Magda considered this carefully. It was true, she did find a way to smile even though boys she had known as children, boys she had taught to read in her classroom after she became a schoolteacher, died in Europe and Africa and on Pacific islands she had never heard of before. It wasn’t that Magda didn’t grieve for them, but that she had learned early that life was as full of loss as it was of wonder. She chose to focus her thoughts on the latter.
“When I need to smile,” said Magda, “I just go to a place that always makes me happy.”
“Where is that?”
“A place called Dreamland,” said Magda.
“Will you take me there?” said Sarah, brushing away a tear.
“Of course,” said Magda. “Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and smell the popcorn and the sea air and the sweet aroma of adventure.”
XL
New York City, Central Park, 2010
Robert saw Rebecca before she saw him. She too had come early. Rebecca had her back to him, and the low winter sun glowed in her hair. Beneath her overcoat she wore a sweater Robert had bought her at the Columbus Circle Christmas market before . . . everything. He longed to run up to her from behind and throw his arms around her, but he didn’t dare. Robert couldn’t see Rebecca’s face; couldn’t guess if her eyes and jaw were set like steel for confrontation, or soft with the promise of forgiveness. When she turned and saw him, he still couldn’t tell.
“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly. He was afraid to even touch her as he held out the bouquet.
“Thank you,” said Rebecca, not yet meeting his eye.
“I’m glad you came.”
“I almost didn’t,” said Rebecca. “I almost decided this is too hard. But I wanted to give you one more chance. I’m not saying you deserve it, but I wanted to give it to you.”
“Could we find someplace warm to talk?” said Robert.
“We can talk here,” said Rebecca.
“I have a story to tell you,” said Robert. “A long story.”
“I knew we were in trouble when you stopped telling me stories.”
“That was because I needed to tell you this one and I didn’t have the courage to do it.”
“What changed?” said Rebecca, turning to walk down the path.
Robert followed, falling into step beside her, uncertain if he should reach for her hand. “Thanks to you, I finally took a long look at the stories that made me who I am. I’ve kept them hidden for so long that I’d almost forgotten what they meant to me. But all that’s happened in the past week is a story for tomorrow—and it’s a good one, I promise. Today I need to tell you an older story.”
“I’m listening,” said Rebecca, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Remember the day we met, when I told you about the first time I came to Central Park?”
“That story you made up to try to impress me,” said Rebecca, with just the hint of a smile behind her words.
“You knew that was made up?”
“Of course,” said Rebecca. “I mean, chasing the bus down Fifth Avenue? Come on.”
“Well, my real first visit to Central Park was part of a long, complicated story,” said Robert, and as they walked he told her everything—how he had nothing in common with his father until they found Pop Pop’s books, how the Great Marvel books and Tom Swift and the Hardy Boys changed all that. He told her about the Tremendous Trio and the mysterious pages and the promise he had made to his father to find The Last Adventure. He told her how much he had loved reading with his father and how they had followed in the footsteps of the Tremendous Trio characters in their own adventures around Manhattan. He told her how he had begun to lose interest as a teenager and how his father had planned the trip to Niagara Falls to try to maintain a relationship with his son. He talked for an hour or more and Rebecca listened as they wandered through the Ramble, covering the same ground over and over until they emerged onto Bow Bridge.
“Can we stop here?” said Robert. “Can I tell you the rest here?”
“Your favorite spot,” said Rebecca.
“Because of you,” he said. “Because of the picture on my desk.”
“It’s still there?”
“Of course it’s still there.”
Rebecca turned to lean on the railing, looking out across the lake. Ice had crept across the surface from the shore, but the central part remained unfrozen, sparkling in the early afternoon sun. “Tell me,” she said.
