were tallied at the end of the week, and the loser cooked dinner the following week.
“ I think when Jack Nicholson says, ‘What if this is as good as it gets?’ will be a classic,” commented Archer after they saw As Good as It Gets— second time for both—at a theater in South Hadley.
“ Hmmm, maybe, but it’s kind of bland, you know. A really good one has to stand on its own, be totally unique. You know, like when Lauren Bacall says to Bogie, ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? Just put your lips together and blow.’ Now, that’s a memorable line.”
Invariably, when they got there the theater would be almost empty, except for a handful of seniors. They always ended up sitting off to the right on the aisle, ten rows back. Occasionally, Archer would throw a kernel of popcorn at Connor when he was engrossed in the movie. He would ignore it until a scene held her rapt, then throw a kernel back at her. That would then start them each tossing popcorn and shushing the other.
On occasion, they leaned together conspiratorially to share a comment or a joke, or Connor would brush Archer’s hair back to whisper a witty observation that wouldn’t hold until the ride home. Archer would shiver and lean in closer, sometimes giggling like a tenth-grader on a date. Sometimes she took Connor’s arm to emphasize a point.
One day, on the way home from seeing On Golden Pond at a classics theater in Springfield, Connor grew quiet.
“ Hey, anything wrong, McCall? You’re unusually morose, even for you,” Archer joked.
He said nothing for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Nah, it’s stupid, but that movie got me thinking about Lauren. You know, in almost every movie I’ve ever seen, the estranged child softens at the end and is happy to see the creepy, absent parent. I mean, in The Rock, Sean Connery’s daughter wants to see him even after, what was it, twenty years? In My Favorite Year, Peter O’Toole finally gets up the courage to see Tess, and it goes well, or so we’re led to believe. Even in Absolute Power, Clint Eastwood’s daughter forgives him his life of crime and his abandonment of her.
“ But maybe, in real life, a kid is just mad and cuts you out forever for leaving them.” He looked at her, then refocused on the road. “Maybe sometimes it is too late.”
Archer put her hand on his arm and said gently, “No, that’s not true. It’s never too late if you really want something. Wasn’t it your mother who said it’s never too late to be who you might have been?”
He was quiet for a moment, then drawled in his best Wyoming twang, “Yeah, but what did my mother know, anyway? She was a librarian in south Boston, who expected Heathcliff to stop in some afternoon for tea.” Still, he smiled as he drove on.
CHAPTER 11
The dream started again. This was the bad one, not like the dream of Clique in Madison Square Garden. Everyone remembers her first time, Archer thought wryly as her midnight mind went again where it willed, and it’s never quite what you expected, is it? Four-plus years had not blunted the force of the dream that recorded in accurate detail every moment of her first time—her first solo assignment for the Group.
* * *
Miami Beach was no one’s destination of choice in August. Archer arrived at Miami International from Boston’s Logan Airport on a steamy afternoon, her itinerary memorized, no incriminating notes to lose, just one sheet of paper with a neighborhood map.
She glanced around, but no one appeared interested in her. Walking briskly past the window of a dark bar and restaurant, she caught her reflection in the glass. She drew in her breath, startled by her own appearance. With gray curly hair, owlish wire-rimmed spectacles, realistic-looking face lines, a denim wraparound skirt to midcalf, a plain yellow T-shirt, and blue Keds, she looked every day of sixty-two. “Frumpy” didn’t begin to do the look justice, she thought,
“ I think when Jack Nicholson says, ‘What if this is as good as it gets?’ will be a classic,” commented Archer after they saw As Good as It Gets— second time for both—at a theater in South Hadley.
“ Hmmm, maybe, but it’s kind of bland, you know. A really good one has to stand on its own, be totally unique. You know, like when Lauren Bacall says to Bogie, ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? Just put your lips together and blow.’ Now, that’s a memorable line.”
Invariably, when they got there the theater would be almost empty, except for a handful of seniors. They always ended up sitting off to the right on the aisle, ten rows back. Occasionally, Archer would throw a kernel of popcorn at Connor when he was engrossed in the movie. He would ignore it until a scene held her rapt, then throw a kernel back at her. That would then start them each tossing popcorn and shushing the other.
On occasion, they leaned together conspiratorially to share a comment or a joke, or Connor would brush Archer’s hair back to whisper a witty observation that wouldn’t hold until the ride home. Archer would shiver and lean in closer, sometimes giggling like a tenth-grader on a date. Sometimes she took Connor’s arm to emphasize a point.
One day, on the way home from seeing On Golden Pond at a classics theater in Springfield, Connor grew quiet.
“ Hey, anything wrong, McCall? You’re unusually morose, even for you,” Archer joked.
He said nothing for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Nah, it’s stupid, but that movie got me thinking about Lauren. You know, in almost every movie I’ve ever seen, the estranged child softens at the end and is happy to see the creepy, absent parent. I mean, in The Rock, Sean Connery’s daughter wants to see him even after, what was it, twenty years? In My Favorite Year, Peter O’Toole finally gets up the courage to see Tess, and it goes well, or so we’re led to believe. Even in Absolute Power, Clint Eastwood’s daughter forgives him his life of crime and his abandonment of her.
“ But maybe, in real life, a kid is just mad and cuts you out forever for leaving them.” He looked at her, then refocused on the road. “Maybe sometimes it is too late.”
Archer put her hand on his arm and said gently, “No, that’s not true. It’s never too late if you really want something. Wasn’t it your mother who said it’s never too late to be who you might have been?”
He was quiet for a moment, then drawled in his best Wyoming twang, “Yeah, but what did my mother know, anyway? She was a librarian in south Boston, who expected Heathcliff to stop in some afternoon for tea.” Still, he smiled as he drove on.
CHAPTER 11
The dream started again. This was the bad one, not like the dream of Clique in Madison Square Garden. Everyone remembers her first time, Archer thought wryly as her midnight mind went again where it willed, and it’s never quite what you expected, is it? Four-plus years had not blunted the force of the dream that recorded in accurate detail every moment of her first time—her first solo assignment for the Group.
* * *
Miami Beach was no one’s destination of choice in August. Archer arrived at Miami International from Boston’s Logan Airport on a steamy afternoon, her itinerary memorized, no incriminating notes to lose, just one sheet of paper with a neighborhood map.
She glanced around, but no one appeared interested in her. Walking briskly past the window of a dark bar and restaurant, she caught her reflection in the glass. She drew in her breath, startled by her own appearance. With gray curly hair, owlish wire-rimmed spectacles, realistic-looking face lines, a denim wraparound skirt to midcalf, a plain yellow T-shirt, and blue Keds, she looked every day of sixty-two. “Frumpy” didn’t begin to do the look justice, she thought,
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