I’ll admit, I was shocked.
On the other hand, it was Jordan. And he was drunk. And liquor and Jordan don’t mix.
“Of course that’s not why she wants to have a baby,” I said soothingly. “Tania loves you.”
The truth, of course, is that I have no way of knowing this. But I wasn’t going to stand there and tell him otherwise.
“But a baby,” Jordan said. “How can I be a dad? I don’t know anything about babies. I don’t know anything about anything… ”
This was a shockingly self-aware statement… especially for Jordan. It exhibited an amazing amount of growth and maturity on his part. At least I thought so.
“Just the fact that you realize that, Jordan,” I told him, “shows that you’re more ready for fatherhood now than you’ve ever been. And seriously… as long as you remember that—that you don’t know anything about anything—I think you’re going to be a terrific dad.”
“Really?” Jordan brightened, as if my opinion on this subject actually mattered to him. “Do you mean that, Heather?”
“I really do,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Now what do you say we get back to dinner?”
It was shortly after this that Cooper convinced his brother that he’d done enough celebrating for one night, and ought to let Cooper take him home. Jordan finally acquiesced—on the condition that Cooper let him play his new demo in the car on the way uptown, a condition Cooper agreed to with a visible shudder of distaste—and I convinced Dad to sit and enjoy one of his herbal teas while I did the dinner dishes.
“It’s been quite a day for you,” Dad observes, as I scrub at the caked-on goop that lines the pot he made the short ribs in. “You must be exhausted. Didn’t you go running this morning?”
“If you could call it that,” I grunt. Seriously, the short ribs had been delicious, but did he have to use every single pot in the house to make them?
“Tad must have been very proud of you. That’s quite a feat for you—running. He called the house again, you know, a little while before you came back. I’d have invited him to dinner, but I know he doesn’t eat meat, and I didn’t have another protein prepared… ”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll call him back later.”
“Things are getting pretty serious with him, huh?”
I think about Tad’s odd behavior earlier this morning. Was it only this morning? It seems so long ago.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so. I mean… ” He’s going to ask me to marry him. “I don’t know.”
“It’s nice,” Dad says, a little vaguely, “that you have someone. I still worry about you sometimes, Heather. You’ve never been like other girls, you know.”
“Huh?” I’ve found a particularly stubborn piece of baked-on gunk, and am working at it with my thumbnail. I wonder if a scouring pad will scratch Cooper’s enamel cookware, purchased for him by a professional chef girlfriend whose name has long since been lost to history.
“I’m just saying,” Dad goes on. “You’ve always been more like me than like your mother. Not one for the status quo. Never much of a nine-to-fiver. That’s why I’m surprised you seem so devoted to this job of yours.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m devoted to it.” I give up and grab the scouring pad. Maybe if I’m careful, I won’t scratch the enamel. “I mean, I like it… ”
“But your true love is singing,” Dad says. “And songwriting. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know.” The scouring pad isn’t working, either. “I like that, too.”
“What would you say if I told you I knew of an opportunity where you could do both again? Write and perform your own songs? For money. Good money, too. How would you feel about that?”
Success! The gunk has come off! But there is so much gunk to follow.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What are you even talking about? You know, Patty’s husband, Frank, is always trying to get me to go on the road with his band, and I gotta tell you, it’s not exactly my kind of thing anymore… ”
“No, no,” Dad says, leaning forward in his seat. Behind him, I can see the lights of Fischer Hall gleaming in the kitchen windows. The kids are home from dinner, studying or getting ready to go out. It doesn’t matter to them that it’s a weeknight… or that their interim hall director was murdered this morning. Not when there’s beer flowing somewhere. “This is a real opportunity Larry and I would like to offer you. We know how you feel about the record business—once burned and twice shy and all of that. But this is nothing like that. This is something totally different. You’ve heard of the Wiggles, haven’t you?”
I pause in my gunk assault. “That British children’s program? Yeah, Patty’s kid loves them.”
“They’re an Australian children’s band, actually,” Dad corrects me. “But this would be something along similar lines, yes. Larry and I plan to produce and market a line of children’s music videos and DVDs. The production costs versus the amount of money you can take in is actually quite literally staggering. Which is where you would come in. We’d like you to be the star—the hostess and singer/songwriter—for these videos. You’ve always had a strong appeal to children, even when you were a teenager… something about your voice, your manner… maybe it’s all that blond hair—I don’t know. You would be the lead in a cast of characters, all of whom would be animated… you’d be the only human, as a matter of fact. Each episode you would address a different issue… using the potty, going to day care, being afraid of going down the drain in the bathtub, that kind of thing. We’ve crunched the numbers, and feel that we can give the competition—Dora the Explorer, the Wiggles,Blue’s Clues — a run for its money. We’re thinking of calling it Heather’s World. What do you think?”
I have stopped scrubbing. Now I’m standing at the sink, staring at him. I feel as if my brain is a DVR that somebody has just set on Pause.
“What?” I say, intelligently.
“I know you have your heart set on going back to school, honey,” Dad says, leaning forward in his chair. “And you can absolutely still do that. That’s the magic about this. There’s no touring, no promoting… at least, not right away. We just want to get the songs written, get the videos recorded, then get them out on the market and see how they do. I have a feeling—and Larry agrees—that they’re going to take off in a big way. Then we can work with your schedule to arrange for any kind of publicity we might like to do. You’ll notice I said we. It’s totally up to you how much or how little you’d like to do. I’m not your mother, Heather. Under no circumstances would I want you to do anything more than you’re comfortable with… ”
I can’t seem to wrap my mind around what he’s saying.
“You mean… give up working at Fischer Hall?”
“Well,” Dad says slowly. “I’m afraid that would be necessary, yes. But, Heather, you would be generously compensated for your work on this project, with a sizable advance that would be—well, a hundred times what you’re making yearly at Fischer Hall… as well as royalties. And I believe Larry would not be averse to letting you in on a percentage of the gross as well—”
“Yeah, but… ” I blink at him. “I don’t know. I mean… give up my job? It’s a good job. With benefits. I get tuition remission and everything. And an excellent health insurance package.”
“Heather.” Dad is starting to sound a little impatient. “The Wiggles gross an estimated fifty million dollars a year. I think with fifty million dollars a year, you could afford the health insurance package of your choice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But you don’t even know if these video thingies are going to take off. Kids might hate them. They might end up being really cheesy or something. End up just sitting in the bargain bin at Sam Goody.”
“That’s the risk we’re all taking here,” Dad says.
“But… ” I stare at him. “I don’t write songs for kids. I write songs for grown-ups… like me.”
“Right,” Dad says. “But writing songs for children can’t be that different from writing songs for disaffected young women like yourself.”
I blink again. “Disaffected?”
“Instead of complaining about the size of your jeans,” Dad goes on, “complain about why you have to use a sippy cup. Or why you can’t have big-girl pants. Just give it a try. I think you’ll be a natural. The truth is, Heather, I’m going out on a limb for you. Larry wants to approach Mandy Moore. I told him to hold off a bit. I told him I was sure you could come up with something that’d knock our socks off.”
“Dad.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to write—or sing—about sippy cups.”
“Heather,” Dad says. “I don’t think you understand. This is an extraordinary opportunity for all of us. But mainly for you. It’s a chance for you to get out of that hellhole you’re working in—a place where just today, Heather, your boss was shot in the head, just a room away from where you sit. And also a chance for you to—let’s
