As I’ve said, the trick to a good meeting ditch is to let people think you’re coming back. Those pencils, those pads of paper, and even that “body double” cell phone left behind with no battery or SIM card? Used judiciously, these props create an important sense of security, a false belief—an assumption—that I actually plan to return to that godforsaken conference room. Likewise, when it comes to ditching the entire workplace—the building, the campus . . . hell, the city—the same principle applies. In fact, it’s more critical than ever.
And so, at my desk, I click through my Bob Watson props . . .
Disable screen saver on my PC? Check. . . . Flip on my brass reading lamp? Check. . . . Under said lamp, place large stack of reports and sketched-out diagrams featuring the latest Robards acronyms? Check. . . . Atop said stack of papers, place my dime-store reading glasses? Check. . . . Throw in a writing pen? Check. . . . Remove keys and wallet from the briefcase that is placed prominently atop my desk, and pocket said items? Check. . . . Grab a notebook and stride through the office like I’m late for a meeting while I think about my imminent breakout? Oh, yeah, baby.
* * *
I’m so excited, I nearly fly down the stairwell.
The plan is clicking into place. I’ll meet Mama in the bushes, get the introduction to the Stanford expert, go pull the kid out of school via the Bob Watston methodology, take the kid to Stanford, and geek out on Neanderthals for a bit. Maybe do some Neanderthal searches. Hang out. Drop the kid off at my sister’s. Do some goodbye hugs. Leave with Audrey for the Greek Theatre and the English Beat. Hang out at the Beat show with a supercool chick. Possibly snake my tongue down her throat, if allowed.
The only problem? Traffic to the concert will be a nightmare.
I burst through the stairwell door and onto the south-end parking lot, the white sun washing over me in its instant warmth, a light breeze blowing through my hair. I stop a second, take in a deep breath. Hell, yes. Freedom. I gaze at the expanse of enormous, tall bushes over there, that dense stretch of wilderness separating the north and south lots. Why in the hell does Mama want to meet me inside those bushes? From this distance, a white mist seems to swirl above the foliage, reminding me of a jungle in the morning sun. I find myself imagining that I’m an explorer preparing to enter its swampy innards, not sure what I’ll encounter, not sure if I’ll ever return.
I look for spies and head for the bushes, cutting through the parked cars. Halfway through, I decide to call my sister and let her know I’d like to pull Collin out of school.
She sounds annoyed. “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” I say, “just some hooky on his last day in the country.”
“He’s on a field trip this morning. He’s not even there.”
Oh no. I can practically see Audrey giving me a sad finger-wave goodbye.
“Well, what about the afternoon?”
“The afternoon?” She releases an annoyed sigh. “He has Mandarin in the afternoon.”
I think of Sabine Rorgstardt. “Sure, but it’s his last—”
“It’s stepping-stones, Rick. Stepping-stones to getting into a good school. I know you may not fully appreciate this, but a good school is so important in today’s world.”
I wish I could reply, What about helping your brother land a date with a good woman? But I don’t want Ana to know about me and Audrey—wouldn’t be cool to Audrey. So instead, I say, “I thought you said you got Collin into a great school in Buenos Aires.”
She laughs, then raises her voice. “I’m talking about college, Rick. The road to a good college starts now.”
“Aren’t there like tons of good schools out there?”
“A private institution. You know, Stanford. Harvard. Princeton.”
My sister and I. What happened to us? What happened to the brother and sister who, as kids, wasted long summer afternoons crank-calling local businesses, watching TV, reading novels, and wandering the neighborhood looking for things to do? What happened to the teenage siblings who worked hard, who talked about right and wrong and family, the things that really mattered? What became of the kids who were proud to get into college, who worked hard and fought tooth and nail for internships and first jobs with no daddies or uncles pulling strings? What happened to the brother and sister who, as young adults, would share a few quiet laughs about the self-important snobs we’d see running around town with their kids? What happened to the sister and brother who’d look at each other and wonder, Are these children getting what they need?
