The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  I stare back at her, letting myself sway, my head light, my face tingling. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Her voice softens a little. “You know what I am talking about, Dick. You’ve been ditching and running from us since everything fell apart.”

  A lump forms in my throat. . . . I swallow, take a breath. “And when was that?”

  “Don’t waste my time playing dumb, sweetheart. You know when you started running and ditching. I know it was rough, what it did to you—hell, I was there. The point is, we’re going home and we are going to confront this business once and for all. The boys are just about grown up now. But the little one?” She looks down at Collin. “You still have a chance with him. Don’t blow it, Dick, you hear me? He still has a chance. You still have a chance with him, to be a part of his life.”

  I feel my brows turn in. “Okay, listen. Where’s home?”

  “Our old place. The place you ditched. The home you ditched.”

  I need to stay calm, so I try some deep breathing. “Refresh my memory on exactly where ‘our old place’ is.”

  Her voice shakes. “I can barely remember, it’s been so long.” Slowly, she digs into her fanny pack, fingering through items. “So I had to go to the library to use the computers, then the county recorder’s office to get the exact address.” She produces a small piece of folded-up paper, pulls it open. “Here we go,” she says, more to herself. “The place in Atherton.” She studies the notes. “Almendral Avenue.” Then her voice sharpens. “That HR palace of yours. The one they featured in Headcount.”

  Oh. The Headcount magazine pic of Dick Rayborne at his home. “Mama, come on. You know I’m not Dick Rayborne.”

  She weakens. “Don’t you dare try and screw with my head.”

  “He’s probably got more security in that house than the U.S. Mint.”

  “We are going to that house, Dickie. And you’re getting us in.”

  Whatever. I give up.

  Mama fingers through her fanny pack, pulls out a worn piece of paper with somethng scribbled on it. “Give me your phone,” she pants, breathing hard, and for some reason I do. Slowly and carefully, she taps the number into my phone. A male voice answers, and she says, “It’s me. . . . What? Yes. . . . We’re leaving now.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she mumbles. “Fucking deserter.” She slaps the phone back into my open hand and shuffles away. “Listen . . .” She takes a few breaths. “Talk with the kid, then meet me and the boys at the wagon in five minutes, okay?”

  “Talk with Collin? About what?”

  Mama stiffens, looks at me. “God, you men are clueless.”

  * * *

  The boys have turned off the Looney Tunes, packed away the TV into the escape hatch, and followed Mama to the wagon. Now it’s just me and my nephew sitting on the edge of the mattress, his body leaning into mine, and I wrap him up in my arms, give him a squeeze.

  “You sure seem to be enjoying Cujo.”

  “I wish I had my field journal with me.”

  “Maybe it’s better this way. You can just enjoy the moment.”

  We sit there awhile.

  “It’s not right how they treat him, Uncle Rick.”

  “It’s not right how they treat anybody here, kiddo.”

  “Why do they do that?” His voice tightens. “Taking advantage of the Neanderthals.”

  I think of Dick Rayborne and his paperwork scheme. “I’m afraid that’s what people do to each other.”

  He stiffens. “Not everyone.”

  I run my hand through his soft brown hair. “You’re right. Not everyone.”

  “I mean, we should be setting an example.” He sits up, turns, and glances at me. “Leaders should think about more than themselves.”

  After a moment, I ask, “Do you think maybe someday this could be something you change? You know, as a leader yourself?”

  Collin looks at me like I’m crazy. “Someday? How about now?”

  “Collin, you’re eight years old. Your job is to be a boy and have fun and play and obey your parents. That’s it.”

  He turns in, his forehead resting on my arm, and melts into me.

  “Hey, kiddo. You okay?”

  He sinks deeper into me.

  “Have you been feeling bad?”

  Slowly, he shakes his head, scoots closer.

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  He looks up, tears in his eyes. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just . . . what?”

