The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  I hear myself explode with rage. “Okay, okay,” I snarl, my tone acidic. “Just fucking relax.” I stop myself, take in a long breath, and head toward the station wagon. On the exhale, I hear myself muttering, “Nag, nag, nag.”

  * * *

  Mama’s driving.

  The boys are in the back, trading prizes.

  I’m riding shotgun, talking on the phone with a clerk at the Westin Palo Alto. “We’ve contacted the charter company,” the clerk says, “and they have spoken with the driver. They can confirm they have an eight-year-old Caucasian passenger named Collin. That’s all I have.”

  “Can you tell me where the bus is now?”

  “The dispatcher said they made a stop at the Facebook campus and spent a lot of time there—they did a tour—so they really haven’t gone that far.”

  “How far?”

  “They’re on 101, headed south. They just passed San Jose International.”

  I cover the phone and bark to Mama, “We need to go south on 280. That’ll take us to 101, and we can jet south and maybe catch them.”

  Mama snaps, “You think I don’t know the freeways anymore?”

  The clerk gives me the number of the dispatcher. “It’s a white bus with a blue stripe down the middle. He said to call if you don’t catch up with them on 101, and the dispatcher can give you updated coordinates.”

  By the time I’m off the phone, we’re already merging onto 280 South. Mama guns the wagon as she weaves through the lanes, the engine screaming, the boys hollering. “If they just passed the airport,” Mama yells over the din, “we might be able to catch them near Morgan Hill. Maybe Gilroy.”

  It feels good that she cares, and that she’s dropped the role playing for a bit. “Thanks, Mama.”

  “This is your runt nephew, on a bus packed with strangers. More than a few whack jobs, I’m sure. Headed for Las Vegas. Why didn’t your sister fetch after him?”

  “Good question.”

  “Why isn’t she having a heart attack?” Mama glances at me. “Or is she?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “She isn’t.”

  “Does your sister have some kind of issue?”

  “We all have issues, Mama.”

  She nods to that, says, “After this, you’re gonna help me with that cooler.”

  I feel my chest tighten. “What about the Neanderthal lady?”

  “I will introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt once you help me with the contents of that cooler.”

  I look at my phone. It’s already 10:55. How will I ever get everything done in time? In the next seven hours, I need to rescue my runaway nephew, help a crazy granny do something with a cooler of vials, speak with a Neanderthal expert at Stanford and convince said expert to change her plans so my nephew can have a “Neanderthal adventure,” convince my nephew’s nanny that he had an amazing time, get the kid home on time so I can show my sister I’m the perfect person to house-sit her mansion for the next two years, and somehow get to the Greek Theatre in Berkeley with Audrey before the English Beat takes the stage.

  My phone rings—it’s Audrey.

  I attempt to sound relaxed and carefree. “Hey, baby.”

  Silence.

  “Baby?”

  Finally, a weak voice. “Rick?”

  “Audrey.”

  “Is that really you?”

  I cover my mouth and huddle against my door. “Baby, it’s me.”

  Another long silence.

  “Audrey?”

  Her voice sharpens. “What’s going on?”

  “Audrey, I lost my—”

  “Cool it with the dick pics, okay?”

  “Audrey. That’s not—”

  “And who’s your buddy?”

  “Audrey, listen to me.”

  “Who’s the grandma lady?”

  “Grandma lady?”

  “The lady who says you’re treating ‘these kids’ poorly? It was like she knew who I was. What does that mean? Is she talking about Collin?”

  “Audrey, Mama’s just confused,” I blurt and realize what I’ve done and slap my palm to my forehead, cringing.

  Mama glances at me, snaps, “Confused? That’s what you always say when I demand some attention, isn’t it?”

  “Rick, who is that?”

  “Audrey.” I can nearly see the gates of the Greek Theatre closing on me. “Please. I can explain.”

  “That’s the lady who said you can’t be trusted.”

