The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 16: FEBRUARY 1994

“I don’t understand,” says my mother. “I thought you were going to be home for the whole week.”

“I was,” I say. “But I haven’t made as much progress on my honors paper as I should have. I need to be near the library. It’s Reading Week. That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

My father picks up the extension. “Her work has to be her first priority, Mary,” he says. “Don’t give her a hard time.”

My mother’s disappointment is palpable. “If you work hard on it now, maybe you can make it home for the long weekend at the end.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t want to promise. I’ll see how it goes.”

“OK, honey,” says my mother in a choked voice, and hangs up abruptly.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say, my throat suddenly tight.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “We’re very proud of you. We’ll see you soon.”

I hang up the phone feeling truly wretched. The truth is that my honors paper is coming along on schedule, and I could take a few days off. And if I were going to be alone in the house for Reading Week, I’d take a stack of photocopied research to my parents’ place, make a few token efforts at underlining and highlighting the articles, and spend the rest of the week hanging out with my mom. But I won’t be alone. Will’s grandmother, Penelope, was admitted to the cardiac ward at the hospital last night, and Will’s family ski trip has been cancelled. With A.J. in New York, Reading Week on Abernathy is suddenly alive with romantic possibilities. We haven’t spoken about the night of the Christmas party. I know that he’s avoided being alone with me since we came back after the holidays, and I haven’t forced the issue. I’ve rehearsed elaborate soliloquies for every possible scenario, but have so far resisted the powerful urge to manufacture a Hollywood scene. My better instincts tell me that we’re not yet at the denouement of our romantic comedy, and that a conversation of this kind isn’t going to end with Will pulling me into his arms as the credits roll. We’re still in the middle of the story, the part where his true feelings slowly rise to the surface of his consciousness until he can no longer deny them. So while that process is ongoing, there’s no way I’m leaving town.

I find Will in the kitchen, leafing morosely through the sports section. “Hey,” he says. “When are you heading home?”

I pour a mug of coffee and sigh. “Not sure,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Maybe later in the week. I’m going to stick around and do some work at the library. Professor Marsh wants to see a draft in a couple of weeks.”

“Really?” he says.

“Really. You’ve got to hate professors who think Reading Week is for reading.” I roll my eyes and open the arts section. “Pass the milk?” He pushes the carton to me, giving me a chance to gauge his reaction to my performance. No signs of suspicion or worse, impending flight: so far, so good.

We sit in what seems like companionable silence for a while, and then I say: “How’s your grandmother doing?”

“Hard to know,” he says. “If you believe my dad, she’s fine and about to be released; if you believe my mother, she’s at death’s door. It’s wishful thinking on both sides. I’m going to the hospital this morning to check it out for myself.”

“Oh,” I say. I’ve never met Will’s parents, and he rarely talks about them. I’ve always assumed that it’s because he’s a guy and therefore less inclined to reveal personal details about himself; but then, I attribute most of the things that I don’t understand about Will and A.J. to fundamental biological differences, which tells you how far my anthropological experiment has taken me down the nature road of the nature-nurture debate. The harshness in the way he says wishful thinking, though, makes me think Will is driven by more than simple biological imperatives. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

He laughs. “You met my grandmother, didn’t you? She’s not exactly known for her warm fuzzies. But Lillian will be there today, so it has the potential to be bearable at least.”

“Do you want company?” I ask and then, kicking myself, add, “I was going to go downtown this morning to check out the Matisse exhibit at the art gallery before it closes.”

But Will is too distracted to notice that my offer is over-eager, or else he’s willfully blind to my motivations, because he says, with obvious relief, “That would be amazing.”



The cardiac unit reeks of disinfectant and despair, and Will and I stride quickly through the mint green halls, averting our eyes from the shuffling patients in inadvertently revealing gowns as we look for Penelope’s room. I feel unsettlingly young and healthy. Penelope is at the end of a long corridor, away from the nursing station. “That’s good,” I murmur to Will as we enter. “If they were worried about her, they wouldn’t put her down here.”

“Exactly what I said,” says Lil, rising from her chair and coming over to greet us. “And believe me, there’s nothing wrong with her tongue.”

With no makeup to conceal her pallor, and semi-reclined in the bed, Penelope is clearly very ill. But she still manages to direct a glare of unadulterated hostility in Lil’s direction. “You see?” says Lil. “She’ll be just fine.” She turns to Penelope. “Pen, you remember Sophie, don’t you?”

Pen nods regally, and shifts her gaze to Will, who is frozen beside me. I bend down, as if to tie my shoelace, and poke him in the shin. He looks down at me and I tilt my head toward his grandmother. He pulls his shoulders back, walks over to the bed and kisses her cheek. “You gave us a scare, Gran,” he says.

Her face softens. “Too mean,” she manages.

