I think I was just bored that first time I typed Bobby’s name into a search engine. I was in the procrastination phase of writing a paper on Nabakov for my Comp. Lit. class and any diversion was welcome. Robert Templeton is a fairly common name, I discovered. The search bounced back fifty-nine references. I clicked on a few, entertaining myself with the possibility of our Bobby Templeton being a physics professor at Gonzaga University or a state senator in Louisiana or a late-night radio jock in Lincoln, Nebraska. Then I got sensible, preferring not to be up until 4:00 a.m. writing my paper, and stopped playing on the computer.
It really was just a game to me at first, my own version of Where’s Waldo? I didn’t mean for it to become anything more than clever stories to entertain my dorm mates. It was nothing. Until it became something. It kind of took over, feeding some need in me that was more than curiosity.
This must be what adoptees feel like, trying to find their birth parents, I told myself. I tried to justify it on medical grounds. What if he’s a diabetic? What if he’s passed on some genetic disease that’s a ticking time bomb? But it was more than that. I wanted to look Bobby Templeton in the eye, not in an aging photograph but in person, and understand who he was. And who I was.
I found him when I stumbled across a photograph online, one of those stiff, formal company portraits, the corporate equivalent of yearbook pictures. Well, at least he wasn’t a homeless derelict living in a cardboard box, which is the fate I think my grandmother had envisioned. He lived in Nashville, Tennessee.
I e-mailed him. I didn’t have the money or the nerve just to show up on his doorstep, like one of those movies where the adorable little girl drops into the life of the confirmed bachelor, throwing his carefully established routines into chaos and ultimately winning his heart. I’m not adorable. I’m what my friends charitably call “edgy” and what my brothers define as a pain in the butt. I’m either direct or brutally honest, depending on your perspective. I tend not to sugarcoat things.
I somehow thought he’d jump at the chance to know his daughter once she presented herself. It didn’t occur to me that he’d known where I was for eighteen years and could have made my acquaintance at anytime. But didn’t.
It will come as no surprise that he did not respond. However, I chose to ignore his silence and began sending him regular updates—dispatches from a college freshman.
And then, on my birthday, he sent me a card. Not one of those sappy “To a Dear Daughter” confections you find in the racks at CVS, but a hilarious Far Side cartoon. The guy had a sense of humor.
I sent him a thank-you note and we then began a regular exchange, via e-mail.
Does your mother know you’ve contacted me? he asked, like a responsible adult.
I thought about blurring my answer. But I reluctantly admitted to myself that keeping my relationship with Bobby a secret from my mother and, yes, father was probably a stupid idea. Hey, I go to Harvard. And even though my grandfather suspects that my classmates were born with high intelligence and low common sense, I’d spent enough time in the world before Harvard to know that reaching across the rift to Bobby was bringing him not only into my life, but into everybody else’s, as well.
So I told my mother.
We were in the pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. She leaned back against the counter with her arms folded across her chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were interested in finding Bobby? I could have saved you the search.”
“You knew where he was?”
“He wasn’t hiding.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No, sweetie. Dad and I expected that sooner or later you’d want to know something about him. Just…well, don’t expect too much. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
Okay. That went better than I’d expected. She didn’t jump on me, yelling, What were you thinking? If she had, I couldn’t have answered her. I don’t know why I wanted to find Bobby. I don’t know what I wanted from Bobby. An apology? An explanation?
I was going to find out. He’d told me he had a business trip to New York. Close enough to rent a car and drive up to Boston. He offered to buy me dinner in Harvard Square.
He took me to Upstairs at the Pudding, the sort of place where families treat their offspring to graduation dinner. The place takes reservations months in advance.
“A fancy dinner is not going to compensate me for nineteen years of desertion,” I said during the appetizer.
I asked what he’d been doing while he was gone. He told me. He’d remarried, had two kids, gotten divorced.
“Do they know about us?”
“My ex-wife, yes. The kids, no.”
“Why did you send me the birthday card?”
“It was your birthday.”
I made a face. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I wanted to know who you were. And let you know I hadn’t forgotten that I left a family behind.”
“You left a wreckage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s supposed to make up for what you did?”
“I was young. I was sick.”
“I’m young, but I know you don’t do that to your wife and kids. No matter how bad a shape you’re in or how hard life is.”
“If you’re so angry with me, why did you try to find me?”
“I wanted to know what kind of man you are. I didn’t contact you to forgive you. I contacted you so I could figure out who I am, where I came from.”
“You look like me.”
“Duh.”
“Other than the superficial traits I seem to have passed on to you, I don’t think I had much to do with the young woman you’ve become.”
“Are you happy?”
“I have two failed marriages, four of my five children are not speaking to me and I’m a prime candidate for a heart attack. You tell me.”
“What do you want, Bobby?”
“Redemption.”
“I can’t help you with that. I was a baby when you walked. I can’t restore you to the self you were before you deserted us because I don’t remember you. Did you even hold me before you left?”
