Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘Then backstage on the day of the competition, right before going on, I had the biggest case of nerves imaginable. Completely seized. Terrified of getting out there in front of the whole school and looking like an idiot. Don’t know where this came from. Never had it before. When they called me — told me it was my time to go on — I refused to move. Mrs Flack was backstage. She coaxed me onstage. The light blacked out. I moved quickly to the assigned spot. The spotlight snapped on. There I was, alone, staring out into blackness, knowing I just had to say the words as I had rehearsed them, and all would be over in less than a minute, and I could retreat again into my private little life. But, standing there, that spotlight glaring down on me, feeling absolutely naked, exposed, absurd, my mouth couldn’t open. I was frozen, immobile, ridiculous. After a half a minute like this, the giggles started. Even though I could hear some of the teachers hushing the other students, slow hand-clapping started, and a few whistles, and then a girl — whom someone told me later was Janet Brody, the captain of the cheerleading team — yelled: “Loser.” Everybody laughed. The spotlight snapped off. Mrs Flack hurried out and got me off the stage. And I remember, once we were in the wings, putting my head on her shoulder, crying uncontrollably, and Mrs Flack having to call my mother to come collect me. Mom — who was never the most touchy-feely of people, and who hated any kind of personal weakness — drove me home, shaking her head, telling me I would spend the rest of my senior year trying to live down what had just happened, and “Why on earth did you set yourself up to fail like this?” I said nothing, but those words slammed into me like an out-of-control car. Because they were so accurate. I’d set myself up. I’d allowed myself to be publicly shamed. I’d short-changed myself. Just as I did so often afterwards as well.

‘And I never recited “Fire and Ice” again.’

‘Until now,’ Richard said.

Silence. I hung my head.

‘I’m sorry,’ I finally said.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Sorry for boring you with an adolescent embarrassment I should have gotten over years ago. And something I shouldn’t have shared with you.’

‘But I’m glad you shared it.’

‘I’ve hardly shared it with anybody before.’

‘I see,’ Richard said.

‘There’s nothing to “see” here. There’s just the fact that there are moments in life you find so mortifying. ’

I let the sentence die before finishing it. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. Suddenly felt as vulnerable and awkward and lost as I felt that moment on that high school stage with that white-hot spotlight on me. I fingered my glass.

‘I should go,’ I said.

‘Just because you told me that story?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘Your mother. was she always so brutal with you?’

‘“Brutal” is perhaps too brutal a word. She was very much pull-no-punches. All tough love. No real warmth. Why do you ask?’

‘My dad. He was brutal. Physically brutal — as in hitting us with a belt when we stepped out of line. Once my brother and I were beyond the spanking stage — though being whacked on the thighs with a belt is not exactly spanking — he then started working on us in different ways. Like the time I won the short story competition at the University of Maine. A story about a lobster man who takes his teenage son out to teach him the basics of his trade, and the boat capsizes and the son drowns. The prize was two hundred and fifty dollars and the story not only got printed in the college literary magazine, but also in the weekend supplement of the Bangor Daily News. It turns out half my father’s clients Down East saw the story. He called me up at college and tore a strip or two off of me, telling me that I had caused him all sorts of professional problems, as he had insured a whole bunch of lobster men, and my depiction of the lives of these men, and — most of all — a terrible tragedy happening owing to one man’s negligence. well, it was just outrageous. Especially as I didn’t know a damn thing about their world, me being a guy who was anything but hearty, and who had the audacity to think of himself as a writer when I was just turning out “mediocre drivel”. Those were his exact words.’

Silence. Then I said:

‘And you’re telling me this to make me feel better?’

‘Absolutely. Because I know what it means to have any sort of confidence zapped out of you through the unkindness of others.’

‘My unkindness was towards myself — which is far worse. Because we all short-change ourselves.’

‘Not you.’

‘You’re sugaring the pill.’

‘Well then, how have you short-changed yourself?’

‘That’s another conversation.’

The smallest smile formed on Richard’s lips as I uttered that.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘If there is another conversation.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘My weekend’s really busy.’

‘All those radiology conferences?’

‘All those radiology conferences.’

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Except for another morning meeting tomorrow in Brockton, I have the day free.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

My tone was sharp, dismissive, so stupidly defensive. I turned away — but from the corner of my eye I could see that Richard had been unsettled by the hint of anger underlying my reply. Again I had just slammed shut a door. out of fear. Fear of what? The fact that this man was suggesting we spend the afternoon together? The fear that I had just told him a story that I could never bring myself to tell my husband — perhaps out of the knowledge that his reaction would have been the roll-of-the-eyes, poor silly Laura look that I saw Dan give me on so many occasions.

‘I’ve obviously uttered the wrong thing again,’ Richard said, simultaneously motioning to the waiter for the check.

‘No, it’s me who’s been the impolite one here.’

‘I shouldn’t have been so personal, asking you how you’ve short-changed yourself.’

‘That wasn’t the reason I got tetchy. The reason was. ’

I broke off, not wanting to say anything more.

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Richard said.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered, suddenly wanting a hole in the floor to open up and suck me out of this embarrassed place.

The check arrived and Richard insisted on paying it. He then asked me if I could get email on my cellphone.

‘I could,’ I said, ‘but it’s too expensive to run on a monthly basis. So I rely on texting.’

‘Well then, I am going to put the ball completely in your court. Here again is my card. My cell number is the one at the bottom. I am free tomorrow as of twelve noon — and I would love to spend the day with you. If you don’t contact me, no hard feelings whatsoever. It’s been lovely sharing this time with you. And I truly wish you well. Because — if I may say so — you deserve good things.’

Silence.

‘Thank you,’ I finally said. ‘Thank you so much.’

We stood up. I found myself wanting to say: Shall we meet somewhere downtown around one p.m.? But again I held back.

‘Can I walk you to your car?’ he asked.

‘No need. I got lucky and found a spot right outside the movie house.’

‘That still requires a few steps.’

We left the bar and said nothing as we walked less than half a block to my elderly vehicle. If Richard noticed its decrepitude he was very good at not showing it.

‘Well then. ’ I said.

‘Well then.’

Another silence.

‘I’m sorry tomorrow won’t work out,’ I said, thinking: Now the door has been slammed twice.

‘You have my number.’

‘That I do.’