What happened was, the brother took a job at Robards International and the sister got into a grad school, at a good private school Back East. What happened was, the brother got lost in bottom-tier data collection projects, and the sister married Samson James Barnard IV (Stanford MBA, class of ’01), and Ana Theresa Blanco became Ana Barnard, and gave birth to a kid they named Collin James Barnard. What happened was, the sister was steadily converted into a subculture that insists all aspects of one’s life must be spectacular, at all times. A subculture that somehow thinks that out of the 2,700 universities in the country, only about 20 are good. What happened was, the sister he loves so dearly calls only when she wants something.
I miss Ana Theresa Blanco.
Ana Barnard says, “After Mandarin, he has SAT Prep.”
I’m still standing beside the wall of bushes, keeping an eye out for spies. “What if I took him after the Mandarin and the SAT Prep?”
She offers a defeated sigh. “I guess.”
“From what I understand, he doesn’t take his SAT for another nine or ten years. I’m sure he can afford to miss a prep session.”
Silence again, and then, “Okay. Take him, and have a blast, okay? Just make sure he says goodbye to all the teachers and the principal’s office. And you need to find out when he returns from the field trip—I think it’s noon. Just call the school.
“He’s got his body-language training today, but that’s fast. You’ll be in and out. So if you want to bring him home after dinner, I think that will be fine. Just let me know.”
“Of course.”
Sympathy in her voice. “Because I want to be able to fully trust you, okay?”
“Of course.”
She pauses again and sighs that way I’ve known all my life—a brief trace of my real sister. “Samson and I want to feel we can truly trust you.”
“Yeah, cool. No worries. I should run.”
“Because, Samson and I want to tell you something.”
“Oh yeah?” I prepare for incoming yuppie insanity. “News?”
“We’ve been thinking . . .”
From behind, a door clicks. I spin around, see a cluster of employees leaving the building. Shit, I can’t be seen standing here like this. I decide to push into the wall of bushes and begin my trek through the wilds of Robards, in search of Mama. In an instant, it feels like I’ve been transported to another dimension—indeed, in the wilds of Robards, with a thick canopy blocking the sun and a dense undergrowth requiring a slow, difficult passage. I smile to myself, shaking my head at the realization that I am stumbling through a mess of bushes, leaves, and twigs—in my office clothes—following the peculiar instructions of an oddball granny, all so I might have a chance with a woman.
It’s moments like this when you understand the hole in your heart.
“Yeah?” I push forward, crunching dead leaves and cracking fallen branches. “You guys’ve been thinking?”
“Well, first, I just want to let you know that we know how much Collin cares about you. So Samson and I—we’ve been talking.”
Incoming . . . Incoming . . . Yuppie insanity incoming.
“And we’ve got an idea.”
Where in the hell is Mama?
“And we would like to make an offer. It’s kind of coming out of left field, I acknowledge, but we have a problem with Kaarlo.”
“Kaarlo?”
“You know,” Ana snaps. “The house sitter?”
Oh, that’s right. Kaarlo the high-end Swedish house sitter. Samson James Barnard IV and my sister don’t want (or need) to sell their gorgeous, custom-made Woodside mansion, and they certainly don’t want (or need) to rent it out to anyone. Not after all the refinements they’ve made to the house—the “spiritually cleansed” Tibetan tile flooring, the granite kitchen sink carved by Vikings circa a.d. 780, the cabinets made from ancient wood soaked in llama bile for thirty days and sanded to perfection by happy, minimalist elders in Bolivia. So they’d found Kaarlo the high-end Swedish house sitter, who’s lived in the homes of some of the most powerful Silicon Valley titans.
“Kaarlo’s backed out,” Ana says. “He’s going to house-sit for Owen Wilson on the North Shore. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Kaarlo, and I can’t say I blame him.”
“North Shore?”
“Maui.” She waits for me to be impressed. “So, we’re in a pickle.”
“Okay.”
“We essentially need a house sitter. You know, someone who can live here, take care of things, make sure the yard staff won’t slack off. Do a little cleaning and maintenance.”
“Kaarlo doesn’t have any friends?”
“No one we can trust.” She sighs. “So Samson and I were thinking maybe you’d be interested.”
I stop in my tracks.
“You could live there. You know, for the next two years.”
My head is light. My eyelids flutter.
After a long pause, Ana offers, “Did I mention we’d throw in a monthly stipend for food and living expenses? Samson just wants to be sure nothing happens to the house.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“So, depending on what you want to do, I was thinking you could rent out your condo. And between the free housing at our place, the stipend, and your rental income from the condo, you probably could quit your job, take a few years off.”
