And Sons (28 page)

Whatever filial restraint that had kept Richard and Jamie steady on the couch began to waver, at least for Jamie, who glanced toward his brother and tried to nudge him with his eyes, like a moviegoer confused by the plot and in need of whispering, What the hell is going on here? But Richard gave no indication of confusion, if anything seemed to follow along without any problem, which put Jamie in the unfamiliar role of gadfly. “What are you talking about, Dad? I mean I think I know what you’re talking about, but what the hell are you talking about?”

“I never had an affair.”

“Of course you had an affair.”

“No, not with a Swedish au pair.”

“You had an affair, Dad, probably not your first, and the girl got pregnant and she had a baby and here we are.”

“That was just the cover story,” he said.

“The cover story? Really? So this is now some secret mission we’re talking about? C’mon, Dad, you had an affair and you were careless. It’s an old story. Because otherwise what you’re telling us is that Andy is a …” Jamie waited for his father to fill in this particular blank, but his father just nodded, forcing Jamie to carry on. “I mean I was with you for the whole bodysurfing thing, and with Mom, and regret, maybe lost me with the dreams of advertising, though I totally understand where you’re coming from, but the Palingeneticists and Norde Bellaf and—what?—cloning, right, that’s what we’re talking about here, cloning.”

“I hate that word,” his father said.

“What would you prefer?”

“An autonomous reflection.”

“Oh yes, that’s much better.” Jamie’s irritation bounced between his brother’s outward calm and his father’s matter-of-factness, back and forth, like a ball searching for a goal. “Richard, help me out here.”

Richard leaned forward. “Does Andy know?”

Jamie was hoping for a harder kick. “That’s your opening shot?”

“Well—”

“Does Andy know his father thinks he’s a clone?”

“Jamie—”

“That’s your first question.”

“Calm down, okay.”

Andrew remained unmoved by this brotherly sidebar. “Andy doesn’t know,” he said to Richard, “and he can never know. I’m only telling you now because when I’m gone I want someone who can give him a sense of who he is, who he was.”

“Him meaning you?” Jamie said.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So we’ll never be free of you, is that what you’re saying?”

“I know it’s hard to believe—”

“No, Dad, it’s fucking impossible to believe. Obviously you are”—
in the midst of full-blown dementia
, Jamie wanted to say,
your brain rewiring the past into pure fabulism, all in service of impending mortality and shattered ego and self-inflicted remorse
, but instead Jamie restrained himself and simply said, “confused.”

“I’m not confused.”

“I can sympathize. I’m presently being haunted by a dead woman’s cellphone.”

“I’m not confused,” Andrew repeated. “What I’m saying is absolutely true.”

“Let’s do a DNA test then.”

“We’re not doing a DNA test.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no reason.”

“Why, because you say it’s true?”

“Jamie—” from Richard.

“No, because it is true. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

“I’m sure you believe it a hundred percent, but that doesn’t make it true.”

“In this case it does,” Andrew said.

“So that greasy seventeen-year-old kid out there is my dad.”

“He’s not that greasy.”

“My father, the teenager.”

“I know it’s difficult—”

“Enough with difficult crap,” Jamie said. “I’m not a child trying to grasp some adult concept. This is pure—and I want to be kind, Dad, I really do, but this is pure nonsense. This is you spinning yourself into one of your alternate worlds. And I understand it. Or I think I do. I think I know where this impulse is coming from, and it’s a totally human place in my book, and I feel for you. But to say that Andy is a clone—”

“But he is a clone.”

Jamie frustrated his hands into fists. “Is this for a new book,
Fathers & Clones
?”

“Jamie—” from Richard again.

“Testing our reaction for the sake of homegrown veracity.”

“You know cleverness is not an appealing trait, Jamie, despite what your mother might think. It’s a crutch. Fifteen months after that visit from Norde Bellaf an embryo was successfully implanted into a surrogate, and nine months later Andy was born, without complications, at Landstinget Hospital in Östergötland, Sweden. Check the hospital records if you must. He weighed nine pounds, three ounces, a full pound heavier than me. His mother never died, because there was no mother. Or his mother was my mother, same with his father, and they were both dead long before he was born.”