“To die,” finishes Lil. “Don’t worry about Pen, my dears, she’ll outlive us all. You should see the trouble she’s giving the doctors.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door and a man enters wearing jeans and a striped button-down shirt. “Ah, Dr. Barber,” says Lil. “Where’s the white coat?”

“We save those for the TV doctors,” he says, unhooking Penelope’s chart from the end of her bed. “So Mrs. Shannon, how are we feeling today?”

“She can’t speak for you,” says Lil pointedly, “but she’s doing much better today.” Penelope gives Lil a smile that is almost grateful.

Dr. Barber steps over and raises the bed so that Penelope is sitting. “Let’s have a look,” he says, and Will backs away in alarm.

“We’ll wait outside,” I say, grabbing Will by the arm.

He leans up against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you OK?” I ask.

“I’m not good at this kind of thing,” he says.

“What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know … hospitals, doctors, seeing my grandmother naked.”

“She was wearing a hospital gown,” I say, laughing. “Is there some deep childhood trauma that I should be aware of?”

He manages a weak smile. “Not that I remember. But maybe I’ve repressed it.”

The door opens and Dr. Barber steps into the hallway, gives us a wave and strides off. Lil pokes her head out of the room. “The examination is over. You can come back in, Florence Nightingale,” she says to Will, and steps aside to let him pass. She turns to me. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been squeamish. You, on the other hand, are a brick. He’s lucky to have you.”

She gives me an appraising look, and then her gaze travels over my shoulder and darkens. “You haven’t met Will’s parents yet, have you?” I shake my head. “You’re in for a treat,” she says. I move back to make room for Lil as she air-kisses the new arrivals, a tall man in a three-piece suit with strands of silver running through thick dark hair; and a brittle blond with a perfect manicure and no laugh lines. “Staunton, Susannah,” says Lil. “How nice to see you both. Have you met Sophie Whelan, Will’s roommate?”

“No, we haven’t had the pleasure,” says Will’s mother, extending a smooth hand bristling with diamonds. I shake it briefly, then do the same to Will’s father, who smiles at me warmly.

“Will speaks so fondly of you,” he says.

“It’s mutual,” I say.

“I’m sure,” his mother says meaningfully, and then turns to Lil, dismissing me. “How is she?” I feel myself flush, and realize that for all the catered dinners, the nice car and the connection to Lil, I’ve only just processed that Will comes from money – lots of it.

“Stable,” says Lil.

“Are her affairs in order?”

Lil’s smile tightens. “This isn’t the time, Susannah.”

“I disagree. Penelope is lying in a cardiac ward. She refuses to tell us anything about her finances, her advisors or her estate plans. If things go badly, who do you think will be left sorting through the mess?”

“I will, as it happens. I’m her executor.”

“And does that seem like a competent choice, Lillian? You aren’t exactly in the first bloom of youth yourself.”

“Susannah!” says Will’s father. “Mother is entitled to make her own choices.”

Lil’s voice is creamy. “Penelope will be here for a few more days, Susannah. This might be a good time to go over to her house and count the silver if you’re concerned.”

“I don’t have a key, as you well know, Lillian,” says Will’s mother. “Shall we get this over with?”

I am way out of my depth trying to navigate Will’s family dynamics, and acutely conscious that my status as his roommate is insufficient to warrant my presence here. I follow the group into Penelope’s room, but linger by the door, waiting for an opportunity to signal to Will that I’m leaving.

“Penelope, darling,” I hear his mother say. “You look marvelous. How are you feeling?”

“Pugnacious,” says Penelope.

Staunton laughs. “That’s a good sign. I’m sorry we missed Dr. Barber, Mother. What did he say about your condition?”

“Fatal,” says Penelope.

“Penelope!” says Lil. “Dr. Baxter says she’s recovering very well, and should be able to avoid surgery. He’s going to keep her here this week and get her medication sorted out.”

“Disappointed,” says Penelope.

“Why would you be disappointed?” asks Staunton. “It’s great news.”

“You,” says Penelope, looking at Susannah, and even I can tell what she’s implying. Susannah colors, rises up on her Chanel heels, and stalks out of the room. Will watches her go, white-faced, and finally makes eye contact with me. I shoot what I hope is a sympathetic look his way, point to the exit and beat a hasty retreat.

Halfway down the corridor, I hear him calling me. I stop, and he jogs up. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Are you still going to the art gallery?”

“I could,” I say. “Or we could do something else if you want.”

“What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Just past noon.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Over the yardarm. Let’s go.”

***

“I thought you said you played pool,” says Will, watching me miss yet another disastrous shot.

“I said I had played pool, as in ‘a few times before’. I think I might have been drunk, though. I don’t remember being this bad.”

“Maybe that’s the solution,” he says. “You just need more alcohol.”

“No,” I protest. “I’m fine.” It’s been a long day, and the last thing I need is more beer. We’ve been chasing diversions for hours now – a boozy lunch at an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, a sprint through the Matisse exhibit, an action movie, and now pool. I’ve already had three beers in an attempt to keep pace with Will, but he’s way ahead of me.

