And Sons. David Gilbert
It must be him, he thought. This was by far the longest piece of correspondence he had ever received from his father, who normally preferred Post-it notes attached to an article or a book. In the writing he heard the echo of his authorial voice, strong and unsentimental and, best of all, for Andy alone. It was like a first game of catch.
You have your fans here too. People come up and ask me about you and I don’t know what to say and I just kind of stand there and mumble and hope they’ll lose interest and walk away. I think they must think I’m a jerk. Or possibly brain damaged. You can’t win. Like with your name. Sometimes I feel like I’m dropping your name even if it’s my name too and I feel like a loser, like I’m using you, like I’m so insecure I need a hit of your fame. You become a means instead of a plain old Dad. Even worse, everyone assumes I must be a genius like you.
I still don’t like Exeter much. In fact, I hate it more.
I’m glad you have email now. Have you heard of instant messaging? My God, do you text? Blog? Facebook? Tweet and Tumble and Flickr? Pittypat? (I made that last one up.) A
It was exciting, and scary, to communicate with his father in this way, but it also seemed safe and self-contained, without the fear of a quick rebuttal or a stupid thing said, just the words themselves. And maybe for the first time in a long time Andy enjoyed writing. He spent an hour on the above reply, tinkering with the style, the voice, the rhythm, trying to re-create himself on the page, this son who might stand before his father. And he liked this Andy. This Andy seemed smart and funny and open. And then, this Andy was crushed.
I need to stop this. I am not your father (forgive the reverse Darth Vader). My name is Jeanie Spokes and I work with your father’s agent. I am so sorry. I thought you were joking. Not true. I thought if I could fool you, I could fool anyone. I’ve been in charge of your father’s email for the last couple of months, creating a master list of his readers for marketing and publicity purposes, and sometimes, well, I answer a few. I know it’s wrong wrong wrong, it’s downright fraud, but I’m very respectful and people seem to appreciate the replies and I have to say there’s a real hunger out there for your dad. I’m sorry, that’s no excuse. I really like this job and I’m only twenty-four but if you need to tell someone, I understand and I won’t hold a grudge or anything. I should get fired. BTW, I went to Dalton. I hear Exeter is like crazy hard unless you’re a brain. I love your dad’s books. You sound sweet. Again I am so sorry and whatever you do, I totally understand.
Forever ashamed,
Jeanie Spokes
PS. I love IMing. Pittypatting as well.
What an idiot, Andy thought, to mistake his father for a girl, probably an intern, probably one of those literary groupies, even if she did do a decent job of capturing his voice, or what Andy imagined his voice might sound like in email form, but instead his father was a spoiled brat from Manhattan who enjoyed toying with the vulnerable, which doubly sucked because it seemed like he was getting somewhere with his dad, really talking, like a friend instead of a reflection. Andy was pissed. Who did this girl think she was and what did she mean by sweet? He reread her emails and between the lines emerged a sneaky yet apologetic and perhaps beholden twenty-four-year Dalton grad, a school known for its attractive, progressive-minded girls, a likely bookworm who thought Andy was a genius and might not frown on his seventeen years of virginity. Pittypat indeed. He decided to email her back. His response was only seven words but it took three days to compose and one day to send, and though it was nothing like the real Andy, it was truer than anything he had ever written.
Dad, you are a very naughty girl.
The next day, they were IM’ing. And the rest is, well, Andy sat on those church steps and saw no point in leaving. Why walk away now? Time’s gamble had already proved him to be a loser, might as well be the biggest loser possible. He had left school a few days before the official start of spring break just so he could attend this funeral with his dad. Another spin of the wheel. Most of his classmates were going skiing or hitting some tropical clime, while Andy was staying put. Another spin. He was going to see a bunch of movies and hang with his fellow New York captives but mainly, hopefully, have sex if Jeanie Spokes ever—
“Andy?”
He heard his name rattle into a slot and turned and saw her standing near the steps, grinning awkwardly. She had reasonable good looks, like many a reasonable girl at Exeter, the product themselves of reasonable mothers, always with dark hair never cut too short and surprisingly bad teeth—if not crooked, then yellow; if not yellow, then with large gums—and naturally UV-protected skin, glasses almost mandatory but stylishly framed (their most overt fashion choice), bodies solid but never fat, athletic from those reasonable genes that had survived past feminine hardship and now chased field hockey balls instead of wayward sheep, this type of reasonableness not necessarily smart but often very focused, and not guaranteed plain Janes because there was plenty of sex appeal and humor in that reason, a sharpness that stood in contrast to the groundless swell around them, so that these girls, these women, with their chunky jaws and dirt-brown eyes and honest opinions of themselves, held the secret of their own common sense, which, if discovered, would shock you blind. These women often work in publishing.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as if towing a heavy piece of luggage.
Andy smiled and got up. “That’s okay.” It was strange. Here she was, a voice, a face, a context, Jeanie Spokes as a specific presence in front of him, breathing in the same air, warmed by the same sun, all of his previously imagined shapes and forms and fantasies, those liquid details—and there were plenty, many of them more beautiful than this version—leaking into her and filling her with everything he ever wanted, leaving him with the peculiar sensation of feeling both drained and overflowing.
“Traffic was crazy,” she said. “I had to jump on a subway.”
“No problem.”
“And the subway took forever.”
“No problem.”
“Just a mess.”
“No problem.”
“You look a lot like your dad,” she said, tilting her head.
“Well, we are related, you know.”
She—success—smiled, her lips rolling under like she was hiding something in her mouth, a small round pebble, and Andy could sense her flirty enthusiasm, which is by far the greatest aphrodisiac, knowing that your smile is being returned, possibly twofold, in that lovely escalation of mutual assurance, and he thought, This is really happening, the happening part still undefined.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said.
“Same here. Really nice.”
“I almost didn’t come. Still not sure if this is such a good idea.”
“Oh, it’s a great idea,” Andy said. “I bring all my first dates to funerals.”
Jeanie flinched.
“What? Date?” he asked, confirming his possible miscue.
She nodded without affirming.
“How about something in the fig family then?”
“I should just go.”
“No, no, no, unfair, you just got here, and we’re conversing, and this is pleasant, right, this is nice, and informative, don’t forget that, and I’ll stop with the crazy fruit talk, no dates, no figs, I promise you, unless you’re looking for a tasty kumquat ’cause I know a guy.”
She seemed to swallow that pebble. “You’re seventeen.”
“That’s like a hundred and fifty in dog years. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.”
She smiled.