Jamie, shading red, turned to Richard. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I’ve been trying.”

“Please, go ahead, speak.”

Richard planted his elbows on his knees and proceeded to rub his hands together as though rolling a hunk of clay into a sensible sphere. It was a move he often took when leading a group session back in L.A., a coach trying to come up with a lifesaving play. Richard was obviously concerned for his father’s mental well-being, but he was also jet-lagged and in need of a longer run than the three measly loops around the reservoir this morning, and while he wanted to take on the role of mediator,
he professionally always sided with the sick, at least initially, to get them on his side, and his father was obviously sick and in need of support, and all that was fine and good but more than anything
Ampersand
turned tightly in his head, along with Rainer Krebs and Eric Harke, who were both in New York this week and wanted to supplicate themselves before the master—now masters, Richard thought, major and minor, and the absolute lunacy of the situation spun a moral debate of using his father’s breakdown to his own advantage, which, after a few more rolls of that psychic clay, emerged into a charitable, if snakelike form, of honoring his father and allowing a confused old man to believe whatever he wanted to believe. Where was the harm in that? “There is an uncanny resemblance,” Richard said.

Jamie nearly exploded. “What the hell?”

“I’m just saying there’s a resemblance.”

“Maybe because he’s his father.”

“And history has shown the power of secret organizations.”

“History has shown, if anything, their incompetence.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You can’t possibly believe this.”

“Let me finish. I’m saying maybe we should give Dad the benefit of the doubt.”

“You mean the willful suspension of disbelief, his stock-in-trade?”

“I believe it’s willing,” his father said, “not willful.”

Jamie’s nerves gripped his stomach. After years of keeping his head down he dared to challenge a question with a raised hand. “Maybe I meant willful. I’m sorry, Dad, but you haven’t earned it, to use another awful expression from your trade. You need some belief to suspend, instead of stealing meaning from other people’s lives. And I can relate to that, oh man, can I relate, but I can’t step into your particular narrative here. Not now. I think you must be feeling very alone and you want to connect before it’s too late, and I can appreciate that, and I’m here to do that, if you want, but I can’t pretend it’s anything else, especially using poor Andy like that.” Jamie surprised himself with his honesty, since usually he just caved knowing that would lead to a shorter conversation and a quicker exit. But here he was speaking almost like an adult.

“I’m mentally fit,” Andrew said. “Physically, maybe not.”

“Dad, you’re an overall fucking mess.” Maybe Jamie was enjoying this too much.

“C’mon,” said Richard. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“How is this not the time or the place?”

“Can we talk about it later please?”

“When you’re back in L.A. and I’m stuck here with my two dads?”

“I’m just saying we need time to properly digest this.”

“But I’m not swallowing it.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me.”

“I think I am. I’m just not willing to soft-shoe it. You were checked out when the whole divorce happened but I remember. I remember what she went through, I remember the shock, I remember the phone calls. She was catatonic for a year.”

“Please you were hardly around either,” Richard said. “You were busy doing your Faces of Death tour.”

“Faces of Death?”

“Whatever you call whatever you did, or do?”

“You’re such an asshole. Still.”

“And you’re still incredibly dishonest about yourself.”

“Richard the True rides again. Please tell me more about myself.”

“You’ve never grown up.”

“And your early promise has flowered beautifully.”

Voices rose toward yelling until interrupted by the
snap-snap-snap!
of a letter striking paper. The brothers turned and saw their father eyeing them from over his typewriter, his index finger firing two more shots
—snap-snap
!—head shots judging by his squint. “I don’t miss these fights,” Andrew said. “Being an only child I was always frightened of your relationship, its sudden potential for violence. I probably would have been better suited to daughters. But if you don’t believe me, you don’t believe me. I just wanted you to know. Andy is a good kid and seventeen is a tough age and I just hope you’ll try to make him feel like he isn’t alone when all is said and done.”

“Should we push him toward a career in advertising?” Jamie muttered harshly.

