by Gail Bowen
I glance at my computer screen. Most nights Nova sketches out an intro for me, but loser1121 has distracted her. Always professional, she’s left me some Internet quotes about fatherhood to riff on.
My eyes scan the page. Bill Cosby says, Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope. The philosopher Friedrich Nietzche gives wise counsel: When one has not had a good father, one must create one. Spike Milligan is provocative: My father had a profound influence on me—he was a lunatic. There are other quotes, but until the second page, the pickings are slim.
Midway down page two, there’s a tasty morsel from Anonymous. A man’s desire for a son is nothing but the wish to duplicate in order that such a remarkable pattern may not be lost to the world. I read the quote again. Anonymous seems to have hit on yet another reason why I was such a disappointment to my father.
The final quote on the page is dynamite. Those who have never had a father never know the sweetness of losing one. To most men, the death of the father is a new lease on life… Samuel Butler.
I know nothing about Samuel Butler, but Google will. I type in his name. There are pages of information, but one fact leaps out at me: Sam was born on December 5, 1835. My birthday is December 5, 1978. Sam and I are birthday twins. And another coincidence: Sam and I both came up with snake-eyes when we rolled the dice in the great Daddy crapshoot.
The music of Dave and his band fades. Time for me to get to work. I lean into my mike and crank up the energy.
“It’s June 20th—Father’s Day weekend. Time to reward Dad for services rendered. And there’s the rub. When it comes to dads, it’s not one-size-fits-all. If your dad’s like Ward Cleaver on the old sitcom Leave It to Beaver, he deserves the full treatment—a snappy golf shirt, an industrial-sized bottle of Old Spice, a monogrammed tie and a chocolate cake with World’s Best Dad spelled out in Smarties on the icing. If your dad’s more along the lines of Homer Simpson or the Family Guy, he’ll welcome a six pack and something to incinerate on the barbecue.
“Of course, there are Dad-zillas who don’t deserve gifts. In the Greek myth, Kronos ate his own children. No soap-on-a-rope for Kronos. And no A&W Papa Burger for Abraham—who had the knife sharpened to kill his son Isaac, until a ram got his horns stuck in a bush and gave Abraham an option.
“We don’t choose our fathers. The biggest lottery any of us will ever be involved in is the one in which the sperm swims over and knocks on the door of the egg. The moment the egg decides to let Mr. Wiggles in, our life is decided.
“So how did you make out in the Daddy Derby? Did you get a thoroughbred? A plug? A skittish dad who never came out of the gate? Or did you get a dad who streaked out of the gate and never came back? Our lines are open. Give me a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email me at [email protected].”
I lower my voice to a level that is intimate and inviting. “Here’s a message for one special caller. You sign yourself loser1121, but you’re not a loser, and you’re not alone. Many of us have learned that Father doesn’t always know best. Give yourself a chance. Don’t do anything you can’t undo. We need to talk. On air or off, your choice—but talking will help.”
Time to move the show along. I pick up the energy. “And now here’s Harry Chapin with ‘Cat’s in the Cradle,’ a song about a man who discovers too late that fathers pay a price for being too busy for their sons.”
Harry Chapin’s voice is gentle and tuneful. I open up the talkback. “Anything from loser1121?”
Nova shakes her head. “Nope, but there is news. Which do you want first—the good or the bad?”
“Hit me with the good stuff.”
“Aldo just called—Ruby’s in hard labor. With luck, the baby will be born when we’re on the air.”
I feel a jolt of pure joy. I never used to think about the future, but since Nova gave birth to Lily, I think about it a lot. Aldo has been the technician on “The World According to Charlie D” since we started, so this baby will be family. “Everybody okay?” I say.
“So far, so good,” Nova replies. “I talked to Ruby. The contractions are three minutes apart. She and I agree that on the utterly unbearable pain scale, childbirth is right up there with a Brazilian bikini wax.”
“What’s a Brazilian bikini wax?”
Nova’s mouth twitches. “Tell you after the show.” The fun goes out of her face. “And while we’re on the subject of utterly unbearable pain, our first caller tonight is Evan Burgh. There were ten people ahead of him, but, as he reminded me, he does own the network.”
