The Bob Watson Page 7

  “Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

  Mama looks at me, then at Cujo and Ernie. “Do you want your telephone?”

  I nod.

  “Do you want me to help you with my friend the caveman lady?”

  “Please.”

  “Then here’s what you’re gonna do.” She looks at me, crosses her arms. “We’re gonna take the wagon.”

  I laugh. “Fine. I don’t want those guys in my car.”

  “And you’re gonna take me and the boys on that caveman adventure of yours. You’re gonna give them the experiences they never had. In fact, we’re gonna act as a family—family wagon, family games, all of that—’cause that’s obviously something you forgot about, something you don’t seem to care about at Robards International.”

  Naturally, my brain scans through a litany of Bob Watson moves.

  Cue: “Validate” and “Redirect.”

  I see my hand take Mama by the wrist. I look her in the eye and hold my gaze. “You know, you’re right. I haven’t done enough for these boys.”

  Mama huffs. “Darn straight you haven’t.”

  I nod toward the conployees. “The boys are so impressionable right now. It just makes me want to do this right for them.”

  She squints at me, assessing.

  “So I’m thinking this adventure will fail if we do something last-second, like today.” I give her wrist a gentle squeeze. “I mean, we want to make a statement for these boys.”

  She thinks about it, cocks her head in concession. “We do.”

  “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say. “I really think we should take the boys to the library—I mean, like, now—and research adventure options for next week. Early next week.” I pause, as if I’m running through the logic. “So I think we divide and conquer today. You and the boys go to the library, and I’ll take the runt to meet the Sabine lady.”

  She bites her lip, looks down. “We could get the boys engaged that way,” she mumbles, more to herself. “They’ve got a great library not too far from here. Plus, I do need to look up some stuff on that oil executive who’s wasting water.”

  My whole body eases.

  “Boys,” she shouts into the air. “We’re going to the library.”

  Yes.

  “Wait a minute. Dammit.” She turns back to me. “I can’t take the boys to the library.”

  “What?” I stiffen. “Of course you can.”

  “Don’t you remember? I almost forgot myself. I have a shitload of honey-dos for you.”

  “Honey-dos?”

  “Yes. I need your help. God, I forget everything these days.”

  “Mama. Please.”

  She points at me. “You want the prongs?”

  “Come on.”

  “Honey-do number one . . .” She thinks about it, bites her lip. “. . . you’re gonna break into a house with us. God, how could have I forgot?”

  “Mama, the library.”

  “And not just any house.”

  Wait. . . . House?

  “Because you need to show these boys some fun.” She pauses, puffs out her cheeks. “And you need to do something else.”

  My cell rings, and Cujo looks at the screen. “Hey, dude, it’s your secret lover again. I think she likes me.”

  I reach out to him, even though he’s twenty feet away. “Don’t answer that.”

  He’s looking at the screen. “Keeps talking about some runt named Collin.”

  “Please,” I yell.

  “Maybe she’ll change her mind . . .” Still looking at the phone, lost in his thoughts. “. . . if we did a little sexting . . .” More thinking. “. . . and ol’ Cujo showed her what he’s packing.” He looks at me, his eyes serious. “This thing take good close-ups, bro?”

  * * *

  We’re in Mama’s ’76 metallic-blue Cadillac Fleetwood station wagon, parked in front of a nondescript tract house somewhere in Sunnyvale. Mama and I are in the front arguing. In the back, Cujo and Ernie are huddling over my phone, giggling at the dick pics they’ve sent Audrey.

  Cujo tells me, “Your girl keeps asking, ‘Is this you?’ and I keep saying, ‘Don’t you recognize me?’”

  As if I needed more problems.

  Mama seems to be elsewhere—in a different dimension, it seems, or maybe even at another time in her life. If this is indeed some game she’s playing—be it whimsical role playing or something else—she certainly is convincing. Her tone is softer, happier, and it’s like she’s known me for decades. “Listen, we’re gonna have some family time if it kills you.”