  He takes my hand, runs a finger around my knuckles. “It’s just that . . .” Sniffle. “Well, I really really really really do appreciate the fact that you got me a Neanderthal on my last day.” He looks up at me, his watery brown eyes so serious. “And I will help his kind. I swear I will. It’s just that . . .” He looks down, picks at my knuckle, sniffles. “I guess I still . . . feel sad inside.”

  “You feel sad?”

  He drops his head even more, grips my finger. “And scared.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m really scared.” He breaks into sobs. “I’m scared about not having you and Audrey.” He squeezes me so hard. “You’re my very best-ever friends. Audrey’s my . . .” Big breath. “. . . everything . . .” Big breath. “. . . and I love her so much.” He falls over into my lap, crying so hard it’s silent. “I don’t want . . .” He strains. “. . . anything to change.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” My eyes water, and my breathing gets shallow. “I don’t want anything to change, either. But sometimes—” I catch myself, take a deep breath. “Sometimes we don’t have a—” And I can’t finish.

  “I want you and Audrey forever and ever.”

  I’m quaking. “I love you, kiddo. I’m always gonna be your uncle.”

  “Audrey is like my real mommy.”

  “Oh, don’t say that.”

  “And you’re the daddy I wish I had.”

  “Kiddo.”

  “And I pretend you’re my mommy and daddy.”

  I try to shush him. “Collin.”

  “But it doesn’t work, the pretend.”

  “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You can come hang out with me.”

  “Can you work in Argentina?”

  “I don’t think so. But there’s the phone. And Skype.”

  He shakes his head, looks down. “I’m scared.”

  “I’m scared, too.”

  He looks up, surprised. “You’re scared?”

  I sniffle. “Sure.”

  “What are you scared about?”

  “Well . . .” I pause, consider my words. “Maybe I have a hard time when things change, and I know I might not get to see people I really really care about.”

  He’s looking at me, thinking. “I wish we could do adventures every day of the week.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And talk about things from—you know—the middle of my heart.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uncle Rick.” He looks up at me, fights back a grin. “I like it when we go to that donut place and talk.”

  I have to search my memory. I think maybe we did that only once—two years ago. “The donut place is awesome.”

  He picks at my knuckle again. “Do you think we’ll ever do that again?”

  The lump in my throat rises. “I’m not sure, Collin.”

  He looks up at me. “Maybe we could go today. You know, one last time.”

  Everything comes to an end, no matter how much you fight it.

  “I don’t know about donuts. But how about another adventure? I mean, what if I told you we’re going to a mansion?”

  Collin smiles at the idea, then softens when he settles on my eyes. “Uncle Rick?” He studies me a bit more. “You look sad.”

  I feel a little dizzy for a second. “Oh, I’m just . . .” I shake my face for clarity. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

 
He dips his head, takes a breath. “My mom says . . . A long time ago? Something sad happened.” He looks at me some more. “And that it changed you forever and ever.”

  I force a chuckle. “Your mom told you that, huh?”

  Collin looks up at me, his little mouth puckering. “Uncle Rick?” Eyes pensive, softening. “What happened?”

  What happened was, I did change forever and ever.

  Collin nestles closer. “Uncle Rick?”

  I blink to snap out of it. “Time to go?”

  Collin smiles. “I love you, Uncle Rick.”

  “I love you, too, kid.”

  “Will you come see me in Buenos Aires?”

  “Will you promise to be a kid?”

  Slowly, he nods.

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  * * *

  The full brunt of the liquor is finally starting to hit me.

  My head is spinning a bit, but I’m keeping it together.

  The wagon is so loaded down with people, we nearly scrape the bottom coming out of the Robards International parking lot. As far as Mama sees it, “we’ve got the whole family together for a change”—Ernie and Collin in the back, and Cujo riding in the bay like an overgrown dog. With Cujo’s help, Mama has once again confiscated my phone and is now driving. I’m sitting in shotgun begging for its return.

