My Father's Wives (23 page)

“Don’t get up,” he said as I did anyway. “Just wanted to say thanks again for yesterday. My son will never forget it. He made my wife print
out copies of all the pictures he took so he could bring them to school. He’s going to be the most popular kid in the lunchroom.”

I smiled. “I think it was a thrill for all of us.”

Ken gently shut the door behind him. His expression turned grim. “Jon, I didn’t sleep for a second last night. I’ve been here twenty years. This company is my life. I will lose my job if you tell anyone about what we discussed or use the information in any way. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“I have no idea what’s going on and I’m sorry if you’re mixed up in something, but I can’t help, whatever it is. And I should never have gone as far as I did. I’m here to beg you, Jon, literally beg you. You met my wife, my son. They depend on me.”

I pointed toward the chair opposite the desk, where he’d sat the day before. “Ken, I understand exactly what you’re saying, and you have my word nothing will ever come back to you.”

“Thank you,” Ken said, and sat down, though he didn’t look less worried. He looked like a man who believed he would have to be worried for the rest of his life.

“Ken, what does he want from me?” I asked.

Ken shook his head and raised both his hands, palms facing me. “I’ve said far more than I ever should have. I would help you any way I could, Jon. But I can’t.”

I leaned back in my chair. “How old are you, Ken?”

“Older than you think I am,” he said. “I’ll be fifty next year.”

“I just turned forty.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Tell me, does it ever slow down?”

“What?”

“Time,” I said. “It’s been moving real fast for me lately. I’m hoping it will slow down.”

“I’m afraid it works the other way. Just gets faster and faster. I was forty a few weeks ago.”

I nodded. “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I said. “I promise.”

I saw genuine relief in his face, which made me feel good. Then the intercom buzzed on my desk. That would be Bruce. No one else would disturb me with my door shut. Bruce wouldn’t wait long either; he never does. I rose from my chair, headed toward the door. As I passed Ken I stopped, knelt, put my face right by his ear.

“Listen to me,” I whispered. “We have one minute and no more than that. Answer me
this
question: Are there microphones in here? Can anyone hear me right now besides you?”

Very deliberately, Ken shook his head side to side. The answer was no.

“That’s what I thought,” I said, no louder than before. “Then answer me one more question and you’ll never hear from me again. You have my word this will never come back to you under any circumstances.” Ken fidgeted. “You said yourself you’ve already gone farther than you should. Help me out with one more answer and that will be the end of it. Just tell me why he did it.”

Ken turned and looked me square in the face. He sighed lightly. “Don’t let it worry you. He does it with everyone. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust you or wants to get rid of you. It’s just the way he is. That’s how you get to be him, and stay him. If he ever needs anything on you, he has it. It’s as simple as that. You can’t take it personally. It isn’t meant that way.”

My hand was on Ken’s shoulder; we were staring each other in the eye. There wasn’t any question he was telling the truth. I nodded gently and patted him on the back. Then I went to the door, opened it, and told Bruce I’d be ready to play in five minutes.

BACK ON NINETEEN, I
warmed up with jump shots. I felt good, my rhythm unstoppable, my technique impeccable. I wanted to play well. For the first time ever, it was important to me that I beat Bruce in basketball.

I felt betrayed, and confused, and a little bit sad. But if you added those together they wouldn’t equal the power of my most overriding emotion: deflation. For the second time in as many weeks, I was wondering if a relationship I valued wasn’t really what I believed it to be. I dribbled rapidly between my legs, behind my back, fired jump shot after jump shot. I was thinking of Percy. I have spent my entire life with the image of my father I had when I was nine years old. At that age, like most boys do, I looked up to him as a hero, if only because he was a man and I was a boy. It occurred to me that Bruce was right around the same age Percy was when I last saw him. And he was very much like my father, as best I could tell. I never really knew my father. I thought I knew Bruce. Maybe I didn’t after all.

Bruce lumbered in a few minutes behind me, limping badly on his right side. “This damn calf is acting up.”

“Won’t stop you from kicking my ass,” I said, trying to mask the conflict in my tone.