  “I really—”

  “And you’re gonna learn a few things.” She looks away at a thought, and her lip starts to quiver. “Because, honey, you’ve lost your way.”

  “You’re never gonna help me with the Neanderthal expert, are you?”

  “Oh, Dick.” She looks down, shakes her head. “You really have lost your way. You’re so focused on bringing home the bacon that you don’t even . . .” She nods toward the backseat, where Cujo and Ernie fight over my phone, landing hard swats on each other’s hands. “. . . you don’t even know your own kids.”

  From the backseat, a long, wet fart—and then cackles.

  “And yes, I will help you with my friend Sabine Rorgstardt. Very soon.”

  “I’m gonna leave very soon.”

  “I’ll send Cujo after you.”

  My voice cracks. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Oh, honey.” She shakes her head, disappointed. “Don’t you understand? These boys here, they’re our boys.” She pauses, adopts a sweet tone. “Our little ones.”

  Cujo releases a deep giggle.

  “Listen, Mama. I don’t have anyone.” My throat tightens. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying about this girl? I could see myself with her. For a long time.”

  “We need to get back to the way we were,” Mama says. “The way things were.”

  “Listen, I’m just not gonna miss this opportunity.”

  “I’ve got my helper boys,” Mama says. “My strong, healthy helper boys who do whatever I need.”

  “Tell them to give me my phone back.”

  She reaches into her fanny pack and produces three quick clicks. The slapping and cackling stop, and Cujo says, “Yes, Mama?”

  She closes her eyes and cocks her head. “I need a favor.”

  “Sure, Mama.”

  “I need my helper boys to get into that house and open the front door.”

  Ernie squeals with glee.

  She turns and gives them the serious eyes. “Now, you boys listen to me.”

  They look back, hopeful.

  “No taking,” she snaps. “You hear me?”

  They whine and moan.

  “You be good boys, and Mama will have a little something for you.”

  They explode out of the car.

  * * *

  Cujo and Ernie have disappeared down one side of the house.

  Mama says, “It’s always something with you. Late nights at the office. Weekends at the office. Nights out with the guys. Projects in the garage.”

  And I realize I could just leave. Just step out of this car and start walking. With Cujo and Ernie breaking into the house, they couldn’t catch me even if Mama used her clicker. Hell, I could just find a gas station or something, make a few calls on a pay phone, and clear things up with Audrey and ask her to get Collin for me.

  “Well, anyways,” Mama says, “back to your honey-dos.”

  I could report my phone as stolen, have AT&T stop the service.

  “And honey-do number one is, you’re gonna figure out what’s going on inside that house there.”

  I glance at the house, a very modest rancher painted light yellow with white trim. The front door is now open, and through the threshold we can see Ernie standing in the narrow entryway, grinning crookedly, barbecue prongs at his side.

  “I’m not going in there.”

  “You are such a wuss,” Mama says. “What if I told yo
u I know the owners? They’re friends.”

  “Really?”

  She’s looking at me, nodding slowly.

  “I do this, and you’ll have the boys give back my phone so I can call someone about my nephew?”

  Mama nods.

  “And you’ll connect me to your Neanderthal expert?”

  She looks away, nods.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, promise,” she snaps. “Think about someone other than yourself for a change, and join me in that house.”

  My heart begins to thump. “That’s breaking and entering.”

  “The boys did the breaking. You’ll just be entering. Plus, they’re friends.”

  I look at her, then at the house, wondering what’s in there. And then, Why are we here? My brain does what it’s been trained to do.

  Cue: “Distract”

  “Look,” I shout and point to a cross street. “A police car. We have to leave.”

  Mama doesn’t even look. “That was pathetic, Dickie.” She shows me her clicker, strokes it. “And if you try ditching me, you won’t get so far as a block.”

  I look at her, and then at the house. “This really does have something to do with Robards International?”

  “Of course.” She’s nearly yelling. “Look beyond yourself, Dick. Seize this moment to do something meaningful, for one day in your life. For just twenty minutes.”

  “This isn’t some random address?”

