Three-Fifths

by John Vercher

  A young girl ran past him, chased by her brother, giggling furiously. It made him miss Tamara instantly. She had a giggle like that; when he spooned her and tickled her belly when they found out they were pregnant. He remembered the way she’d reach behind her and pull his face into her neck. He’d nuzzle in and run his hand over the lower part of her stomach and feel for the bump to come. She’d guide his hand down further and slide his finger into her with a gasp. They’d lie in the middle of the bed, pressed against each other as hard as they could. He never imagined that the middle of their bed would become a dividing line that neither of them would cross again. Signing those papers had been a mistake.

  Snow bowed the branches of the trees that lined the walkway and coated them like icing. The high afternoon sun poked through openings of the jagged canopy. The melting snow fell like rain on the asphalt footpath. A bough loosed its sleeve of snow and it hit the ground with a wet smack. The limb bobbed as if it was waving. It either beckoned him forward or warned him away. Robert walked on.

  Shrieks of children’s laughter echoed in the air as he approached the rink. The roads had still been covered in some areas and the radio said the threat of another round of the storm changed the school delays to cancellations. Parents played hooky from work with their children. Some kids skated with a practiced fluidity while their parents trailed behind them, their faces aglow with pride. Others flailed like newborn colts testing their legs as the blades of their skates chopped at the ice. Mothers and fathers followed behind with their arms outstretched and ready to catch them when they fell. Robert leaned his elbows on the wall of the rink and watched.

  A hand grabbed the rail of the rink in front of Robert with a slap. The man it belonged to pulled himself up from a near fall on the ice. A girl who appeared to be his daughter, no older than ten, slid to a stop at his side. He pushed himself up with her help while his skates slid back and forth in a dramatic attempt to gain his footing, all for the benefit of his little girl. He winked at Robert. She twittered, and he and Robert shared a knowing smile. He thanked his daughter over and over for helping him and they joined the rest of the skaters on the outer circle.

  Robert checked his watch. It seemed Isabel wasn’t coming, and he felt no small amount of relief. When he turned back towards the walking path, he saw her. She smiled and waved. When they reached each other, she extended her hand at the same time he opened his arms for an embrace. He offered his hand and she opened her arms until they both settled on a hug. It was a good one. He smelled a man’s cologne and the sour smell of alcohol coming from her skin. She gave an extra squeeze along with a few hard pats and pulled away.

  They walked. She glanced back and forth from her shoes to him, her face tight with the anticipation of something to say. Just when she looked ready to say it, his pager beeped. He looked down and his eyes widened when he saw a California exchange. He looked around for a pay phone and found one just behind them.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Give me just one minute. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t wait for Isabel’s reaction and quick stepped to the phone. She picked up on the first ring.

  “That was fast,” Tamara said.

  “I mean, yeah, you know.” Robert said. “It’s not like. I wasn’t waiting. I just…” He rolled his eyes and shook his head at his clumsiness. He looked down the path at Isabel. She looked away, caught staring, and shifted back and forth, one foot to the other. Her nervousness distracted him for a moment.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Robert snapped to. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what?”

  Tamara stayed silent.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  Neither of them spoke. Tamara’s breath paused, then resumed. Robert envisioned her chin dropping to let the words, any words come, dying in her open mouth. Each time he went to speak, those little pauses came, and so he refrained, until she broke the silence.

  “Take care of yourself, Robert,” she said.

  A protest rose. Let’s stay in touch. A call here and there. Maybe dinner when you’re back in town.

  He knew what her words meant. His dissent receded.

  “You, too, Tamara. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  She let out a sigh. “It’s worth a lot.” Another breath. “Bye.” A click and the line went silent.

  Early in their relationship, when Tamara traveled for conferences, they’d stay on the phone well into the night. One made the other commit to hanging up first, though only the one who called could disconnect the call. If the other hung up first, the call would reconnect if the other side lifted the receiver again. They’d battle back and forth until one finally gave in, succumbing to fatigue and the threat of endless hours of work the following morning.

