The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [71]
I’d seen him during a book tour only a few years earlier, but he had aged far more than that, and indifference again began to slough off me, molten Kevlar. Worse than the visible changes—the weight loss, the hanging skin, the hair that was sparse where it had been full and vice versa—was his way of talking. “I have an idea, something I’ve worked on a little, been sitting on, more accurately” were his first words to me in years.
“Hi, Dad.”
And then he said, “Arthur, thank you for coming. It is good to see you.” He nodded awhile, his thoughts unraveling. “I have an idea.” He went back to where he’d started. “Something I’ve worked on a little.”
“Sil died,” I said.
That seemed to take the wind out of him. He nodded and looked at his speckled hands. “Gentle Silvius. Yes. Your sister wrote about that. He was a good fellow. And he did right. He took good care of her.”
“He did.”
“Which was my job.”
“Yes.”
That stopped us both. We waited, both sensing that this conversation wasn’t going to be what either of us had planned or even grown accustomed to over Formica tabletops past. But then he began his prepared remarks again, like an inexperienced tour guide trying not to be thrown off by questions: “I’ve been sitting on it, more accurately. It will be something nice for your mother. And your matched princes of Bohemia, too. It will be good for everyone. This idea. I’ve been waiting a long time, trying to wait as long as possible, without waiting too long.”
This seemed to take a lot of energy to explain. He flagged and I hurried to fill the gap, to pick up what I thought he was saying: “Dad, I know. Me, too. I’ve waited too long, too. I’ve left so much for too long.”
This disappointed him: “Yes, but.” It took no time at all to see that he knew I was heading toward some emotional outpouring and wanted me to stop, and so I stopped myself, but that was okay, even funny. I would not make the mistake of expecting too much of him. I could feel myself re-arming, and he said, “I’m not trying to be rude. I—you’re a famous writer.”
“Not that famous.”
“But you’ve written all these books,” he insisted with a look of despair, almost panic, as if my thoughtless act of reflexive modesty had not only persuaded him but also presented a problem. “You still have a publisher, right?”
“Yeah, I do. I was just saying that I—”
“I’m not trying to be rude. I know how you must feel. I’m old. But that’s the point. I made it. And so now you and I—we are going to do something together, okay? I have been waiting. Something great. I need you. You’re the only one I can do this with. You’re a famous writer. That’s a great thing you’ve done. I am so proud, you know. I don’t know who to tell how proud I am. And I haven’t told you. You make wonders, Arthur.”
It is difficult to overstate the effect of these astonishing words, the flood that washed away all my indifference, that proved how shallowly that dye had ever stained me. My home life was in tatters, my judgment was askew, and now I was hearing this impossible revelation from an ancient, broken man who bore some relation to my so disappointing father and my distorted childhood, suddenly hearing the words I’d been waiting to hear for decades, being told now, of all the days of my life, that I had somehow measured up to the best of him: I was sobbing, coughing, as I never had in any family visit since I was a kid.
“Thank you. Dad, thank you.”
“But listen.” He was sitting up a little straighter, having absorbed something from me. “So this idea. Now I have to. I want your help. I can’t without you. I have to. This is for your mother. Do you have another book in the works? Are