I feel faint.
“Didn’t you want to write that book on how to pull a Bob what’s-his-name?”
My face goes numb as I think of quitting Robards International, of telling Janice from Finance I am done with her meetings. I can nearly see myself in my sister’s backyard, in the shade, hunting and pecking away on what will become the only how-to book on ditching useless meetings.
“Rick?”
I think of hanging out with Audrey in that house, of hosting poker with the guys in that house, of lazing on the sofa during a six-hour Judd Apatow movie marathon in that house, of throwing margarita parties in that house. Of making dinner naked in that house—for days and days.
“Rick?”
I snap out of it, shake my face. “I’ll do it.”
A hint of glee in her voice. “And there’s just one other thing. A small thing, really.”
My head’s in the stars. “Okay.”
“Samson and I are planning a trip this summer.”
“Okay.”
“It’s been a crazy year, and we just need to recharge, you know?”
Staring into space. “Uh-huh.”
“So we are planning to take five weeks in Greece this summer. Samson has his sabbatical this year, and—”
“A recharge?” I say, snapping out of it. “Five weeks?”
“Exactly. Maybe six weeks, we haven’t finalized things. But the point is, this is really just for Samson and me. You know? We just really need to unplug, recharge, spend some Ana and Samson time.”
For six weeks? I snap out of it. What planet do they live on? What kind of person has my sister become that she actually desires to spend six weeks alone with Samson James Barnard IV, who might be the most out-of-touch and boring person I know? Ana Theresa Blanco avoided bores at all costs.
“So we’re wondering if Collin could stay with you until we return. Maybe Samson and I can plan a layover at SFO on the way back, and just pick him up.”
I’m sure Audrey would totally get off seeing me as a devoted, cool uncle, and therefore it would be only a matter of time until she and I are in bed, and she’s laughing, and her toes are in my mouth, and she’s saying, Let me take the kid for a few days.
After a while, my sister says, “Rick?”
I hear myself mumble, “Just trying to process all this.”
More movement in the bushes, but I don’t care. My mind is scrambling, thinking of how I’ll quit. My god, how I’ve wanted to quit.
Is this really happening?
“Rick?” Her voice is meek and slow, just like it always was when we were kids and she had to fess up to something. “I have to admit. I’m a little nervous about this.”
“What? You mean, being away from Collin so long?”
“No.” She sounds so serious. “The house.”
“What do you mean, you’re worried about the house?”
“I need to be able to trust you with it. You know? Nothing like that time you had those Raiders fans at your condo.”
Ana Theresa Blanco was a Raiders fan.
Ana Barnard does Pilates.
“Yeah, no Raider parties,” I say. “I’ll honor whatever rules you want.”
Really slowly, she says, “I just need to be able to trust you—to keep things secure. And I’m not talking about what you think I’m talking about.”
I don’t even want to think about that, that thing I did that changed our lives. It hurts too much to think about that. I blink my eyes and shake my face.
“This is all about the house. Okay? And trust.”
“I understand.”
I stand there and gaze into space, a smile forming. I can’t believe this is happening. I am going to quit Robards International and live an easy life in a $5 million Woodside mansion, where I will pen an antimeeting manifesto for the ages.
“Rick?”
I snap out of it. “Yep, I’m here.”
“In fact, maybe you could come over tonight, and we could talk about all of this. I’m sure that would do it for me.”
My vision is a blur now. Still smiling. “Sure.”
“In fact, if you are going to go take Collin out of school—after the SAT Prep . . .”
“Of course. After the SAT Prep.”
“. . . maybe we could talk about the plan.”
“That works. Say, six p.m.?”
“Perfect.”
I am practically singing. “Okay then.”
“Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
That’s always great to hear.
“I love you, too, Ana.”
More movement in the bushes. Mama? Gingerly, I head in that direction, pushing through more shrubs. “Listen, we’ll discuss it tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the house totally safe, and I’ll follow your rules.” Beneath the thick carpet of dried leaves, my foot slips under a rope or a cord, and I nearly fall on my face.
“Rick?”
I stand up and run my foot through the leaves, looking for the obstruction. Finally I reach down and pull up an orange extension cord—a recently bought extension cord feeding straight into that cluster of bushes over there.
