Page 21 of The Things We Never Say

“I know, you tell me that every night.” Artie was reading a biography of Elon Musk. “And I keep telling you it’s riveting.” And it was. Elon Musk’s father was an awful man. Elon most likely had Asperger’s and had always been a strange child, and his father had been unspeakable to him. And after the pandemic Elon was becoming more like his father.

“Ah-hah!” said Artie a few minutes later, and Evie put down her own book and said, “What?”

“This is fascinating. Turns out that Musk had a son that transitioned, and now she just hates him. Wow. She became a Marxist and said that all his money was disgusting and she went to court to get rid of his name, to get rid of anything to do with him.”

“Who can blame her,” Evie said, but not with any interest.

“Oh!” Artie placed the book open on the covers. “I saw a woman today that could have been Maria. At the marina. Only this woman was confident and had some money.”

“So she couldn’t have been Maria,” Evie said, turning over, away from him.

Artie picked his book up and began to read again.

Three nights later Artie was startled awake, and in the darkness he thought: Rob is in trouble.

He understood after a few moments that this was because of his son’s reaction to him in the hospital. Artie thought it over. Why would Rob have thought that Artie was trying to die? His son had said, “You can’t do that,” meaning Artie killing himself. His son had said something about Artie being the leader, like one of the robots that explored the Moon first, before the men walked on the Moon, he had told Artie that he was his explorer, and that if Artie killed himself, then it gave his son permission to do that too. And as Artie lay there next to his sleeping wife he understood: Rob has thought of suicide. Even if he doesn’t do it, he has thought of it. Even if he is happy with this new Rachel, he has thought of it. Artie could feel a sheen of sweat break out, and he stayed awake the rest of the night. Beside him he heard his wife breathing, then turning over, breathing deeply again. Artie did not move.

—

In the morning Artie texted Rob: Son, are you okay? And Rob got right back: Yeah, why? Artie wrote: No reason, just thinking about you. And Rob texted back: I’m good.

—

It was a Wednesday, and on Wednesday nights Evie worked late, not getting home until nine o’clock. On these nights she—who did most of their cooking, because she enjoyed it—would leave Artie a plate of food to microwave for his supper, and then, when she got home, she would take out a plate that she had prepared for herself and microwave that while she told Artie about the people she had seen that day.

So after school on this particular Wednesday, Artie got into his car, and as he started to drive home he took a different road instead and drove to Somerville. He was surprised that there was not that much traffic, and at first the sun was falling against his windshield and practically blinding him, but it became almost dusky by the time he finally got to Rob’s apartment building. He managed to find a parking space right out front, which pleased him, and he pulled into it and sat there in the car. It was only four-thirty, and he did not want to interrupt Rob, who was most likely working (from home, as so many people did these days). As he sat there, he saw his son walking down the sidewalk toward the building. Artie watched as Rob moved past other people, he saw Rob pause as a woman and her child blocked him for a moment on the sidewalk, and then Artie got out of his car.

“Dad!” He could tell that Rob was amazed to see him, and why not? “Dad, are you okay?” They were standing under a streetlamp that had just gone on. Dead leaves were stuck to the sidewalk by their feet, giving off a vaguely earthy odor. A few people walked past them.

“I’m great,” said Artie. “Just wanted to see you.”

Rob seemed to hesitate and then he said, “Okay, but why? Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Not a thing is wrong, just felt like seeing you. Where’s Francesca these days?”

“Still here. Not right now, but obviously I haven’t moved out yet. She’s getting back from Paris tomorrow.”

“How’s your work going? Still saving the country?” Artie knew that Rob could not discuss the specifics of his job—as a software engineer employed by a company that had government contracts—but he still thought he should ask.

Rob looked away, his eyes were squinted, and Artie saw—he thought he saw this in the dusky light—his son trying not to weep.

“Come on in,” Rob said then, holding his arm toward the door of the building, and so Artie followed him in, the place looked like hell from the outside, one of the apartments on the ground floor was boarded up, but on the second floor, inside Rob’s apartment, Rob went around turning on lamps and Artie looked about and said, “Awfully clean.”

“Yeah, yeah, the cleaning woman came today.”

He did not know that Rob had a cleaning woman. Artie sat down at the kitchen table while Rob slipped his jacket off, and then Rob sat down across from him. Immediately Rob stood up. “Let’s go into the living room,” he said, and so Artie heaved himself up and went and sat in the easy chair that Rob indicated for him, and he looked around. He thought, as he had before, that the place was an odd combination of a college apartment and a grown-up home. Grown-up because of the bookshelves and the grand piano, and framed artwork on the walls, but a college kid’s place because of the plants that hung in the window, Artie remembered them from when he had first met Evie, spider plants they were called, and they hung with their skinny green-and-white leaves spurting forth.

Rob pulled out a chair from the dining table and, sitting on the edge of it, said, “I just don’t know why you came here.”

Artie studied his son’s face, but Rob looked away. And after many moments of silence, Artie said, “Son, what’s wrong?”

And then—

And then Artie watched as his child began to weep, sounds coming from his mouth and tears slipping from his eyes, the kid scrunched his face and tried to hide it with his hands, and Artie waited, though he felt a tremendous fear.

He watched his son pushing against his face, sitting further back in the chair now, and then after a few moments Rob said, leaning forward, “I have to tell you something.” He took a big breath, Artie could hear the kid’s shaking breath, and then Rob said, looking Artie in the eye, “You’re not my father.”

The words were like tiny pebbles tossed at him; they made no impact. Artie finally said, “What do you mean I’m not your father?”