  “No, she meant—Listen, Audrey. Yes, she’s the one. But she’s confused.”

  Mama yells, “I’m not confused.”

  “Audrey, Collin’s on a tour bus to Vegas. The boys are going nuts in the back. Mama gave them too much sugar and whiskey. We have a cooler of weird liquid in the wagon. We need to intercept the Chinese tour bus. An hour ago I was talking about P-FIDs in the HyperPHY.” I take a breath. “Angel came over and broke the house rules.” Another big breath. “I’ve just got a lot going on.”

  Long silence. “Rick, where are you? You sound weird.”

  “Audrey, listen. I’m sorry about this morning. Cujo the conployee got my phone.” Cujo cackles, wet and deep. “But everything is fine, Audrey. I swear.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Audrey, I’m getting Collin, and we’re gonna see an expert.”

  “Rick.” Audrey’s voice is tight. “Maybe my little challenge is too much right now. Plus, my friend Megan called—she wants to get gyros tonight. Maybe we should drop the whole concert thing—I didn’t mean to stress you out. I thought you would’ve liked the challenge. You know, after all these years.”

  “No,” I snap. “No. Everything is fine. Seriously, trust me.”

  She pauses a moment. “Listen,” she says, “I really think—”

  “Audrey, seriously. Believe me when I say I’m cool, we’re fine. I’m getting Collin, and we’re gonna have a great day. It’ll be cool. I’ll see you at my sister’s house tonight. You’ll see—we’re gonna have an amazing day, something special. And we’ll head out after that.”

  This seems to resonate with Audrey. “Okay. Well, call me in an hour, okay?”

  “Of course, I should have him off the bus by then.”

  “Oh yeah,” Audrey says. “What’s this thing about Collin and a bus?”

  I tell Audrey about my sister’s texts, and how Collin fooled Luke the vegan chef into taking him to the Westin Palo Alto for a fake field trip with Mandarin-speaking tourists. Audrey sighs and cusses. “Your sister texted you? She’s not going to get him?”

  “No,” I say. “My question is, what kind of moron drops a kid off at a hotel for a field trip? When there aren’t any other kids nearby? And who wouldn’t at least walk him to the bus so he can sign him in?”

  “Rick.” Audrey pauses a moment. “Luke makes vegan soufflés. That’s where his wizardry ends. I would have taken him to school today, but . . .” She clears her throat. “. . . I’m moving my things out.”

  “That reminds me,” I say. “Why aren’t you staying to house-sit their place?”

  There’s a long pause. “I just need to . . . I just gotta move on, Rick.” She clears her throat again. “I can’t believe he’s on a tour bus.”

  We approach the freeway interchange, and Mama guns us onto 101 South.

  I ask, “How did he even know about a Chinese tour bus leaving the Westin?”

  “We drive by there every morning. He always talks about them.”

  “Okay, but why would he even do something like this?”

  “It’s never been this bad.”

  “What do you mean? He’s done this before?”

  “Rick . . .” Audrey pauses again. “You can’t see what’s happening?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you know what he did last summer?”

  “You mean the rocket propellant?”

  “No. I found him in the back. He was standing atop the retaining wall. And he was trying to make himself jump.”

  “
The retaining wall?” My stomach cools at the mere idea of Collin standing atop that retaining wall and staring down at the cobblestones a good fifteen feet below. “Collin is scared of heights.”

  Audrey says, “He wanted to jump.”

  I feel my face crinkle. “What are you talking about?”

  Her voice goes tiny. “He wanted to break his leg. I found him back there, and he said he wanted to break his leg. I talked him down, and he’s crying, telling me he really truly wanted to break his leg, and I’m holding him, rocking him, but he keeps saying it. Keeps saying, if he breaks his leg, if he does something big like that—like that time he split his lip and Ana canceled the yoga and spent the whole day with him—if he really hurts himself, if he breaks his leg, then his mom wouldn’t just cancel her day and be with him; she’d cancel the whole week, maybe the whole month, and she’d be there when he woke up, would make him breakfast, would read to him, would help him with his homework.”

