in through the back door. Ben is loading the dishwasher; Tim plunks his plate in, too, but doesn’t say a word. I am so over this mood of his. Why do I need to deal with his bullshit? I get it: he’s frustrated. But does it always have to be such a nightmare to live with him when we have guests?
“Full service rock star, eh?” I joke, as I hand Ben my plate.
Tim wanders off to the living room and picks up his laptop for his meeting with Aria on Skype. Aria, Aria, Aria. A couple of minutes later, I can hear him laughing at something she’s said. He saves all his lively conversation for her and none of it for me. I know she knows about Hydra, but does she know about the freaks on the front lawn? Tim’s done a great job of keeping her out of the house the last few weeks. They’ve been meeting at the shop or on Skype. I know that Hydra’s timing isn’t the best for him—which is probably why he is so annoyed with them. But there’s never a good time for a disruption to Tim’s life, of any kind. I stand in the doorway of the living room and watch him as he starts his meeting. He rifles through his backpack and pulls out a few file folders.
Tim doesn’t look up at me; he’s already engrossed in his conversation. I leave my perch in the doorway and head back into the kitchen, where Ben and Jeff are washing the rest of the dishes by hand. I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“What, you thought we didn’t wash dishes?” Jeff asks. “What do you think we do in our own homes?”
“I just assumed you guys had butlers and staff,” I say, laughing.
“A butler? Rock drummers don’t have butlers.” Jeff smiles. “We have topless women cleaning our homes.”
“Perhaps you could suggest it to Angela, so you’ll feel more at home,” I say.
“No way,” Ben says. “I am terrified of that woman.” We all laugh until Keith comes into the kitchen, and then we grow quiet. I’ve noticed that Keith has that effect on the rest of the band. I don’t know if it’s because he’s really the serious-minded one of the bunch or because nobody really knows what to say around him. Either way, it’s weird. These are the people he’s been around for his entire adult life, and he seems like a stranger to them. It’s fascinating and odd, all at the same time.
“Am I interrupting? Well, don’t stop on my account.” He’s obviously offended that we didn’t include him, and I feel a little bad. He looks at me. “Brenda, may I speak to you?” He gestures out the back door to the deck. I throw a curious glance at Ben; he only shrugs. I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and follow Keith out the backdoor. I look back at Tim, but he is so locked in to his computer screen that he doesn’t notice us going outside. I’ll just go out for a minute and talk to Keith; it’s probably no big deal. Maybe he has rock-star demands for more creature comforts. Still, I feel a bit funny being alone with Keith, especially in light of Tim’s mood tonight.
I wait as Keith watches a hummingbird drink from one of Tim’s feeders. He runs his hands through his wavy hair and tucks it behind his ears. “They are such beautiful creatures,” he says before turning to face me. Really? We’re out here to talk about the birds? I resist the urge to look back at Tim through the window and try to be patient. “Brenda, I heard you talking about my lyrics a week ago, and I think you’re spot on with what you said. I appreciate your honesty and would like to impose on it one more time.”
“Sure,” I say cautiously. Usually when people ask for honesty, they really don’t mean it. I wonder if this is a moment where I am supposed to be an adoring fan, or if I am really supposed to be honest.
“What do you think of me?” he asks.
Oh, boy. What a loaded question. Is he going to next ask me if he looks fat? “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what is your impression of me as a person?”
“Why do you want to know?” I figure this is a good question to ask; I can formulate a more tactful response if I know why he’s asking me.
“According to market research, I am distant and unapproachable. A cold fish.”
I pause to collect my thoughts. He’s not completely clueless, apparently. He’s probably read the nasty things that people have been saying about him online, and I’m sure it’s hurt his feelings on some level. But to get that report in a formal market research study? Ouch! Poor guy. No wonder he mopes around the house all the time. Anyone would, right?
