Page 22 of The Things We Never Say

Rob stood up and immediately sat down again. “Okay, this is what happened. Seven months ago, I get this letter from that piece of shit Reginald MacDonald, who wrote me from his piece of shit deathbed and said that he was my father. That you and Mom had had trouble conceiving and so he had”—and here Rob made a sarcastic gesture of finger quotes—“accommodated Mom and then she had me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Artie said, even as his mind scrambled to take in what his son was saying.

“The whole fucking thing is ridiculous,” Rob said. “Only it’s true.”

“How do you know it’s true?” Artie asked.

Rob got up and went to his desk and pulled something from the far back of a drawer and handed it to his father. “Read it,” he said.

Dear Rob, [the handwritten letter said]

I can imagine the surprise that will accompany you upon your reading of this document.

I am writing this because I have only a small amount of time left to live on this Earth, and I want you to know the truth.

The truth (dear boy) is this: I am your biological father. And as far as I have discerned over the many years of knowing both your parents quite well, this is a fact that you are not yet aware of.

Your mother had difficulty conceiving a child with your father, and over time she became rather desperate. And this is when I accommodated her desires and—to make very short matter of things—you were conceived.

You may well wonder how long this arrangement went on between us, and I will tell you it was for about three months. Was your mother ever in love with me? I do not believe that she was. But because of what we were “up to” (so to speak), certain feelings did arise, and yet I believe on her part they subsided rather quickly once the job was done.

My wife, Flossie, has no knowledge of this, and I do not believe your father does either, though I could be wrong, but a recent visit from your mother to see me on this godawful deathbed indicated to me that she had never told him.

(I will have one of the nurses deliver this letter to the post office, I have looked up your address online.)

Why am I telling you? Ego. I have thought this through and have arrived at that conclusion. I never had a son of my own, as you know, and I do not want to leave this world without laying claim to the one that I did have.

Also, there are medical issues that might arise.

I have left a sample of my DNA with the [and here he specified a particular lab at a particular university] so that you may go and test your own to see if we are a match. And you will find that we are.

I have watched you from afar over the years and feel great affection for you.

Sincerely,

Reginald MacDonald

Artie read the whole thing through again (dear boy?), although in truth his eyes did not take in all the words, they were like small spiders crawling across the page. Then he folded up the letter carefully, put it back in the envelope, and handed it back to Rob. He said, “Rob, this is just not true. Your mother got pregnant in London when we went over there together.”

Rob let out a huge breath and said, “Oh, Dad. It’s true because I went to the lab, and I had the fucking test, and he was right. He was fucking right.”

Rob’s face was pale and so vulnerable that Artie thought: Be careful. But he said nothing. He did not know what to say. He finally said, “Well, if it’s true, it makes no difference to me.”

“It’s true,” Rob said.

They sat in silence.

Then Artie said, “How do you know the DNA sample was actually his?”

“It was his. And if it wasn’t, whose would it be? I was a perfect match with it. Oh, Dad, I wish this hadn’t happened to you.”

“It happened to you,” Artie said. “If, in fact, it happened.”

Rob stayed silent for a long time, and then he looked at his father with sadness and said quietly, “Dad, it’s true.”

“Does your mother know you know about this?” Artie asked after a few moments.

“No. Except for her screwing him twenty-eight years ago. No, she doesn’t know that I know.”