Richard threw an eyeful of
prick
at his brother before getting up
with no other purpose than to gain authority: the standing man. “I’m here for him,” he told his father, “and I’m here for you as well. I do think you should go and see a doctor if you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, but you don’t have to worry about Andy ever being alone. I can promise you that. He’ll have family.” Richard found himself standing near the curtains that years ago harbored his younger self. Time seemed to bend back, like an eddy in a river caused by a rock, with Richard taking on the role of his father staring out the window all those four o’clock in the mornings ago, staring for a good hour. “It’s going to be okay,” Richard said, like he was speaking to the boy whose efforts at staying still were slipping along with his bladder. “We’re here for you.” Outside the clouds pushed further east, and though the room had been growing darker, the Dyer men recognized the change as if a sudden and ominous sign instead of a long-previewed piece of weather. The three of them grew quiet, listening for what would come next. It was like one of those brief yet endless silences after a car skids where ears are tuned for the impending crash and the possible sirens to follow.

C
ROSSING AGAINST THE TAIL END OF TRAFFIC
, Andy played the old game of car matador, timing his stride with the last passing bumper, his leading knee less than an inch from disaster. The effect was near suicidal. Emmett still stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change; he had to hustle to catch up. I watched this little scene from the sixth-floor window, watched the boys head toward the park entrance on 72nd Street, passing the ever-perplexing, who-the-hell-is-Hunt Hunt Memorial. Andy and Emmett bobbed and weaved in sync, as if movement were a duet. Ten minutes together and they were already a familiar tune. It was Andy who suggested the trip outside, no doubt desperate to crack open his head and let some fresh air in, and Candy had to shush Chloe, who begged to be included, please, please, please, like a rainbow who never fathomed her previous effect on the weather. Once Andy and Emmett had moved beyond my visible range I stepped away from the window and excused myself, telling mother and daughter that I had errands to do. Was I being rude, leaving them here? Candy just smiled, and I imagined her at ease on the back of a motorcycle, and though my heart shared a few beats with put-upon Chloe—“It’s not fair he gets to have all the fun while I’m stuck here with you”—my larger sympathies lay elsewhere.

Whatever you might think of me—and I am curious—I did not stoop to follow those boys. They had too much of a head start anyway. My guess is that Andy took Emmett to the model-boat pond, his favorite place in the park, perhaps in the entire city. Having just woken up he was probably hungry and there was that hot dog cart near the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, the hot dogs not terribly tasty—81st and
Fifth, near-right corner, were far superior—but the soft pretzels were excellent, the dough toasted to perfection, the twist salted with a light, sticky snow, the first bite nudging the soft palate and kicking the salivary glands in a rough but pleasant schoolyard greeting—
Yo!
—and don’t forget the lasso of mustard, a touch of the exotic without its pretension, like cursing well in French, and
merde sur ma chèvre
if Andy’s mouth wasn’t already watering as he led Emmett downhill, telling his newfound nephew, “I’m getting two, minimum of two, and you get whatever you want, your Uncle Andy’s treat.” Emmett smiled, its cut tailored to fit Andy’s warm feelings. Or maybe it was just Andy’s first experience with family, a nephew like a cousin like a brother, even if Emmett was taller and broader of shoulder, with longish hair that was naturally cool without being annoying. No doubt the kid was at home on a beach, one of those California beaches, and he probably surfed and skateboarded and snowboarded and did some boarding as yet unknown to East Coast man, and who knows the amount of girls he’s been with, probably women too, horny mothers with hot baked goods, this stud, this dude, my blood. A tremendous affection welled up within Andy, as if Emmett were one of those songs he wanted to listen to over and over again.

“Fuuuuuck.”

“What?”

“Guy’s not here,” Andy said, all slack and agape. “Typical after my big buildup.” They walked around the model-boat pond, toward the unfortunate absence. The weather was cooling but still mild considering the date, the dark clouds showing the opening set of a cold front. Half a dozen children scaled the Alice in Wonderland statue, with a bratty boy on top raising his fists. “That’s kind of famous,” Andy said.