I wonder what else the market research has said about him. I wish I could see it all and formulate a more thoughtful response. I need to stop thinking like a publicist, though, and start thinking like a friend. I really don’t know what he expects out of this conversation. Yeah, I suppose I could go all the way and tell him exactly what I think. I look over my shoulder; Tim’s still in his meeting. How much time do I have?
When I imagined giving the band my opinion, I never thought I’d be telling Keith what I honestly thought of him. But he did open the door, right?
“Why are you asking me now? Is it because of what I said that day? I’m sorry if I was insensitive,” I blurt out. Now I’m not sure where I’m taking this conversation. I hate talking when I feel unprepared. The last thing I want to do is hurt this man’s feelings after all he’s been through.
“I have made a career out of trying to produce the best music and pack arenas, year after year. But recently I’ve learned that the music is not enough. I have learned that listeners want to like the people who write the music, too. I am trying to get a sense of whether I am even likeable or not. You are a listener. Now’s your chance to tell me what you think. Bring it.” He laughs a little bit but then regains his composure. He leans against the railing of the deck and gazes over Tent City.
I’ve noticed he spends a lot of time with that far-off look in his eyes, and I wonder if it’s because he’s a creative person, constantly trying to keep himself open to whatever stray idea pops into his head. Or is it that he never wants to be in social situations? I’m still not sure exactly what I should say to “bring it.” Does he even want me to bring it at all? Yes, his job is to produce the best music possible, but I still don’t think he really cares about his ability to be liked.
“You know,” he says, “I have read my reviews on Amazon.com, and I’ve seen the hashtag #KutKeith trend when they thought I went missing last month. I am not completely blind.” He pauses. “...And I know that there are a lot of people who do not like me. I would like to change that somehow.”
I wonder why, exactly, he wants to change that. Is it because he genuinely wants people to like him? Or do they need to just like him enough so he can sell more tickets? Maybe he’s focusing on what I said about making more of an effort with Damien. This probably isn’t really about his fans. Could it be about his family? I can tell he feels sad and lost without his wife and son. I know I would be devastated if Tim wasn’t in my life anymore.
The sun is grazing the tree line of the forest behind the house, and the clouds glow orange. He looks up at the clouds to take it all in, but I notice the tension in his hands. He is bracing himself against the railing as he waits for my response. “You’ve made a career of making other people likeable, right? Isn’t that what PR is all about?” He pauses again. “So, pretend I am a client. What is your impression of me?” In all my years working in PR, I don’t think I’ve ever had a client ask me that question. Usually it’s the case that I have to butter up to my clients and tell them I like them first, and then I have to make other people like them. They don’t actually care about what I, personally, think about them.
“Well.” I chew my lip. “If we’re being completely honest here, I am sure you’re a nice guy, but I kinda think you act like an asshole.” I wince after I say it. It’s probably one of the meaner things I’ve ever said to anyone, especially if he’s trying to become more likeable. It’s one thing to joke and call someone an asshole; it’s entirely another to be serious about it. But it does feel a bit of a relief to actually say it out loud. I’ve watched him sulk and brood around my house since he got here. I have kind of wanted to tell him to get over himself. Maybe I should. After all, he did ask.
“So long as you’re not holding anything back,” he says, and laughs, but his grip on the rail is still tight. He’s obviously tense; this is probably a hard conversation for him, as well. “Tamsen thought I was an asshole, too. She told me so when we first met. I fell in love with her right away.” He stares off at something across the back yard. A faint smile hangs on his lips; he’s probably remembering. Then he turns to me. “She thought I was an asshole because we’d just signed our first record deal and were out celebrating. I was drunk and trying to get her to come home with me. I can see why she thought so at the time, but I want to know why you think I act like one now.”
“Are you sure you want to know?” I ask.
He nods but doesn’t face me.