“Alright,” he says. “A lesson, then.” He takes a long drink and puts his beer bottle down on the edge of the pool table. “Pool 101,” he says. “Hold up your stick and find the balance point.” He points to a spot on the stick. “There,” he says. “Hold it with your right hand. Now move your hand back six inches.” I do. “OK. Now step forward with your right foot.”

“Are we going to do the hokey-pokey?” I ask.

He steps in so that he’s standing at my left hip. “I’m ignoring you, because it’s painful to watch an attractive woman make a fool of herself playing pool. It’s not just a favor to you; it’s a public service.” My rational mind knows that I’ve been insulted, but I’m pretty sure Will just called me attractive. Now he has my full attention.

“You need to make a bridge with your left hand,” he says. “Make a fist?” I do. “I think an open bridge will be easier for you.” He takes my left hand in both of his and I clear my throat. “Stick your thumb out; right, just like that. Now, lean forward, and put your bridge here.” He places my hand on the table. “Now put the stick on the bridge and aim.” He laughs. “I meant aim for the pocket, Sophie. Here.” He puts a hand on either side of my hips and pushes me slightly to the right. I catch my breath. “Now try,” he says. And I do. I concentrate every bit of my mind on sliding the stick across my bridge hand, and tapping the ball dead center. Miraculously, the ball scoots to the corner pocket, teeters on the edge for a split second, and drops in, and I whoop, pump my fist in the air and leap up and down.

Will grins. “Feel good?”

“I’ve never sunk a ball before,” I say. “At least not that I remember. That was awesome. Thanks for the lesson.”

“Thanks for coming to the hospital with me.”

“No problem,” I say. “I can go with you any time. I’m around all week.”

Will is quiet and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But he says, “I appreciate it. Maybe in a few days, if I can figure out how to avoid my mother.”

“OK,” I say. Despite my brief moment of glory, I’m dying to get out of the pool hall. My previous pool experiences have always been late at night, surrounded by packs of university students. The clientele on a Monday after dinner is markedly bleaker. “Why don’t we go home? I’ve got some leftover lasagna in the fridge, and we can watch TV. Sound good?”

“It does,” he says. “Let’s get a cab. My treat.” I smile. Will knows that I think taxis are the height of extravagance, caving only after very late nights of drinking in the middle of winter, and even then, persuading drivers to take four or even five passengers. He flags one down and opens my door for me, and we sit in silence broken only by the dispatcher as we make our way back to the house. We’ve been relaxed with each other all day, racing from one activity to another, but now Will seems edgy and brooding.

At the house, I go into the kitchen and pull out the lasagna, serve up two portions and stick them in the microwave. Will opens the fridge and uncaps another beer. “So now you’ve seen the Shannon family in all its dysfunctional glory,” he says.

The microwave beeps, and I’m grateful not to have to look at him while I answer. “All families are dysfunctional,” I say.

“Yours isn’t,” he says.

“You haven’t met them!”

“I don’t need to. You’re the most normal person I know.”

I know I shouldn’t be insulted, but Will’s insight cuts deep. This fundamental truth is the chink in my alternative-girl armor. I’d love to be able to claim some genuine darkness, and my happy childhood is something I don’t like to talk about. On the other hand, this is the most intimate conversation Will and I have ever had and I want to keep it going. “Your dad seems like a really nice guy,” I say.

“He is a nice guy. He just handed in his balls the day he married my mother.”

“She’s couldn’t be that bad,” I say.

“She put her foot down and refused to name me Staunton the Third. So I owe her for that,” he says. “But she’s otherwise a fairly unlikeable person.”

I can’t imagine saying something like this about my mother, and I have an inkling, which I brush aside, that Will may have some issues that I don’t have the tools to fix. But I say, “I guess your grandmother isn’t a big fan of hers.”

“Would you be? My mother’s been waiting for her to die for years.”

“You really care about your grandmother,” I say.

“I do. I spent at lot of time at her house while my mother was playing bridge and running charity events and getting her hair done.” He smiles, remembering. “She had a big influence on me. She used to make me debate current events with her. She wanted me to be a lawyer.” He stands and puts his plate in the dishwasher. “Thanks for dinner, Sophie. You’re a good friend.”

“So are you,” I say. “So what do you feel like doing tonight? Do you want to see what’s on TV?”

He gives me a stare that makes my belly tighten, then walks over deliberately, puts a hand on either side of my waist and boosts me up onto the counter. Beer me, baby, I think, remembering my first time in this house, and the first time I laid eyes on Will Shannon. “We could,” he says, standing between my legs so that we are eye-to-eye. “But I’d rather go upstairs with you and not talk about my family.”

“I can do that,” I say.

Will kisses me hard, and I kiss him back, and in the end we don’t make it upstairs at all.