didn’t matter at the moment. I sat there and waited for my father to come downstairs and I don’t know how much time had passed …
He hadn’t bothered to put on the lights. But a feeble shaft of light penetrated the room from the other part of the cellar and it struck a Ping-Pong ball. The ball lay suspended in the darkness like a miniature moon. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, and then he heard his father’s voice.
“Adam?”
His father calling from the top of the stairs.
“Adam, are you down there?”
Adam didn’t answer. His father must have sensed his presence, however, because he began to descend the steps, blocking out part of the brightness that spilled in from the cellar outside the recreation room. His father advanced to the door of the paneled room and saw him.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked. “Amy called a while ago and I told her you were on the way to her house.”
He looked up at his father. His good father, that worried look on his face. Whatever had happened, he trusted him completely. But Adam still didn’t speak. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid of the words that might spill out of him, the questions he didn’t want to ask, the answers he didn’t want to hear. But at the same time, he wanted to know, he wanted to know everything. He was tired of pretending that nothinghad happened, that the second birth certificate didn’t exist, that he had not listened to that phone call. He was tired of faking it, being a fake.
“Are you okay, Adam?” his father asked, a frown of concern on his forehead. His father sat down beside him on the couch.
Adam looked at the Ping-Pong ball. It was no longer a moon, just a ball.
“What’s the matter?” his father asked, voice light and bantering now, the same kind of voice he used with Adam’s mother during her bad times.
Adam closed his eyes. And then without planning, without preliminaries, he said, “What’s it all about, Dad? Who’s Mr. Grey, or is he Mr. Thompson? Who’s that woman—Martha’s her name—that Mom calls every week? What’s going on, Dad?”
He knew that by asking the questions he was betraying himself, admitting that he had been spying and eavesdropping. And he also knew, deeply and sadly, that the answers would change his life, that there would be things in his life, in their lives, that he hadn’t known before. Maybe that’s why he had delayed the questions from the very beginning. Because he didn’t want things to change. But the questions had been asked now. And he opened his eyes to confront his father.
“Jesus,” his father said, and Adam wasn’t certain whether his father was swearing or praying. “Jesus,” he said again, sighing, a long sigh, weariness in the sigh and sadness, too, such sadness.
His father touched his shoulder. A gentle touch, a caress, really. “How much do you know, Adam?”
“I’m not sure, Dad. Not very much.” His voice sounded funny, an echo-chamber voice.
“Of course. I’m still not playing fair with you, asking that. You’ve suspected something for a while now, haven’t you? I’ve seen you looking at me, at us, your mother and me, studying us. And lately you’ve been skulking around the house. Listening. Brooding. At first we thought it was Amy, that you were mooning about her. I tried to convince myself of that because I’ve always dreaded the day when you’d ask certain questions.” He sighed again. “And now the day is here …”
“Are you going to tell me, Dad, what it’s all about?” Adam asked. “I’ve got to know.”
“Of course you have to know. It’s your right to know. You’re not a child anymore. I’ve been telling myself that for a long time. But there never seemed to be a good time for it …”
T
:
And did he tell you?
A
:
Yes. Yes, he told me.
T
:
And what did he tell you?
A
:
That my name is Paul Delmonte, that there is no Adam Farmer.
(15-second interval.)
T
:
Are you able to proceed?
A
:
Yes. I’m
He hadn’t bothered to put on the lights. But a feeble shaft of light penetrated the room from the other part of the cellar and it struck a Ping-Pong ball. The ball lay suspended in the darkness like a miniature moon. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, and then he heard his father’s voice.
“Adam?”
His father calling from the top of the stairs.
“Adam, are you down there?”
Adam didn’t answer. His father must have sensed his presence, however, because he began to descend the steps, blocking out part of the brightness that spilled in from the cellar outside the recreation room. His father advanced to the door of the paneled room and saw him.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked. “Amy called a while ago and I told her you were on the way to her house.”
He looked up at his father. His good father, that worried look on his face. Whatever had happened, he trusted him completely. But Adam still didn’t speak. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid of the words that might spill out of him, the questions he didn’t want to ask, the answers he didn’t want to hear. But at the same time, he wanted to know, he wanted to know everything. He was tired of pretending that nothinghad happened, that the second birth certificate didn’t exist, that he had not listened to that phone call. He was tired of faking it, being a fake.
“Are you okay, Adam?” his father asked, a frown of concern on his forehead. His father sat down beside him on the couch.
Adam looked at the Ping-Pong ball. It was no longer a moon, just a ball.
“What’s the matter?” his father asked, voice light and bantering now, the same kind of voice he used with Adam’s mother during her bad times.
Adam closed his eyes. And then without planning, without preliminaries, he said, “What’s it all about, Dad? Who’s Mr. Grey, or is he Mr. Thompson? Who’s that woman—Martha’s her name—that Mom calls every week? What’s going on, Dad?”
He knew that by asking the questions he was betraying himself, admitting that he had been spying and eavesdropping. And he also knew, deeply and sadly, that the answers would change his life, that there would be things in his life, in their lives, that he hadn’t known before. Maybe that’s why he had delayed the questions from the very beginning. Because he didn’t want things to change. But the questions had been asked now. And he opened his eyes to confront his father.
“Jesus,” his father said, and Adam wasn’t certain whether his father was swearing or praying. “Jesus,” he said again, sighing, a long sigh, weariness in the sigh and sadness, too, such sadness.
His father touched his shoulder. A gentle touch, a caress, really. “How much do you know, Adam?”
“I’m not sure, Dad. Not very much.” His voice sounded funny, an echo-chamber voice.
“Of course. I’m still not playing fair with you, asking that. You’ve suspected something for a while now, haven’t you? I’ve seen you looking at me, at us, your mother and me, studying us. And lately you’ve been skulking around the house. Listening. Brooding. At first we thought it was Amy, that you were mooning about her. I tried to convince myself of that because I’ve always dreaded the day when you’d ask certain questions.” He sighed again. “And now the day is here …”
“Are you going to tell me, Dad, what it’s all about?” Adam asked. “I’ve got to know.”
“Of course you have to know. It’s your right to know. You’re not a child anymore. I’ve been telling myself that for a long time. But there never seemed to be a good time for it …”
T
:
And did he tell you?
A
:
Yes. Yes, he told me.
T
:
And what did he tell you?
A
:
That my name is Paul Delmonte, that there is no Adam Farmer.
(15-second interval.)
T
:
Are you able to proceed?
A
:
Yes. I’m
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