“Do you ever have one of those days you can play over and over again like a film and it never goes fuzzy? July 23, 1990, was that day for me. For a long time I kept that film from playing, but when people started asking me about my childhood and the books I read, it started back up again. I was fourteen and I was lying on the bed in my room doing absolutely nothing—not listening to music or reading or talking to friends on the phone. I remember the delicious nothingness of the morning. And then my dad knocked on the door and told me he had a surprise for me. And I can remember thinking, Great, he’s ruining my whole day. I can still feel the weight of that thought.”
“You were a teenager,” said Rebecca.
“That’s no excuse,” said Robert. He clenched and unclenched his hands, willing himself to go on.
“Dad said we had to drive to wherever this surprise was, so we got in the car, but he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I kept the window down—partly to enjoy the fresh air but mostly because I thought the noise of the wind would keep my father from trying to talk to me. But he was so excited that day, he just talked louder.
“He said, ‘You’ve probably wondered why I haven’t been around a lot lately.’ I ignored him but he just said it again. So I said, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ But of course I had noticed. God, I was so good at being an ass.”
“You don’t have to judge yourself,” said Rebecca. “You said what you said. Most adolescents would have done the same.”
“Anyway, Dad just plowed right on. He told me there was a good reason he had been gone and that I was going to love it and then he called me Robbie, so of course I said, ‘My name is Robert.’ I hate that I can remember with such clarity the ways I disrespected him.
“But he ignored my attitude and kept talking. He told me when we got back from Niagara that he realized I thought I was too old for the Tremendous Trio and all the others. So, he asked himself: What do fourteen-year-old boys think is cool? ‘Not their dads, that’s for sure,’ he said. I didn’t even give him the satisfaction of an eye roll. He started talking about how The Tremendous Trio around the World was always my favorite and how he knew that I still read it sometimes. ‘If you’re going to sneak around in the middle of the night reading a book, you have to put it back on the same spot on the shelf when you’re finished or someone will notice,’ he said. I remember blushing at having been so easily caught out, but I didn’t say anything.
“And then he said he wanted to do something with me, something for me, that would remind us both of The Tremendous Trio around the World and all the fun we had reading it over the years. He said he wanted to find something that would be cool for a fourteen-year-old.
“And how did I respond? I said, ‘Nobody says cool anymore, Dad.’ Why did I have to act like that?”
“You’re judging again,” said Rebecca.
“Anyway, he just let that comment slide. I hadn’t seen him so excited since the morning he walked into the kitchen and announced we were going to Niagara Falls. He spent the next hour recapping The Tremendous Trio around the World, and in spite of my teenage contrariness I got caught up in the story. I almost didn’t notice when the car came to a stop in front of a green cinder-block building. This man in a black T-shirt and mirrored sunglasses stood by the glass doors, waving at my father, and I remember thinking, How does my boring dad know a guy with mirrored sunglasses?”
“You thought that was cool?” said Rebecca.
“Hey, it was 1990,” said Robert.
“We got out of the car and I saw the words on the building and for a minute I stopped feeling like a teenager. First I thought, How could my father even afford this? And then I thought, Is he going to take me with him?
“The next thing I know, I’m walking with sunglasses man—who turned out to be named Jason—and Dad across a strip of tarmac, toward a Cessna 152 single-engine airplane. I know the make and model because Jason wouldn’t stop talking about what a great little plane it was and how my father had been taking lessons with him for six months now.
“I remember exactly what my father said as we walked around the plane. ‘I can’t fly you around the world, son, but I can fly you around Long Island and maybe even a little farther.’ ”
Robert paused, fighting back the tears he knew would come anyway.
“And he did it,” said Robert, sniffling. “He broke through to me, and I looked at him with this big grin on my face and said, ‘Dad, this is so cool.’ ”
Robert took a deep breath and felt the emotion that had pushed him to the edge subsiding just enough that he could go on without his voice cracking.
“Dad knew from years of my insisting that we return to The Tremendous Trio around the World that I loved the idea of flying. I had never been in an airplane, and now he could fly me anywhere we wanted to go.
