The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  “They’re getting drunk tonight,” Ana whispers. “They usually do. Hell, I might have my own bottle.” She brushes the hair off her forehead, looks away with a sigh. “This day’s too much.”

  “I might just have a bottle in my future, too.”

  “Oh.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a slip of paper. “That Mama lady called me right before you showed up. I have no idea how she got my number.”

  “Mama knows everything.”

  “Apparently so.” Ana studies her note. “She needs you to check in on that Larry guy.”

  “Larry?”

  “She wants you to make sure he’s not getting carried away.”

  Carried away? I gaze into the air, thinking, and my mind freezes.

  “I guess he’s got that HR guy at his place.”

  Oh, crap. I stiffen. Larry’s had Dick for hours.

  “This is his address. She just wants you to do a welfare check. You can use my car if you want.”

  “I’ll just take Uber. Thanks, though.”

  “And I’m totally cool if you wanna check out the Beat tonight.”

  “Nah.” I’m smiling. “I’ll just end up lunging for you, and you don’t want that.”

  She laughs. “I don’t. Sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry for being such a pest all these years.”

  She smiles it off. “But we can be buds?”

  “I’m sorry, but I am not sure I can be your bud. Maybe someday.”

  She nods. “Fair enough.”

  I look into those giant green eyes. Those gentle and peaceful eyes. This beautiful creature who makes me feel like it’s gonna be okay?

  Of course she doesn’t like me.

  I shut my eyes a moment, tell myself to stop it. I open them and look at her and allow a tired smile. I lean in and kiss her on the cheek, maybe with a little extra lip.

  “You take good care.”

  * * *

  It turns out Larry doesn’t live too far from Woodside. His home is only ten minutes from my sister’s place, but even in the dark the differences are stark. Whereas my sister has lived in a sprawling $5 million property in tony Woodside, Larry keeps a modest, single-story house in a cute neighborhood of smaller homes in nearby San Carlos.

  My Uber driver parks the car, and I look at the house, double-check the address.

  That’s it.

  The lights are out, and I wonder if anyone is home. Then I see a red ember brighten in the dark hollows of his porch. I step out of Mama’s car, shut the door, and head to the house. The ember fades.

  “Larry?” I walk a little closer. “Mr. Rayborne?”

  Inside his closed garage, someone slaps a service bell.

  The ember brightens again, and rises. I squint into the darkness until my eyes adjust, and I see Larry—he’s naked, save the Speedo, and drawing off a tobacco pipe. He stretches and turns for the front door, opens it. The interior seems to be lit by a dim orange glow, and a slice of jazz eases out of the house, all bass and tight, popping horns. Smart and fast jazz.

  I think he’s looking at me.

  “Larry?” I wait, get nothing. “Mama wanted me to come check on Dick.”

  Larry turns and saunters into his house, leaves the door open.

  “Larry?”

  From the garage, another ding from the service bell.

  I can see Larry in his kitchen, pouring himself what looks like whiskey or bourbon. Then I realize it’s Dick’s two-thousand-dollar bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, and I find myself climbing the steps of his porch and entering his home. The jazz is loud in here, and the orange glow is everywhere. I didn’t think they made orange lightbulbs. I pick up an odd hybrid aroma of cocoa butter and vanilla-scented tobacco.

  “Larry?”

  Ding.

  His home is sparsely furnished, with ceramic-tile flooring and very few lights, all of them orange. I notice a variety of African tribal masks mounted on his walls as well as several framed and seemingly faded photos of large power plants. I reach Larry in the kitchen, and he turns with two glasses of bourbon, offers me one. I glance at the bottle on the counter—yes, it’s Dick’s Pappy Van Winkle.

  “Larry, I just need to . . .”

  Larry lifts his bourbon to me, and we clink glasses. I try to look Larry in the eye, but the orange lights are so low and Larry’s brow so pronounced that all I see are two black holes. The bourbon goes down warm and wonderful, and the jazz curls into me. I take another sip, and he joins me.

