And what could he do for his daughters? He could outfit them in gorgeous vintage clothing. So he gave them dresses and shoes and pants that were worn by Doris Day, Marilyn Monroe, and Audrey Hepburn.
“Who is Audrey Hepburn?” his youngest daughter had asked.
“She was perfect,” Paul said.
“But who is she?”
“An actress. A movie star.”
“What movies has she been in?”
“I don’t think you’ve seen any of them.”
“If I don’t know who she is, why did you buy me her dress?”
It was a good question. Paul didn’t have an answer. He just looked at this young woman in front of him — his daughter — and felt powerless.
“I thought maybe if you wore different clothes at school,” Paul said, “maybe you could start a trend. You’d be original.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “It’s high school, Dad. People get beat up for being original.”
Jesus, Paul had thought he was giving her social capital. He thought he could be a microlender of art — the art of the pop song. So he gave music to his daughters. Yes, he’d once romanced their mother with mix tapes, dozens of mix tapes, so he’d romance his daughters — in an entirely different way — with iPods. So Paul bought three iPods and loaded them with a thousand songs each. Three iPods, three thousand songs. Instead of just a few songs on a CD or a cassette tape, Paul had made epic mixes. Paul had given each daughter a third of his musical history. And, oh, they were delighted — were ecstatic — when they opened their gifts and saw new iPods, but, oh, how disappointed — how disgusted — they were when they discovered that their new iPods were already filled with songs, songs chosen by their father. By their sad and desperate father.
“Daddy,” his eldest daughter said. “Why did you put all your music on here?”
“I chose all those songs for you,” he said. “They’re specifically for you.”
“But all these songs are your songs,” she said. “They’re not mine.”
“But if you listen to them,” he said, “if you learn them, then maybe they can become our songs.”
“We don’t have to love the same things,” she said.
“But I want you to love what I love.”
Did I say that? Paul asked himself. Did I just sound that love starved and socially inept? Am I intimidated by my own daughter? In place of romantic love for my wife, am I trying to feel romantic love for my daughters? No, no, no, no, Paul thought. But he wasn’t sure. How could he be sure? He was surrounded by women he did not understand.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “I can just load my music over your music. Thank you for the iPod.”
She shook her head — a dismissive gesture she’d learned from her mother — kissed her incompetent father on the cheek, and left the room.
Three years after his divorce had finalized, after two of his daughters had gone off to college, one to Brown and the other to Oberlin, and his third daughter had disowned him, Paul saw Sara Smile again in the Detroit Airport. They saw each other at the same time, both walking toward a coffee kiosk.
“Sara Smile,” he said.
“Excuse me?” the woman said.
“It’s me,” he said. “Paul Nonetheless.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do I know you?”
He realized this woman only looked like his Sara Smile. It would have been too much to ask for a third chance meeting. If he’d run into Sara Smile again, they would have had to make their way over to the airport hotel — the Hyatt or Hilton or whatever it was — and get a room. He could imagine them barely making it inside the door before their hands were down each other’s pants. God, he’d drop to his knees, unbutton her pants, pull them down to her ankles, and kiss her thighs. He’d pull aside her panties and push his mouth against her crotch and she’d want it for a few moments — she’d moan her approvals — and then she’d remember her husband and her life — substantial — and she’d push Paul away. She’d pull up her pants and apologize and rush out of the room. And Paul would be there, alone again, on his knees again, in a room where thousands of people had slept, eaten, fucked, and made lonely phone calls home. And who would Paul call? Who was waiting for his voice on the line? But wait, none of this had happened. It wasn’t real. Paul was still standing in the Detroit Airport next to a woman — a stranger — who only strongly resembled Sara Smile.
“Are you going to call this coincidental now?” he asked this stranger.
“You have me confused with somebody else,” she said. She was smiling. She was enjoying this odd and humorous interaction with the eccentric man in his old-fashioned suit.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked. He knew she was the wrong woman. But he wasn’t going to let that become an impediment.
“Sir,” she said. “I’m not who you think I am.”
She wasn’t smiling now. She realized that something was wrong with this man. Yes, she was in an airport, surrounded by people — by security — but she was still a little afraid.
“How’s your marriage?” he asked.
“Sir, please,” she said. “Stop bothering me.”
She walked away, but Paul followed her. He couldn’t stop himself. He needed her. He walked a few feet behind her.
“Me asking about your marriage is just a way of talking about my marriage,” he said. “But you knew that, right? Anyway, I’m divorced now.”
“Sir, if you don’t leave me alone, I am going to find a cop.”
She stopped and put her hands up as if to ward off a punch.
“My wife left me,” Paul said. “Or I left her. We left each other. It’s hard to say who left first.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. And then he sang the first few bars of “She’s Gone.” But he couldn’t quite hit Daryl Hall’s falsetto notes.
“I can’t hit those high notes,” Paul said. “But it’s not about the notes, is it? It’s about the heat behind the notes.”
“What’s wrong with you?” the woman asked.
Two hours later, Paul sat in a simple room at a simple table while two men in suits leaned against the far wall and studied him.
“I’m not a terrorist,” Paul said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The men didn’t speak. Maybe they couldn’t speak. Maybe there were rules against speaking. Maybe this was some advanced interrogation technique. Maybe they were silent because they knew Paul would want to fill the room with his voice.
“Come on, guys,” he said. “I got a little carried away. I knew it wasn’t her. I knew it wasn’t Sara. I just needed to pretend for a while. Just a few moments. If she’d let me buy her some coffee or something. If she’d talked to me, everything would have been okay.”
The men whispered to each other.
Paul decided it might be best if he stopped talking, if he stopped trying to explain himself.
Instead he would sing. Yes, he would find the perfect song for this situation and he would sing it. And these men — police officers, federal agents, mysterious suits — would recognize the song. They certainly wouldn’t (or couldn’t) sing along, but they’d smile and nod their heads in recognition. They’d share a moment with Paul. They’d have a common history, maybe even a common destiny. Rock music had that kind of power. But what song? What song would do?