  My chest tightens. “I . . .”

  “That was on a Saturday. Samson and Ana had left to spend the entire weekend in Calistoga. You took him that night—”

  “And I brought him home that Sunday night, and they—”

  “Still weren’t home,” Audrey says. “So you got him ready for bed and fell asleep in his little bed.”

  I recall a bedtime debate about whether Neanderthals would enjoy watching Downton Abbey.

  “So when she gets home, I decide to tell her,” Audrey says. “And she just stares at me. Says, ‘I need you to take Collin to school this week,’ and she just leaves me standing there.”

  “My sister doesn’t know how to connect,” I say. “Ever since the—” But I can’t say it, or just don’t want to say it. “And every year, she just closes up a little more.”

  “And Samson,” Audrey says. “He’s the perfect partner for that, right?”

  “The last thing Samson James Barnard IV wants,” I say, “is someone who will open up and go all-in.”

  It weighs on me so heavily, I feel it in my chest and on my back and over my shoulders. Sometimes I just want to wring my sister’s neck. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to him,” I say. “Ana wants to ship him back here to spend the summer with me. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”

  Audrey sniffles. “So listen. When you get there, just give him a hug, okay?”

  I feel weird. “Of course,” I mumble. “Yeah, sure. We’re gonna do an adventure.”

  We end the call, and I turn to Mama. “We need to reach that bus, like, yesterday.”

  Mama cuts off a Camry as she dives across the lanes. The boys holler and laugh. “We don’t abandon our people, do we, Dickie?” Soon, Mama has the Fleetwood screaming down 101. The boys have taken to flashing BAs at motorists, their asses pressed hard against the windows, the car starting to stink. After each surprised motorist, Ernie’s teary laughter intensifies, and they take pulls of Wild Turkey.

  Mama guns the Fleetwood a little more. “Settle them down.”

  I turn, force a stern look, and drop my voice. “Boys.”

  They’re in another world—eyes slitted, cheeks flushed, mouths open in delight.

  “C’mon. Cool it. Get back into your jumpsuits.”

  We come up on a Highlander, and Ernie uses the opportunity to press his privates against the glass. Cujo releases a tight cackle, and Ernie spasms in laughter until tears roll down his cheeks. We scream past a minivan of moms and toddlers, and Cujo executes something called the Teabag.

  Mama leans over, says lowly. “The boys are just wearing me out.”

  Ernie rolls down his window, and Cujo lifts his ass into the air. My God, the hair.

  Mama glances at the rearview mirror. “Don’t you dare.”

  Cujo eases his ass through the window as we rocket past a silver fox in a Cadillac.

  Mama says, “They don’t listen to us. It’s like they think they’re in charge.”

  “Well, maybe you want to—”

  “Not that I get any help from you,” she snarls.

  “Mama, c’mon.”

  In the backseat, Cujo has placed Ernie in a headlock. Ernie stiffens, crosses his eyes, and gurgles, and Cujo eases a string of drool off his lower lip, swinging it over Ernie’s cherry-red face. Someone pushes out a tight fart.

  “They act up because it’s the only way they can get your attention.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Just tell me where I’m going.”

  “You’re doing fine right here,” I say. “We should be coming up on them soon.”

  “It’s always about you and your needs, isn’t it?”

  “Mama, c’mon. Let’s cut the BS here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What’s the deal with the pretend family here?”

  She weakens her voice, playing up the frail-granny act. “I don’t understand.” She focuses on the road, allows a grin. “I’m just so confused. Aren’t you Dickie, my asshole husband?”

  “Mama, seriously. We both know you’re as sharp as a tack. You know I’m not your deadbeat ex, and that these clowns aren’t our kids.”

