“I’m not in New York. Moved back home a few months ago.”
“To Chestnut Hill?” Teddy laughs, incredulous. “Why would you do that?”
“Mom’s sick,” Sam says, numb with cold.
There’s a burst of laughter in the background. “What’d you say, Sammy?”
“Mom’s sick,” he repeats, irritated that his father isn’t walking out of the room to find some place quieter to talk to his estranged son. “She needed help.”
“Sorry to hear that, son.”
“And I got married.”
“Married! You’re kidding.” He whoops out a holler. “What’s her name? It is a her, right? Never can be too sure these days.”
Sam forces a laugh, like he’s supposed to. “Her name’s Annie.”
Sam hears muffled voices in the background. “Oh Jesus, Sammy. You’re never going to guess who’s here.”
“Peter Angelos?” Sam offers.
“No.” Teddy lowers his voice to a whisper. “Cal Ripken.”
Heat floods Sam’s face. Cal Ripken, his all-time hero. The man who brought father and son together one hundred and sixty two evenings a year. Hearing his name, Sam is twelve years old again, his mom in the kitchen making homemade spaghetti sauce for Sunday dinner. The house smells like garlic bread, and his father’s face is tight with concentration, watching number 8, old Iron Man himself, take the field.
“Should I talk to him?” his dad asks.
“Are you kidding?” Sam stands up and begins pacing back and forth across the street. “Of course you should. It’s Cal fucking Ripken.”
“Cal fucking Ripken,” his dad repeats.
“Who’s he with?” Sam asks.
“Can’t tell,” he says. “He’s surrounded.”
“I bet he is. How’s he look?”
“Good,” his dad says. “Still in great shape, too. Oh look. He’s with some old broad. That can’t be his wife.” Teddy chuckles. “You remember the day we watched him break Lou Gehrig’s record?”
Sam stops pacing. “Yeah, Dad. I remember.” It was the day you met Phaedra, stupidest name in history.
“That was a great day, wasn’t it, Sammy?”
Sam laughs. “A great day? Are you kidding me?”
“You all right, Sammy?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he snaps. Do it Sam, get it over with. “Listen, Dad. I’m calling about the money you deposited into Mom’s account. I went to the bank, and there was some discrepancy—” There’s more commotion and then loud music.
“Things are starting here, Sammy. I have to go. Can I give you a call later?”
“Later? No, Dad, I need—”
“We’re getting ready to head off for the winter, down to one of Phaedra’s places in the Caribbean. Nice, huh?”
Sam stops in the middle of the street. “We who?”
“Me and the missus,” Ted says.
“You and Phaedra are still married?”
“What are you talking about? Of course we are. Better than ever, in fact.”
“I thought you got divorced. You said in the letter—”
“Letter? What letter?”
“The letter about the money. On your stationery.”
“No idea what stationery you’re talking about.”
“Dad,” Sam says, stern. “The letters you’ve been sending me. Asking me to call.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy, but are you drunk?”
“Drunk? No—”
“Hang on a minute,” Teddy says. “Phaedra wants to say hi.”
“Sam!” Her voice is breathy, as stupid as her name. “I heard your dad say you got married, which is a real bummer. I opened a bridal veil store. I could have hooked you up. Next time you get married, send her our way.”
Ted’s back on the line, laughing. “Real good hearing from you, son. You should come down. We got plenty of room. Gotta run. Take care.”
The line goes dead in Sam’s hand, the realization crystallizing.
His father’s not divorced.
Which means there was no settlement.
Which then means that—
There is no money.
“She made it all up.” Sam says the words out loud.
His mother made it up.
His father didn’t write that letter Sam found. And not only that, it appears from what he said that he didn’t write any of the letters. The stationery. The assurances that his father thought about him, that he loved him, always ending it with an invitation to call, which Sam never did. It was all her—Margaret—the whole time, desperate to make everything okay.
His phone rings in his hand, and he closes his eyes again, allowing himself an absurd moment of hope that it’s Ted, calling back, apologizing for being a dick and asking if Sam’s got a pen. Realized I wrote the account number down wrong, Sammy!
But it’s not him, it’s an unknown number. Again. The dude from the debt collection agency. He says his name is Connor, but there’s no way his name is Connor because he lives in India making two dollars a day and Sam can’t imagine many boys are called Connor there. He’s called twice today already, from the same unknown number.
“Hello, Connor,” Sam spits into the phone. “It’s nice of you to call again. It’s been five hours and I’ve sort of missed you. Also, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a psychologist and I’d suggest you look hard at some of your life choices because honestly, this job you have—”
“Sam?” It’s a woman’s voice.