Ask Bob: A Novel

by Peter Gethers

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?” I said. “Camilla, this is Hilts, who shouldn’t be here.”

  “Hi,” Hilts said to Camilla. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Enough with the pleasantries,” I interrupted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I sort of ran away.”

  “From who?”

  “Everybody, I guess.”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “The fat woman let me in.”

  “We call her Lucy.”

  “Right. Lucy. She let me in.”

  “And how the hell did you get to New York?”

  “I flew. JetBlue. It’s really cheap.”

  “Yeah, I know. But how’d you pay for it?”

  “I put it on one of Mimi’s credit cards.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “I figured I’d pay her back when I got here. I mean, you would. And then I’d pay you back. As soon as I can.”

  “What about school?”

  He shrugged.

  “What about your mom? And Ted?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Hilts, your father’s gonna hit the roof.”

  “Let him.”

  It was hard to counter that one.

  “What happened?” Camilla asked him quietly.

  Hilts didn’t say anything.

  She looked at him intently. “Something must have happened to make you do this.”

  He nodded.

  “What?” she said.

  Hilts didn’t move for a few moments. The kindness from Camilla’s voice seemed to envelop him. Then he undid two buttons of his shirt and pulled the shirt open. On his chest was an ugly-looking red mark.

  “Who hit you?” Cam asked. “The people you’re staying with?”

  “No,” I told her. “They wouldn’t do that.”

  My eyes met Hilts’s. A tear came out of one of his.

  “That’s Ted,” I told Camilla. “That’s definitely his father who did that.”

  * * *

  I got Hilts something to eat—leftovers, but he was so ravenous I could have given him cat food—and the three of us stayed up talking for an hour or so, then Hilts fell asleep on the couch. Cam covered him with a blanket, and we went to bed.

  “He’s such a skinny little kid,” she said, lying next to me. “How could your brother hit him like that?”

  “Hilts did something pretty dangerous,” I told her. “If he’s for real.”

  “It sure sounded real.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But Ted used to sound like he was for real, too.”

  “You’re suspicious.”

  “I’ve just learned not to rush into believing everything my family says.”

  “I don’t think he was making that up.”

  “No,” I said. “I agree.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s hard to know. But it sounds like Hilts did something he shouldn’t have done. He made Ted face the truth. It’s like dropping a lit match into a tank of gasoline.”

  According to Hilts, my brother had insisted on taking him to a movie and then to dinner. He let the sixteen-year-old kid drink half a bottle of wine at the restaurant. Afterward, in the parking lot, Ted told his son what he wanted him to do: call his grandmother—our mother—and say that he needed money. Ted had the story all ready. Hilts was to say that he’d been practicing driving and taken his friend’s father’s car and crashed it. He needed five thousand dollars or he was going to be in real trouble.

  Hilts refused to make the call. His grandma was probably the only person in his young life who had loved him unconditionally, who hadn’t wanted anything in exchange for that love, and he couldn’t do this to her. Ted got angry. Then angrier. But rather than back down, Hilts told his father than just because Ted was a liar and a loser, he wasn’t going to turn him into the same thing. Ted reacted instinctively: He lashed out with a clenched fist and hit Hilts in the chest, right above his heart. Hilts told us he doubled over and threw up. It took him twenty minutes to get his breath back. Ted tried to help him, as if Hilts had just gotten sick all on his own. As if the punch had nothing to do with it. As if the punch had never happened.

  For the first time in his life, Hilts saw his father in the harsh light of reality. He saw the truth of his father’s actions rather than just hearing Ted’s words. (My guess is that Hilts’s clarity of vision had as much to do with the fact that he had vomited all the wine he’d drunk as it did with his father’s violent and indefensible punch.)

  Ted started yelling at him, trying to convince his son—and himself—that Hilts had made Ted hit him, that it was really the boy’s fault because Ted would never do anything to hurt him. But Hilts had the raw welt and the stabbing pain in his chest to prove that Ted had indeed hit him. And hurt him badly and viciously.

