have me be.
Above all, this is about my life as the “second sex.” For a woman, love and dependence are the same thing, and so I don’t let myself get too far in love. You say you understand, but if you did, you would not have threatened me.
When you ran out, I called after you, but I’m glad you didn’t come back. Don’t come back, Teddy. I can’t change my situation, and you have a lot of living to do. You’d do well to forget my troubles, and cherish our good memories and tender nights, and years later you’ll look back on this and I won’t seem so monstrous.
If you see me at a party, smile and walk by. Smile for the past, and walk away for your future.
You are a fine young man.
She had signed it “Ray Gladwell,” as if there could be any other Ray in his life. Her handwriting was curvaceous, penmanship-perfect; she was a lady of the 1950s, schooled to handwrite notes with soothing legibility. How, then, did she wind up as a self-reliant adulteress, running around without explanation, sneaking past her husband, all in the name of freedom?
I wondered, too, about the threat she’d referred to. Here, at last, was a hint of Teddy as I knew him—bark worse than bite, but what a bark! That baritone voice, hard and resonant as steel as it conjured the fear of punishment, the force gathered up under his skin just barely held in check. He’d never raised a hand to me, but he scared me many a time. Ray had felt this, too, forty years ago, though she must have been a match for him: alluring, always in motion, calling the shots. You are a fine young man. Such a withering, patronizing thing to say to a lover! She’d broken his heart because it was good for him.
In a desk drawer crammed with unsorted photographs, I found a picture of my father that I’d snapped at the barbecue celebrating AJ’s birth. Dad stands in the backyard in his silly apron, wielding spatula and tongs, smiling toward me. The last good moment between us. Not a hint of the fateful argument to follow.
I placed the gallery clipping on the desk, next to this photo. Teddy and Ray. His aged face next to hers. Long before my mother, my father had crossed paths with this woman, had followed that winning smile into an illicit affair. Somehow, they’d found places where they could be alone—his apartment, a motel room, perhaps a locked bedroom at a party. They’d seen each other naked. They’d whispered into each other’s ears. They’d ignited something tender, and then, soon enough, it ceased.
I didn’t know of any woman who’d been with my father except my mother and a lady he dated after she died, who, like my mother, was named Shirley. She’d been at that barbecue, too. This second Shirley had broken things off after a few months. (Later, Deirdre read in the paper that she’d been killed in a car accident—so surreal, Dee said. She took Dad to the funeral, but he, already slipping, was mostly just confused by it.) That’s all I knew about my father’s romantic life. Ray Gladwell might be the last person alive who’d had sex with my father, who’d held his body next to hers, who’d felt him inside of her. The possessor of secret knowledge—if she even remembered that far back.
I knew I had to talk to her. But when I called the gallery and left a voice mail message saying that I needed to get in touch with one of their painters “for an interview,” my words emerged in stammers. Cold calls are my downfall; I find it difficult to be precise. One on one, in person, I’m fine. I interview people for a living. I can gauge the temperature of a conversation by facial expressions and body language. But on the phone I’m fumbling in the dark. And here again, I found myself unsure of why I was calling. Was this business or personal?
I was at my computer, transcribing the shampoo-conditioner testimony and, fortuitously, not stoned, when she called back. As soon as I heard the words coming from my mouth—“I’m the son of someone you once knew, Teddy Garner”—I had no doubt that this was personal.
“Yes!” she said. “Yes, I remember Teddy Garner! My God!” She was so enthusiastic, I could hear the exclamation points.
“I didn’t know if you would. It’s been forty years.”
“Forty years! Oh, jeez, I’m a fossil.” Her laugh was gleeful, but tinged with nervous energy. “How is he? Where is he?”
So then I had to break the news, and that seemed to upset her, and it left me feeling cruel. Here I’d just brought back a youthful memory, and then smack, down came the guillotine. I apologized, and told her a little bit about the circumstances: the “Alzheimer’s,” my grandmother taking care of him, his death in early January. I heard shame undulate beneath my words, and I wondered if Ray Gladwell could figure out from my description that I’d stayed away during his illness.
“So you found me through the gallery,” she said.
“I had your name.”
“Oh, you are sweet. He mentioned me?”
I made a sound of agreement. She asked me where he’d lived, what had happened to my mother, were there other children? She asked me if I was married, and I answered, “Well, I’m gay, but I’m seriously involved,” and she actually said, “Oh, wonderful!” which just about melted my heart.
“So you’re on the Peninsula?” I asked.
“Yes, in Mountain View.” Just like in the letter. Was she still married to the same man, all these years later?
“That’s a lovely place,” I said, not having any idea if it was. “Aren’t some of the older buildings rather charming?”
“The town center is quite nice. They’re fixing it up. But you still can’t find parking!” She had returned to finishing off her sentences with that lively burst of laughter.
“You know, I’m heading down there this week,” I said, the lie forming easily. “For work. Maybe I could visit you.”
“Well, sure! Great!”
I said I’d be taking the train, she offered to pick me up, and easy as that, we had a date. Her voice hung around long after the conversation, attaching itself to the newspaper photo of her, coalescing into a presence, a hologram. I felt elated, impatient to meet this artistic old lady with the checkered history who laughed so easily and thought my gay relationship was wonderful. I sent an e-mail to Woody that said, “I think she’s going to turn out to be my fairy godmother.”
“Jamie? It’s Deirdre.”
“Oh, hi. What’s going on?” My voice casual, as if we’d been in regular contact lately, though this was the first attempt either of us had made since I got back. I’d thought about calling her many times. The idea would strike, and I’d immediately determine why the timing was bad: I’m too tired, I’m too frazzled, I’m too stoned, she’s probably not home, she’s probably making dinner, I’m sure she’s already in bed, I’m just not in the mood, I just can’t deal with her this very second.
“I need to talk to you about some stuff—” Behind her I heard AJ whining for her attention. “Okay, honey just a minute,” she said to him.
“I’ve been meaning to call you, too,” I said.
“Okay, AJ, that’s it! This is a time-out. Mommy’s having a grown-up call.” She must have cupped the phone because the sounds grew muted. Then she was back, or rather AJ was back, saying hello and asking when I was coming for a visit and did I know his half-birthday was coming up, which meant he was six months from being six years old? I heard myself telling him maybe I’d come to his sixth-birthday party, and he asked me if I’d bring him a special present from California.
“Now you’ve got his hopes up,” Deirdre said, then took a deep breath. “Nana fell. She was cleaning out Dad’s closet and slipped off the chair. She has a fractured ankle. Practically a break.”
“Oh, no. Is she in the hospital?”
“She’s here, at my place, on the couch.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “We told her about the senior housing, and she got really pissed off at us.”
“Meaning