Fallen Idols (11 page)
But although Walt had promised to keep in close touch with his sons, he didn't. More than a month passed before he sent out his new address and phone number, and only then because Clancy forced them out of him. He didn't call, he didn't write, he answered their phone calls reluctantly. By the time July came around he wasn't picking up the phone at all. His e-mails, the few he sent, were short and curt.
He still needed more time—that's what he told them. He'd let them know when that was. Not yet.
The boys were frustrated and hurt, but they respected their father's wishes. Today, though, his not being with them was going to be particularly distressing.
T
he meeting at the gravesite was scheduled for one o'clock, so by nine-thirty in the morning Clancy and Callie were on the road. They drove west a dozen miles, then picked up 1-90, a straight shot all the way to Madison. Not the scenic route, but they weren't in a feel-good frame of mind today. This was to be a day of remembrance, and family. A family without parents: mother dead, father missing.
Tom and Will were already at the cemetery by the time Clancy and Callie arrived. Both were dressed casually, in khakis and short-sleeved shirts. It was hot out, and unlike the situation at Jocelyn's funeral the year before, with its hordes of guests, there was no one to dress up for and impress with the seriousness of their grieving. It was just going to be the four of them and the little marker commemorating their mother. Grace Esposito, the minister who had officiated at Jocelyn's funeral, had offered to come and conduct a short service, but they had declined. They didn't want that; being with Jocelyn's spirit was all that mattered.
Tom and Will saw Clancy and Callie pull up and park, and waved. Callie took Clancy's hand as they walked toward his brothers. Clancy was carrying a bouquet of flowers to lay on her marker.
Two peas in a pod and a ringer—a radish or a chili pepper, something fiery, Callie thought, not for the first time, as she looked from her husband to his siblings. No one would ever mistake Clancy and Will as anything but brothers. They were both tall, blond, with light eyes—Clancy's blue, Will's green. Good-looking, rangy men. Like their father. They were built like swimmers or wide receivers.
Tom was the redheaded stepchild, in a manner of speaking. He was shorter—five-ten to Clancy's six-three and Will's six-one, wiry like a long-distance runner, and he was dark. Dark brown hair, brown eyes. Neither of their parents were dark, although Jocelyn had that gene from her father, who Tom vaguely resembled. The difference between Tom and the other two extended to personality, as well. Where Clancy and Will were generally easygoing, taking life on its own terms and making the best of it, Tom was restless and impatient. He was always the first to come to a decision, which often meant a rush to judgment. His rashness had gotten him into trouble in life, and he knew it, but sometimes he couldn't help himself—it was like an inner demon would take him over. But he was generous of spirit, and loving. They all were. They had gotten that gene from their mother, too.
The brothers and Callie hugged. A big group hug.
Will and Tom were crazy about their sister-in-law. Clancy had hit a home run, hooking up with her. Neither of them had found a soul mate; if they could come up with a woman like Callie they'd consider themselves damned fortunate. Callie, likewise, knew she was lucky she had married into this family. They were good people. Jocelyn had been a second mother to her, which was one of the reasons she was so upset over Walt's recent conduct. It was as if her own father had gone off the deep end.
She knelt down in front of the stone. As Jocelyn had been cremated, her actual gravesite was small, only a couple of feet square. She read the inscription:
Jocelyn Murphy Gaines. 1951–2001. Beloved wife, special mother, wonderful friend.
“We miss you, Jocelyn,” Callie whispered in a choked voice. She placed her hands on the stone, as if in benediction.
“Yes, mom,” Clancy said, standing over her. “We all miss you.”
Will knelt next to Callie. Putting a hand on his mother's stone, next to Callie's, he said, “Mom, wherever you are, we're thinking of you.” He paused. “Dad couldn't be here today, but he misses you, too.”
Tom, watching this, turned away for a moment. Then he looked at the stone. “We
think
he misses you, mom.” There was anger in his voice. “But we don't know for sure, because—”
Clancy put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Back off, man. He misses her. You know damn well he does.”
“I want to think that,” Tom answered. “But he isn't here, and I'm not clairvoyant.”