“I tried to play cool, like I hung out around airplanes all the time. I literally kicked the tires on the Cessna before I asked when I could go up, but I couldn’t hide how excited I was.”
“I like it when you don’t hide your emotions,” said Rebecca.
“Jason told me Dad was supposed to make his first solo flight that day. He said a solo was a pretty big deal.”
Robert swallowed hard and stopped talking, hearing Rebecca’s breathing next to him. He tried to focus on the far side of the lake. He didn’t dare look at her. He had come this far. He had to finish.
“My dad wanted me to see him solo,” said Robert. “He was so proud. He said he wanted me to watch him and then the two of us would fly up the coast fifty miles or so. Like that was a typical Saturday afternoon outing.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Rebecca.
“That’s what I thought. I mean, if my dad thought he could win me back by becoming a pilot, he was right. When that little plane bobbled up off the runway with my dad at the controls, my heart soared with it. I was with Dad, deep in the world of Dan and Alice and Frank, circling over the mountains of Borneo or gliding to a landing on the beaches of Polynesia. And then I heard Jason say, ‘Shit.’ ”
Robert felt Rebecca’s hand encircling his own and squeezing hard. He could feel strength radiating even through their gloves. Now he didn’t even try to keep from crying.
“I don’t know what Jason saw. Everything looked fine to me. Dad circled the little plane around and headed back toward the runway, but Jason was running toward the building, yelling ‘Shit!’ over and over. I found out later he was going to call emergency services, but he left me alone on the tarmac, watching that little Cessna and gradually realizing that with the nose that far down, the front of the plane would hit the runway before the wheels did. And so I watched my father die.”
They stood in silence for a long minute, Rebecca still holding his hand.
“My god,” said Rebecca, almost in a whisper. Robert finally turned to look at her and saw that she was crying, too. “Robert, why didn’t you tell me?”
“That I killed my father?”
“You didn’t kill him. It was an accident.”
Robert couldn’t speak for a long minute. He felt warm tears on his cheeks, he felt that familiar guilt, but he also felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He had told Rebecca and the world hadn’t ended.
“My mother blamed me from the very beginning,” he said. “She hardly spoke to me through my high school years and as soon as I left for college, she left for Florida. Our next-door neighbor called me one morning and said my mom was dumping boxes of my stuff out on the curb with the trash. Most of it I didn’t care about, but I asked him if he would rescue the books for me. I’m surprised Mom didn’t burn them. She hated those books with a fiery passion. She blamed them for Dad’s death almost as much as she blamed me.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Rebecca. “Oh God, I wish you had told me, and not just hidden yourself away from me.”
“I know,” said Robert. “But that’s over now. This is who I am, Rebecca. I’m a damaged man who drove his own father to an act that took his life. And for a long time I buried all the pain and guilt that went with that. But everything I know about telling stories and about writing is so connected to my dad and the books we read together that when the novel took off and people started asking me about my influences and my past—the door to that horror burst open again and I was so distracted by trying to shove it closed, that I shut you out of my life.”
“Jesus, Robert, you need some therapy. We can get you some help.”
“I’ve tried it before but I never could manage to tell them anything . . . important. Turns out I’m supremely talented at denial.”
“Obviously.”
“But now that I’ve told you, it’s no longer this . . . this monster in the closet that I’m afraid to let out. Now I think I could tell a therapist. The idea still scares me, but I think I could do it.”
“It’s not just someone to tell; it’s someone who can help you figure out how to . . . how to live with that door open.”
“Do you think maybe, at least the first time, you might come with me?”
Rebecca dropped his hand and stood silent for a moment. It was the first time in the conversation Robert had asked her for anything.
“I’m not going to lie, Robert, this has been hard for me. There have been times this past week when I’ve been ready to end this.”
“God,” said Robert, leaning back against the railing. He felt like he might be sick as he saw what a thread everything hung from. Rebecca was everything—he could live without his success, without the Tremendous Trio, without all the adventures and discoveries of the past week, but he wasn’t at all sure he could live without her.