  Ted used all his powers of persuasion to get Hilts in his car and then tried to take the boy back to his house. As he drove, Ted was soothing, cajoling. Hilts could barely focus on the words and was almost overwhelmed by the rhythm of Ted’s insistent chant: I didn’t really hit you. I didn’t really hurt you. Nothing happened. Everything is okay. Everything is going to be fine. But at a red light, Hilts jumped out of the car and ran. He had no idea where he was or where he was going—he just ran. Eventually he made it back to his room at Fred and Mimi’s. For the next couple of weeks, Ted called him ten times a day, maybe more often than that, but Hilts wouldn’t answer or call him back. Ted came by Fred and Mimi’s house, but Hilts ducked out the back door. That’s when he had the bright idea of running away. Running to me.

  “What are you going to do?” Cam asked. Her bare left arm snaked over my chest.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t even like the kid very much.”

  She smiled. “I know what you’re going to do.”

  “What?”

  She just looked at me.

  “Yeah, I know.” I sighed. “Take care of the wounded.”

  “Poor Bob,” she said. “You try so hard, but you just can’t get away from all the damaged people.”

  * * *

  It took a little time to work out the details, but before long Mr. Schmidt decided to leave for his long-planned Florida retreat earlier—and sadder—than planned. And I had two new tenants in the clinic townhouse: Hilts Heller and Lucy Nell Roebuck. Hilts couldn’t live alone, and Lucy needed a new place to stay. Since Lucy’s life revolved around the clinic, she welcomed the idea of actually living upstairs, even with a befuddled teenage boy as a roommate. Although I was willing to take unofficial responsibility for my confused nephew, having him live two flights up from me was a much more appealing option than having him in the bedroom next to mine. We had a win-win situation all around.

  My mother was deeply disturbed by the mess Teddy had made of her grandson’s life, and she immediately began trying to repair the relationship between father and son. But she was also thrilled that Hilts was now in her life full-time. Hilts responded in kind: He spent much of his free time with his grandma, taking her out for walks (or rolls), movies, and visits to any and all New York sights that struck their fancy. He took my mother to the sex museum on lower Fifth Avenue (yes, that one actually stopped me in my tracks), and she introduced him to the Frick and the Met. He worked endlessly with her on speech exercises and goaded her into getting back on the computer (not only was its keyboard good for her dexterity, it offered all sorts of speech and cognitive learning programs for stroke victims). Under Hilts’s guidance, she improved mentally and physically every day. I saw, in him, the same stubborn resolve that kept my mom going.

  I put Hilts in school. Camilla helped me do the research, and after a group discussion—Cam, me, Hilts, Lucy, my mom, Isadore, and Rocky (okay, he didn’t contribute much to the conversation, but he alternated between sitting on my lap and strolling over to Hilts to rub against his leg, which was comforting to both humans)—we settled on a small school in t
he Village that catered to Europeans and transient students. It had a long history of being both progressive and scholastically stringent. I went with Hilts to meet the head of the school, who was sympathetic to our circumstances and our need for a quick solution. Within a week, Hilts was back in the classroom and had three friends, who all seemed like a big step up from T.J. and Arky.

  I can’t say I felt any new respect for Teddy and the challenges he’d faced as a parent, but I did begin to appreciate the difficulties and the responsibilities that come with raising a child. And I began to hear my dad’s words ringing in my ears several times a day: Having a child’s not like having a dog.

  Hilts was not a genius. But he was mature enough to understand that he had to grapple with legitimate problems—loneliness, girls, his parents, the fear of rapidly approaching adulthood, new and different forms of worry and ennui on a seemingly hourly basis—and my job became to help him grapple. In some ways, my initial lack of emotional involvement with the boy was an advantage. I could be objective and dispassionate when dispensing advice. On the other hand, I felt his pain—and his insecurities and his discomfort and his neuroses—and before long I began to understand how and why he’d become what he was. Slowly but surely I began to get sucked into the boy’s life, despite my best efforts to resist emotional involvement. I had missed Hilts’s formative years, when instead of being formed he had nearly been dismantled. I was now left with the reconstruction. I hoped I could handle it.