  Robert and listened for Tamara to pick up. Then he replaced the receiver in the cradle.

  He turned back to Isabel who greeted him with another smile as he walked back towards her.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “And no. But yes.”

  “Okay. That’s good. I guess?”

  “Isabel,” he said. “I have to go.”

  “Wait. What? What did I say?”

  “Nothing. Really. It’s not you. That call. I didn’t expect to—” He stopped. “Look, we said what we needed to say last night, didn’t we? Is there really anything else to discuss? We made mistakes, both of us. I don’t think we need to relive them any further.”

  Her voice wavered. “But you said that meeting here would be okay.”

  “I know, and that was wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on in my life lately and I really did think it would be good to talk about whatever else it was you wanted to talk about. Get some closure on all of this.” He looked back to the payphone. “I think I’ve had maybe enough closure for today.”

  “You can’t go,” she said.

  “Izzy, don’t make me be the bad guy here. Again. I don’t want to, need to, or have to explain to you why I’m leaving. I am. Be okay with that, please.”

  “I deserve that. I do. I have no right to ask you to tell me anything about yourself, what that call was about, why you’re here now after so many years. Any of it. But I have something I need to say to you. No. Something I have to say to you. Something I owe you to make right what I was too wrapped up in myself to realize that I’d done to you. To make right the hurt I caused.”

  Robert looked at his watch. “Look, I get it. Honestly though, I’d just rather we both get on with our lives. Let’s consider each other forgiven and move on.” He paused then put his hands on her shoulders and gave her cheek a light kiss. “Be good.”

  “Please don’t,” she whispered as he pulled away. Robert heard the pain in her voice and he resisted the urge to hug her goodbye. He didn’t want to be cruel but she wasn’t giving him a choice. The last thing he wanted was to give her hope.

  “Bye,” he said, as he walked around and past her. As he did, he came upon a young man sitting at a bench who looked familiar, though he hadn’t the slightest as to why. Isabel call out behind him with an earnest despair.

  “Bobby!”

  Her tone stopped Robert. He turned, and as he did, the young man on the bench stood up next to him.

  “What?” they both shouted back.

  They looked at each other, then back to Isabel as she ran towards them.

  Bobby pretended not to watch Isabel when she looked over her shoulder to see if he was. Once she had turned away, he didn’t take his eyes off of her. She approached an older black man at the outside of the rink. They embraced, though awkwardly, then made their way back to Bobby, but not arm-in-arm, not holding hands.

  Who was this guy to her? What did it have to do with him?

  Bobby squinted as they approached. The man’s face passed in and out of shadows cast by the archway formed by the bare branches arcing over the path. He had never seen him before, yet his face had a familiarity he couldn’t place. They w
ere yards away when he stepped away from Isabel to make a call. He watched his mother rock back and forth on her heels. She looked over her shoulder again and Bobby swiveled his head quickly in the other direction. He wondered why he cared whether or not she saw him watching, but something about the moment felt voyeuristic, as if he saw her in a light that she didn’t want to be seen. So he looked away and stole glances towards her until he saw it was safe.

  When the man returned to her, something about their dynamic had changed. They spoke only briefly and he left her where she stood. Whatever she had planned, it had not gone well. Crestfallen, her arms hung limp by her sides. Bobby stared at the man as he approached and their eyes met. As they did, Bobby saw a recognition in the man’s eyes, similar to what he felt when he’d seen his face.

  Then he heard his mother yell his name.

  He stood.

  The man stopped.

  They both answered her call.

  Isabel jogged the short distance to meet them. Bobby and the man exchanged confused glances then both looked to Isabel. Bobby saw fear in her face.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “Mom?” Robert asked her. “You have a son?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Mom, what the hell is going on? Who is this guy?”

  Tears streamed down her face. “I thought I could say it, but I can’t.”