“I’m not saying I want to leave you,” said Rebecca, laying a hand on his arm, “I’m just saying it’s more complicated than you telling me what was wrong and me waltzing back into your life like nothing ever happened.”
“I know,” said Robert. “And I don’t expect you to come back as if nothing has changed. So much has changed. For starters, I’m going to stop keeping secrets. I’ll tell my story and share my pain. Even though that’s no bargain, I’d like for you to be the one I share it with. I want to tell you all my stories.”
“I just felt like I didn’t know you anymore,” said Rebecca.
“That’s fair,” said Robert. “But I want you to know me. Even if I have this giant scar, I’m still your Robert. The man who likes to drop everything to take a walk in the park with you and who goes out in the middle of the movie to get you extra popcorn and leaves notes for you in the steam on the bathroom mirror. And I’m the Robert who’s scared to death this is the last time I will ever see you.”
“If it makes you feel any better, there were also times this week when I wanted to come running back to you. To be honest, I was a little tired of listening to Bradley bash on you.”
“That does make me feel better,” said Robert with a smile. He felt as if the blood had started to flow in his veins again.
They stood in silence for a minute, both leaning against the concrete railing of the bridge. A cloud glided across the sun and a gust of wind blew off the lake. Robert wondered if any of the passing walkers and joggers had the slightest idea that a momentous conversation was taking place. A young man zipped by on a bicycle, and he suddenly thought of the opening scene of the first Alice Gold book, which had happened on this very bridge.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Rebecca.
“Right about what?” said Robert.
“Maybe we should get some therapy together.”
“I’m willing,” said Robert. “If it means I have even the slightest chance of getting you back, I’m more than willing; I’m eager.”
Rebecca smiled and reached once more for his hand. “You do.”
“I do what?”
“You do have the slightest chance of getting me back.”
“I want you to know that I’m sorry,” said Robert, feeling tears welling up again. “I’m so sorry. I was acting like a child, and the irony is, I’ve grown up a lot this past week by becoming a child again—or at least by appreciating what it means to be a child. But I want you to know, if you do come back, whether it’s for an hour or a day or the rest of our lives, I will try every minute to be the new and improved Robert—you know, all the features of the original plus some extra added bonuses.”
“Bonuses like not being an ass?” said Rebecca, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.
“How did you know?” said Robert. “That’s the first improvement on the list.”
“So, where do we go from here?” said Rebecca. “I’m not sure we can find a therapist open on a Saturday.”
“Come home,” said Robert. “At least for the afternoon. All I’m asking is that you be willing to take it one step at a time, and in return I promise to show you the real Robert Parrish, warts and all.”
“Oh, I’ve seen the warts,” said Rebecca with the faintest hint of a laugh accompanying her tears.
“We have fresh bagels,” said Robert. “Sesame seed from Barney Greengrass, your favorite.”
“Well,” said Rebecca, sniffing and wiping a sleeve across her eyes, “if you went to all the trouble to get bagels.” She took Robert’s outstretched hand in hers, squeezing him tightly. Robert wanted to laugh out loud with relief, but he simply squeezed back. There would be time for laughter.
They walked in silence across the Bow Bridge and along the shore of the lake toward Strawberry Fields. When they had left the park and were standing at the corner of Seventy-Fourth Street waiting for the light to change, Robert turned to look at Rebecca and saw the steely set of her jaw, the look of resolution in her eyes. She was giving him a chance, and that was all he could ask, but he knew he had a lot of work ahead—not the work of his new novel or even the work of writing about Magda and Gene and Tom and the Tremendous Trio, but the important work. The work of daily trying to be the sort of man who, in some small way, deserved the love of the woman about to cross Central Park West. He decided to tell her at that moment, not in some attempt to score points or curry favor, but because he couldn’t hold it in for another minute.
Escaping Dreamland Page 35
