Page 135 of Playworld

When I was through, he seemed to ponder my story for a momentand then sat forward in his chair. “You get points for directness.” Our knees were nearly touching. “Can I ask you some questions?”

When I told him yes, he asked me what I knew about her mother and father, and I told him what I’d seen and heard and all about my visit to her house.

“Do you want my advice,” he said finally, “or do you just want me to listen?”

“I want your advice.”

“She sounds like a girl who’s more afraid of losing you than having you. Does that make sense?”

It did. “How do I change it?”

“You can’t.”

“But it’s awful,” I said.

“It is.”

I covered my face with my hands. “It’s all I think about sometimes.”

“Maybe that’s how you deal with your fear,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of someone likingyou.If you’re always chasing someone unavailable, then you’re unavailable to everyone else.”

Is there a more fundamental mystery than the fact that a person can be so wise about others but so blind to himself? But perhaps that is the first requirement of being an actor, which is to wholly and fearlessly allow others to observe you.

“None of this sounds likeadvice.”

“What I’m saying,” Dad said, “is that if it’s causing you too much pain”—and here I detected he was the one suffering—“maybe just…pull back a bit.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Do any of them like to be loved?”

Dad spun his snifter, stared into its bell, drank. “I’d say about half.”

“What about Mom?”

“Your mother,” he said, almost like a question. “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

Which washisfailing, I thought, and, angry, turned away. Below, down our street, there swirled several leaves, the first fallen ones in the city, perhaps, spinning around an invisible center, caught in a tinywhirlwind and borne along, toward the river. If they made it all the way to the water, might they then ride the Hudson south, into the bay, and then out to sea? Imagine the sailor’s surprise: this message from the land that autumn had arrived.

“Dad,” I said, “I have to tell you something.”

“All right,” he said.

“I don’t want to be an actor anymore.”

He lifted the snifter to admire the liquor’s color. “I understand,” he said.

“You’re not mad?”

He shook his head. Perhaps he wasn’t angry. Perhaps he was able to summon this magnanimity because his pockets were well lined. “How can I be mad when things are going so well?” he said with a laugh, and he meant it. But he was not unhurt.

And I was not satisfied. I had broached this subject, ready for a fight. In response, Dad had simply…walked off the mat. If I’d won, it was by default. Dad could sense my frustration and did the usual.

“You know what the worst thing about being a parent is?” he said.

“What?” I said through gritted teeth.