The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  Dick’s bedroom window sits in the shade behind a large rosebush, directly behind the pool. With the sun in my eyes, I’m having a hard time seeing Mama and her fellas. I squint at the window and try to make sense of the figures within. Finally my vision corrects and the shapes begin to make sense. Mama is in front, topless—maybe fully naked, for all I know—with her glasses off, and she’s glistening in vegetable oil. Behind her is Larry—shirtless—slathered in oil, caressing her arms, smearing his beard against her neck, eyes lidded.

  I didn’t need to see that.

  “Don’t worry, Dick’s fine.” Mama’s so shameless there in the window—in all her sagging, wrinkly imperfection—and I find myself admiring her freedom. You know, Mama actually is pretty cool. “Larry babe, why don’t you put on your bottoms and take a dip?” She adopts a guttural tone, slows it down, nearly moaning. “Dick and I . . . We need one last time. Okay, babe?” She slows, trying to be sensitive. “And don’t get me wrong. The Nuru massage was nice, just the way I like it. And then—babe, I swear it—you were won-der-ful. You gave it to Mama real good, just the way she likes it. But . . .” She sighs as if she’s thinking about it. “. . . a gal deserves one last time with her husband, don’t you think? You know, for the road. And plus . . .” She releases a dry chuckle. “. . . I guess Mama wants more.”

  Larry doesn’t seem to care. “I will photosynthesize,” he says. “And think.”

  “That’s right, babe,” Mama soothes. “Soak up the sun and do your thinking.”

  “About the paperwork,” he says.

  “Of course, babe. Now why don’t I see you in a bit, okay?” They ease back into the shadows and return to the windowsill with Dick Rayborne, and I gasp. Dick still has that not-capable-of-caring look—slathered in vegetable oil, staring into space, his upper lip curling on one side, his eyebrows frozen in disharmony, his shoulders hunched forward, his hair shooting in all directions. He sways far left, takes a step to stabilize himself.

  “Of course,” Mama says, “he resisted at first. But we got him revved up after a while.” She presses into him, their Wessoned bodies slipping and sliding as she hums suggestively and runs her bony fingers up his belly, pinches his nipples. “He might be a little subdued here and there, but I’ll tell you what—there’s one thing here that’s definitely not subdued.” She turns to him, pulls back to look him in the eye. “Although I do recall you being a lot bigger.”

  * * *

  Dick’s bedroom window is closed, and the shades are drawn.

  I’m reclining in a chaise lounge watching the boys. Ernie has put Collin on his shoulders, and now Cujo is swimming underneath Ernie to put him on his shoulders.

  I glace at Larry. Is he meditating?

  Cujo surfaces, and Ernie and Collin rise out of the water.

  Larry is seated upright in a pool chair—hands on his knees, chin up, eyes on me—sunning himself. His golden skin is moist, like an overheated glazed donut. The only thing on him that isn’t glistening is his Speedo.

  I think he’s just chilling.

  The Cujo-Ernie-Collin stack eases across the pool, teetering.

  Or is he looking at me, as in, You’re next?

  Like a felled redwood, the Cujo-Ernie-Collin stack plunges into the pool.

  That’s nuts. He’s just superfocused on the paperwork.

  Larry’s eyes seem to burrow deeper into mine.

  “Okay, boys.” I sit up. “Everyone towel off. Time for a snack, and then we hit the road.”

  They ignore me.

  I think of what Mama and Audrey said: Time to get a little crazy.

  Just don’t get arrested.

  “Boys—out.”

  They splash around.

  “Boys? I say. “Get out. Now. C’mon.”

  They whine and mope.

  The bedroom window opens, and Mama sticks her head out, looks around. Sweat is streaming down her temples, and she seems winded. And pissed off.

  “Some things never change,” she huffs. “What was that? Five minutes? Three minutes?” She grimaces, snarls, and grips the window ledge, staring into space. “There’s a reason I always called him the Three-Minute Dick.”

  Larry stirs, announces, “Time for some paperwork.”

  * * *

  Leaving Dick’s cottage compound is quite the production.

