There had, in fact, been MacDonald novels in the house when Gerry was young and he credited his father’s detective stories with ushering him over the threshold into the world of adult books. His memories of MacDonald were nothing but fond. But he was thrown off by his father’s appearance and his words came out brackish, belittling. He had breached the basic etiquette of a book tour, in which the author must always be kind, no matter how ridiculous the question.
And no matter if it was asked by your wastrel father, who, go figure, had shown up as Gerry was finishing his victory lap. Ten weeks on the New York Times bestseller list and counting, a film option, and now his publisher was going to re-release his three previous novels in handsome new editions with covers in the style of Dream Girl.
Gerry Senior had to want something. But what?
Not an autobiographical book. He didn’t even have the decency to buy a copy. But he lingered as Gerry signed books for the hearteningly long line of customers. Gerry’s media escort, a busty divorcée who had been dropping hints about sleeping with him—lots of jokes throughout the long day about how hilarious it is that she’s called an escort, etc., etc.—pegged his father, lingering at the back of the room, as trouble. He could sense it in her body language, how she made sure to stand in what would be Senior’s direct path, should he try to approach. But his father remained where he was, his back against the science fiction section. Did anyone see the resemblance? It killed Gerry how much he looked like his father. The Andersen genes were strong—in the rare photos that show him with his father’s family, you could always pick out who married into that tribe of blue-eyed blonds. His mother appeared outlandishly petite and dark in the family holiday photo taken when Gerry was not quite two. Legend had it that Grandmother Andersen had leaned over and hissed to her son: “Is she a Jewess?”
Books signed, stock signed, chairs folded, time for Gerry to make his getaway and, lord knows, the escort seemed eager to escort him. He didn’t really have the energy for much, but if she wanted to do a little something in the car, that could work for him. He was a single man, unencumbered, a consenting adult.
He was about to slide through the bookstore’s rear exit when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“I guess you’re surprised to see me.”
Gerry shrugged.
“You seem to have done pretty well for yourself. How many copies of this book have you sold?”
A question Gerry hated, although at least the number was finally respectable. It seemed to him that only novelists were asked, in this indirect way, how much money they made.
“I’m doing fine,” he said. “What do you want?”
“To see my boy, of course.”
“I’m not your boy.”
“How’s Ellie?”
“Fine.”
“I bet she’s bursting with pride.”
“She’s always been proud of me, yes.”
“Yeah, once you came along, she didn’t really have anything left for me. When I would come home from being on the road, I felt like an interloper, like you two were the couple and I was the kid.”
Interloper. Gerry’s father had always liked to show off his vocabulary, much of it learned from the old Reader’s Digest feature Build Your Word Power. He took the quiz very seriously and woe to anyone who dared to mark it up before him.
But had his mother treated his father like an interloper? Gerry didn’t think so. His mother had lit up when his father walked into a room. She was a young, still quite beautiful woman when he left, yet she never dated again, and it wasn’t for lack of opportunities. It was always clear to Gerry that Gerry Senior was the only man his mother ever loved. He considered that unrequited, undeserved devotion the singular tragedy of her life.
“What do you want?”
“I’m going to be leaving Colleen.”
“Who?”
“My second wife.”
“Down from two wives to one to none. That will be different for you.”
“Maybe I’ll swing by Baltimore, pay your mother a visit. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
Gerry’s right hand was sore from signing, but he felt his fingers clench and unclench. God, it would be satisfying to punch him, just once. “Why would I care that you’re leaving Colleen? What does that have to do with me? What do you have to do with me?”
“You’ll never be rid of me,” his father said, pointing to Gerry’s head. “I’ll always be in there. You’re my boy.”