The Bob Watson Read online

  I say to Collin, “You said yourself: SAT Prep doesn’t seem very important on a day like today. Not when you’re in the middle of a Neanderthal adventure.” Collin looks up at me, and I smile and rustle his hair. “Do you know how long it will be before you even need to take the SAT?” He looks at me. “You have more than ten years—a decade, Collin.” I take his knee and shake it playfully. “You’re doing just fine.”

  Collin balls his fists and looks away. “Sometimes, I just hate the SAT more than anything.”

  Cujo says, “What’s an SAT?”

  “Here’s the deal,” I say. “I kinda feel like it’s okay for you to be a kid a little more often. You know what I mean, buddy? So I’m starting to feel like maybe it’s my job to help you break free once in a while. So you can actually be a kid.”

  “Like today?”

  “Yeah, like today. Or even when you’re older and I’m living somewhere else, and you can feel okay about going on a unplanned adventure, or just doing something a little bit crazy.”

  Collin looks up at me. “Crazy? Really?”

  Sitting there talking about this, I find myself wondering, when will this kid ever have a chance to do something risky? When will he ever wipe out on a bike, or meet a few assholes, or even just be—oh, don’t say it—idle and bored? I mean, aren’t these things important for a kid? Aren’t these the things that help shape kids into healthy adults? I’m not sure parents with Overachiever Fever understand this.

  Collin seems to deflate, his body sinking as he looks down at his clasped hands. “I don’t have time for crazy adventures, Uncle Rick. Not if I want to get into a good college.”

  “Well, it’s true that crazy fun might not help with college admissions. But do you want to know what I think?”

  He looks up, shakes his head.

  “Fancy colleges are just one tiny sliver of what this big, exciting world has to offer. And you’re a kid. Your job is to have fun and not worry about colleges right now.”

  “My dad says the Barnards have a reputation to uphold.”

  “Reputation? Don’t worry about that. It’s not your job to make your mom and dad look good.”

  Cujo says, “He’s right, kid. You’ve got to be you.”

  Collin throws his hands into the air. “But how? I mean, how can I be me when I have no time to be me?”

  “Sometimes,” Cujo says, “I’d just tell my parole officer to chill out so I could be me for a night or two. You know what I mean, little dude? But those ankle bracelets were a bitch—didn’t come off.”

  “Collin,” I say, “the good news is that you don’t have an ankle bracelet. It’s a lot easier. All you have to do is pull a Bob Watson.”

  Collin looks at me with hope. “A Bob Watson? What’s a Bob Watson?”

  “It’s like ditching school, only you can do it all your life.”

  He allows a grin. “And how do I pull a Bob Watson?”

  A shot of electricity shoots through me, and I feel like I’m gonna float off my seat. “First, you need to find inspiration—a reason for ditching SAT Prep.”

  Collin smiles. He reaches over and squeezes Cujo’s forearm, and the felon looks down at him and grins. “I’ve definitely found my inspiration,” Collin says. “Now what?”

  “Second, you need to make sure everyone sees you in class, and you need to make sure you really kiss up to the teacher. Make them feel important.”

  Collin thinks about it. “I can do that.”

  “Then comes the fun part.”

  Collin twinkles. “Yeah? What do I do next?”

  “You need to create a distraction, kiddo. So they’re not paying attention to you when you leave. Can you do that?”

  He bites his fist as he thinks about it. Slowly, he nods yes.

  “Then the next thing you do is even more fun.”

  He looks up and giggles. “What’s that?”

  “You leave.”

  Collin looks so excited—his teeth gritted, his eyes gleaming, his knee bouncing—that I wouldn’t be surprised if he exploded into a cloud of shiny confetti.

  * * *

  I walk Collin to the school office and sign him in. Collin makes eye contact with the school secretary and puffs out his chest. “I’m here now, Mrs. Randolph.” He says it so loudly, he’s nearly yelling. “Now I will proceed to Miss Doring’s classroom for an exciting session of SAT Prep. I can’t wait. The journey to a good college continues today.”

  Mrs. Randolph looks up and smiles. “Okay, thanks, Collin.”