What the . . . ?
“Rick, where are you?”
I follow the extension cord. “Never mind that. I’ll bring Collin home tonight by six, and then you and I will put this issue to bed, to your liking. But I can’t stick around too long tonight—hot date.”
“Okay.”
“And, Ana?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m just so—I mean, I guess I just—”
“It’s okay. I know.”
Which is when I push through another thicket and stumble out the other end, crashing into a sea of empty beer cans so deep I can barely feel the ground.
Someone’s talking.
Daffy Duck?
A moment later, I’m sitting upright in the sea of empties. And I’m speechless.
It’s so much to take in. There’s the set of old mattresses surrounded by thousands of empties. There’s the fat and juicy tri-tip roasting on a Weber grill. There’s the homemade contraption directly above the grill—three small electric fans dispersing smoke in a variety of directions. And in the middle, placed atop a stack of milk crates, is a small television flashing remarkably sharp images of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck enjoying an easy conversation over Chinese takeout.
What the . . .
From under the cans, a tinny voice calls out. “Rick?”
Shit. Ana. I squint down at the cans, listening for my phone.
“Rick?”
I turn right and slip my hand under the cans, feeling for my phone. And somehow, I find it. To limit the noise, I pull it out slowly. It’s silent here, except for Bugs and Daffy. “Hey there,” I say into the phone, like nothing’s happened.
“Rick, you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
I gaze into the air, forcing a smile. “Just the grocery store.”
“That didn’t sound like—”
“Just a little collision with a stack of lard jars.” I force an annoyed sigh. “I’ve got a few cracked jars here.” Another annoyed sigh. “There’s lard everywhere.”
“Lard jars? What kind of grocery store—”
“Listen, I should find a clerk to clean this up.”
She’s laughing. “Watch where you’re going. See you this evening.”
Too late for that, I think, as a bald, pudgy man emerges from the bushes, shooting through the empties with unsettling speed. I don’t realize he’s wielding barbecue prongs until he’s pressing them into my neck.
Which is when I hear a series of clicks.
From somewhere unseen, Mama adopts a syrupy tone. “That’s a good boy,” she drawls. “You really have learned your clicks, haven’t you, Ernie?”
Ernie produces a happy noise, presses the prongs deeper into my neck, and I stiffen and grimace. Determined not to move my head, I dart my eyes up to him and do my best ventriloquist impersonation. “Easy, fella. I’m not a tri-tip.”
From the bushes, three metallic clicks.
He steps back and withdraws his prongs. And I finally take a breath.
Mama’s shaky voice is getting closer. “What a good boy you are.” Four more clicks. “Come and get your goodie, Ernie.”
I turn around, and there’s Mama—her body twisted into that permanent hunch, her veined hands slowly dipping into her giant fanny pack and reemerging with some type of jerky. I realize I’m just sitting there, frozen in disbelief.
“Mama, I have to say—this is a whole new level of crazy for you.”
Slowly, she looks up and inspects me through her glasses, her eyes enormous. “Do I know you?”
I laugh. “Mama, c’mon. No games today. I’m here, just like you asked.”
“Games?” Fists on her hips, mouth twisted in old-lady aggression. “Aren’t you the king of games, Dickie? Paperwork games?”
I laugh. “Mama. C’mon. No role playing today. I’ve got way too much to—”
“And now here you are: Dick Rayborne, snooping in on my boys. Trampling through the Playroom.”
“The caveman lady. Sabine Rorg-something. C’mon, Mama.”
She winks and shakes head. “You really are like a pig, aren’t you, Dickie? An insatiable appetite. Want want want. Take take take.” She scowls at me. “Haven’t you taken enough, Mr. Paperwork?”
“Mama, c’mon. What are we doing here?”
Mama reaches into her fanny pack and produces three tight clicks; they’re different from the ones before, and Ernie charges across “the Playroom,” sending cans everywhere, an eyebrow arched. I recoil and holler, and he slides to a stop in front of Mama. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s, the kind they sell on airplanes. Ernie snatches the bottle, twists off the cap, and drains it, tossing the new empty over his shoulder.