“You come off as an asshole because people can’t relate to you. Remember how awkward that dinner at the Stone Yacht Club was at first? You don’t do well with meeting new people and making them feel comfortable with you. You’re all about what people can do for you, and not necessarily what you can do for them.” I pause, and he nods. “You’ve lost touch with how life really is. When you met Tamsen, you were a twenty-something guy who was on the verge of becoming a big star, and you were trying to score. Of course you’re going to look like an asshole in that situation. But you should have grown up since then. And you didn’t. You were wildly successful and played in arenas packed with screaming fans that loved you. You have handlers that cater to your every whim. You have every privilege—”
“I worked hard for those privileges,” he interrupts.
“Yes, you did. But you also took advantage of them. Did you think that nothing would happen when you got behind the wheel after that barbeque? Did you think at the time that if you got pulled over, they’d let you go because you’re Keith Kutter?”
I wait for him to respond. He pauses and then slowly nods in response, and I know it’s an unguarded moment of honesty.
“Then that’s what makes you an asshole, Keith. You should have been thrown in jail. Anyone else would have been. Getting behind the wheel after drinking is the ultimate act of selfishness. You don’t care what happens, so long as you have your good time, right?”
He leans against the deck railing and holds his face in his hands.
“Is that all?” he asks.
“No,” I continue. He flinches. Should I continue? Oh, well, he is the one who asked. Might as well go all the way. “I can’t decide if you just look like an asshole or if you actually are one. After the accident, you spent your life perpetually high because you’d paralyzed your son. You left Tamsen to deal with that situation, which I am sure was damned hard on her. She had to deal with the sudden paralysis of her child. That’s not the behavior of a supportive partner. That’s classic asshole behavior. What the hell were you thinking? That everyone would understand because you’re Keith Kutter?”
“You have no idea what it’s like,” he hisses.
“You’re right, I have no idea what it’s like to almost kill my family and expect to walk away from the fallout. I don’t know what it’s like to have the world handed to me just because I’m famous. And I certainly don’t know what it’s like to take off on my yacht to escape it all and leave my mess for someone else to clean up.”
“So, what do I need to do so people like you don’t think I am an asshole?”
“Well, for starters, you need to get over yourself. I know you’ve had so much tragedy. But you’ve caused all of it. Do you claim any responsibility for it?”
“Yes.”
“Really? How? As far as I can see, you’ve decided to get over it by scoring with a bunch of hookers and passing out drunk on my couch. And then you pissed on my mother-in-law’s car. What are you? A dog? I mean, you’re a guest in my home, Keith. You are a grown man. You have been the worst houseguest ever.” I am really on a roll now. I didn’t realize how affected I’d been by having him and the band stay here. Maybe it’s starting to get on my nerves more than I’d realized, because I am really letting it fly now. Honestly, it’s a relief to get this all out. I need to stop and catch my breath for a moment.
“Okay, first of all, your mother-in-law was screeching at me and smacking me with that purse. What the hell does she keep in there? A brick?”
“I can’t defend Portia’s outburst,” I say. I shouldn’t have to. Who the hell gives her the right to storm into my house and assault my guest? “I am sorry that happened, and I am sorry I was a bit harsh with you right now. But Keith, since you’ve been here, you’ve only been in three states: drunk, passed out, or brooding. Do you really want to live like that?”
He’s staring at me. Is this seriously a question for him? He wants to live a miserable life?
“So, what do I need to do?” he asks. “How do I fix this asshole persona I project?” I can tell that I went way deeper than he’d expected. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Did I just hurt his feelings? Maybe I should dial it back a bit, focus on being more clinical than emotional.
I kick into public-relations-specialist mode. “Well, for starters, your public is demanding an explanation. They think you are a spoiled brat for the way you behaved after the accident, and that is bad for your image. You have done nothing to convince them otherwise.” I pause, and he rolls his eyes a bit. “Hey, you asked me for my opinion, and I am giving it to you. I have nothing to gain by being dishonest with you. If you don’t like it, then go back inside and back to brooding over your life.” I am still being harsh; he looks stricken. But he asked me to be honest, right? I take a breath; I need to slow down a bit. “What is it that you want, Keith?”
