“Fine. The world. You’ve got this massive following, and you’ve got all of this talent, and you’re not using it.That’swhy those girls bothered me, Sam. It’s this crazy notion of fame that your generation buys into and feeds into and perpetuates, and it’s all based on nothing. It’s doing nothing.”
“What do you want me to do with my platform? Huh?” She turns on him, eyes blazing. “What?With so many stupid—with all of the—after what...God!”She’s breathing hard now. “Do you have some bright idea about what I should be doing?”
Timothy feels himself sputtering—if he were a cartoon character right now, there would be smoke spilling out of his ears. “Something! Anything. Something useful, instead of makeup tips and the like.”
“I have never posted makeup tips!” screams Sam. She takes a deep breath, appears to try to regain her composure. More softly she says, “I don’t do makeup. I don’t even wear a lot of makeup, unless someone puts it on me. That was Cece’s arena. Sometimes Evil Alice. I was more—lifestyle and fashion. A little bit of dancing sometimes. Some hairstyles. Not cooking. Cooking was Tucker.” She looks momentarily pensive. “He made the best Bolognese.”
“Lifestyle and fashion,” he says. “Okay. But you could be getting people’s attention about something important! You could be fixing climate change!”
She points to herself, incredulous. “Me? You want me to fix climate change?”
“Why not?” he bellows. “Why the hell not? You and your hundreds of thousands of fans.”
“Followers,” she says.
“Followers!” By now the people remaining in the Adirondackchairs are turning around, craning to see what the ruckus is coming from the shadows. Timothy doesn’t care though. The conversation feels momentous and important and all-consuming, and he’s in it now, so in it he’ll stay.
“Why don’tyoufix climate change, Uncle Timmy? Instead of trying to figure out what’s wrong with my generation. It’s you guys that wrecked the planet! Why’s it our job to fix it? What areyoudoing withyour platform?”
Damn it. Much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Sam’s absolutely right. His generation did wreck the planet. And what is he doing with his platform? Does hehavea platform? Did he ever?
“Okay, fine, maybe not climate change. But why aren’t you using your platform and your talent to expose people to something valuable... to art?”
“Toart?”
He can still see the little girl in Sam, the twelve-year-old with the gap between her teeth, before the braces closed it. He remembers the way she delivered one particular line in the play:Well, it’d be sort of like shootin’ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it?Every single time she said it her voice cracked in the exact same way, Timothy’s heart swelled, and the audience held their collective breath, stunned into silence.
“Sam,” he says. “You know how much I think of your talent. You were brilliant inMy Three Daughters. Your comic timing was spot-on. You stole that show from the older two girls. You know you did. You have that rare thing, where you can do light or you can do dark, but either way you get at just the perfect emotion. Youjust get it. There are people all over Hollywood who would sell their souls to be able to do that!” Then, almost to himself, musingly, he says, “If you had just stayed in L.A....” The words are out before he can take them back.
Sam pounces on this: “If I had just stayed in L.A.?How could I have stayed? You sent me away!”
Timothy’s fight with his sister is still with him, still fresh. Sure, they papered over the holes, and they’ve been interacting reasonably, even amiably, but Timothy continues to smart from some of the things Amy said. Hissavior complex?Hetook Amy’s daughter away?No. Nope. He’d only tried to do his best for everyone: for his mother, for Sam, for Amy herself. He’s tired of absorbing blame. He’s tired of being on his back foot. But mostly he’s just very, very tired.
“I didn’t send you away.” That’s it, five simple words, but with them comes an irrevocable shift.
Sam crosses her arms. “What are you talking about? Yes, you did. Remember? You had to go on location, and you didn’t want to leave me with Gertie because she was up for that part inDark and Light.”
“I have to set the record straight on that, Sam. I wanted you to stay. Barry could have sent you out on auditions the day after the show got canceled. Your parents wanted you back. They made me say I was going on location, so that you’d go home.”
She’s confused. “But my mom said...”
He clears his throat; the olives from the martini threaten to repeat on him. “You’ll have to talk to your mom about that, Sam.”
“Okay. Fine. I will.” She sets her lips together and nods briskly. “I definitely will.”
“Wonderful. Good. So—can we have a truce?”
“I don’t know. Are you sorry about what you said about my work in New York?”
Timothy considers this. He can’t! He can’t be sorry. He can’t call itwork.It isn’t work. It’s a bunch of silly videos. He opens his mouth, but no apology comes out, because there isn’t one in there.
Sam narrows her eyes at him. She knows he isn’t sorry. “I just figured it out!” she says. “I got it. I figured out what got you in a bad mood.”
Timothy folds his arms. He’s not a father, but he feels like thisis a fatherly stance, wise and unyielding. “By all means, Sam, tell me,” he says. “Please.”
“It’s not the platform, or climate change, or my acting career. It’s not that those girls know who I am. It’s that theydidn’tknow who you are.” Sam is nodding now, assessing him; in fact, she reminds him of a therapist in L.A. he saw long ago, in his thirties, who knew more about Timothy than he knew himself. “That’s it. You’re acting disdainful and judgmental, but really what you are is jealous. You’rejealous.”
A long, silent collection of seconds passes. They stare at each other, uncle and niece, as the summer night settles around them. A peal of laughter moves over from the Adirondack chairs, but here, at the moment, in this particular place, in their version of Mudville, there is no joy.
