Apparently Mac thought it would be more cost-effective to
For five thousand dollars.
He says we have a thousand places we can use it. Yet all I can think about is where I’d like to stick it.
So far this project is not bringing us together like I’d hoped.
Chapter Eleven. THE BIG REVEAL
“To be perfectly candid, I had my doubts we’d make it. Big doubts. The last two weeks have been entirely miserable. I feel like everything that might have gone wrong did, from the splotchy floor stain to the grout that changed colors to the door that swelled up and trapped me inside after I painted it. Nightmare, total nightmare. What really gets me is, with all the tools Mac bought, we could have easily done the room professionally for that price. Twice. Three times. Maybe more.
“Mac’s obsessed with having the right tools for the job. He says that’s why the bathrooms went so sideways. He said he was trying to half-ass something that should have been whole-assed.106 Hence the major cash outlay that’s causing me so much distress.”
He doesn’t respond, naturally, so I continue. “I hate that I’ve been getting mad at Mac, because he listens but I don’t know that he hears me. For example, I’ve been going over our budget with him and he insists we’re ‘fine.’ The problem is, his version of ‘fine’ is way different from mine. ‘Fine’ to me is six months of living expenses saved up, plus a rainy-day fund, plus a little something foldable in the safe in case the bubble goes up.”
I pause, then nod. “Mac says the expression is actually ‘in case the balloon goes up,’ but that doesn’t make any sense either. Neither balloons nor bubbles are inherently threatening. Anyway, Mac’s much more fast and loose in terms of fiscal responsibility. He says I’m stressing out needlessly, particularly since we’ll get plenty of cash once I finish my book. But I’m terrified of not having enough in the interim.”
I take his silence as tacit encouragement. “Right, you’re right. Mac’s concept of money being completely different than mine doesn’t make it wrong. I mean, he grew up solidly middle-class. His folks weren’t wealthy, but they were definitely comfortable. He never had to watch his mom’s face burn with shame in the grocery store as the cashier took away items to bring the total under twenty dollars. He never heard his folks screaming at each other all night long because they couldn’t pay the electric bill. My parents still loved each other when they split up, but ultimately, their marriage failed because they couldn’t come together on finances. Buying this house may be the first time I haven’t been completely fiscally conservative, and even that was with my accountant’s blessing.”
I take a couple of big breaths to gather my thoughts before I continue. “Oh, no, please, I have no regrets about buying the place. I mean, Mac’s living his dream of doing renovations, and I don’t have to tell you again how important it was to live in Jake Ryan’s house.You don’t mess with destiny. I know I’m being silly and selfindulgent. Forgive me; I’ve been inhaling a lot of paint fumes; I’m not quite myself.”
I pause a minute to take in my surroundings. I still can’t get over how gorgeous and serene it is here. “To me, I see that house like Jake saw Samantha. Sure, he had Caroline, who was perfection on the outside. Put her and Samantha side by side and there’d be no contest on who embodied more of the classical elements of beauty. Blond hair, blue eyes, killer body, blah, blah, blah. But ultimately, Caroline didn’t respect Jake enough to prevent her friends from trashing the joint, whereas Sam was pure and good and kind enough to lend her panties to a geek. Jake saw that in her. Jake realized that he’d be a better man with Samantha in his life.”
There’s no sound save for a light breeze ruffling the leaves and the distant hum of a lawn mower. “I’m not saying the house is going to make me a better person. But I’m really happy we didn’t pick a Caroline of a house, all perfect and move-in ready. Maybe getting a Samantha kind of house takes a little more effort up front, but will end up being the better purchase in the long run. I’m going to learn something with the effort, you know? I feel like there’s a real value in viewing this house not as a teardown, but as a place that will absolutely come to life with enough nurturing and love. Or it’s like the kids in
Even though it’s almost June, the stone bench beneath me is icecold. I shift a bit, relocating to the sunny spot. “Mac? He’s at home right now. He wanted to finish off the room himself. He — this is actually very cute — he wanted me to have the experience of a ‘big reveal,’ like they always do with the homeowners on TV, so he sent me away this morning. I spent quite a bit of time in Starbucks and I knocked out two chapters! Felt so good to have the words flow. I wrote the sweetest thing about how Rebecca tried to bite off Mose’s ear and he stopped her with a first kiss — and. . You know what? Details don’t matter, because the scene just works and that’s a huge relief.
“What’s he doing? Oh, he’s moving furniture back in and replacing outlet covers and hanging curtains and stuff. Actually, he said to be home by three o’clock, so I’m taking off now.” I get up and start to walk away. “Oh, my gosh, you’re right; I almost forgot! These are for you, sir. They’re pretty in pink this week, pun intended.” I grab the big bunch of peonies from their spot on the edge of the bench and set them down in front of him.
“It’s ‘really human of you to listen to all my bullshit.’ Ha, I know, I know: Don’t quote you to you. But in all sincerity, you understand me. You always understood me. So thank you. I’ll see you next week.”
Mac’s in the kitchen arranging champagne in a bucket when I get home. I ease myself over the downed cabinet and wedge past the boxes of our salvaged dinnerware to get to him.
“Ooh, festive!” I exclaim.
“They always have booze at the end of
Mac glances up from pouring. “How was he today?”
I respond, “Quiet,” and Mac laughs.
“I’d be concerned if he weren’t.”
I recently let Mac in on the secret of my weekly pilgrimage, because it felt weird keeping something from him.
Ever since we moved to the Cambs, I’ve. . Okay, this might sound a little strange. . I’ve been bringing flowers to John Hughes’s grave. At first I just did the floral equivalent of a dine-and-dash. I’d practically run to his resting spot, dump my bouquet, murmur a quick word, and sprint back to my car. Any further dalliance felt disrespectful.
It’s common knowledge that Hughes was an extraordinarily private man. Were he alive, I’d never go up to him on the street or interrupt his dinner or say or do anything that might make him uncomfortable. He left Hollywood to return to Illinois, coming back for a quiet, more anonymous life. Even if I’d been presented a chance to introduce myself, I’d likely have not felt worthy enough to take it.
I’ve been to Jim Morrison’s grave at the Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris, and the site was total chaos, covered in every bit of detritus you can imagine — flowers, candles, graffiti, liquor bottles — empty and full, plus ladies’ panties and. . a used condom.108 Crowds of people lined up so they could make “metal hands” while posing for pictures with his headstone, and we had to wait a while to even get close. The whole scene felt less like a place of quiet reflection and solitude, and more like a concert tailgate party, with kids singing and playing guitars, smoking pot, and having drinks.
I realize fans were simply trying to pay tribute to the life of the Lizard King and the iconic music he created. From everything I’ve ever read, Morrison probably would have loved that almost forty years later, the celebration rages on in his honor. But does that mean he’d have been okay with strangers spray-painting his lyrics on his grave? To me, the mess felt blatantly disrespectful. If fans want to keep his memory alive, wouldn’t they be better served by making sure that each new generation hears his songs and reads his poetry?
Since I was there in the nineties, I understand guards have been employed to patrol the area. Given Morrison’s tumultuous history with authority figures, I wonder how he’d have felt about that.
John Hughes’s resting place is the polar opposite. Anyone who’s cared enough about Hughes’s work to seek
