"I noticed you didn't have one," Richard says.
At dinner, Richard hands out even more presents. The brother and his wife look at Richard like they feel sorry for him.
"How come we're not having cake?" the little boy says.
"Because it's not really a party," one of the adults says.
"If it's not a holiday, then why are we getting presents?"
"Because Uncle Richard came to visit."
"Are you coming back again soon?" the little boy asks.
THE PHONE RINGS — "It's Barth and Ben!" one of the girls announces. "They're in Ohio." They put the phone in the middle of the kitchen and push the speaker button, and everyone stands around.
"Is the car running well? Are you getting good mileage?" the brother wants to know.
"What did you have for lunch?" one of the little girls asks.
"Are you enjoying yourselves?" the mother asks.
"I sent you some video. It should be in your e-mail."
"Uncle Richard is here," the little boy says.
"Really? Hold on, let me get Ben."
"That's weird, really weird. Dad — what are you doing there?"
"Just came for a visit."
"Does Mom know where you are?"
"No, I didn't think I had to tell her."
"She knows," Meredith says. "We talk, I hope that's OK."
"Fine," Richard says, "it's fine." He had no idea that they talked, that everyone was so in touch.
He picks up the receiver, turning off the speaker, and presses the phone to his ear. "So how are you?" he asks, trying to sound chipper and not terrified, because suddenly he is terrified. He's talking to Ben in front of an audience, they're standing there watching, and Richard is worried he's not going to do it well enough.
"Good," Ben says. "How long are you staying there?"
"Just the weekend. I had to get out of the house — it was going downhill. So how's it going? Any big adventures so far? Sleeping under the stars?" There is silence. "You still there?" Richard asks.
"Yeah, uh, Dad, can we just talk when I get to L.A.? I mean, it's like I never talk to you and now you want to talk all the time."
"I want to hear about the trip. I like knowing that you're OK."
"I'll tell you about it when I see you. I'm OK, I'm always OK."
"All right, then," Richard says. "I won't keep you."
Richard hands the phone back to Meredith. "All done?" she asks.
"Apparently."
Meredith and the children each talk to Barth and then pass the phone to their father. Richard stands listening; he hears the ease with which his brother and nephew speak, the ease with which his brother addresses Ben; he feels the full weight of the years he missed, the gap between how he is and how he wishes he could be.
When they are done, the entire family stands over the father's computer. The movie begins. There's Barth standing outside the apartment building in New York, holding up a cardboard sign with Magic Marker lettering: "My Big American Adventure."
"I bet Ben made that; he's really good at art," the sister-in-law says.
"Welcome to our magical mystery tour," Barth says. "This is our tour bus, the trusty 2002 Volvo Cross Country wagon, with all-wheel drive, rear-window defrost, a global-positioning system, and we're off to see the wizard."
And then Ben steps into the picture; it's like seeing someone you only ever dreamed about. The images are jerky, like footage from an early moonwalk. But it's Ben, Ben all grown up. Ben as a man/boy with facial hair and muscles, Ben on the cusp of something larger — Big Ben. It hadn't occurred to Richard that Ben would look different, older. Barth and Ben are talking, but Richard isn't listening, he's just looking, studying, mesmerized. He'd never thought that Ben would look so much like him.
Ben looks like Richard, like Richard and the ex-wife. He's the kind of combination that only DNA can make — a little bit of this, a little bit of that. He can hear himself in Ben's voice, but he sees her in Ben's mouth — Ben has her mouth. Richard bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying.
"When did you last see him?" Meredith asks.
"Not since September," Richard says. "Nine months."
THEY ARE STANDING around the computer watching, and the phone rings. His sister-in-law answers and hands it to him.
"Me?"
She nods.
Who would be calling? Ben, to say he's sorry — that, yes, he does want to talk to Richard every day, twice a day even?
"Hello?" Richard says.
"You're going to hate me," the crying woman says. "I did a really bad thing." He doesn't say anything. "Sorry to bother you," she says.
"It's fine," he says. He can't imagine what she could have done.
"I don't know what I was thinking," she says. "I invited my family to come to the hotel. The room was so big and luxurious — it felt strange to be here by myself, and I thought it would be a way of making up. I was feeling a little bit better, more hopeful. After the kids went to sleep I tried to be romantic; my husband couldn't have been less interested. He said there was no way you were letting me stay here without wanting something, and what was it? I told him it wasn't sex and he got paranoid and said you were going to try and get money from him. I said you had enough money and he said there's no such thing and in the morning he made us check out but only after they raided the minibar, had room service, and ate like pigs. I'm so sorry." She starts to cry. "They were like a herd of elephants."
"Don't cry," he says. "It's not worth crying about." He walks out of the room, taking the phone with him. "It's only money."
"I packed your salmon, thinking it shouldn't go to waste, and I got in the car with them. And then, a few blocks down, at a red light, I opened the door and jumped out. I ran all the way to Santa Monica, walked into the emergency room at St. John's, and said, I think I'm going crazy. They thought I was a homeless person. I'd tripped at one point and sort of fell off the road into some dirt, and so I looked gross. When I tried to explain that a man I'd met in the grocery store had put me up at the Four Seasons and that I'd invited my husband and kids to come for the weekend and it hadn't gone well, they asked if I had a history of psychotic episodes. Was I hearing voices or seeing anything out of the ordinary? And when I tried to leave, they said they weren't sure it was advisable. I signed out against medical advice. As I was leaving, a nurse said I should enroll in something called day treatment — apparently it's like being in a mental hospital during the day but you're home in time for dinner. She said it helped her son. I told her that being home in time for dinner never helped any woman with children and got the hell out of there."
"Where are you now?"
"Standing outside Ralph's, on the pay phone."
"Do you want to go back to the hotel?"
"I don't think that would work. When are you coming home?"
"I could come tomorrow," he says.
"That would be good."
"Are you going to be all right? I can make you a reservation somewhere else."
"I can take care of myself. Ralph's is open late — they know me here."
"Talk to you tomorrow," he says, hanging up.
"It's nice that you've got someone," Meredith says when he hangs up.
"It's not what you think; it's a crying woman that I met in the produce section."
"I should get the kids ready for bed," she says.
He is still thinking about the crying woman, still holding the phone in his hand. He calls his ex-wife. "What's the name of that place you go to in Los Angeles, the spa?"
"Which one?"
"Where you don't bring anything and they feed you based on your age and weight."
"Golden Door? It's about a hundred and fifty miles outside of L.A."
"It's a long story, but I have a friend who needs to get away."
"Call and pretend you're from my office — why are you whispering?"