The Serial Achiever

Pulling up to the restaurant at last, he handed his keys to the valet, then hurried to Claire’s side but when he reached the door, she’d already opened it. He extended his hand, bracing his arm so she’d have something to lean on when she stood up. She took it, frowning. When he heard her say she wished there were one thing in her life she could take for granted, “Just one damn thing I never have to worry about whether or not it’s there,” he decided she’d been acting exactly as callow and immature as he suspected. Maybe she would outgrow this, maybe it would cling to her forever as it sometimes did to people.

The restaurant hummed with that nervy bustle Mike could never resist when he dined out. He stood at the door, observing the waiters gliding by, the colors, the chromed and lacquered surfaces, the improbable prizefighting murals high up on the walls. Precisely the sort of place where people like Claire went to rehearse their cluttered but adorably chic and opaque lives. Instead of infuriating him, that suspicion made him feel at ease with the air of comfortable entitlement that suffused the place. He could tell Claire felt this ease too by the high-shouldered way she sauntered across the floor toward their table, like a model. She appeared to gleam, as though lit from within and he had a brief hope heads might be turning to watch her. Then he spotted a man he knew, a successful producer of TV sitcoms, dining with his wife. The man waved them over, they slid into the booth and, just like that, they became a foursome, laughing and chattering together.

After a while Mike found he couldn’t focus on anything but Claire. He watched her nibble on black olive salad or fork up her crabcake. A foolish smile played on her lips as she listened to his producer-friend, Irv, talk about the stars he knew, their moods and hissy-fits. She’d forgotten he was even at the table. When a piece of crabcake slid off her fork she speared it off the polished wood tabletop and popped it in her mouth without missing a word of gossip. It wasn’t till she finally looked his way and asked, “Daddy, what are you smiling at?” that he knew this brief moment was all the reward he was going to get for picking her up at LAX, for taking her to dinner.

After coffee, Mike won the ritual fight over the check and contentedly paid $236.50 for the four of them. He strolled out the door with Claire on his arm, bumping once against his shoulder, followed by Irv and his wife. Claire’s hair seemed damp and slightly askew. As he handed his parking stub to the valet, he remembered she’d had a chocolate martini before dinner and a white chocolate martini when the food arrived.

“Pow!” She pressed her fist against his jaw. “What’s the point of those boxing murals, anyhoooooo?”

“Wham!” He touched his fist to the tip of her nose. “Beats the hell out of me.”

“Pow!” She smiled that clownish smile and brushed her fist against his stomach.

“Kablam!” He laughed, disregarding Irv’s stare, and swung his own fist toward her in a slow-motion mock attack.

“Wait a minute!” she said, laughing as she caught his wrist and pushed back. “Wait! Daddy! What are you—” Then she laughed again as he grabbed her other hand in his and they wrestled back and forth, laughing together. Maybe they looked silly, but they’d been horsing around like this since she was five and they had a right, didn’t they?

“I’ve got an idea,” Mike said as he let go of her hands. “What was it you said you were doing tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“Cancel it. Come over to the office instead. We’ll go over rental properties. I’ll help you find some cheap gallery space.”

“I can’t.” She peered down the alleyway, looking for the car. “I have to be at work early.”

“With a guy who’s going to give you the axe in six months? Too bad for him.”

Some sound emanated from her, a sigh, perhaps. “Yeah, I was stupid to take that job. Someone else always has the candy, never me.”

“You’re never stupid to try something.” He reached into his wallet for a couple of bills to hand the parking valet.

“Try what?”

“Anything. Nobody knows what they can do when they’re starting out. Do it anyway.” He had a vision of the delighted surprise he’d feel when he received an invitation to the grand opening of Claire’s new gallery. White wine of course, white-coated waitstaff passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. She’d proudly introduce him to the artists present as the one who helped her get a terrific deal on the gallery space.

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” she said.

“Never mind that. Just barge ahead. Find some space, work your contacts. What about your old boyfriends, there are plenty of those around. Call in some favors.”

“What would happen if I failed?”

“What the hell do you mean, failed? No daughter of mine—”

“Can’t you give it up? Let me have my fears; at least they’re mine.”

Mike fingered the bills, which felt damp in his fingers. Couldn’t she have the decency to control the tears that were starting to stream down her face? Demolition was in progress on the alley’s far side. Not an obsolete chili-dog stand but an old Spanish-style old house, the kind that had been everywhere when Mike was starting out. He scanned the smashed stucco walls and shards of red roof tile feeling the ugly thought Claire had somehow planned for the evening to end this way.

“You don’t get it,” she continued, as if the point hadn’t been sufficiently made. “The whole art scene is sick. It’s a racket. I mean, art is wonderful. It truly is. But the business of it? If they’re not all toadies, they’re vultures. If they’re not vultures, they’re toadies. I thought you were a real estate developer but now you’re not. I thought I was an art dealer but look what you have to do to become that.”

Irv had been standing silently; now he spoke up. “Your father is trying to help, Claire.”

“You stay out of this.” She looked around wildly. “Where’s the fucking car, anyway?”

“Who wants a nightcap?” Irv said. “I was thinking we could all go someplace.”

Nobody answered as the headlights of Mike’s car appeared around the corner.

Tony Van Witsen is a recent resident of Michigan and has been writing fiction for approximately ten years, specializing in short stories. In the summer of 2001 he enrolled the MFA program in fiction at Vermont College and received his degree in January 2004. His published stories and essays have appeared in a range of journals including Identity Theory, Ray’s Road Review, Serving House Journal, Crosstimbers, and Valparaiso Fiction Review.