“And our show can be replaced,” I say.
Nova’s lips are tight. “I believe that possibility was mentioned.” Her eyes meet mine. “Charlie, don’t take on Evan Burgh. He’s a snake, and a lot of people count on you.”
I glance at my computer screen. “Loser1121 is getting closer to making the big move. Check your inbox, Nova.”
Nova lowers her eyes to her screen. Over the talkback, I hear her intake of breath.
“Time to call the cops again?” she asks.
“Yes, and this time we’ve got something for them.”
I look again at loser1121’s message: I’ve attached a picture of our family carving knife. My father says that the only one who’s allowed to use it is the man of the house. Tonight I will become the man of the house. I open the attachment, and my heart clenches. I’m not an expert, but even I can see that this knife is capable of carving everything the man of the house decides to carve.
CHAPTER FOUR
The ending of “Cat’s in the Cradle” is sweet and sour. The father’s wish to have his son grow into a man just like him comes true. The boy who once longed for his father’s love has become an adult whose busy life has no place for his father. Long ago, I sent my father a tape of Harry Chapin singing “Cat’s in the Cradle.” I wonder if he ever got it.
The newspaper I bought in the drugstore is on my desk. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. The photograph of Evan Burgh tells you everything you need to know about the man. His face is strained by the knowledge that what he wants will always be beyond his reach. No matter how much money or power or property he has, it will never be enough. His only pleasure comes from making the people around him feel small and scared. Evan’s a mean son of a bitch, and I would love to take him on, but tonight loser1121 and his carving knife take precedence.
I inhale deeply, reach for my cool-guy-in-charge voice and flip on my mike. “And we’re back,” I say. “You’re listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ Our topic tonight is fathers. Over two thousand years ago, the Roman poet Horace said, ‘Rarely are sons similar to their fathers. Most are worse. A few are better.’ Something to ponder. Our lines are open. Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email us at [email protected].
“Our first caller is Evan. So, Evan, what’s on your dad’s wish list this Father’s Day weekend?”
Evan Burgh’s voice is high, pompous and tight with anger.
“Read the papers, Charlie D,” he says. “My father is purchasing his own gift. This Sunday, he’s marrying Misty de Vol. Ms. de Vol calls herself a model, but for the past three years she’s worked for the Five Star Escort Service. She’s a hooker.”
“A gift that keeps on giving,” I say.
“A gift that keeps on taking.” Evan’s voice is acid. “And he’s marrying her on Father’s Day—one more way to stick the knife into me.”
Somewhere out in radio-land, loser1121 is testing the blade of a real knife and making plans to use it. Generally, I give callers some time to settle in, but Evan is a maggot, and I’ve already had enough.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “Evan, why did you call in tonight?”
There is a crispness to Evan’s pronunciation, as if he is showing the rest of us how to speak the language.
“Because I want the world to know my father is an ass,” he says. “He’s eighty-three years old. What in the name of God is he going to do with a twenty-five-year-old sex worker?�
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“Come on, Evan,” I say. “Somewhere along the line, Dad must have talked to you about what consenting adults do behind closed doors.”
Evan’s snicker is ugly.
“Thanks to the media, I know only too well what my father and Ms. de Vol do behind closed doors. The tabloids have been graphic in describing the smorgasbord of sexual delights Ms. de Vol offers her customers.”
“And you think your father is marrying Ms. de Vol simply to gratify himself.”
“I don’t give a damn why he’s marrying her. I’m just curious about the mental capability of a man who signs a prenuptial agreement with a whore, guaranteeing her ten million dollars for every year of their marriage. Until she met my father, Ms. de Vol’s rate was eight hundred dollars an hour with a two-hour minimum. From eight hundred an hour to ten million a year. That’s quite a pay hike for a prostitute.”
“Your father is a billionaire,” I say. “It’ll take the newlyweds years to run through all that money.”
“You’re missing the point,” Evan says. His voice is icy with contempt.
