She’s been gone for a few hours now, and Popeye and I have been left to our own devices. We’ve played Scrabble, because Popeye says it was his favorite board game when he was younger, and now I’m in the kitchen peeling fresh vegetables because it’s nearing dinner.
“Do you want me to refill your tea?” I call through the kitchen to the living room where Popeye watches TV. I chuck a bunch of chopped carrots into the crock pot, then pause when I realize Popeye hasn’t replied. His hearing isn’t the greatest anymore. I wipe my hands on a towel and cross to the living room. “Popeye, would you like. . .”
My words die in my throat when I realize why Popeye is ignoring me – he’s engrossed in the TV, visibly aggrieved. He has switched the channel over from the old black-and-white movie I left him watching earlier to the showbiz entertainment channels.
The host of a gossip show is gesturing at a picture of Dad and his co-star, Laurel Peyton, at one of their press conferences, his hand around her waist and their eyes bright from the flashing of a thousand cameras.
“Everett Harding and Laurel Peyton are gearing upfor their biggest box office success yet. The long-awaitedthird installment of the Flash Point series hits movie theatersacross the country this weekend, and we have our leadingcouple here now!”
The live audience erupts with applause as Dad and Laurel emerge from backstage. Dad’s in black slacks and a white shirt with too many of the top buttons undone – at the orders of his stylist, no doubt – and Laurel wears a butter-yellow summer dress that floats around her slim legs as she struts across the stage. They both have their dazzling Hollywood smiles plastered upon their faces. They wave to the appreciative audience, then sit down on a couch opposite the host, ready to respond to questions with charm and wit.
“He thinks this is real work,” Popeye mutters under his breath. “Smiling to a camera. . .”
I step in front of the TV and stare down into Popeye’s gaze. “Why are you watching this?”
Popeye only stares straight ahead, as though he can still see the TV through my body. I grab the remote out of his lap and turn off the show, zapping the living room into an intense silence.
Popeye grumbles in annoyance and fixes his eyes stubbornly ahead. “What – I can’t keep tabs on my own son every now and again? How else will I ever know what’s going on in his life? It’s not like I ever hear from him.”
“Oh,” I say, unsure. Popeye has never spoken to me in such a sharp tone, so honest and so open, and I’m taken aback by how agitated he looks. “I’m. . . I’m sorry that he doesn’t call enough.”
I’m not oblivious to reality. Dad’s life these days is far too glamorous and hectic; there’s no time for visits to the childhood ranch. I sensed the moment I arrived in Fairview that Sheri and Popeye feel a bit abandoned, relegated to pieces in the puzzle of Everett Harding’s former life, but I didn’t know how that must feel until recently. I know now how badly it hurts to feel second-best. And Sheri and Popeye. . .They are much further down Dad’s list of priorities than I am.
“Doesn’t call. Doesn’t visit,” Popeye growls with an anger I wasn’t expecting my words to trigger. “How difficult is it to pick up the phone? Are we really that forgettable? Not good enough for him?”
This is the most emotion I have seen Popeye show this summer. He is usually so warm and kind, but now he seems angry and wounded, his feelings raw. I wish I could fix this, but I have no control over Dad’s choices or his behavior. I barely have any control over my own.
I sit down on the couch next to Popeye and reach for his hand, holding it tight in mine. “I’m sorry, Popeye. Of course you’re good enough for him. He loves you. He just lives a busy life.”
Neither of us says anything more, because what else is there? Popeye doesn’t have to tell me how he feels – I know.
After a while, he asks, “Can you play a song for me?”
I lift my head to look at him. I nod and cross the living room to the polished wood record player that sits on a table by the window. This player is so old – beyond vintage – that I’m always amazed when I hear the tinkle of music streaming through the house.
“What song, Popeye?”
Popeye closes his eyes and inhales. “Play me ‘Close To You’by the Carpenters.”
I flick through the box of vinyls, which is Popeye’s treasured collection from when he and Mamaw were first married back at the start of the ’70s. Most of these songs I’ve never even heard of. Their sleeves are a little tattered and slightly faded, but that just means they’ve been well-loved over the decades. Finally, I find the album Popeye has requested and I carefully slide the vinyl out, lift the tinted clear cover and place it on the player. I move the needle into place and then stand back as the opening beats of the song ring out around the living room, and although I don’t recognize the song title, I quickly realize that Ihaveheard this before. It’s so old, so slow, so ’70s.
Popeye keeps his eyes shut as he nods appreciatively in unison with the agonizingly drawn-out rhythm, and then he asks, “Can you dance with me, Mila?”
Dancing to golden oldies isnotmy forte, but Popeye needs some cheering up. This is what loving granddaughters do – slow dance to ’70s hits they only vaguely know.
I move back to Popeye and gently help him up from the couch. We are unsteady at first, toppling awkwardly, but then he wraps an arm around my back, and we balance ourselves out. Popeye’s much shorter than I remember him being when I was younger – I think he has shrunk. He clasps one of my hands in his, and we begin to sway. Then, after a moment or two, we hit the beat nicely together and move along smoothly as the record plays, and Popeye rests his head on my shoulder.
“I know you didn’t choose to come here,” he murmurs, “but I’m really glad that you’ve spent some time with us. It’s been wonderful watching you live the life you could have always had.”
His words hit me hard.
The life you could have always had. . .
If Dad had never gotten his big Hollywood break, we might have never left Fairview. I would have continued growing up here. I would have my own southern drawl, I would have been best friends with Savannah all through school, I would have met Blake a decade ago. Tailgate parties and singsongs around campfires would be a regular occurrence, and trips to Nashville to eat meat smothered in barbecue sauce at Honky Tonk Central would be normal rather than outlandish. I might have gone skinny-dipping in the lake, and who knows, I would probably even know how to ride a horse properly.
Dad wouldn’t have adoring fans who stalk his every move, we wouldn’t have Ruben controlling our lives, and Mom would be able to step out in public in sweatpants with her hair tied back without worrying about letting Dad down – or having the media pick over the “faults” in her appearance like carrion crows. We would maybe even live here, on this ranch. That was the plan, after all – for Dad to eventually take over once Popeye was no longer able to run this place by himself. Maybe by now we would have sold that house of ours on the other side of town and would be living here instead. Sheri would be out making the most of her life, enjoying her own adventures, and Popeye wouldn’t feel so estranged from his son.
I can’t regret the life I’ve had in LA. . .but growing up here isthe life I could have lived. Not this one – which I’m suddenly learning is jampacked with secrets and lies.
