Page 28 of The Things We Never Say

“Oh, I think it’s true, DNA doesn’t lie, but I only meant it sounds unbelievable.”

“I know.” Artie wiped his mouth on his napkin and said, “But my son and I love each other as much as we ever did.” He paused before adding, “Maybe even more, if that’s possible.”

“Of course you do. Of course you do.” Ken nodded energetically. Then he said, “What about your wife?”

“Yeah.” Artie glanced down. “I haven’t told her yet that I know about it. Not sure when I will. And Rob’s not sure about telling her either.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ken said. “Jesus effing Christ.”

Artie pushed back his plate. “Well, you’re the only person I’ve told, so thank you for receiving it.”

“Thank you for sharing it.” Ken added, “My sister-in-law always says ‘Thank you for sharing.’ ” He rolled his eyes. “But I really mean it. Thank you for sharing this, Artie.”

The election came and went. Half of the country was stunned, the other half jubilant.

On the morning after the election, as Artie walked through the living room on his way out the door, he had a very clear and sudden image—this came to him so sharply that he stopped walking for a moment—of a large steel door in front of him that was sliding down from the top of a massive doorway, as large as a wall, and as it reached the bottom, the strip of light that shone from underneath the huge steel door was gone.

He was stupefied, although he had predicted the outcome of the election.

A text came from Rob: Dad, we’re fucked. And Artie wrote back: I think we are.

Evie said, “Well, it’s bad, but we’ll just have to wait and see what he does.”

—

Late that night Artie sat down at the piano, and he began to play a tune he had kept hearing in his head. It was slow and sad, and as he played he understood that it was two things: a requiem for the world, and a love song to his son.

Through the window only one light could be seen on the bay.

A few days later Artie was sitting in the teachers room when he saw Rob’s name appear on his phone, and he said “Oh, excuse me” to Anne Merrill, and he walked out and said into his phone, “Rob!”

Rob said, “Hi, Dad, are you free now? I just wanted to know how you’re doing with the election and stuff.”

Artie’s face broadened with pleasure—he was talking to his son—as he walked through the gym where a whistle blew, holding his phone to his ear.

“How am I doing? Makes me sick, the whole thing,” Artie said.

“Yeah, me too. Francesca wept for thirty-six hours straight, I mean straight, I was really worried about her. Then she stopped and said, ‘I’m going to get a manicure.’ She never gets a manicure, you know, she’s afraid of getting an infection because she depends so much on her hands, of course, but she went off to some expensive place and got one.”

“Good for her,” Artie said, and Rob said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Artie was going to ask about Rachel, but he did not.

“What’re we going to do?” Rob asked, and Artie said, “I suppose we’ll live through it.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.” Artie walked through the back door of the gym and went outside. It was cold, but he did not care; he would have stood in a blizzard just to talk to his son. He said, “When this lunatic was running for president the first time, your mother and I would watch their party’s debates, and one night he said about one of his competitors onstage with him—or maybe he said it after the debate, I can’t remember—but at some point he said, ‘He looks like a girl,’ and what I remember, Rob, was that every time afterward—every time—I saw that other man I saw him as a girl. And it struck me then: I thought, if he can do that to me, think what he can do to others, and that’s when I realized: He has a particular kind of evil genius.”

“He’s an idiot,” Rob said.

“He is,” Artie agreed. “But he is also an evil genius.”

“It’s Musk I’m worried about,” Rob said.

“You should be. I’ve been reading his biography, and he is very, very smart and very, very crazy.”

“You’re reading it? I just read it too!” Rob added, “His father is awful.”