It’s like she’s talking to a tired old dog—slow and low. “That’s my Ernie. It took a while to learn your clicks, but you stuck with it, and now look at you, earning all kinds of goodies from Mama.” Ernie waits for more, but she puts a hand out as if to say, Not yet. Then she produces three more clicks.
“Cujo,” she squeaks. “Come see Mama.”
Nothing.
Ernie moans for another bottle.
She cocks her head, listening. “Cujo? Don’t you worry about this mister here. Mama’s gonna make sure. Mama’s gonna make sure Dickie doesn’t get you fired.”
That gets me. I look at Ernie and realize he’s wearing a seafoam-green jumpsuit, the requisite uniform for a certain type of employee at Robards International. I give Ernie another look, meet his crooked gaze—that eyebrow still arched, that little mouth turning crooked, contorting his enormous jowls as he begs for another mini. And I feel a chill.
Conployee.
“Cuuuuuuu-jo. Mama’s gonna make sure Dickie plays nice.”
“I’m happy to meet your friends, Mama. But I need to get my nephew. And I need that introduction to the caveman professor. You promised.”
“Cuuuuuuu-jooo?”
Nothing.
She pokes into her fanny pack and pulls out a third clicker—this one’s orange—and produces three wooden clicks. Ernie squeals and tiny-steps closer. She reaches into her fanny pack and produces another airline bottle—this time, Wild Turkey—and a thick, marbled cube of cured meat. Pork belly? Ernie snatches them out of her shaky hands, makes a happy noise, and plunks down onto his mattress.
“Cujo?”
To the left, a heap of leaves and twigs eases up from the earth, and I notice the large manhole underneath it. I jolt and step back as an enormous, bald-shaven man emerges, the tattoos on his scalp and neck contrasting boldly against his seafoam jumpsuit, a black beard coming to a point near his collarbones, his dark brown eyes watching me closely. He offers an uneasy smile.
“That’s my boy,” Mama says, stretching the words. “Come get your goodies.”
Cujo approaches with caution, watching me closely—my lord, he’s huge. He takes a bottle and a slice of pork belly, still watching me, ready to bolt.
“Don’t you worry about Dickie here. Mama’s gonna take care of this.”
“Dude.” I pull out my wallet. “I’m not Dick Rayborne. Read my driver’s license.”
She’s shaking her head, her eyes closed. “Cujo?”
His voice is thick, deep, and wet. “Yes, Mama?”
“Do you recognize this man?”
“I suppose I do, Mama.”
“And who is he?”
“Well, Mama . . .” Cujo glances at me, looks at Mama. “You’re looking at the Warden.”
“The Warden?”
“It’s what we call him.”
“Rayborne?” Mama says. “Dickie Raynorne? Your VP of HR? The king of paperwork? You call him the Warden?”
“Yes, Mama.”
I’m pleading now. “Mama, c’mon. Just tell me what you want.”
“Cujo?”
“Yes?”
“You seem frightened. Is there anything you want to tell Mama?”
Cujo looks at me, nods. “It’s just . . .”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You can tell me.”
“It’s just that the Warden—I mean, Mr. Rayborne. Well. It’s just that we’re out here, and . . . well . . . we’re supposed to be . . .” He nods toward the campus. “. . . in there.”
We watch as Ernie rises from his mattress, his eyes on the Looney Tunes, and stabs the tri-tip with his prongs, the meat sizzling on the grill.
“Don’t worry about that, honey.” She turns to me, thins her eyes. “Mama’s gonna take care of Dickie here.”
“Mama, I can’t get fired for bad behavior. If I get pinched, my parole officer will find out, and I’ll be toast. Back to house arrest.” He offers some very sad eyes. “Or maybe even back to San Quentin.”
I clasp my hands for emphasis. “Guys, I promise. I’m not Dick Rayborne, and even if I were him, I wouldn’t rat on you.” I look at Cujo, searching for a trace of reason, and offer my wallet. “Dude, look at the driver’s license.”
Cujo stiffens, backs up. God, he’s massive—six-foot-five, maybe, and close to three hundred pounds, with dark, curly hair sprouting out from his collar and cuffs. He offers a polite smile. “Sorry, Warden, but I’m not getting my prints on your wallet.” He lumbers back to the manhole, parting the sea of empties, and squeezes in. He turns and looks up at me, his eyes hopeful. “We’ll just go back to work. C’mon, Ernie. We’ll go back the way we came, right back up this old pipe—it’s nice and dry, so our threads never get tarnished, so no need to worry about damage to company property. Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Rayborne. C’mon, Ernie.”