  “Honey,” Mama warns. “I’m telling you—just shut up and tell me where I’m going.”

  I wave the piece of scratch paper in front of her. “All I have here is an address. I need my phone, so I can get directions.”

  “We’ve got about forty maps in the glove box.” She’s shouting now. “Where am I going?”

  I shuffle through the glove box, cussing to myself. “I’m not going to find this place on a fifty-year-old map.”

  She pauses for a moment. “How soon we forget,” she says. “Those maps got us to Yellowstone and back. Not that you’d ever remember that.”

  “You made a promise.”

  “And I kept it. I called Sabine at Stanford.” Mama eyes the rearview mirror. “Cujo? Don’t you dare touch Mama’s box back there, you hear?”

  I steady myself, take a breath. “I need my phone.”

  “And I need my husband to pay attention to his family. Meaning, no email. No calls with the home office. No flirting with the floozies. No con calls about the conployees. So, in other words . . .” She’s shouting again. “. . . no phone.”

  “Listen,” I snap. “I’m not—”

  “Hey,” she says, suddenly softening. “Not in front of the kids. Can we at least agree on that? Let’s both stop.”

  * * *

  In Atherton, Mama’s old wagon sticks out like a pair of ass chaps at the Vatican. We’re so out of place in this neighborhood of palatial, multimillion-dollar homes that it feels as if the Fleetwood is nearly vibrating, releasing volleys of offensive shock waves, alerting the occasional mom in black yoga pants and the countless crews of yard-service workers. After we roll up to an enormous wrought-iron gate, we sit there and gaze at the expansive, carefully manicured property on the other side. Set far back and shrouded by an assortment of majestic white oaks is a home that couldn’t look sweeter, cuter, or more wholesome. A six-thousand-square-foot, single-story cottage with gray shingle siding, white trim, and endless nooks and gables. I imagine a Disney princess dancing and twirling inside with a warm plate of fresh-baked cookies.

  Mama breaks the silence. “Come on, open it up.”

  I look over to her and slur, “This is Dick Rayborne’s house?”

  “Get us in there.”

  My head sways. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Open the gate.”

  I have to do something. “I see an armed guard,” I blurt. “With an assault gun.”

  “It’s so obvious when you lie to me, Dickie. Plus, I’ve done my homework on this place.”

  “Mama, please.”

  She grips the wheel and revs the engine. “The next thing I will do is ram this gate.” The boys howl in excitement. “And you know I’m not bluffing.” Another rev.

  Yes, I am superbuzzed, but I’m not so far gone that I can’t still imagine cops coming to arrest us, and maybe even uncovering our illegal transaction involving substances extracted from wild baboons in Uganda. “Okay,” I snap. “Give me a second.”

  I step out of the Fleetwood and head for the aluminum intercom beside the gate. At this point, who gives a shit? I let out a little burp. Maybe we can straighten this out. I really shouldn’t have had those minis. And then an idea hits me—I should walk up to this intercom and tell them to keep the door closed. Mama won’t hear me, and we’ll avert disaster. I take another step, and the intercom buzzes. A voice says, “Sorry, Mr. Rayborne. I didn’t realize that was you.”

  “No, you don’t have to—”

  But the gate opens inward.

  Mama revs the engine.

  Bob Watson Step No. 11:

  Participate in a Felony

  It seems like we’re on an amusement-park ride for toddlers, the Fleetwood rolling slowly along a winding cobblestone path through an enchanted world of blossoming pink and white rosebushes, finely trimmed boxwood shrubs, tinkling water fountains, babbling brooks, Dutch Colonial birdhouses, and even a few wild bunnies hopping across a deep green lawn. We complete a final twist on the path and roll up to the house; a silver Porsche with vanity plates (cnploy) is parked out front, and Cujo rouses in the back of a wagon, not unlike a Labrador that’s picked up the scent of the ocean. He rolls around and presses his fingers against the glass, laughing. “Mother lode,” he bellows. “Motherfucking mother lode.”