  “No,” she yells. “Now come on, and start living.”

  And like an out-of-body experience, I hear myself saying, “Okay, fine.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 7:

  Break a Few Rules Along the Way

  The summer before third grade, my sister and I joined forces for a project of the ages—a fort that would leave the other kids speechless.

  We moved earth and scavenged wood. We sawed and hammered. We paused and schemed. In all, we worked dutifully for more than two weeks, forgoing our normal summer routines (fighting over TV channels, finding sly new ways to tell on each other, and playing with our own friends) as we relished in a rare and wonderful moment in our relationship, the outside world suddenly seeming distant and muted in the midst of our unprecedented creation, our newfound cooperation, our moment of mutual admiration. This special thing we had going—not the fort, really, but this new peace between us—it was obvious and apparent, the questions thumping heavily overhead. Why weren’t we annoying each other? Why weren’t we arguing over every step of the project? Why were we enjoying this?

  Neither of us said a word about it. That would have ruined everything. And deep inside, I think we knew that this moment, it was delicate and fleeting, like a towering house of featherweight cards, bound to collapse at some point. But until then . . .

  About four days before the start of school, we stopped and surveyed our creation. It was nearly time to host an open house for Mama, Papa, and some of the neighborhood kids. But we both recognized a problem—the moat encircling our fort was deep enough and symmetrical, thanks to Ana’s direction during the trenching. The problem was that the soil kept absorbing the water.

  Ana folded her arms in that way of hers. “We need a liner.”

  I looked up at her. “A what?”

  “A liner. A plastic sheet to keep the water from soaking into the dirt.”

  That night, after dinner but before baths, I slipped out and took a ride on my bike. The air was thick and cool as I glided toward the construction site near the school. They were building houses there, and I was sure I could find some sheets of plastic used to cover mounds of dirt, or something like that. By the time I got there, my heart was pounding, my skin perspiring more than it should. My breathing grew shallow as I found a long black sheet of plastic and tried to roll it up into something I could handle on the bike ride home.

  Until someone gripped the back of my neck, and I let out a yelp.

  A deep voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Hand still gripping my neck, scaring me into paralysis. “I . . . I . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re trespassing.”

  I tried not to cry, but failed.

  “And you’re stealing.”

  I was crying so hard, I couldn’t get a word out.

  “You’re the one who’s been stealing two-by-fours, aren’t you?”

  I gasped for air. “I . . . I . . .”

  And then a thud, and the subsequent spray of dirt clods.

  He released my neck, and I dashed away.

  His voice was tight. “Okay, that’s it.”

  I turned and got a look at him. He seemed a little older than my dad, with a big stomach hanging over tiny hips. Under the bill of a Peterbilt cap, his eyes glowered, seemed almost red. He pointed at me and yelled, “Get over here.”

  And then another dirt clod, nailing him in the jaw.

  My sister stood atop a nearby dirt mound, winding up for another overhand throw, her upper lip curled so high it seemed to press against her nose. “Don’t you ever touch my brother.” Her voice may have been weak and breathless, but her body language was just the opposite. She charged off the hill and let loose with a third dirt clod, which forced him to duck. “My dad is gonna kick your ass.”

  We pedaled home faster than we knew we could, our legs pumping furiously, an odd silence settling in between us. Finally, as we turned onto our street, looking back one last time, Ana said flatly, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  It seemed to Ana that I was always doing “that”—that stupid thing that screwed everything up, that turned a good day into a bad dream, that ruined nice moments and rare instances of good fortune. My heart sank, because I couldn’t disagree with her, as much as I wanted to. How could have I known that, in just a few years, I’d screw up worse than either of us could’ve imagined.

  Back at the house, Ana kept me in the side yard so I could catch my breath and stop crying. “It’s okay,” she whispered and hugged me, stroking my head. I let her take me in and hugged her back, squeezing hard. “It’s all over,” she soothed, “and we’re gonna be okay.”

  Me and my sister—I’m not sure we’d ever been so close.

  Then, from inside the house came the sound of our doorbell.