  “Izzy, what’s happening here? What can’t you say?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “God, Robert, he’s your son. You’re his father. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

  Bobby knit his brow, then opened his eyes wide. The familiarity he’d seen in the man’s face wasn’t because he knew him, except he did, and that wasn’t possible. He took a step back, the backs of his legs hitting the bench, and he sat. He stared at his feet and squished the pile of dirty slush beneath them. The first time Bobby had ever been punched, his head felt as if it were underwater, a pressure in his ears that muffled the sounds around him and made the swishing of blood as loud as rough rapids. He felt that same pressure now.

  He’s dead. That’s what she’d told him, dead before he was born.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Was that boy dead? God, they’d left him there bleeding and moaning. He’d left him there. He drove away.

  The pressure swelled in his ears and moved behind his eyes and the edges seemed to dim. His cheeks felt numb. He put his face in his hands and shut his eyes. And he listened.

  “What did you say?” Robert asked.

  “We have a son.”

  “We have a son,” he said.

  “We have a son,” Isabel repeated. Robert shouted an irritated laugh. He stepped closer to Isabel and talked quietly.

  “Don’t let me ever see either of you again,” he said. “Do you understand me?” There was a threatening tone to his voice and the pressure in Bobby’s ears faded. His cheeks tingled, warmed with rush of blood. He watched them both closely, though his mind worked to process the surreal scene unfolding in front of him.

  “I understand you’re upset,” Isabel said. “I know this is crazy.”

  “Was it the name tag?” he asked. His volume raised. People watched the three of them as they walked past, attempting surreptitiousness, but failing. “Was that it? I knew I should have taken it off when I came in to the bar.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Isabel said.

  “You saw ‘M.D.’ on my badge and smelled money, didn’t you?”

  “What? No. Wait, what are you trying to say?”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” People stopped pretending not to look and listen. “I’m sorry, I really am, that you couldn’t keep track of whoever your kid’s father is. Truly. And I’m sorry that people like you seem to just pop kids out whenever you’d like without even trying when people like me, who are educated and have the means to take care of them and raise them in a good home with loving parents have babies who die when their heartbeat just started.”

  Isabel’s face collapsed. “You lost your baby?” She took a step toward him and he jerked away.

  “Don’t,” he said. He wiped at his eye with his thumb. Isabel stepped back with her hands in the air. He pointed at Bobby but he wouldn’t look at him. “That boy could be anyone’s and you know it. How can you leverage your child for money from me? What kind of person does that? What I told you meant nothing last night? You decided you’d hurt me one more time.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” Bobby whispered to his feet.

  “What?” Robert snapped, turning to face Bobby.

  “She told me about you, she did. But she said you were dead. That you left before I was born, and that you died.”

  Robert turned to Isabel, eyes wide and incredulous.

  “I was so angry,” Isabel said, her voice quavering, “I wanted him to be angry with you, too. Except he wasn’t. The older he got, the more he wanted to know about you. He had no reason to think you were…that he was…when he was born looking how he looked, with us living with my dad, I…” Her face reddened and she dropped her gaze. “It was just easier to keep up the lie. He kept pushing and asking so I had to tell him you were dead. I couldn’t risk him asking the wrong questions in front of my father. God, I was so relieved that he looked white that I had to let him keep thinking it. It thought it would make things less complicated. Except it didn’t. Not by a long shot. By the time he found about you, about your being…”

  “Black, Isabel,” Robert said. “Jesus Christ, quit dancing around it like it’s profanity.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. By the time he found that out, he had already started to believe things that he shouldn’t, things I couldn’t make right because it was already too late.”

  “What kind of things? Why couldn’t you make it right?”

  Isabel looked down again. “You know what, and you know why. Because he’s got too much of his grandfather in him.”

  Robert took a step back, then dropped in the seat on the bench next to Bobby. “How could you do this? How could you lie to him? To me?”

  Bobby looked up. “Lie to you?” he asked Robert. Bobby stared at Robert then at Isabel. She looked up to the sky and covered her mouth, turning away from them both. Bobby looked back to Robert. “Wait, you really didn’t leave when she got pregnant?”

