said Gilby with a tight-lipped smile.
“Why do you want to live with your horse?”
“Nobody tells me anything.”
“You mean that stuff in the Sentinel about the lawsuit?”
Gilby nodded.
“That’s how you learn. You read the papers. You know you’ll need a lawyer to fight this thing in court. You have any lawyer friends?”
“No.”
“Sure you do. Me.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“I’m your lawyer. Your mother hired me.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“We don’t tell you everything all at once. We parcel it out. We ever tell you about Einstein’s theory that light curves with gravity? We ever tell you how John Calvin tried to
cancel Sunday baseball?”
“Nobody even told me where I was born.”
“San Juan, Puerto Rico. I was there.”
“You were? Where’s Puerto Rico?”
“Down there in the middle of it all. It was a very hot day. Bright and sunny, the trade winds blowing in off the Atlantic, palm trees, sandy beach, whitecaps on the ocean. You were very
good-looking when you were born. You looked like a pineapple. We brought you back here in your father’s airplane right after you left the clinic with whatsername.”
“Aunt Pamela?”
“That’s the one,” Roscoe said.
“Why does she want me? She doesn’t even like me.”
“I don’t know anybody she does like. She wants money and needs you to get at it, even though she couldn’t wait to get rid of you. But your parents loved you and wanted
you even before you were born.”
“What’s my real name?”
“Gilbert David Fitzgibbon, as always. A stately name.”
“What’s stately?”
“Dignified, magnificent. Don’t let anybody change it.”
“Me and Alex have the same name, but he’s not my brother.”
“He’ll always be your brother.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“Then he’s your brother-cousin. Do you love him?”
“I guess so.”
“No guesses. Do you love him, yes or no?”
“Yes. But my father’s not my father.”
“No, of course not.”
Roscoe took off his hat and coat, handed them to Veronica, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He tipped over a bale of hay and stood on it, took Jazz Baby’s reins, threw his right leg up, and
mounted the horse.
“You gonna ride him?” Gilby asked.
“I might.”
“I didn’t know you could ride. You don’t have a saddle.”
“I used to ride bareback in rodeos. I was in ten or fifteen rodeos, one after the other.”
“You were never in the rodeo.”
“Well, you’re right, but your father and I rode bareback plenty down in Texas. They all ride bareback down there.”
“My father didn’t ride.”
“He gave you a pony, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And when you outgrew it he gave you a horse.”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn’t much of a father, because he never rode a horse, right? And he never took you fishing, never took you to New York to see the lights of Times Square, never introduced
you to Jack Dempsey, never gave you a bicycle or started a bank account so you’d have your own money, never sent you to one of the greatest schools in town, never taught you how to throw a
baseball and a horseshoe, never took you down to Hyde Park so you could shake hands with the President, never let you sleep with him and your mother when burglars were coming up through the steam
pipes, never took you to Laurel-and-Hardy movies and bought you White Tower hamburgers, but, hey, we all know he whipped you with his riding whip so you’d bleed all over the bed. We also know
he woke up every day of your life and talked to you about something important. I know, because I was in on a whole lot of those breakfast conversations. Can you possibly imagine how much your
father shaped who you are? And you say he’s not your father? Baloney gravy, kid. Who else would’ve done those things for you?”
Gilby looked at his mother and at Ticky, who kept nodding his head. Gilby wanted to say his father shouldn’t have tricked him,
“Why do you want to live with your horse?”
“Nobody tells me anything.”
“You mean that stuff in the Sentinel about the lawsuit?”
Gilby nodded.
“That’s how you learn. You read the papers. You know you’ll need a lawyer to fight this thing in court. You have any lawyer friends?”
“No.”
“Sure you do. Me.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“I’m your lawyer. Your mother hired me.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“She didn’t tell me that.”
“We don’t tell you everything all at once. We parcel it out. We ever tell you about Einstein’s theory that light curves with gravity? We ever tell you how John Calvin tried to
cancel Sunday baseball?”
“Nobody even told me where I was born.”
“San Juan, Puerto Rico. I was there.”
“You were? Where’s Puerto Rico?”
“Down there in the middle of it all. It was a very hot day. Bright and sunny, the trade winds blowing in off the Atlantic, palm trees, sandy beach, whitecaps on the ocean. You were very
good-looking when you were born. You looked like a pineapple. We brought you back here in your father’s airplane right after you left the clinic with whatsername.”
“Aunt Pamela?”
“That’s the one,” Roscoe said.
“Why does she want me? She doesn’t even like me.”
“I don’t know anybody she does like. She wants money and needs you to get at it, even though she couldn’t wait to get rid of you. But your parents loved you and wanted
you even before you were born.”
“What’s my real name?”
“Gilbert David Fitzgibbon, as always. A stately name.”
“What’s stately?”
“Dignified, magnificent. Don’t let anybody change it.”
“Me and Alex have the same name, but he’s not my brother.”
“He’ll always be your brother.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“Then he’s your brother-cousin. Do you love him?”
“I guess so.”
“No guesses. Do you love him, yes or no?”
“Yes. But my father’s not my father.”
“No, of course not.”
Roscoe took off his hat and coat, handed them to Veronica, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He tipped over a bale of hay and stood on it, took Jazz Baby’s reins, threw his right leg up, and
mounted the horse.
“You gonna ride him?” Gilby asked.
“I might.”
“I didn’t know you could ride. You don’t have a saddle.”
“I used to ride bareback in rodeos. I was in ten or fifteen rodeos, one after the other.”
“You were never in the rodeo.”
“Well, you’re right, but your father and I rode bareback plenty down in Texas. They all ride bareback down there.”
“My father didn’t ride.”
“He gave you a pony, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And when you outgrew it he gave you a horse.”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn’t much of a father, because he never rode a horse, right? And he never took you fishing, never took you to New York to see the lights of Times Square, never introduced
you to Jack Dempsey, never gave you a bicycle or started a bank account so you’d have your own money, never sent you to one of the greatest schools in town, never taught you how to throw a
baseball and a horseshoe, never took you down to Hyde Park so you could shake hands with the President, never let you sleep with him and your mother when burglars were coming up through the steam
pipes, never took you to Laurel-and-Hardy movies and bought you White Tower hamburgers, but, hey, we all know he whipped you with his riding whip so you’d bleed all over the bed. We also know
he woke up every day of your life and talked to you about something important. I know, because I was in on a whole lot of those breakfast conversations. Can you possibly imagine how much your
father shaped who you are? And you say he’s not your father? Baloney gravy, kid. Who else would’ve done those things for you?”
Gilby looked at his mother and at Ticky, who kept nodding his head. Gilby wanted to say his father shouldn’t have tricked him,
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