  The last four days of summer I spent in my room—grounded.

  Ana spent them at the city pool with Heather Haley.

  Four months later, in the dead of the winter night, I got up to use the bathroom. A storm had come in, the wind rustling trees. I stopped at the window looking out to our backyard. The hard rain came in at an angle, pelting everything. It made me feel warm and safe inside, everyone snug and settled in their rooms as the world outside fell into the cold grip of winter. I stood there and settled for some reason on the lonely, desolate shape in the far corner—our summer fort, abandoned and unfinished. Forgotten, it seemed, from a time that felt so long ago.

  * * *

  And now—all these years later—here I am.

  Trespassing.

  Again.

  Hell, this is beyond trespassing. This is breaking and entering. Is this a felony? I shove my hands into my pockets; there’s no way I’m leaving my prints here. I look to the family room; Ernie is on the floor in front of the television (more Looney Tunes) with a salad bowl of milk and Froot Loops. In the hall bathroom, Cujo is using my phone, talking to someone between grunts. Mama approaches from behind, slides her spindly arms around me, and presses her camel toe against my butt. “It’s so nice to have you home with us for a change,” she rasps with a little thrust.

  I decide maybe I can get somewhere with her if I play along.

  “Baby,” I say. “You know that everything I do, I do it for you and the boys. Every minute I am not here, I am working hard to put food on this table.”

  “I guess . . .” She squeezes and thrusts. “. . . it’s just nice to be in a family home—a home that isn’t empty.”

  It definitely is a family home. The walls are nicked
and peppered with long, dark streaks, and a bookcase is packed with photos of brown-haired children playing at the park, walking to school, splashing about in the pool, pausing to pose in front of the Disneyland gates. In the kitchen, a high chair is pressed against the table. In the family room, Ernie sits crisscross applesauce amid an assortment of Tonka trucks and Lego toys.

  “Baby, why are we here?”

  Mama presses her cheek to my back and moans. “It’s been so long.”

  “Baby,” I soothe, “not with the boys around. Plus, we’re on a mission.”

  The hallway toilet flushes, and Cujo emerges from the bathroom with a skip to his step. I hear myself asking, “Did you wash your hands?” Cujo gives me a lazy sneer and sulks back to the bathroom.

  Mama seems nearly breathless. “Let’s put a movie on for the boys and go to our room.”

  Gently, I try to peel her off me, but she just moans and squeezes harder.

  “Baby.” I pause really long. “You know this isn’t a good time.”

  “Fine,” she says. “But there’s never a good time anymore.”

  “You said if I came with you—if I helped you with something here—you’d connect me to the Sabine lady.”

  More thrusts and some quivering. “I will, honey. I will. Just hold your horses.”

  “Mama,” I yell, “what the hell are we doing here?”

  “It’s not obvious to you?”

  Cujo lumbers into the kitchen. “Mama, can Angel come over?”

  “Obvious?” I say to Mama. “What’s obvious?”

  “I just called her on my new phone,” Cujo says sweetly.

  “Dude, I need my phone.”

  Cujo cackles and proceeds to the family room.

  Another thrust from Mama.

  “What’s the point to all this?” Again, I try and fail to peel away her hands without damaging them—she seems so arthritic and brittle. “No, don’t tell me. There is no point, is there?”

  Mama unlocks her hands and spins me around so we’re face-to-face. “Figure it out.”

  In a matter of minutes, I find myself searching the kitchen. I don’t notice anything unusual here—standard family kitchen fare (plates, pans, spices, and cups of every kind in the cabinets, and an assortment of blue and orange Nerf gun toys strewn across the floor). Under the sink, I find a tidy stack of paper bags squeezed beside a crusty old fish tank—that’s odd, but people keep things in all kinds of unusual places. I stand up and stretch, looking at Mama, hoping for a hint. Hell, truth is, there’s probably no reason we’re here, except for the fact that Mama is basically bonkers and I’m too desperate to believe that she’ll actually help me with the Neanderthal expert.