  Collin gives me a wink and leaves the office, and I beam with pride. This is a kid who understands that the foundation of any successful Bob Watson must include a rousing validation of your keepers, a reminder that you are “in the building,” literally and figuratively.

  I approach Mrs. Randolph. “I have an odd request.”

  She peers up, eyes thinning.

  “I was wondering if I could use a phone here.”

  Pregnant pause. “The team huddle room is open. You can use the phone in there. Just dial a nine.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I can’t find my phone, and I need to call Collin’s nanny. You wouldn’t have her number, would you?”

  Mrs. Randolph laughs. “Are you kidding? Your sister made Audrey the primary contact for nearly everything here.” With a few keystrokes, she pulls up Audrey’s number and jots it down on a slip of paper, says, “I am going to miss her. And so will your nephew.”

  In the huddle room, I call Audrey. She’s surprised to hear that it’s me.

  “Why are you calling from the school line?”

  “Long story. Listen . . .”

  “What happened to the Neanderthal adventure?”

  “It’s happening. I just thought it would be good to teach him how to pull a Bob Watson.” Mrs. Randolph walks by and glances in, her jaw tight. “This place is a bit intense.”

  “Gee, you think?”

  I turn and cup my hand around my mouth. “There’s way too much pressure on these kids.”

  “Did you know Collin has a classmate who submitted an ice sculpture for this overnight make-a-castle project?”

  “It’s like everyone has to be spectacular,” I say.

  “Exactly. And when they aren’t spectacular, what do you think happens?”

  This sparks a recent memory. I’d read a magazine article about the high schools in Palo Alto, the overachiever capital of the west, where the number of wonderfully talented teenagers who commit suicide is so high that they’ve put fences around the train tracks—the other year, they had seven high school suicides. In San Francisco, a girl jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge because she’d lost her 4.0 grade point average.

  “The universe needs you, Rick Blanco.”

  “The universe?”

  “Yes. The universe needs you to be the crazy uncle who injects some sanity into Collin’s life. Can you do that?”

  I think of the Bob Watson. “What if I told you I’m already on it?”

  “Then I’d say you’re finally getting it.”

  “And I kinda feel like the universe wants us to go see the Beat tonight.”

  She laughs. “Call me when you have an update.”

  We hang up, and Cujo lumbers into the office, his massive frame filling the space, his inked-up scalp beading with sweat, his hands clasped, his eyes big and innocent. He makes eye contact with the suddenly paralyzed Mrs. Randolph.

  His voice is so gentle. “I’m here for the show-and-tell.”

  * * *

  I will say this about the Halvaford School: Yes, a large number of their students are unhappy and stressed-out, but they definitely know how to follow directions—in this case, the first three steps of pulling a Bob Watson. In a matter of minutes, my little nephew has found inspiration, he’s validated his keepers, and he has distracted a critical mass of people. Like an off-balance half-court shot that somehow rattles in for a highly improbable basket, Cujo has managed to get a series of administrators and teachers worked i
nto frothy hyperventilation without ever mentioning Collin. It culminates with Collin’s SAT Prep teacher leaving her classroom so she can dash to the office and resolve this matter of the enormous, inked-up, hairy man who thinks he’s here for show-and-tell in her classroom.

  “Who told you to come for show-and-tell?”

  Cujo offers sweet-and-innocent eyes. “My parole officer.”

  I don’t want to leave the office—this is so fun to watch—but I also don’t want to screw up my nephew’s very first Bob Watson. So I head back to the wagon, where I find Collin on the floorboard curled into a ball. “You did it, kiddo.” I get into the car and turn the engine. “Your teacher looks like she’s about to have a seizure.”

  Collin pops up and bounces onto the backseat. “That was amazing.”

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Everyone should feel this way—free,” he hollers. “Including Cujo and his kind.”

  “Well, I think Cujo has been liberated. He’s what they call an ex-con, meaning he was once locked up.”

  Collin isn’t listening. “You heard him, Uncle Rick. Cujo feels misunderstood and exploited.”

  The vocabulary on this kid.