  Teddy was not entirely absent. He surfaced just often enough to cause disturbances, setbacks, and anger. Teddy could no longer command his son’s love. But if he was responsible for a bit of fear, that was almost as satisfying. He could not be forgotten or ignored, and at this point that was enough to keep my brother present in Hilts’s life. I spoke to the kid about how to deal with his father, and he said that he was ignoring Ted as much as possible—he didn’t return Ted’s numerous phone calls, and when they did happen to speak, he revealed nothing personal about himself, his life, or me. I told him that for the moment that was the best and safest route. I did make an attempt to explain to him that Teddy was sick and very unhappy. I told Hilts that he’d be unhappy, too, if he let himself hate his father for what he’d done. They did not have to be friends, I told him, but he shouldn’t think of his father as his enemy. Just engaging in battle meant that, in some sense, Ted had won.

  In saying this, maybe I was talking as much to myself as to Hilts, because Ted often seemed like a relentless adversary. Teddy was furious at me for taking Hilts in, and as a consequence he did his best to wreak havoc in my life. He sent me a steady stream of e-mails, which alternated between expressing his rage at my role in stealing his son and offering up sentimental gibberish about our past together and our separate existences in the present. When he wasn’t trashing me, he rhapsodized about childhood events that never happened. He sent a meandering and affectionate reflection on what he said was one of his happiest childhood experiences—except that it hadn’t happened to him, it had happened to me. His own life had become so indistinct, he had resorted to stealing other people’s memories.

  Whatever the tenor of Ted’s stories and rants and comments, I did my best to respond as vaguely and noncommittally as possible. But his words always left me feeling uneasy and anxious. In one sense Hilts and I felt much the same about Ted: My brother could no longer claim my love and affection, but he could insinuate himself into my dreams. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I could feel his presence smothering me. A black snake would uncoil in my guts, slither up my throat, and I would wake up trembling and sweating.

  Fending Ted off on a day-to-day basis was not particularly difficult, but it was draining. And of all the elements in the life of my new and ever-shifting family unit, it was the thing that engendered the most fear inside me.

  * * *

  I was right to fear Ted.

  One night I was in bed with Camilla. I thought she was asleep and so did Waverly, who never ventured onto the bed until Camilla dozed off. But when Wave put her forepaws on the edge of the mattress, Camilla stirred. With no hesitation, she pushed the sweet Irish setter firmly away. Waverly slunk off to another corner of the room.

  “Can I ask you something?” Camilla said.

  “Anything.”

  “Actually, let me tell you something first.”

  “Okay.”

  “I admire what you’re doing. Taking care of your mother. Taking care of Hilts. Assuming responsibility for all these new people. I mean, seriously. Forget those two, I don’t know where Lucy or Isadore would be without you.”

  “I don’t think it’s all that admirable,” I said. “It’s not like I searched them out. They all kind of fell into my lap. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “Maybe that’s what I think is admirable. You think you didn’t have a choice.”

  “Well, I accept that I had a choice. But the choice was pretty much: be a decent human being or be an asshole.”

  “I still admire it. And I know it’s not easy on you. Even though you make it look reasonably easy.”

  “So what’s the question?” I asked.

  “Why are you doing it?”

  “I told you. Human being versus asshole. It’s pretty simple.”

  “No. That’s not all.”

  “What are you asking, exactly?”

  She gave me a long look. “I think I need a drink.”

  “What’s going on, Cam?”

  She got out of bed, flashing that thin, uncomfortable smile when she realized I was very much aware of her nakedness. She went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of cognac and two glasses. She filled them both and handed one to me. Then she sat in a chair, a couple of feet away in the corner of the bedroom, while I propped myself up in bed.