Mama snaps, “Boys, don’t go anywhere. You might need to help your Mama today.”
I look at Cujo, then at Ernie. “She’s your mom?”
Cujo’s frown turns into a grin. “That ain’t our mom, dude.” His face softens as he looks at Mama. “We were just chillin’ here one day—taking a break, just for a few minutes, Warden, I swear—and Mama here just walked in on us.”
Mama smiles at the memory. “I’d come to spy on this bird,” she says and jerks her thumb at me.
“And I guess she just took a liking to us.”
“Because it was clear,” she says to me. “These boys lacked the kind of parental guidance and love that sets a man on his way for the rest of his life.”
Cujo meets my eye and smiles. “Empty nester,” he whispers and chuckles. “It’s awesome.”
Mama puffs. “And I was appalled, Dick. I was appalled at what they told me. This whole operation you created. A really rotten thing, all around.”
“Mama, please. I mean, fine—I’ll be Dick. But this is my last chance with Audrey.”
She waves me off. “I bet your mother would be ashamed if she knew what you’re up to.”
That feels like a punch in the gut, and I snap, “Don’t mention my mother.”
Her face softens, and she mutters, “Fair enough.”
My cell rings, giving all of us a jolt. I pull it out of my pocket: Audrey.
“Don’t you dare answer that phone. We have work to do.”
“No, it’s Audrey. The girl.”
“The girl?” She looks to Ernie. “Get me that phone.”
Ernie rushes over, presses the prongs into my neck, and snatches the phone.
“Let me see that.”
“Please don’t.”
He hands it to her, and she clicks the clicker, awarding him another mini of Wild Turkey.
“Please.”
She pokes at the screen and puts it to her ear. Pulls it away, frowns at it, and puts it back to her ear. “Hello?”
I wave my hands and whisper-yell. “Don’t say anything.”
She scrunches her face and looks into space, listening. “Who’s this?”
I bend over, wincing. “Please. I might be able to quit and write—”
“Yes. Well, I’m having a few words with your secret lover. . . . Yes, that’s right.”
“Mama, please.”
“Me? . . . I’m his wife, you tramp. . . . What? Yes, his wife. Well, ex-wife, I guess. And I’m standing here with our two boys. I’m sure he didn’t tell you about them, either. Did he?”
I reach for the phone, and the prongs ease deeper into my throat.
“And I wonder if you have any idea what your secret boyfriend does here at Robards International. . . . What? . . . Because I think you might be shocked to hear what he’s doing to these kids, including my two boys. . . . Yes, well, I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone right now. We’re trying to resolve some of his behavior issues. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . Collin? . . . I don’t know who that is. Sounds like one of your lover’s cronies. . . . And I am afraid we have to go. . . . What? . . . No. I said he needs to pay back his debt to society, and he needs to make things right. How do you hang these things up?”
I feel nausea setting in. I take a knee in the empties.
* * *
Mama is standing over me, her camel toe way too close, but I don’t have the energy to care. In one brief phone call, she’s managed to jeopardize my best girl opportunity in years—the promise of finally dating the woman who turns my insides to goo, who gives me an instant boner, who makes me feel like a new person. How many times does a guy meet a woman like that? How many times does a woman like that actually agree to date a guy like me? Hell, maybe that was enough right there—that call. Maybe Audrey now thinks I’m a freak with an even freakier ex. Is it possible she might actually believe I have kids? After all these years of knowing me and my family, she couldn’t possibly think I have an ex and kids. But could Audrey call my sister and tell her about my freaky friend, and could that possibly jeopardize my opportunity to house-sit and quit my job?
Okay, I’m overthinking this.
Mama says, “You want your phone back?”
We look over to the mattresses, where Cujo is splayed out talking into the phone. I can’t hear everything, but he’s saying things like “Do you like to party?”
I bury my face in my hands.
“If you want that telephone back,” she says. “If you ever want to introduce your nephew to Sabine Rorgstardt, you need to do some things for me.”
“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 you 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.”