I grit my teeth.
“Maybe I am missing the point,” I say.
“Why don’t you help me out, Evan? When I listen to you, what I hear is a preening turd with millions of dollars, and more on the way when Daddy dies, complaining because his father has found some pleasure in life. If there’s more, tell me. If there’s not, take Dad out for a beer, air your differences privately and let me get on with what you’re paying me to do—help people with real problems get through the night.”
“You work for me, Charlie. You do what I tell you to do.” He spits out the words.
I slam my fist into my palm but remain silent. Nova’s back is rigid with tension. Since Evan came on the line, she’s been watching me, waiting for a signal. Now I give it. I draw my finger across my throat in the slashing sign that indicates it’s time to cut off the caller.
“Fire me,” I say. “And Evan, if you call in again, you’re going to have to go to the end of the line and wait your turn. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ has a policy of zero tolerance for bullies.”
“You’ll regret this,” he says.
“There’s a lot I regret,” I say, “but telling you to take a hike will never be in my top ten. Now here’s a tune for you, Evan—the Beach Boys with ‘I’m Bugged At My Ol’ Man.’”
As the Beach Boys sing about a boy who comes home a little late and is confronted by a dad who grounds him, sells his surfboard, cuts off his hair while he’s sleeping, pulls his phone out of the wall and rips up his clothes, I find myself hoping that Evan is still listening. Henry Burgh may be marrying a hooker, but at least he didn’t sell his son’s surfboard.
CHAPTER FIVE
When I see the name of the next caller, I want to give Fate a standing ovation. Britney is a regular. She’s that rarest of adolescents: a teenager whose life is uncomplicated. Brit sent me her school picture, and she’s a beauty. She’s also smarter than she lets on. And—the cherry on the cheesecake—she’s surrounded by people who love her. She calls in to “The World According to Charlie D” because she likes to hear her voice on the radio. We take her calls because her understanding of others is surprisingly solid.
“Hey, wild child,” I say. “What’s on your mind tonight?”
Britney’s laugh is a waterfall. “Oh, Charlie, I love it when you call me ‘wild child’—as if I ever did anything really wild or even semi-wild. Anyway, I know you’re mad at Evan. He’s your boss—right? All that stuff about firing you? It’s not going to happen. Evan’s just upset, and I know why. Nobody likes to think about their parents actually doing it. It’s just too gross.”
I gaze down at the newspaper photo of the political Rising Star and his tightly wound wife. Hard to imagine those two doin’ the crazy. Just as well, because their kids already look as if they’re ready to spontaneously combust.
Britney is rattling away.
“It must be supergross for Evan because his dad is, like, eighty-three. But all the same, if his dad has found a girl who’s willing to…you know…do it with him, I think it’s great.”
I relax.
“Ah, Brit, you’re such a romantic.”
Her voice grows serious.
“I may be a romantic, but I’m not stupid.
I know what an escort is. But if the old gentleman wants to pay a lady to make him happy, why not? It’s always like that with girls and guys. It’s up to the girl to decide. If a guy takes me to like a really stellar classic concert— like, say, Rihanna—he’s going to expect something. It’s up to me to decide whether he gets it. Guys know this and girls know it. What’s the difference? Coming across for Rihanna—which I absolutely would not do, incidentally—or coming across for ten million dollars a year…which is really a lot…” For a moment, the possibilities of a check with all those zeroes mesmerizes Brit. Her voice trails off.
I bring her back to earth.
“So you’re cool with Evan’s father marrying Misty.”
“Absolutely. My grandma always says, ‘There are no pockets in a shroud,’ and she’s right.” Britney’s voice grows solemn. “I would just like to say that I wish Henry and Misty every happiness.”
“You’re a good person, Britney,” I say, and I mean it.
Time to move back into Charlie-D mode.
“So there you have it,” I say. “Our resident romantic, Britney, has given the soon-to-be newlyweds her blessing. I’d like to add my good wishes. Henry and Misty, here’s to you. May you live happily ever after.
“Next up…a first-time caller whose name is…” On my computer screen, there’s a blank where the name should be. I shoot Nova a questioning glance.