  “Yeah, so I’m sorry to bother you, Larry. But Mama wanted me to make sure Dick is—”

  Ding.

  “—you know, that he is okay.”

  We stand in silence awhile.

  “Tell me.” His voice is cool and even. “Do you enjoy paperwork?”

  We look at each other.

  “No, Larry. I don’t particularly like paperwork.”

  Long silence.

  Ding.

  “Neither do I.” He sips his bourbon. “What bothers me most, however, is unnecessary paperwork.”

  “Yeah, I remember you saying that.”

  “I have read lot about Mr. Rayborne and his paperwork.”

  “Yeah, Dick does like to create more and more—”

  “So perhaps now . . .”

  Ding.

  “. . . Mr. Rayborne is in heaven.”

  “Heaven?”

  From the garage: A tzzzt, followed by a yelp, followed by a hastily slapped ding.

  Larry sways and hums. “Paperwork heaven.”

  “You see, Larry, I just need to make sure Dick’s okay.”

  “Mr. Rayborne is fine.” Larry shifts his weight, leans against the counter, and takes a sip. “As long as he keeps up.”

  “Keeps up?”

  Tzzzt—yelp. Growl. Ding.

  “With the paperwork. He fell behind right there.”

  “He’s doing paperwork?”

  The slightest of nods. “Would you like to see him?”

  “Well . . .”

  Larry leads me through his family room to the back door that connects to his garage. I ease a little closer and listen—there’s a flurry of paper shuffling, heavy panting, and even a some stapling and hole punching. And then . . .

  Ding.

  Larry says, “He doesn’t have time to complain.”

  I step away from the door. “I guess I don’t need to . . .”

  “I’ve been preparing for Mr. Rayborne for some time.” Larry cocks his head, hums along with the jazz. “I wanted to create an experience for him. Something that he would never . . . ever . . .”

  Tzzzt—yelp. Ding.

  “. . . forget.”

  We listen to Dick Rayborne and his paperwork.

  “You don’t wanna just let him go?”

  The hollow sockets regard me. “I’m afraid we’ve only just begun.”

  Ding.

  Bob Watson Step No. 14:

  Seize Your New Life

  By the time my Uber ride pulls into the Robards International parking lot, it’s just after 7:30 p.m. My plan is to pick up my Prius here, drive home, and write my resignation note, which I’ll send to my boss tomorrow morning—I can’t believe I’m going to quit and get paid to live at my sister’s place.

  Of course, all of this is assuming there isn’t a warrant out for my arrest.

  Cruising past the mangled executive parking gate, I notice a cluster of security sedans idling inside the private lot. I have my driver slow down so I can lean over and squint for a better look. Four security guards seem to be standing in a loose circle, legs apart, one of them talking into a radio. And in the middle of them is Mama, her arms wrapped around a bundle of papers—it’s as if she’s expecting the guards to rip them out of her clutch.

  Crap. Totally forgot about Mama.

  When we roll into the parking lot (stripped luxury cars everywhere), the guards are surprised to see that it’s me—I mean, Dick Rayborne—in the backseat. Jeremy straightens, puffs out his chest, and walks
to my side of the car. “Sir, I’m so used to seeing you in the Porsche or the Hummer or the Expedition.”

  I try to sound annoyed. “Long story.”

  “Sir, your . . .” He says it in the tone of a question. “. . . wife here?”

  I look away, blink. “Yes.”

  Mama shuffles to her nearby Fleetwood, opens a back door, dumps the files onto the seat. “They don’t believe we had a life together—a long life.” Then she adds, cheerily, “Set ’em straight, Dickie.”

  “Sir, we didn’t know you were married.”

  “Well, common-law wife.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mama gets into the Fleetwood, shotgun side, and I can’t help but smile at her. “Drive me home,” she hollers.

  I turn to Jeremy. “I guess old Dick’s been kind of neglectful. Lost sight of his family. Lost sight of the people who really matter. Got too caught up in himself—in the money.”

  Jeremy looks at me, bites his lip, and nods. “We found her in the back making photocopies of documents. She said you told her to do that.”