He snorted. “After what you did to Michael yesterday, I’m lucky if you’ll play with me at all.”

“He killed me.”

“He’s the greatest player that ever lived,” Bruce said. “You did real good. He was impressed.” I stopped shooting. Bruce tossed me a bottle of Gatorade. “I was too. You made me proud.”

There was no mistaking the genuineness of his smile. I took a long drink, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “What was he doing here?”

“We have some business I think we can do together. Be great if we can. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to get him on our court, even if we can’t.”

“You go out with him last night?”

Bruce nodded.

“Same spot you took me?” I asked.

“Same spot, different crew. He’s always got his guys with him.”

“None of the same group we were with?” I asked.

“That was all girls,” he said. “No girls last night. Michael just got married.”

I didn’t hesitate. “There was one guy with us, an older guy. Can’t remember his name.”

Bruce’s expression did not change. “I don’t even remember,” he said with a wave. “Come on, let’s play.”

I put the cap on my bottle and rolled it into the corner, beneath the bench where Bruce had sat and watched when Jordan was here. I was not as angry as I had been, but I was ready to play. I was ready to dominate this competition in a way I never had before.

When I turned back Bruce was jogging up the court, grimacing with every step. I felt a pang of regret in my side. “You’re hurt,” I said. “You don’t have to push this.”

“Fuck that. I can play.”

I watched another minute as he favored one leg, limping badly, cursing under his breath with every step. “Maybe you should rest,” I said, my voice no longer angry.

“I don’t need rest. I need to wipe this floor with your ass. You play one game with Michael Jordan and suddenly I’m too old and frail for you?”

I took a step toward him. “Bruce, you’re the least frail person I’ve ever met. Right now you don’t need to be playing basketball; I think what you need is an MRI.”

“Fuck that,” he grunted, still jogging, wincing. “Just old legs, that’s all. Get ’em warmed up, they’ll be ready to go.”

I could not bear the sight of Bruce diminished in this way, hobbling about the court, too proud to quit. I ran out in front and blocked his path, forcing him to stop. He all but collapsed into my arms, my sweat mixing with his. “Bruce,” I said, holding him up. “You’re not that old. You’re just hurt. We’re going to take a break for two weeks and you’re going to rest that thing.”

Bruce was out of breath. He looked relieved. “What’ll you do?” he asked.

“I need a little time away,” I said. “Haven’t taken a vacation in years. I’m fried.”

Bruce nodded. “You’re working too hard. You need balance.” My arms were still around him. He pulled me into his chest and gave me a quick hug. “You’re a good kid. Go ahead, take Claire someplace, anywhere you want. Use the jet, I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

Bruce cared about me. There was no doubt of that. As Ken had said, he did what he felt he had to because that is how he was, but it didn’t change the fact that he cared about me. I was as certain of that as I could be. I hugged him back, felt his heart beating rapidly.

“You recharge the batteries,” Bruce said. “I’ll rest this leg. We’ll meet back in this spot two weeks from this minute and I will wipe the floor with your ass.”

I made certain he was steady on his feet. “Damn right you will,” I said.

He started back toward the elevator, walking now, his limp even more pronounced. When he was gone I went back to my shooting. One after another, the ball felt perfect every time it left my hand. As I shot I wasn’t thinking of Bruce anymore, or Percy, or even Claire. Instead, I was thinking about how funny life can be. There are moments when nothing makes sense at all. And then there are moments of total clarity like this one, when you move as though you are gliding on air. And no matter how difficult the shot you try, you simply cannot miss.

IT WAS ALMOST TWO
o’clock when I left in a taxi for the Upper West Side.

How the address did not register in my head I cannot imagine, but it did not. My only explanation is that the mind has the capacity to banish information it deems toxic to its own well-being. It is that ability, I believe, that allowed me to glance at the name and address of my
father’s sixth and final wife and not think a thing of it. There was not a hint of expectation, even as I stepped from the cab. I did not recognize the awning, nor the entrance, nor the lobby, nor the elevator. It was not until the elevator doors opened, when I stepped out onto the sixteenth floor and was instantly overcome by the smell of fresh dill. Then I remembered. Counting squares in the ceiling tiles. Classical music on the stereo. Eating pistachios out of a brown paper bag. The life of a small child. Maybe mine.

