“She grew up in a foster home in Arizona. I don’t know exactly where.”
“How could you not know exactly where?”
“She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“But... she’s your wife.”
“So that means I have a right to make her unhappy?” There was an edge to his voice, a tightness in it.
Robin moved to the refrigerator, poured herself another glass of wine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just... I’m a little...” Robin took a long sip. The silence in her house. The emptiness. She could practically feel it. Who was she to lecture her father about what spouses should and shouldn’t know about each other? “You’re a good husband, Dad,” she said. “You’re a good person.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the Yankees game blaring. Kay made his way through a player’s stats and called strike one before her father spoke. “Robbie?”
“Yeah?”
“Is everything okay?”
“What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You and Eric?”
“He’s fine. We’re fine. He’s busy.”
“Mom seemed to think you two might be having some issues.”
“She did?”
“Look, honey, I know she always gives the best advice. But since she’s out, you know... I’m happy to pinch-hit.”
“Oh, jeez, Dad. Pinch-hit. Seriously?”
“I’ve got a pretty good batting average, you know. In the, uh, game of advice.”
Robin closed her eyes. Now in his late sixties and semiretired, Dad maintained a private practice in town, but for most of his career he’d treated the criminally insane on Wards Island, where she was pretty sure metaphors like that one would have gotten him murdered. “I wasn’t calling to talk to Mom about Eric.”
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“I swear.”
“All right. Sorry. I’ll let her know you called.”
She started to say good-bye, but he stopped her. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Have we been good parents to you?”
Robin blinked at the phone. “What? Of course you have. What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Dad?”
“I’m just thinking out loud, honey. Looking back...”
Robin took another swallow of wine, waiting for more. But there was nothing. Only her father’s slow exhale, the muffled sounds of the game. “Everything’s fine,” he said, finally. “You know how melancholy I get when the Yankees lose.”
This was true. He did. Even more so now that he was a little older and not talking to psychopaths all day and therefore no longer feeling the need to keep every emotion in check. After particularly disappointing games, Dad would go on about missed chances, stolen opportunities, how quickly the nine innings went by... all in such a way, it seemed as though he was talking about something a lot deeper than baseball. Mom would tease him about it sometimes.Maybe you and Steinbrenner should start a support group.Or a church.“They can still turn it around, Dad,” Robin said. “The game isn’t over yet.”