  “Just about every single employee at Robards International feels exploited, kiddo. I’m afraid it’s not limited to just Cujo and his kind—although I agree the conployees get it the worst.”

  “Exactly,” Collin says. “You don’t have to wear a weird uniform. But he and the others do.”

  Cujo arrives and joins Collin in the backseat, making the wagon bounce and tilt. I tell the boys to buckle up, and we pull out onto the road. Within seconds, we’ve turned the corner and are out of sight from the Halvaford School. “That was fun,” Cujo says with a sigh, and offers a fist bump to a beaming Collin. “Sure beats work.”

  “That reminds me.” I take another turn and hit the gas. “And what is it you do at work?”

  “Your cleanup.”

  “Cleanup? Mine?”

  He nods, and looks down at Collin. “Every time your uncle fires people—like when he moved all those jobs to China and laid off those folks in Nebraska—he gives them a package.”

  Collin says, “What kind of package?”

  “He means goodbye money and other things that will help people who’ve been laid off. And that’s not me, kiddo. He’s talking about Dick Rayborne. I do bottom-tier data transformation.”

  Collin looks up at Cujo. “What else is in the package?”

  “Something we call free career transition services.”

  I instinctively kick the brakes, and we all jerk forward. “You mean, career counseling?”

  “My boss calls it necessary PR. You know, like ‘The Warden just doesn’t dump hardworking Americans for ex-cons in the States and slave labor in China—well, yeah, he does. But he gives ’em—free of charge—assistance to help them land on their feet.’ And by ‘assistance,’ I mean ol’ Cujo here.”

  “And how do you help them?”

  “The counseling.” Cujo seems surprised that I’m not getting it. “You know, they call a number and get me, and I just follow the script. It’s easier than taking orders at McDonald’s.”

  “You read advice over the phone?”

  “Sometimes I add my own stuff,” Cujo says. “And I’m learning.”

  “Learning.”

  “Like, when a chick gets laid off . . .” He opens his eyes, gives me a serious look. “. . . she isn’t interested in dirty talk.” He shakes his head, tickled by his apparent blind spot. “It took a few warnings from the boss to learn that one.”

  Collin seems to be studying Cujo’s slanted forehead and heavy brow. “We still have so much to discuss.”

  Cujo looks down at Collin and chuckles. “Sure, little bro.” Then he reaches over and shakes my seat and swats the back of my head. “C’mon, Warden. Let’s jet back to the fancy place and take another look at the forty-five K. And I wanna ask Mama about the monkey drool.”

  * * *

  In the lobby, Ernie has the cash spread out on the coffee table.

  Mama looks up to us, the reflection off her glasses hiding her eyes. “I’m letting him play with it,” she says to me. “I’ve been trying to keep him busy while you’ve been out doing God knows what with God knows who.”

  Ernie bites his tongue, this huge happy look on his face, as he shifts some stacks around and fingers through others. The silver foxes and gold diggers seem to have lost interest in the spectacle. Cujo stands over Ernie, points to the table, and whines to Mama, “You’re letting him play with it?”

  “I sent you on an important errand, young man. Something I couldn’t have asked him to do.”

  Still looking at the table of cash. “I can’t even fucking touch it, but he gets to play with it?”

  “Watch your tongue, mister.”

  Ernie fans a stack of twenties in front of his face and hums to himself.

  “How come I never get to play with money?”

  Mama stands up and points the prongs at Cujo. “Maybe it’s because he wasn’t convicted of following bankers to their homes and tying them up for days on end as he slept in their beds and systematically robbed them blind.”

  Cujo smiles, his lids low. “Oh, yeah. That.”

  Mama sits down, nods to Ernie. “He’s not a thief,” she snaps, her voice carrying. “Making love to old ladies for money is a far cry from kidnapping and larceny.” Cujo shrugs, and she adds, “This money belongs to people who need it. They’re not like your puffy bankers.”

  I pull Collin in front of me, so Mama can see him. When Collin finally sees the cash on the table, he gasps, and his eyes bulge and widen. He steps forward, still staring.

  “Sweetheart,” Mama says. “Would you like to join Ernie?”

