Itsy Bitsy Spider | Page 4

didn't cry when I told her that
Rob and I were getting divorced. I thought about Easter eggs and
raspberry Pop Tarts and when she sent me to Antibes for a year when I
was fourteen and that perfume she wore on my father's opening nights
and the way they used to waltz on the patio at the house in Waltham.
"West is walking the ball upcourt, setting his offense with fifteen
seconds to go on the shot clock, nineteen in the half ..."
The beanbag chair that I was in faced the picture window. Behind me, I
could hear the door next to the bookcase open.
"Jones and Goodrich are in each other's jerseys down low and now
Chamberlin swings over and calls for the ball on the weak side ..."
I twisted around to look over my shoulder. The great Peter Fancy was
making his entrance.

Mom once told me that when she met my father, he was typecast
playing men that women fall hopelessly in love with. He'd had great
successes as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar and Skye Masterson in
Guys and Dolls and the Vicomte de Valmont in Les Liasons
Dangereuses. The years had eroded his good looks but had not
obliterated them; from a distance he was still a handsome man. He had
a shock of close-cropped white hair. The beautiful cheekbones were
still there; the chin was as sharply defined as it had been in his first
headshot. His gray eyes were distant and a little dreamy, as if he were
preoccupied with the War of the Roses or the problem of evil.
"Jen," he said, "what's going on out here?" He still had the big voice
that could reach into the second balcony without a mike. I thought for a
moment he was talking to me.
"We have company, Daddy," said the bot, in a four-year-old trill that
took me by surprise. "A lady."
"I can see that it's a lady, sweetheart." He took a hand from the pocket
of his jeans, stroked the touchpad on his belt and his exolegs walked
him stiffly across the room. "I'm Peter Fancy," he said.
"The lady is from Strawberry Fields." The bot swung around behind
my father. She shot me a look that made the terms and conditions of
my continued presence clear: if I broke the illusion, I was out. "She
came by to see if everything is all right with our house." The bot
disurbed me even more, now that she sounded like young Jen Fancy.
As I heaved myself out the beanbag chair, my father gave me one of
those lopsided, flirting grins I knew so well. "Does the lady have a
name?" He must have shaved just for the company, because now that
he had come close I could see that he had a couple of fresh nicks. There
was a button-sized patch of gray whiskers by his ear that he had missed
altogether.
"Her name is Ms. Johnson," said the bot. It was my ex, Rob's, last name.
I had never been Jennifer Johnson.

"Well, Ms. Johnson," he said, hooking thumbs in his pants pockets.
"The water in my toilet is brown."
"I'll ... um ... see that it's taken care of." I was at a loss for what to say
next, then inspiration struck. "Actually, I had another reason for
coming." I could see the bot stiffen. "I don't know if you've seen
Yesterday, our little newsletter? Anyway, I was talking to Mrs. Chesley
next door and she told me that you were an actor once. I was wondering
if I might interview you. Just a few questions, if you have the time. I
think your neighbors might ..."
"Were?" he said, drawing himself up. "Once? Madame, I am now an
actor and will always be."
"My Daddy's famous," said the bot.
I cringed at that; it was something I used to say. My father squinted at
me. "What did you say your name was?"
"Johnson," I said. "Jane Johnson."
"And you're a reporter? You're sure you're not a critic?"
"Positive."
He seemed satisfied. "I'm Peter Fancy." He extended his right hand to
shake. The hand was spotted and bony and it trembled like a reflection
in a lake. Clearly whatever magic -- or surgeon's skill -- it was that had
preserved my father's face had not extended to his extremities. I was so
disturbed by his infirmity that I took his cold hand in mine and pumped
it three, four times. It was dry as a page of one of the bot's dead books.
When I let go, the hand seemed steadier. He gestured at the beanbag.
"Sit," he said. "Please."
After I had settled in, he tapped the touchpad and stumped over to the
picture window. "Barbara Chesley is