“Ask him.”
“Hold on.” And Bob took out his cellphone and called Jim. Jim picked up the phone right away and said, “When are you getting here, Bobby?” And Bob said, “Tomorrow. But I want to ask you. Do you remember what the weather was when our father died?”
“The weather? Yeah, it was pouring. Absolutely pouring rain.” Then Jim added, “And it was windy. All the foliage was coming off the trees because of the wind and rain. Bright orange leaves falling to the ground, wet, wet, wet.”
Bob waited a moment and then he said quietly, “But, Jimmy, our father died in February.”
Jim was silent for a long time. And then he said very quietly and slowly, “Holy fuck. You’re right. There couldn’t have been any foliage.”
Bob hung up and reported this to Katherine, and she said, “Well, there we are. Bob, no one will ever know what happened.”
“Hold on again,” Bob said, and he called Susan, who also picked up right away. “Susie, do you remember the weather on the day our father died?”
“Really sunny,” she said.
—
Bob left Katherine’s office believing that no one would ever know who was responsible for his father’s death.
*
When Bob arrived home and walked in the door, eager to tell this to Margaret, she said, “Bob! Avery Mason died. He’s dead.” And then she said, “Three people on the board all called me today to tell me they were sorry about how he was trying to get me fired, and they want me to stay at my job. Plus, Avery’s wife wants me to do his funeral! Which I will, of course.”
*
So Bob flew to New York the next day, and he took a taxi directly to Larry’s place; he had told Jim he was going there first. It turned out to be a very hot day in the city, and as he rode in the taxi past buses and cars and people walking along the sidewalks, a sense of enormous weariness came to him. He was not aware of how much had been taken out of him by his concern for Matt Beach, for his brother, for Margaret, for the many people who depended on him. Nor was he aware of just how much his feelings for Lucy were taking from him. His weekly walks with her recently had left him simultaneously exhilarated and despondent. It was not Bob’s nature to think in a reflective manner, and so he simply felt an exhaustion that seemed almost dangerous to him. In fact, these words went through his head as he paid the driver, then stepped from the cab. Dangerously exhausted.
It was a gorgeous apartment—Bob had never seen it—it had five rooms and looked out at the East River. It seemed very grown up for a couple like Larry and Ariel, this thought went through Bob’s head. He did not care for their artwork on the walls; it was popular-type junk, he thought, having been deeply influenced by Matt’s stuff, which seemed so authentic. As he stepped into the living room and saw the sudden wash of golden color that is sent—bizarrely—back over the East River for a few moments each evening, he thought, How strange it is that these kids—he thought that word—live in such a place.
There was a leather sofa and a big television screen, and chairs that were yellowish and a coffee table that was very long and thin.
And there was Larry, sitting in a large easy-chair-type thing; his hair had grown out a bit, and he looked good. He still had a cast on one shoulder, the other shoulder was now in a sling contraption. Ariel had let Bob in; she knew of course that he was coming, but she had not told Larry. It was to be “a surprise.”
And Larry did seem surprised. “Uncle Bob! What are you doing here?” But his face held gladness. “Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward one of the yellowish chairs.
Ariel said, “I’ll leave you guys alone.” And off she went into another room; Bob heard a door close.
—
So Bob sat. He was, as we have indicated, completely worn out.
And he said this: “Larry. You can think whatever you want to about your father. But I’m going to tell you he is not evil. And you can listen or not.”
Larry looked at him, and Bob saw his face become hard.
“Are you going to listen? Because I’m not going to waste my time if you’re not listening.”
“I’m listening,” Larry said.
“I want to tell you about this case I just had in Maine. A guy takes care of his mother, she disappears, it turns out that his older sister took her in a car one night and drove the car into a quarry. You know why?”
Larry, watching him, gave a tiny shake of his head.
“Because that sister had been sexually abused by her father for years as a young person, and her mother knew it. And then her father leaves, and one day one of her father’s friends takes her for an outing. He takes her out to this quarry, and he rapes her. When she gets home her mother calls her a whore. Now think about that for a moment, Larry.”
Larry said quietly, “Jesus.”
Bob continued. “And just before you get all ready to judge her mother, her mother’s story was this: She had also been sexually abused for years as a kid, got pregnant by her uncle, her parents kick her out of the house, and she and her baby live at a hotel while she works the front desk, and the hotel owner abuses her as well. You know why I’m telling you this, Larry?”
“Because that’s evil?” Larry asked.
“No. That’s not evil, Larry. These are broken people. Big difference between being a broken person and being evil. In case you don’t know. And if you don’t think everyone is broken in some way, you’re wrong. I’m telling you this because you have been so fortunate in your life, you probably don’t even know such broken people exist.”
Larry only watched him.
“What do you have to say to this?” Bob asked.
After a moment Larry said, “Well, I feel sorry for those people. But they’re not my father. My father never went through any of that stuff, and he came out evil. What he did to you was evil, Uncle Bob.”
—
Bob sat forward, he was really not feeling well, and he was getting angry now. “What you had, Larry, was a father who was fucked up. That’s all. And you know why he was fucked up? Because he thought he’d killed his father. And you know something else? No one in this world knows who killed our father. Your father thought the leaves were falling off the trees and it was raining that day. Well, the man died in February and there were no leaves falling. And Susie and I remember there being bright sunshine. No one knows, Larry. No one will ever know.
“And what you had was just a fucked-up father, and, yeah, he sent you to summer camp. Because he thought that’s what kids should do. And you hated it. And he made you stay there. Terrible. But you know what, Larry? What you had was just a normal fucked-up super-wealthy background. Nothing more.”
Bob stood up. He was furious now.
“That’s all I have to say to you, Larry. Go ahead and hate him. And then someday—not that long from now—he will die. And you might, or you might not, remember that he sat next to you in that hospital room as you were struggling to live, and wept, you might not remember that, but ask your wife, she’ll remember, and that he felt just awful in a way that an evil person cannot feel—are you listening to me? And then when he is dead, and your child is fifteen and may not be the child you thought he—or she—ought to be, then maybe you can have some sympathy for your father.