  “Your brother called today,” she said.

  “He called you?”

  “No. He called here. I answered.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He knew who I was.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I could tell. He asked me a couple of questions. He knew about me.”

  “How—”

  “Hilts.”

  “I thought Hilts wasn’t talking to him. At least wasn’t saying anything to him.”

  “Bobby … Hilts is a very insecure boy. I don’t think he even realizes what he’s saying when he talks to Ted. He’s very easy to manipulate. He doesn’t mean any harm, he just doesn’t understand what his father’s doing to him.”

  “What did Ted know about you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing important.”

  “Then what—”

  “He told me to ask you something.”

  I almost doubled over. My stomach cramped, and I clenched my fist. I nodded at her to tell me. A nod was way easier than speaking. And she didn’t have to tell me what Ted had said to her.

  “He told me to ask you about the day you heard that Anna had cancer.”

  It took me a very long time to say anything. When I did, all I could manage was “Did he tell you what I was going to say?”

  “No. He just said that he would tell me the truth if you wouldn’t. He scared me. He was so … I don’t quite know how to put it…”

  “Friendly.”

  “Yes. He was talking to me as if I were a close friend. But I knew he was saying something that was going to hurt you a great deal.”

  “And you,” I said.

  “Do you want to tell me?” Camilla asked.

  I nodded. Took a deep breath. Gathered myself. When I answered, I could hear myself talking in a monotone. I wasn’t trying to keep emotion out of my voice. I couldn’t help it. I felt dead inside.

  “The day Anna got sick … the day we found out she was sick … I was away, speaking at some convention. To make a little money and, I guess, to get some attention. It was fun to, you know, be a star for a day. Among real people. Or any kind of people.”

  I hesitated. She nodded for me to g
o on. I took another deep breath, exhaled it quickly, and then spewed out everything as quickly as I could. I barely breathed at all as I told her what had happened.

  “I cheated on her that day. There was some insurance person, a woman who sat next to me at dinner and she was flirting and, I know this sounds crazy, but I was feeling kind of old, I don’t know why—I can’t even explain it. I felt hemmed in. Smothered. Like I could see my whole life laid out in front of me and everything was all so neat and planned and unchangeable. I didn’t want to change it, not for real, just for … just for a moment. And it was just easy and sexy and I’d never even thought of sleeping with anyone else, it never even occurred to me, but there it was. And the next morning I checked out of the room and left the woman still in there—she didn’t want to come out into the hallway with me. But while I was checking out, Anna called, and they put her through to the room. The woman answered. Told Anna I’d checked out. I don’t know what Anna really thought but … she knew. She knew why that woman answered the phone. She called my cell but it wasn’t on, and then when I finally saw that she’d called, I heard the pain, she was in so much pain, and I knew she knew what I’d done, which made it so much worse. I thought I caused her pain—I mean, I thought I was the reason she felt so sick. And then I rushed her to the doctor and we found out … it wasn’t me. It was much, much worse than just me. Christ, I never told anybody about this, not one fucking person, not Phil, not anybody. Except my fucking brother, who caught me at the one fucking moment when I had to talk, when I just couldn’t keep it inside, and somehow I trusted him one more time, the way I used to as a kid. And I knew, as soon as I did it, I knew I’d done something bad. I can still see his face. Like he’d tricked me. Like he’d won some horrible competition.”

  A sudden sense of relief flooded over me. I felt unburdened in front of Camilla: At last there were no more barriers between us. I didn’t excuse what I’d done, but somehow it didn’t feel so terrible deep down in my soul. And I knew how Camilla was going to respond. She was going to tell me it was okay, that what I’d done was in the past, that it wasn’t a reason to keep torturing myself. That she was thrilled I’d finally come clean and that we could now finally move forward with no secrets between us. I reached over to touch her.