  Robert glared at Isabel. “Leave? I never knew you existed until this moment. Right now.”

  Bobby put his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. He shook his head back and forth.

  “Bobby,” Isabel said.

  Bobby screamed into his hands. “Fuck.”

  Isabel and Robert jumped, as did a family that happened by at the time and the father hurried them along. Robert stood and so did Bobby. He needed to see for himself. His eyes traced Robert’s face, the contour of his nose, the shape of his chin, the russet brown of his eyes, and he understood the familiarity that struck him the moment he saw him, the color of their skin their only real difference. Robert stood before him another version of himself, and he could see the same confused realization in Robert’s eyes. The pressure drained from Bobby’s ears and eyes, the blood returned to his limbs, heavy to counter the weightlessness and held him to the earth. He’d heard the desperate honesty in Robert’s voice, an anger laced with sadness and more than a little regret. He truly hadn’t known. Yet here he was, at a time when Bobby needed a father, his father, more than ever.

  But him?

  Bobby dropped down to the bench, his head back in his hands.

  “Baby…” Isabel said.

  Bobby looked up, his eyes tight with rage. “You need to not fucking talk to me right now.”

  Isabel took a step back, her eyes wet in an instant. Robert looked back and forth between them.

  “Hey, wait a minute, man,” Robert said to Bobby.

  “No,” Isabel said. “He’s right. I should…I’m going to go.”

  “Good,” Bobby said, with a petulance he had neither the desire nor the ability t
o control. Robert turned his back to Bobby, but around him, Bobby saw Isabel mouth the word “talk” to him as she made her way down the path and out of the park. Robert held his hands out to the side in a plea for her to stay, but they dropped to his sides as she turned into a dot in the distance. He sat back down next to Bobby.

  “You think that might have been a little rough?” Robert asked him.

  “Yeah, like you didn’t want to say the exact same thing.”

  Robert laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “This is pretty fucked up.”

  “I’d say this is the definition of that, yeah.”

  They both laughed in grudging agreement, then sat forward, rubbing their hands. Bobby noted the similarity in their tick and sat back against the bench.

  “So when did you know?”

  Bobby tilted his head quizzically.

  “That you were black.”

  “I’m not black.”

  “There’s a few billion people who would beg to disagree with you.”

  “Yeah, well the only way they would know would be to ask. And I’m sure as shit not telling.” Bobby stood and walked away.

  Robert followed.

  “I’m asking. So tell me. Tell me about when you found out.”

  Bobby was eleven. He and Isabel had been living at his Grandpap’s since he was born. He’d been lonely since his grandmother, Nina, died. Grandpap had to wait for Bobby at the bus stop and put him to bed when Isabel wasn’t home. She worked a lot back then, trying to save up enough to put them into a decent apartment, somewhere that put Bobby in a good public school. But sometimes she stayed out too long. Just one drink after work, something to take the edge off. Grandpap told her if she wanted to stay, she had to hold down a job, pay into the mortgage, and quit her drinking. He didn’t spend his years on the force cleaning up switchblade fights between the Micks and Spicks to waste his pension on his drunk of a daughter and her bastard kid. Still, though he pretended to be burdened by them both, even at that age, Bobby could tell Grandpap liked having them around.

  Summer days they’d sit on rusted white steel chairs on Grandpap’s porch covered in fake plastic grass. His tray-table ashtray overflowed with butts. He talked about the state of the world and clinked his can of Iron City to Bobby’s pop can. They chugged and belched together. Grandpap made Bobby take a sip of his beer. Bobby held back a gag and hoped he didn’t notice. Bobby pretended to like it and pulled it away from Grandpap when he asked for it back, an approving smile deepening the creases in his face, making Bobby feel safe—even loved. Though he didn’t quite understand the feeling, he knew he wanted more of it, so he faked his understanding of what Grandpap talked about and he always, always agreed with everything he said, because he’d muss up Bobby’s hair and call him a good boy when he did. He told him he was turning into a man because he understood man things.