Diane was waiting in the doorway of the apartment, the farthest of the four from the elevator. She had a warm smile and large teeth, wearing pearls and a blue dress. “You must be Jonathan,” she said kindly. “I’m Diane Gray.”

“I used to live here,” I said.

“I know.”

“It’s so familiar.”

“I’ll give you a moment.” She stepped backward and let the door shut gently. She was older than I expected, much older than any of Percy’s previous wives, including Mother.

I let my hand trail along the wall all the way to the apartment, where the door was painted blue. I thought it had been red when I was a boy, but I wasn’t quite sure; either way, it wasn’t the shade of blue it had become.

I tapped gently on the door and Diane pulled it open, smiling broadly, as though she had been here all those years ago and was overjoyed to see me again. “I have wondered if I would ever meet you,” she said. “I thought of reaching out to you but thought maybe you wouldn’t like that. I want you to know, I am really happy to have you here.”

“I’m very glad to meet you too,” I said flatly. Of all the places I’d been over these twelve days, this one made me the most uneasy.

Diane stepped backward. “It probably won’t look much like you remember, but come in and look around. I’ll wait in the living room. Take all the time you want.”

I didn’t need much time. Most of what I remembered was gone. My bedroom had been transformed into a study: two sturdy oak bookcases overflowing with magazines and papers where my bed used to be. I glanced through the selection of books; nothing unusual, aside from one shelf that contained only those written by my father. I left the room quickly.

The kitchen was entirely different as well. Not a lot of cooking had been done when I was a boy; now it appeared to have been designed for a gourmet chef. The carpeting in the hall had changed, no longer the plush white strands that felt so soft beneath my bare feet. The powder room in the entrance had been remodeled. About the only things that remained appreciably the same were a grandfather clock that stood between my parents’ bedroom and my own, and the view, which was sensational but not noteworthy; the Manhattan skyline is by and large the same wherever you view it from. Nothing else stirred my recollection quite like the dill in the hallway. That’s the thing about memories sometimes: they smell better than they actually are.

I found Diane on a comfortable-looking sofa in the living room. Her legs were curled up beneath her and she was leaning onto the armrest, balancing a mug of hot tea. The way her body was positioned, she took up almost no space at all. She smiled as I approached and gestured toward a chair. “How do you like it?” she asked.

“It’s a lovely apartment,” I said. “Totally different from what I remember.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve been here fifteen years. Changed a lot of it after Percy died.” She paused, then said, “I’m delighted you came to see me. It’s important that a man knows his father, and it’s never too late.”

“I’m trying to meet all his wives,” I said.

Diane smiled warmly. “I think that is brilliant. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

I leaned back in the chair. “You’re a psychiatrist, right?”

“I am. And I knew your father for forty years. And I was married to
him on the day he died. So I’m probably the best chance you’ll ever have at figuring out anything that might be meaningful to you.”

I looked about the room, trying to find anything that appeared the same. “Did you have sessions with my father sitting this way?” I fidgeted. “I mean, you sitting where you are and him where I am?”

She nodded. “We most certainly did.”

I closed my eyes. “Then this seems like an appropriate place to end this.”

“What are you ending, Jonathan?”

“All of this. I’ve spent the last twelve days all over the world trying to figure out my father.”

“Jonathan,” she said in a tone that made me open my eyes. “I feel like you’ve spent a lot longer than that. And this isn’t the end. This is just another step in the journey. I hope it can be a meaningful one, but it will not be the end.”

“When will it end?” I asked.

“Probably never.”

I shut my eyes again. “I can’t decide if I think it’s creepy that I’m sitting in the same chair as my father, talking to his shrink.”

“I don’t think it is,” she said. “And I don’t think
you
think it is. I know this exercise has been about discovering your father, but the more meaningful discoveries will be those you make about yourself.”