He answers me with a brief silence as he thinks about it. I wonder if anyone’s asked him this question since things ended with Tamsen. “I want to enjoy my life again, he says, finally. “I know that things are over with Tamsen, and I accept that. But I want to have someone in my life. I want to feel that connection again.” He paces a bit; when he stops, I realize he is standing closer. I try to back off a bit, but the railing on the deck is digging into the small of my back. “I feel like I can talk to you about anything, and you won’t let me get away with being dishonest about anything. Nobody in my life does that for me, not even my mother. I’ve been missing that in my life.”
I’m sure this honest conversation is very intimate for Keith; but now I’m not sure how I feel about standing this close to him. On one hand, it is pretty exciting, I admit. His eyes are trained on mine; he’s staring intently at me. Maybe Tim was right. Maybe Keith has been looking at me like I am a piece of meat. I reach down and pull up my tank top. But honestly, I don’t really want to cover myself up in this moment. And I know it’s so wrong to feel this way. My heart is pounding. I never thought I’d ever again experience a first kiss. I feel an almost electric current in the air as I face Keith, who has now moved even closer to me. On the other hand, what I should do is say something like how he’s taking advantage of the situation and showing his asshole tendencies again. But I don’t. I just stand there, probably with my mouth hanging open.
He’s so close to me—close enough that his lips are just a few inches away from mine. I should just step away and break the moment. But I don’t. I don’t know why, but I feel like I am glued to this spot on my deck. I feel like I know him now, and that I’ve known him for a long time. It’s like I’ve seen inside of him. I feel him brush the hair off my forehead, and I don’t make a move to stop him. He sweeps his thumb across my brow, and I close my eyes for a moment. It feels familiar, even though this is the first time he’s ever touched me so intimately. I never imagined anything like this would ever happen when Hydra moved in. I can’t believe it’s happening now.
“Brenda, I want to thank you for being truthful with me. Nobody’s done that in a long time. And you are absolutely right.”
I try to compose myself, but the warmth of his hand on my cheek is making it hard to stay focused. I need to say something. I clear my throat, my mouth is so dry. “They don’t know who you are,” I say, “like I do right now.” I can’t break the eye contact. They don’t know him like I do? Where the hell did that come from?
I can tell by his facial expression that he isn’t paying attention to what I am saying anymore. Instead, his hand slips through my hair, and he cups the back of my neck. Before I realize what’s happening, he leans in toward me, and our lips touch. I know I have to say something, but what? I have to do it quick, before something happens that I am going to regret.
“Keith, I...” His hand is back to cupping my cheek. It’s warm; he’s stroking my cheekbone with his fingertips. I close my eyes and tilt my head into his hand; I can feel the pulse from his wrist lightly throb against my jaw.
I sense him leaning in closer, and before I know it, we are deep in a kiss. I feel his tongue slide against mine; I keep my arms frozen at my sides. It is all wrong, but I let his hand slide from my cheek and behind my neck to hold my head in place. His other hand slides behind my back and pulls me closer to him. I can feel his belt buckle press against my stomach and his breath exhaling near my ear. I give in to it all and slide my hands around his waist and up his back. I can feel the lumps from his vertebrae and his shoulder blades under my palms. I trace my hands back down again and grip his T-shirt near the small of his back. I am fighting the urge to pull it up and slip my hands beneath it so I can feel the warmth of his skin.
I don’t know why I am kissing him. But I am. And it’s exhilarating to be doing something and not know why I am doing it. With Keith, I feel that light-headed buzz of a first kiss wash over me while his stubble rubs against my chin and his tongue expertly plays with mine. It’s foreign, yet completely familiar at the same time.
I am so drawn in that I don’t hear the back door slide open. It’s Tim’s voice that brings me back to reality.
“Brenda? What the hell is going on?”