  Mama has the boys buckled and ready and bouncing in the wagon. She sticks her head out the driver-side window and hollers, “C’mon, Larry. Show on the road, babe.”

  Larry’s own station wagon—a brown Chevy Malibu and not much newer than Mama’s Fleetwood—is backed up to the entry path of the house, idling. Finally Larry saunters out of the house in his Speedo, flip-flops, and opened dress shirt. He scans the compound and reaches back to the doorway to pull out an oiled Dick Rayborne in a bath towel, leading him toward the waiting Malibu. Dick zigzags toward the wagon with that lazy sneer, those slow eyes.

  I stand next to Dick’s Porsche, his briefcase slung over my shoulder as I press my fingers against his suit. I will admit it feels good to be in this suit. And that bothers me, considering everything.

  “Listen, Larry.” I take a few steps but stop when Larry gives me those eyes and pulls aside his shirt to show me the buck knife holstered to his Speedo. “Listen, Larry . . .” He freezes, tenses his body, and devours me. “What are you gonna . . .” Those eyes, burrowing deeper and deeper. “Okay, never mind.”

  “Okay,” Mama says, irritated, and gets out of the Fleetwood and heads toward us, zeroing in on me. “Listen, kid. Don’t worry about Larry and Dick, you hear? You just worry about that meeting with the subcommittee.”

  Larry pops the back hatch of his Malibu and leads Dick into the bay, where the Headcount darling reclines slowly into a full sprawl, letting the bath towel slide off. Larry shuts the hatch, adjusts his Speedo, and turns to give me one last stare.

  “That was the agreement,” Mama says. “If I get to have a little alone time with Dick, so does Larry.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No yeah-buts.” She slaps my face, light but firm. “Dick’s gonna be fine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Hey,” Mama says. “Do you think I’d be sleeping with a homicidal psychopath?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “Listen, kid. Larry isn’t a killer.” She cocks her head, gazes into space, thinking. “As far as I know. You see, he’s a teacher.”

  “Please don’t tell me he teaches kindergarten or something.”

  “Or, better—he’s an artist.”

  “Artist? Maybe.”

  “Only, instead of clay or watercolors, Larry’s medium is people.” She looks down, shakes her head. “People like Dick. Or, I should say, Old Dick. Someone like the New Dick?” She points at me, smiles. “Larry couldn’t care less about the New Dick.”

  “I’m not New Dick. I’m Rick Blanco, and I don’t even know why I’m—”

  “Listen.” Mama shuffles closer, leans into me. “You’re my New Dick, and you’re wonderful.” She reaches out, straightens the lapels of my—I mean, Dick’s—suit, and gives me a playful punch in the arm. She lifts her chin and smiles. “You’re going to do just fine today, honey. And as your wife—because I of course get New Dick as part of the package. As your wife . . .” She inches closer, adopts that low, raspy voice. “. . . it’s only fitting that I get a little kissy-poo goodbye.”

  I push her away, and she grabs my head, pulls it in, and sticks her tongue in my mouth. I jerk away, reeling from the taste of cocoa butter—Larry’s cocoa butter—and spit onto Dick’s cobbled driveway. Mama wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Smiles. “And as the loving wife of New Dick, it’s only fitting that I’m there for you today at Robards. The boys and I. We’ll be there. Maybe we’ll start out at the Playroom, but you will let me in so I can help you.”

  I’m still spitting. “Absolutely not.”

  “Absolutely yes,” she says and heads back for the Fleet
wood. “I suppose big-shot executives like you can bring in anyone they want. Which reminds me—I want you to include an employee at the subcommittee meeting tonight. His name is Carl Blakenship.”

  Larry gets into the Malibu, shuts the door, and shifts it out of park.

  “And remember what we said, right?”

  “And that was?”

  “We’re never gonna survive unless—”

  “—we get a little crazy,” I finish.

  “You got it.” Mama gives me wink and whispers, “Go get ’em.”