  I blink. “I did.”

  “So Cory was doing another sweep and saw that she was still out here.” Jeremy bites his lip again, steps in, and whispers. “Looking maybe a little confused.”

  “I’ve got her now.”

  Jeremy forces a smile. “Have a good night, sir.”

  I begin to pull away, but not before I tell Jeremy that I don’t think I’ll be coming in to the office for a few days, if not longer, and please let everyone know.

  * * *

  Mama lives in the hills—actually, not too far from where I grew up. Her house is a simple one-story rancher—the kind I lived in, the kind all my friends lived in. The exterior looks like crap now, and I wonder if anyone has painted it in the past thirty years. The wood-shake roof seems to practically drip onto the sides of the house, and nothing appears to have been washed in decades. But the flower pots and planter boxes are exploding with life.

  When we come to a stop, I turn to her. “How long have you lived here?”

  She shakes her head, huffs. “Help me bring in those files.”

  Her house smells stale and spicy, and I imagine it has smelled that way forever. Mama shuffles around, grunting and panting as she flips on the lights in her tiny kitchen and family room, where it appears she spends most of her time. There are other rooms and halls—places where I imagine the family gathered, where kids ran up and down, where neighbors came over for drinks, where the cousins visited for Christmas dinner—and they seem dark and closed down, like no one’s ever going to come here again, like Mama is the only person who’s ever here anymore. And it puts the biggest lump in my throat.

  Mama motions to a side table loaded with framed photos. “Those are my boys,” she says. “My real boys.” She keeps shuffling, panting. “And their families.” I lean in to give the photos a respectful look. Her sons are men, of course, and they seem decent enough, their families healthy and chipper. I scan the table a bit more, and I notice a blurry photo of Cujo and Ernie clipped to a framed portrait of a grandson—the boys seem to be enjoying ice cream at a parlor.

  “Steven and his family live in Manteca.”

  I study Steve’s face—God, he looks familiar.

  “And Eddie lives with his new wife and stepchildren in Brentwood.”

  “That’s close,” I say. “Kinda.”

  Mama shuffles over, shakes her head. “Sometimes I think they wouldn’t visit if they lived across the street.”

  “Nah, I’m sure they’re just superbusy. You know, with the jobs and the kids and the new wife and all that.”

  Mama touches my shoulder, says, “Rick, you don’t know where you are?”

  This gets me. I look at Mama, then at the photos. I take in a breath, trying to recall something—that spicy odor, so oddly familiar. Marjoram? Why does that . . . I look at Mama again, hoping for a clue, but all I see are the lights reflecting off those thick glasses. I turn back to the photos, and Mama seems to wait as I scan them all once more. Then in the back of the arrangement, I notice it.

  It’s an old photo. A family of four standing in front of Mama’s metallic-blue Cadillac Fleetwood station wagon, a campground behind them. They all seem so happy. I lean in for a closer look. There’s Eddie and Steve—I went to school with those wild boys—a man I’ve never seen before, and there’s Mama, so young and slender and beautiful and brimming with happiness, her arm around Steve, her eyes trained on her husband.

  Mama looks at the photo, nods. “I can’t tell you how much I wish we could go back to that day, Ricky.”

  My head is spinning.

  I’ve seen that photo.

  I’ve been here.

  I knew her son Steve.

  Why is my heart sinking, my throat tightening?

  I swallow hard, look to Mama. “Steve Carmichael? Your son is Steve Carmichael? The wild child?”

  Slowly, Mama nods.

  “You’re Lillian Carmichael?”

  She takes off her glasses, offers a gentle smile.

  I feel my voice tighten. “You’re the mom who picked me up—who insisted I—You’re Steven Carmichael’s mom.” My mouth fills with saliva, and I struggle to swallow. “You saw me . . . and you came back and picked me up.”

  Mama comes a little closer, rests a hand on the back of my neck. “I have thought about you, Ricky. I have thought about you every single day.”

  I look down. I can’t even fathom this.