Callie pushed herself up to her feet, dusted off her hands. “Your father's in pain,” she said to Tom. “So let's none of us judge him, okay? We're here to celebrate her life, not put down the man she loved.”
Tom nodded. “You're right.” He smiled, hunkered down. “Mom,” he called, putting his mouth next to the stone. “Can you hear me, wherever you are? We're here, mom, and we love you, and we're okay.” He started crying. “We're okay, but we miss the hell out of you.”
Clancy squatted down on his haunches. He put the flowers on the stone. “We do miss you,” he said. He looked at the others. “Anyone want to say anything more?”
“We love you, mom,” Will said.
“Yeah, mom,” Tom added. “We're always thinking of you.”
They stood for a moment, in silence. Will squinted as he looked up, shielding his face against the bright sun. “It's boiling out here,” he said. “Let's go cool down and decompress.”
The boys had spent many happy occasions at Ludwig's Beer Garden near the campus when they were young and their parents would take them there for Sunday dinner, shared with other faculty members and students at one of the big, long tables in the center of the room. Now they and Callie sat in a booth in the back, drinking tall steins of dark German beer. They were also yeomanly working their way through a mountain of French fries and a large platter of spicy Buffalo chicken wings.
“Am I the only one who thinks that dad is being too weird about this?” Tom wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin.
“Dad's dad,” Will said, dipping a handful of fries in the ketchup puddle in the middle of the plate. “He's like hank Sinatra. He does it his way.”
“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Tom asked. The beer was freeing up feelings he'd been holding in for months. “Cutting his family out of his life isn't his way. Dad's far from perfect, we all know that, but family's always been the most important thing in the world to him. Mom's dead, but we aren't.” He drank some beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey, I'm sorry, but I'm pissed at him.”
“So are we all,” Clancy said in agreement.
“It's been a year,” Tom went on. “We don't have a clue about what he's doing out there. For all we know, he's sitting in a room staring at the four walls all day.”
“I doubt that,” Will said. “He's probably working like crazy on a bunch of projects. He's not a brooder, he's the most active person any of us know.”
“He
was
,” Tom corrected him. “We don't know what he is now. Because we never see him or hear from him.” He turned to Clancy, the oldest. “Don't you think this estrangement has gone on way too long?”
As Tom had always been the son who most easily got on the wrong side of their father, Clancy was the most easygoing about Walt's personality. From birth he'd had a special grace attached to him by virtue of being the oldest son, the fulfillment of his father's dreams of passing on his special torch.
He nodded. “I agree with you,” he said, keeping his emotions tamped, “and I'm worried about him, too. But short of shanghaiing him and chaining him to a post outside one of our houses, I don't know what we can do about it. The man has a right to be left alone, whether we like it or not.”
“Well, that may be true, but I share how you feel about him, too,” Will joined in. As the youngest son, Will was essentially above the fray. He hadn't been under the microscope like his older brothers, so his feelings about his father were less intense, both positively and negatively. He was more objective and clinical. “He could be going through clinical depression. We're his sons—we have an obligation to check up and see that he's all right, don't we?”
“Yes, you do,” came the answer to his question.
They all turned to Callie, who had been listening silently.
“There's something going on with him that's unhealthy, or at least that we all think is unhealthy, yes?” she asked them.
“For sure,” Tom said.
“None of us are psychologists,” Callie continued, “but it feels to me like he's carrying a ton of guilt. He blames himself for your mother's death. You do know that, don't you?”
“But he wasn't,” Will said, doggedly. “She was the one who wanted to press on, not him.”
“Factually, that's true,” she agreed. “But this is about feelings, not facts. It doesn't matter whether it was her that wanted to keep on going. He was the leader, the weight fell on him. The impact of it has knocked him to his knees, and he hasn't figured out how to get up.”
“You're right, honey,” Clancy said. “But that doesn't matter. He's the one who has to do it, not us.”
“But what if he really is clinically depressed,” Will argued. “He'd need help from the outside, and who else is there to do it for him except us?”
Clancy leaned back. “It is a problem, for sure,” he said slowly. “But I don't have an answer. Do either of you?”