“In the delivery room.”
“After that?”
“No. I couldn’t. It hurt too much. I knew I was going to leave. I was in hell, Vanessa.”
“It sounds to me like you still are. Look, I’m a kid. I may have scored 1580 on my SATs, but I’m not smart enough to figure out what you need.”
“Do you think your mother would see me?”
“I can’t answer that. She knows you’re in town. I told her.”
That was when I really began to understand what I’d done by bringing Bobby back. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I started to cry.
“Don’t you dare wreck our lives again!” I got up from the table without finishing my crème brûlée and ran back to my dorm. He didn’t try to stop me.
When I got to my room the phone was ringing. I didn’t answer it and let it go to voice mail. It was my mother.
“Hi, sweetie. I just called to see how you were doing after your dinner with Bobby.”
I picked up the phone.
“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry! I wish I’d never found him.”
“What happened, Vanessa? Are you okay?” I could hear the rising note of anger tinged with hysteria that was the signature of the women on my grandmother’s side of the family. My mother, normally a reasonable and even-tempered woman well in control of her emotions, could be pushed over the edge if she thought one of her kids had been hurt.
“I’m okay. I’m just so stupid. He doesn’t care about me. He’s using me to get to you.”
The other end of the phone was silent.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry, Vanessa. I’m sorry he’s hurt you. Do you want me to come over?”
I’m not much of a mama’s girl. Ordinarily I would’ve turned to one of the girls in the dorm to calm down. But I didn’t think any of them would understand. And I
was worried about my mother. I felt I needed to inoculate her against Bobby. I didn’t think I could stop him from getting in touch with her. But she needed to know what a loser he was.
“Yes, please, Mom. Thanks.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When she got to Canaday I made some tea and we sat curled up on my couch. I’d stopped crying, but I was still upset I’d been such a fool.
“Don’t beat yourself up, sweetie. There was nothing wrong in your wanting to know what had become of Bobby. But seeking knowledge like that has its costs. The important thing to remember is that, despite Bobby’s absence from your life, you’ve turned out great! You’re an impressive, resilient young woman, and I’m so proud of you!”
“Your life’s turned out great, too, Mom. Don’t let him drag you down. He’s miserable. I felt contaminated by his unhappiness.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a hazmat suit on when it comes to Bobby Templeton.”
By the time she left I felt reasonably certain she could kick Bobby’s ass if he came groveling at her door. I imagined her in her hostess regalia, sequins flashing, long red fingernails tapping the table list as she sized him up as an out-of-town nobody she could stick at the worst table in the dining room.
Bobby disappeared from Boston without contacting my mother, and my systems backed down from high alert. Unfortunately he was only regrouping.
My mother had an exhibition of her prints at a gallery in New York a couple of months later. I took a day off from school and joined her for the opening reception. My father was in Italy with a group of students on an exchange program.
Everything was going well. Some hotshot critic from the New York Times had shown up and my mother, in addition to having mounted a brilliant show, looked her ravishing, Italian-actress best. My aunt Annette had done it again. I keep telling her she ought to launch a new career as a stylist.
My mother was entertaining the critic, champagne flute in one hand, the other flowing through the air as if she were conducting an orchestra.
The critic was nodding; Miles, the gallery director, was beaming and I wandered off to watch the crowd milling around the prints. I liked to eavesdrop on what they were saying about her.
I had my back to one cluster of people, trying not to be obvious that I was listening.
I heard one of the men say he thought this was her best work yet.
“I’ve been following her career since she began,” he said. “In fact, I own several of her prints.”
“You sound like a devoted fan,” a woman responded.
“I am. As far as I’m concerned, no one else comes close.”
My pulse was screaming in my ears when I recognized that the voice speaking so passionately about my mother’s art belonged to Bobby Templeton.
I slid away from the group, hoping he hadn’t seen me. I wanted to warn my mother, but she was still talking with the critic. I retreated to the bar, where I grabbed another glass of Apollinaris and had a pretty good view of the room.
As soon as the critic moved on I headed toward my mother. But I was too late. To my horror, Bobby slipped up next to her. I saw a flicker of surprise on my mother’s face. Her hand holding the champagne flute was trembling.
“Don’t kiss him!” I almost shouted out loud. The evening had been filled with far too much of that phony art-world kiss-kiss. But she didn’t. I watched her stand, listening to whatever he was telling her, trying to decipher from her face what she was thinking. I should have gone up and interrupted them, broken whatever connection he was trying to reestablish. But I didn’t want to talk to him. And apparently he had no desire to talk to me, either. His attention was totally focused on my mother.
The conversation only lasted a few minutes. Other guests wanted a piece of my mother. She’d shaken her head a few times, then finally nodded. I could read her lips well enough to see that she’d mouthed the word okay. As he moved away from her, he brushed her hand. My mother turned to the others with her warm hostess smile. “I’m so happy you could make it!” But I could see, even from a distance, that there were tears in her eyes.