  Ernie snickers.

  Collin straightens and shouts, “I think they have a pool.”

  “I want you boys on your best behavior.”

  They whine.

  “We’re going to see how Dad’s been spending our money since he left us.”

  “Mama, are we going to get a present?”

  “If I have well-behaved boys, they might get a present from the box. Yes.”

  “No, I mean, a present from the house.” Cujo is salivating, swallowing spit. “Something we can take from the Warden’s—I mean, Dad’s—house.”

  Mama sighs. “If you do what I say?” Long silence. “Maybe.”

  From the back of the wagon. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Mama,” I say. “This is getting crazy. When they find out—”

  “Shut your hole,” Mama yells.

  In the back, Cujo rocks so hard that the wagon bounces.

  “Okay.” Mama kills the engine and struggles to turn and look Collin in the eye. “Are you ready to be my special clicker boy?”

  Collin twinkles and nods.

  She reaches into her fanny pack, pulls out the clicker, and tosses it over the seat. “You keep that handy.” Then to me, she adds, “Let’s take a look at the love nest.”

  “Mama. C’mon. This has gone far enough.”

  She tightens, pulls out my phone. “You want me to call your sister and put the kid on the line? That could derail everything, couldn’t it?”

  I think of Audrey, feel that awful feeling of rejection all over again.

  Then I think of living for free in Ana and Samson’s compound.

  Then I think of quitting Robards International tomorrow morning.

  So I open the door and put a leg out. “Okay, kids. Let’s do this.” The wagon explodes with excitement, and I hear myself hollering as they pile out, “Listen to your mother.”

  * * *

  Maybe it’s the liquor, but it feels like a dream.

  I latch on to but a few things.

  The front door is solid oak.

  A housecleaner thinks I’m Dick Rayborne’s twin brother.

  She leads us through a series of hallways.

  “I think he’s in his office.”

  A narrow, dimly lit staircase, tiny lights on each step.

  On the wall, framed covers of Headcount.

&n
bsp; More steps down.

  Another hallway.

  And then another door. Unlocks with her badge.

  She stands there. “Just follow the lights.”

  We descend.

  So many steps down.

  In this sweet “cottage”? Who would’ve thought?

  A framed award—the headcount shrinker of the year—10k jobs.

  We descend more and more.

  A 1930s-era photo of expressionless teens in a sooty factory.

  Collin says, “I feel weird.”

  The tiny lights are getting dimmer.

  A framed, two-page spread from a 1992 issue of Headcount. Dick is standing in the middle of a cluster of cars, arms folded, that toothy grin popping off the page. The headline announcing, it’s sunday morning, and his employee parking lot is packed—how he does it.

  Farther down we go.

  A framed essay in a publication called RIF, the headline teasing, peer group tension—how it can drive new levels of productivity—by dick rayborne.

  Collin approaches, takes my hand.

  “It’s okay, kiddo,” I tell him.

  Finally we reach the landing.

  There’s a water fountain. Tiny trickling.

  It’s dark down here, like a dungeon. No windows, of course, and very low lighting. But we can see his desk, or at least part of it, a surface light illuminating an open laptop, everything else a silhouette. At the opposite end, stock prices stream across a small TV set. Mama stands over a table of framed photos. Dick with members of Congress. Dick in front of the New York Stock Exchange. Dick on the African plains with a dead lion. Dick with a dozen or so nervous teenage Chinese workers in blue shirts.

  “Sorry, Uncle Rick, but I guess he does kinda look like you—a lot.”

  Cujo and Ernie check behind a series of paintings on the far wall—lions eating limp, juvenile antelopes. Collin releases my hand, sneaks up on Cujo, tags him on the back leg, announces, “You’re it,” and tears back up the stairs. Cujo loses interest in his search, turns and chases after Collin. Ernie small-steps after them, his arms working hard, still clutching the barbecue prongs.