  “Listen,” Mama says. “I said I’d help you with Sabine Rorgstardt, and you agreed to do as I say for a little bit.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Honey,” she snaps. “I wear the pants in this relationship. I always have, and I always will. You hear?”

  I deflate in my seat. “Fine.”

  “Plus . . .” Mama pauses a bit. “I just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nice to go back to that time. To take care of little ones again.”

  I glance back at the boys. Cujo still has Ernie in a headlock. “These aren’t little ones, Mama.”

  She nods reluctantly. “Not every family is picture-perfect, Dickie. You should know that.”

  A lump forms. I do know that.

  * * *

  The truth is, I’m packing a ton of family baggage.

  After what I’ve done, I could never have a family—it’s an easier life if I just chase women and make people laugh. Hell, in this world of countless instances of shittiness happening to countless quantities of people in countless ways, a few laughs with some cool people can really soften the edges. So what I’ve done is ditch the shittiness—the corporate bullshit, the assholes and phonies, the family crap.

  I didn’t even want to be an uncle—still don’t, in a lot of ways. In fact, when my sister was pregnant with Collin, I tried to avoid her. I’m not proud of that, but if I am being honest here, I have to say that’s what I did. The closer Ana got to the delivery date, the more I ditched her. There was a part of me—a childish part of me—that secretly resolved to ditch my sister and her child for years at a time. Maybe I could get away with never meeting this kid. Because if you knew the background, you’d understand why this was probably best for the kid. I had caused enough pain—for her, for me.

  Never again, if I had any say in it.

  Then, toward the end of her pregnancy, on the Fourth of July, in front of everyone, she took my hand and placed it lightly on her stomach. And I felt him move, the rolls, the warmth, the new life so safe and sound, so perfect. She was like a conduit—connecting me to a new dimension, to a new generation, a hundred years of love and meaning. It felt amazing, and it was like a punch in the gut. My chest swelled in rhythmic warmth—an instant connection—and I pulled my hand away so quickly it drew long stares from everyone there in her backyard. Stares from people who didn’t understand. Folks who weren’t there twenty years earlier. Those people looking at me like I’m crazy. Those people who were appalled by the fact I was “on vacation”—gone, nowhere to be found—when Ana went into labor. Those people, they just don’t understand when you don’t trust yourself, when you know you’re a fuckup, when you know just how much you’ve already sent the world off course, how you seem to do it over and over, no matter how much you try. People tell you, Don’t be crazy. You’re not like that at all. It’s in your head. But you know th
e truth. You know what you did. And you know you can never take it back.

  And you swear to yourself. Never again.

  Eight months later, Ana called me.

  Her voice was weak. “You’ve hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “And I’m happy for you. I just don’t want to do anything that would put you guys in jeopardy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I am talking about.”

  She sighed. “Rick. It’s over. It’s behind us.”

  I felt weird, so I forced a laugh. “It’s not.”

  “It is, Rick. It’s over. It’s behind us. Way behind us.”

  The words tumbled out. “It can’t be behind me. Ever.”

  “I want you to meet him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Two weeks later, I pulled a Bob Watson and headed over to my sister’s house. I sat in my car, worked on my breathing for a long time. Deep breaths in, long breaths out. I closed my eyes and asked for help.

  Help me. Mama and Papa. Please.

  I got out, steadied myself. Deep breaths, letting them out slowly.

  Help me.

  Stay cool.

  Deep breaths.

  I found myself standing before my sister and brother-in-law’s fifteen-foot-tall, six-foot-wide, solid-oak front door.

  Deep breaths.

  I knocked, hard.

  Help me.

  Finally, the door opened slowly. A woman in her late twenties was smiling at me. She seemed so at ease, so comfortable—content with herself, and perhaps with me. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and yellow Play-Doh was smeared into her jeans and deep green T-shirt. She stuck a foot out, wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm, and blew out a long breath. She smiled again—just an easy happiness—and her voice was light and gentle. “I’m Audrey.”

  The nanny.

  “Rick.”