Will and Tom shook their heads no.
“Do you?” he asked, turning to his wife.
“Maybe. I've been thinking about it.”
“What?”
‘That bodywork symposium you're going to in a couple of weeks, in San Diego. You could drive up to L.A. and see him afterward. I'm sure he'd love to see you.”
“I'm not at all sure,” Clancy answered dubiously.
“It's worth a try, isn't it?” Will said, picking up on Callie's idea. “If you're going to be out there anyway. What's he going to do, refuse to answer the door?”
Clancy sat up straight. “You mean surprise him?” he exclaimed.
“Damn straight,” Tom said. “Give him a chance to say no, he's going to take it. That's what he's been doing for a year now.”
“I think it's a good idea for me to try to see dad, I agree with you about that. But to barge in on him unannounced …” Clancy shook his head. “That could piss him off really badly. We don't want to push him further away than he already is.”
“Dad's already as far away from us as he can get, short of leaving the country,” Tom said, his face flushed from annoyance and drink. “I agree with Will. Surprising him is the right way to go about it. The only way,” he added pessimistically.
“I'll think about it,” Clancy said. “The best way to do it.”
“However you do it, you have to see him,” Tom pressed. “This is nuts, what's going on.”
Clancy felt cornered. Being confronted like this was uncomfortable. He agreed with them that something had to be done, but he didn't want to be the one who had to do it.
“Okay,” he agreed. “But I'm not going to blindside him. I'll let him know in advance I'm going to be out there, and that I'm coming to see him.”
“And that you're not taking no for an answer,” Will said.
“Yes, okay, already. I hear you,” Clancy said defensively. “I won't let dad turn me away. I'll call him before I leave Chicago.”
F
udging his promise to his brothers, Clancy chickened out about phoning his father before he left for the coast. He waited until he was in San Diego, two days before his conference ended, to call the new number Walt had recently sent them.
To his surprise, Walt answered the telephone. Clancy had been prepared to leave a message. Now that he actually had his father on the line, he was flustered.
“Dad. It's me. Clancy.”
“Hey, big fella,” Walt answered heartily. He seemed jovial, in better spirits than Clancy had heard in his voice for months. “How're you doing? You caught me in the nick of time. I was heading out the door to go to dinner.”
“Fine, dad, I'm doing fine. How's your new house?”
“It's okay,” Walt answered casually. “Livable.”
“Listen, dad …” Clancy began. He wanted to announce his visit before they got sidetracked in trivia.
Walt was too quick for him. “And Callie. Healthy and happy, I hope.”
“She's fine, dad. She sends her love.”
“And mine back. Listen, Clancy,” Walt continued. “About last month. The get-together at your mother's grave, you and your brothers. I apologize for not being with you. At the time, I didn't think I'd be able to get through it, but later, when I thought more deeply about it, I realized I should have been there. To see all of you, and pay my respects.” There was another short silence. “Not a day goes by that I don't think of her. I can't tell you how much I still miss her.”
This wasn't going to be so difficult, after all. Walt was opening the door, without prompting or pressure. “We miss you, too. Tom, Will, me, Callie. We all do, dad.”
“I know, son. It's been too long. So—what gives?”
“I'm in San Diego.”
“San Diego?” Walt repeated. He sounded off-balance.
“I had a conference down here.”
A hesitation. Then: “Oh? For how long?”
“Four days.”
“I see.”
“I want to come up and see you, dad.” No, wrong. Not
want.
Don't give him an out. “I'm
going
to drive up.”
“When?”
“The conference is over the morning after tomorrow, so I'd drive up after that. I'd be in L.A. by mid-afternoon.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Walt asked.
“Right.”
“I can't do that.”
This conversation was turning in the wrong direction. Clancy had to straighten it out. “Dad. I haven't seen you in months. None of us have. I'm coming up. It's no big deal.” Despite himself, almost plaintively: “Don't you want to see me, dad?”
“Of course I do, of course I do,” Walt almost yelled.
“Of course I want to see you, I want to see all of you. But I can't, not the day after tomorrow.”