  I stand back and give her one last look as she chuckles silently, bites her tongue in that old way, and winks. And I fold my arms, realizing that there’s so very little that I do know, and that my world—my life—is forever changed. That no matter what happens next, I have indeed already gone 129 percent crazy.

  Crazy?

  Fine.

  And then—Oh, yeah. Crap.

  I run after the Malibu, waving. Mercifully, it stops. The side window descends, and I squat to meet his cold gaze. “Actually, Larry.” I reach into my—I mean, Dick’s—briefcase and pull out the personal check I’d written to his admin, Shelley, and show it to him—thirteen thousand dollars, to reflect interest on his original debt to her. “I need Dick to sign this. He’s been forcing his admin to pay some of his personal expenses the last few years.”

  Larry looks at the check, then at me, and then back at the check.

  “Just a little signature from our buddy back there.”

  Larry seems to be studying my jugular.

  “Larry.”

  The back hatch pops.

  It takes five minutes—and a visit from Larry—to make Dick sign.

  * * *

  Dick’s Porsche handles well, but I really don’t see what the fuss is all about. There are so many other things I would rather do with this kind of money. The Bluetooth is nice, though. I’ve Googled “Crazy” on Dick’s smartphone, and now the song is thumping thick and sweet as I cruise down El Camino Real, leaving Atherton.

  Miracles will happen as we trip

  I turn the volume up, feel my head bopping, and punch the gas.

  But we’re never gonna survive unless

  We get a little crazy

  No we’re never gonna survive unless

  We are a little

  Cray cray crazy

  I speed past Teslas and Mercedes and Toyotas as the beat shifts into a deeper groove. My chest swells, and I breathe in through my nose, let it out slowly.

  Miracles will happen as we speak

  I pull a left onto Willow, heading for U.S. 101, and the music quiets. My dashboard screen lights up, announces that I have an incoming call from “Shelley—Office.” I fiddle with the steering wheel buttons until I can hear Shelley.

  “Sir?”

  “I have your check,” I sing, a little too happy.

  “Sir?”

  I force a tight voice. “Your check. To pay you back.” Okay, channel that inner Dick. “The loans you were moaning about.”

  Silence.

  “Shelley?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m here.” She clears her throat. “I really appreciate that. Really.”

  “Just remember what I’m saying here. Moving forward, if I ever ask you for more money—for lunch, for dinner, for whatever—I want you to say no. Okay?”

  “Ummm.”

  “Consider it a test. You need to learn to say no.”

  “So. . . . In the future, when you say you’re too busy to run to the ATM and need some dinner money, you really aren’t?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re just testing me?”

  “That’s it. No matter how much of a dick I am, I want you to stand up to me. You hear?”

  Long silence.

  “Sir, are you sure that cold didn’t turn into a fever?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, Shelley, I need you to reach out to someone for me. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I need this person to attend the five o’clock, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “His name is Carl Blakenship. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “Sounds familiar,” she says. “Let me look him up. . . . Oh. Looks like he’s in the Invitation to Cooperate program. He works in customer support under Russell Hampton. Is that him? Carl Blakenship in customer service?”

  “I assume so. Mama just said she wants him to attend.”

  “Sir?”

  Mama? Crap. “Sorry, Shelley. That’s just a nickname I have for someone.”

  “So, should I invite Carl to the meeting?”

  “Please.”

  “And, sir, I was calling about the catering.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For the five o’clock. Would you like the usual?”

  “The usual?”

  “The Brie and crackers and bottled water with a carafe of fresh guava nectar?” She waits, and I search for words that don’t come. “Or . . . I could have them bring something new. Like those goat cheese pockets.”

  “Oh.” I can’t believe this guy. “You know what, Shelley? Let’s skip the catering this time.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah, let’s keep it really simple.”

  Long pause. “So, no catering?” She sounds shocked. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say. “No catering, okay?”

  “Absolutely, sir.” She pauses. “And I just want to say I really appreciate how respect——I mean, how nice you’re being today.”

  I accelerate onto the 101 and unleash the Porsche. “Today’s today. I can’t make any guarantees, but . . .” I think of Dick Rayborne splayed out in the back of Larry’s station wagon. “. . . something tells me things will never be the same.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 13:

  Incite a Riot

  It’s dark when I call the house again and get the answering machine.