  Collin looks at me, and I nod yes.

  Mama says, “Just don’t take any, okay?”

  Collin smiles and darts to the table.

  “Mama?” Cujo looks at her, hope in his eyes. “Are you gonna tell me about the monkey drool?”

  “Not now,” Mama snaps and settles in on me. “I need to talk to your father.”

  God, this is getting weird.

  “Now that he’s chasing another one of his sluts from the office.” Mama stands and yells at me, getting new looks from the silver foxes. “Well, boy do I have news for you, Dickie. You think I’ve been moping around all these years, being the victim?”

  “No role playing, Mama. Not here.”

  “Just remember this in your walnut brain.” Mama reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out my phone. “If you sneak out with the kid before we’re done addressing my needs, I won’t call my friend Sabine Rorgstardt. But I will call your slut and tell her what a creep you are.”

  My gut tightens at the idea.

  “And I need you to make a delivery with the cash. Back at that prison you call a workplace.”

  Cujo says, “If I promise not to pocket any . . . ?”

  Mama says, “I swear, I’m gonna shove these prongs up your nose.”

  I stand there and watch as my nephew and a convicted felon play with $45,000 in the lobby of the Rosewood Sand Hill. I catch Mama watching me, and she says, “This is our family, Dickie, whether we like it or not.”

  Our family, whether we like it or not. And just like that, it clicks—a memory from so long ago it seems nearly foreign, so distant and removed that I wonder, Can it possibly be mine?

  * * *

  The campfire is extinguished, the lantern is off, and finally it’s quiet. The sound of the river rushes through the dark. It’s soothing to hear the river, to be here in the tent with my parents and sister. That safe, warm feeling, even though we’re up in the mountains. The rush of the river never stops, and as safe as I feel, I’m reminded that nature—the world, really—has its own plans, does as it pleases, regardless of any of us, and it settles into me with a shiver. The other side? The side none of us here can control? It’s right over there. Always over there. Waiting. Ready for i
ts moment. I curl up in my sleeping bag and listen to my dad snore, gazing at the long shadows of the pines crossing our tent until they become a blur.

  In the far, dark corner, something scratches the fabric of our tent.

  My heart skips a beat, and I stiffen, listening for more.

  Another big scratch—not the scratch of something small.

  Papa keeps snoring.

  Another scratch.

  Now my heart is pounding.

  From the other side, Ana says, “Mama?”

  My mom tosses and murmurs, deep in sleep.

  “Ricky.” Ana is nearly breathless. “Is that you?”

  I choke on my spit, finally say, “No.”

  Long silence as we listen.

  Finally, another scratch.

  “Papa?”

  Snoring.

  In the dark corner, silence. And then, a heavy scratch. This is no animal.

  Finally, I cry out weakly, “Papa?”

  Snoring.

  “Mama?”

  Another scratch, this one heavier than any of them. Is that a knife?

  I summon the courage to creep out of my sleeping bag just enough to shake Papa awake, which is when I realize his arm is extended from his own bag, clutching a long, thin tree branch, moving it back and forth for a few more scratches.

  “Papa!” I burst out and shove him.

  Papa breaks into a loud laugh, his whole body shaking.

  Mama’s laughing, too.

  Ana sits up, puffs her chest out, releases a frustrated groan. “That wasn’t funny at all.” But she can’t maintain the anger, and her voice softens. “I can’t believe . . .”

  Papa’s still laughing. Hard.

  “Honey. Shhh. You’re gonna wake up the entire campground.”

  “I was so scared,” Ana says. “I’m still shaking.”

  “Oh, come on,” Papa says, sniffling and sighing. “Come over here.”

  Ana climbs over to their sleeping bags, which they’ve zipped together. She wiggles in, and Papa says, “You’ve never heard of the old scratch-on-the-tent prank?”

  “I hope you know I was five seconds from screaming.”

  I sit there and watch them.

  Mama says, “You okay, Ricky?”

  “I guess.”

  Papa says, “Nothing’s ever gonna bug us in here, unless you stuff a juicy pot roast into your sleeping bag.”