  “I never forgot you, honey. I always kept an eye on you, even when you and your sister moved in with your grandma over there in—where was it—Fremont?”

  I stand and stare at Mama’s brown shag carpet for a long while. I look up at her. “I mean, today? You planned all this?”

  Mama laughs. “How could I ever plan this? You phoned me. Remember?”

  “But this is . . . This. I don’t know.”

  “Sometimes I’ve wondered.” She looks away. “Maybe a part of you knew who I was, but another part of you didn’t want to go there.”

  “And you’ve been planning for all of this in your head? Like, for months?”

  She nods. “Just been waiting for my opportunity. Because I decided it wasn’t just a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “That you look so much like Dick Rayborne.” She smiles to herself. “I decided the universe wanted something to happen.”

  “The universe wanted Dick in Larry’s garage?”

  Still smiling. “Maybe.”

  Lillian Carmichael? It sinks in a bit more, and my brain slows down. I take another look at the faded family camping photo from so long ago. There’s Mr. Carmichael, and there she is gazing at him. My chest tightens and my eyes water.

  “Your husband. He really did . . .” But I can’t get myself to say it.

  “Left me and the boys? Yes.” She’s looking at the photo. “He could be a real prick.”

  I look at the photo again. They all seem so happy. They were so happy.

  Mama says, “I know it might sound nuts to a young man like you, but it makes me feel good to look at that photo.” She bites her lip, trembling. “There comes a time when you realize how fleeting those great moments are. Then they’re gone forever.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “That there was my best time. All of us together. Even though he turned into an asshole.”

  “You gotta appreciate the moments, that’s for sure.”

  “He croaked ten years ago. I’m not sure anyone cared. But I guess I’m still working things out, as crazy as that sounds.” She looks away and takes a big breath. “I guess it still stings.”

  “Some things will always be a part of us.”

  “That’s right.” She shakes her head and squares herself to me. “Which is why this thing with you has bothered me for so long. I never let you know it was going to be all right.” She looks down. “That I was going to keep an eye on you. Hell, I never even gave you a hug. I just l
et you sit there.”

  “It’s okay. We all did the best we could.”

  And I really mean that.

  “Can I give you a hug?”

  “Of course.”

  “And tell you that your mom—I knew your mom, honey. And she was an amazing, smart, and beautiful woman who loved you very much.”

  “Okay, we don’t need to—”

  “And Rick? Can I tell you one last thing?”

  “It’s okay, Mama. Seriously.”

  Like a gift from God, the doorbell rings. “You want me to get that?” I say as I race out of the room with a huge sigh of relief. “You expecting anyone?”

  “I get three visitors a decade,” she hollers. “So what do you think?”

  I open the door, but the porch light is out and I can see only the outline of a long-haired woman holding something. I’m obviously not what she expected. She blurts, “Who are you?”

  I take a step back, searching for a light switch. “I could ask the same of you,” I say lightly, running my fingers across the wall.

  I detect a slight Nordic accent. “Is Lillian home?”

  Still searching. “Of course. Trying to find the light here.”

  Her voice is tight. “I received an unusual call from her today. And then I had an even more usual conversation with someone named Rick Blanco. Is that you?”

  Finally, I find the switch and the porch is aglow—and my jaw drops.

  She squints into the blinding light. “I’m Sabine.”

  I just stand there.

  “I am a friend of Lillian’s.”

  Paralyzed.

  “It was all very unusual, so I thought I’d stop by and check in.”

  It’s not simply a matter of pure beauty—granted, her strawberry-blond hair and full cheeks, and piercing, intelligent eyes are not lost on me. It’s just that having her here in front of me is like being reunited with an old friend.

  Her brow creases in amusement. “Are you okay?”

  Finally, I say, “Yes, come in. Of course.”

  I step back, and she takes a few steps in, pauses to give me another look. Her cheeks redden, and she plays with her hair.

  “I just wanna say.” I give her my serious eyes. “I’m not a specist.”

  “Specist?” She looks at me again, laughs.

  “I don’t discriminate against Neanderthals, contrary to what my nephew might suggest.”