  “Mama?”

  Nothing.

  “Papa?”

  Nothing.

  “You there?”

  The silence is so thick, it buzzes in my ear.

  “Can you pick up?”

  I begin to walk home, along the boulevard. The traffic is thinning, but the cars still come up from behind, screaming up on me—so ambivalent and mindless. I am nothing, really. The world doesn’t care. Am I even here? Is this real? All I know is, I kinda wanna be home now.

  A new set of headlights floods from behind, illuminating the sidewalk in a cold wash, casting a long shadow before me. An engine shifts down, and a Toyota coasts by, slowing before picking up again and gassing away. I decide to pick up the pace. The Toyota veers into the left lane, slows, and pulls a U-ie around the divider. Heads back the other way. A little odd. I decide to pick up to an easy jog, the cool air jagging deep into my chest as I try to regulate my breathing. I look around, hoping for our wagon, searching. Hoping against reason. Because logic tells me something’s really kind of wrong.

  Where are they?

  Far away, a siren.

  Another set of headlights from behind, getting closer, and I recognize the sound of the engine. I glance back—yep, the Toyota. My heart stops a moment, descends, and I gasp for a breath. Pick up the pace. Look back again. The Toyota is slowing, pulling to the curb, and I feel myself creating distance, fading to my right. The Toyota rolls to a stop ten feet ahead, and the shotgun window jerks down. I stop, waiting. A woman’s voice carries out of the car.

  “Rick.”

  I meander over, staying wide.

  “Rick. Honey. It’s Lillian Carmichael.”

  I stop. Who?

  “Steven Carmichael’s mom.”

  I know that kid. Grade below me. Wild child. Very physical. I take another step, peer in, and her face looks familiar—round with high cheekbones and a delicate, pointed chin.

  “Honey, listen.” She lowers her head to look over her glasses. “Why don’t you let me take you home?”

  “I’m okay, Mrs. Carmicha
el. Thank you.”

  “Honey.” She pauses. “I really think you should let me take you home.”

  “There was a mix-up,” I say. “My parents were supposed to pick me up, but I’m just gonna walk home.”

  “Listen, I really really really think you need to get in the car, and I can take you home.”

  Ah, screw it. What is she going to do, lunge for me in the Toyota? I could take her.

  I get in the car, and she smiles at me, hits the gas.

  “Where do you guys live again, sweetheart?”

  “Juniper.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” We head down the boulevard. “What were you doing out there?” Her voice seems a little shaky and shallow. “It’s late.”

  “I was at the movies with a friend, then I was waiting for my parents.”

  Her voice slips. “Yeah?” We ride in silence a few minutes, and then: “You still playing soccer, Rick?”

  “No, I play baseball.”

  We come to an intersection, and I say, “This is the turn.”

  Lillian slows well before the intersection, pulls a U-ie.

  “Mrs. Carmichael. We were supposed to take a left there.”

  She guns the Toyota, and I turn back to the intersection, hoping for clues. Nothing.

  * * *

  The Carmichael house smells like marjoram. I think every family has a different scent, and I’m not surprised their house has this sharp, spicy odor.

  I’m sitting on their couch, staring at a Baywatch rerun with Steve Carmichael, that overgrown wild child, his thick blond hair shooting in all directions—always—and big, thick arms always moving. He’s on his back in front of the TV throwing a tennis ball against the wall, catching it—doing it over and over. Mrs. Carmichael returns to the TV room, looks down at her son, then at me, then back to her son. “Honey.” Her tone is so helpless—begging. “Please. Don’t do that. It’s making marks. Honey. C’mon. Please.”

  Steve keeps throwing the ball.

  Mrs. Carmichael turns to me, the TV lights flickering over her glasses, and I realize she’s actually a pretty woman—a sweet face, an elegant neck, and long, slender legs. “I made a few calls,” she says to me and bites her lip, like she’s confused. “Someone’s going to pick you up.”