She lowers her eyes and opens her talkback.
“Just take the call,” she says. Nova would never make a poker player. Her tone is no-nonsense, but she can’t stop beaming.
I shrug and open my mike.
“O-kay, so our first-time caller’s identity is a mystery, but hey, life’s a mystery. Our topic tonight is fathers. If you have thoughts on the subject, give us a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email us at [email protected].
“So, Caller X, time for you to join the party. How did you make out in the great Daddy Derby?” For a beat there’s silence, and then I hear the ear-splitting, surprisingly lusty cry of a newborn.
I open my talkback to Nova.
“Is that who I think it is?” She nods and gives me a bullet-stopping grin.
On the line there is muffled laughter. Then I hear the gravelly voice I’ve heard through my headset since the night I started at CVOX. “Hey, Charlie, you were just talking to my son—Aldo Patrick DeLuca Junior. The kid’s got lungs, eh?”
Again, I find my throat closing—not a good thing in my business. Genuine emotion is the enemy of talk-radio hosts.
“Yeah,” I say. “The kid’s definitely got his father’s lungs. For those of you who don’t know him—that’s the voice of our technician, Aldo DeLuca. He’s the guy who makes it possible for you out there and us in here to communicate. So, Aldo, when did your son make his appearance?”
“Two minutes ago—he didn’t want to miss his debut on ‘The World According to Charlie D.’”
“So the kid’s a trooper. Speaking of troopers…how’s Ruby?”
“Great. Beautiful. She won’t let me take pictures of her until she fixes her mascara— which is impossible because she’s so happy she can’t stop crying. I’m crying too. So’s Aldo Junior. We’re the happiest people on earth.”
I laugh. “Keep it up.”
“We will. Hey, Charlie, I heard what you read earlier about how a lot of sons are worse than their fathers. I just want to say that this isn’t going to happen with me and Aldo Junior. I’m going to do everything in my power to make my son a better man than me.”
He chokes, and when he returns, Aldo’s voice is husky with emotion.
“I’m outta here,” he says. “When my son listens to th
e tape of the night he was born, I don’t want him to hear me blubbering.”
Aldo is a macho guy. He has a great work ethic, but before he and Ruby got together, Aldo and Nova locked horns over his attitude toward women and the mottos on his T-shirts.
Ruby changed everything. She transformed Aldo from a tough guy into Prince Charming. When Nova was pregnant, Aldo treated her as if she was spun gold. When Ruby became pregnant, Nova hovered over Aldo.
In the control booth, Nova is mopping her eyes with a tissue. I check my computer screen. Henry Burgh is next on deck. I take out my bottle of aspirin. Too soon for the next dose, but I leave the bottle on the desk. Sometimes even the promise of relief is a relief.
I shoot Nova a glance, but she’s busy keying a message into her computer. The glow has gone from her face. Her body is tense. I check my screen. Henry Burgh is a primo caller, but we’re not going to him. We’re going to music again. We never have two tunes this close together. Something is not right.
“O-kay,” I say. “Here’s a song for Aldo and for all the other guys out there who take their dad-ly duties seriously. It’s the Winstons with ‘Color Him Father.’”
I hum a few bars along with the Winstons, and then I turn on my talkback. “Only two callers and we’re already doing another tune?” I say. “Are you afraid Henry Burgh is going to turn Misty loose on me?”
Nova is staring at her computer screen. “At the moment, Henry is far from our biggest problem. Loser1121 just emailed his plan for the murders. I’m forwarding it as an attachment.” There’s a catch in her voice. “Charlie, this is a nightmare.”
I open the attachment. It’s an architect’s blueprint of a house. Loser1121 has marked his route for the killings in red Sharpie. The thick red line starts in the kitchen, goes up a back staircase and then to a large bedroom on the east side of the house. Outlines of twin beds are drawn against one of the walls. Each bed is marked with three letters. I assume they’re the initials of the person who sleeps in the bed: LMK and VCK. On top of each set of initials, loser1121 has drawn a large X.