Bobby left the gallery after that. I was relieved until things were winding down and my mother approached me.
“Vanessa, I’m sorry to do this to you, but Miles wants me to go to dinner with a client. His assistant has offered to take you out for something to eat. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
I wanted to protest. To tell her that I knew the “client” was Bobby. I was so pissed with her for doing this, and didn’t want to admit I was the one who’d set this whole mess in motion.
“I thought this was supposed to be time for us to spend together.”
“I know, sweetie. I really am sorry. Look, we’ll go to the Tavern on the Green tomorrow for brunch and then go shopping. Okay?”
“Fine.” I found the anorexic assistant, assuming she’d watch me while I ate, and left my mother to lose her soul.
TONI
The Commission
I WAS UNPREPARED for the sight of Bobby approaching me in the gallery. Miles had told me that some avid collector had arrived, eager to meet me and interested in discussing a commission with me. When I saw it was Bobby, I thought, What a line! But then he launched into how moved he was by my work and how happy he was that my talent had been realized. He told me which of my prints he owned and why he’d selected them. What meaning they’d had in his life.
Every fiber of my will was stretched taut with the effort of resisting the emotional depths he was pulling me toward. I wished I hadn’t had the two glasses of champagne I’d been blithely sipping as I greeted guests. I should’ve known better. I was working this exhibit, not just the celebrated guest. Bobby’s tale was as compelling as it had ever been. It stunned me that after almost twenty years he could suck me back into his troubled world. He made my heart ache for him, as futile as I knew that was.
It seemed he truly did want to commission me.
“I’m asking you to capture the image of my children in print. I don’t know of any other way to hold on to them.”
“Which children?” I asked. I knew I was being brutal.
“All of them.”
“No. I won’t give you mine. They are no longer your children. You abandoned them. You didn’t even pay child support.”
He stepped back as if I’d slapped him.
“Okay.” He acquiesced. It wasn’t like him to accept less than he had asked for. I was wary. This was probably not the end of it.
“There are other people here waiting to talk to me. You can talk to Miles about the details.”
“When the reception is over can we talk some more? Let me take you to dinner.”
“I can’t. I have plans.”
“Please, Toni. Just hear me out this one time. That’s all I’m asking.”
I saw the pain in his eyes and reluctantly said yes. I knew Vanessa had been watching our exchange, and my heart sank. She wasn’t going to understand. No one was going to understand.
When I got back to the hotel Vanessa was still up studying. She didn’t speak to me.
I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I looked terrible, pale with dark circles under my eyes. The conversation with Bobby had drained me. I took a shower, trying to relax my tensed muscles and wash away the residue of his guilt and remorse and sense of being misunderstood that had settled on me like ash from a newly awakened Vesuvius.
When I came out of the bathroom Vanessa was waiting by the door.
“I know you were with Bobby.”
“Yes, I was.”
“What are you going to do?”
I wanted to reassure her, to tell her it was going to be all right, that his presence tonight was not going to disrupt our lives. But I couldn’t. It was too late. The disruption had already occurred, and at that moment I was furious with her for triggering such an upheaval by bringing him back into my life in the first place.
Her face twisted in anger and fe
ar, and with clenched fists she pounded on my chest. “You can’t! You can’t let him in! Don’t do this to us!”
She went into the bathroom and locked the door.
“Vanessa!” I didn’t have the energy or the will to deal with her at that moment.
“Go to hell.”
She finally crept out and climbed into her bed about an hour later, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
I turned out the light.
In the morning she got dressed in silence and only spoke to me as she picked up her knapsack.
“I’m taking the train back to Boston.”
I checked out of the hotel and went downtown to the gallery to wrap up some paperwork with Miles. He told me Bobby had bought two of my most expensive prints.
“That guy from Nashville seems obsessed with your work. He told me he owns eleven of your prints. Are you going to do the commissioned piece for him?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s complicated.” I didn’t want to explain to Miles what I could hardly explain to myself—that I was both repelled by Bobby’s intrusion into my life and compelled by his need to provide what little solace I could with my art. He’d made me feel powerful, as if I could give him something he so desperately wanted, and that power was seductive.
I was exhausted. From being on my guard with Bobby, from the fight with Vanessa, from the energy I’d poured into mounting the show and schmoozing the guests at the reception. I climbed into my car around noontime and drove back to Boston.
When I got home all I wanted to do was crawl into bed. But I checked the mail and phone messages first. Peter had sent a postcard from Pisa, an image of one of my favorite frescoes from the Camposanto Monumentale of a woman holding a falcon. The message was detailed, written in Peter’s rapid, angular hand, full of the minutiae of shepherding a group of wide-eyed students on their maiden voyage to Italy. I missed him. I wished he’d been with me at the gallery, an anchor holding me fast against the turbulent storm that had blown in from Tennessee. I propped the card on my night table and picked up the phone to retrieve my voice mail.
Across the Table Page 23
