The Roberts Page 5

  Robert waited for a bit more detail. Julian, however, appeared to believe that he had done his part.

  “Something special,” Robert repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Special and…what else?”

  Julian thought for a moment. “Distinctive.”

  “Distinctive.”

  “Yes. And original.”

  “Of course.”

  “Different from everything else.”

  “You want something different.”

  “Yes.”

  “Unusual.”

  ”Yes. That’s right.”

  “Unique? Would you go that far?”

  “Yes. Exactly. I would. Something unique.”

  Robert nodded and stroked his chin. So far he had learned next to nothing. He might as well have been talking to a stump.

  “That’s very helpful. Very useful. Thank you. You said big. How big?”

  “Up to you.”

  He sincerely doubted this. “What’s the budget? Who’s in charge? Where’s the money coming from? Public? Private? Both?”

  “Private,” said Julian. “Although I expect tax incentives.” He gave Robert some rough numbers. “We have a group of investors. Fiduciary decisions rest with them. Artistic ones with you.”

  “Why do they want a museum? These investors. Apart, I know, from how vital it is to preserve and showcase my fiasco. What’s in it for them?”

  “They’re very wealthy people. They want to spread some of that wealth. Give back to the community.”

  “Tax write-offs.”

  “Sure.”

  “Land swaps?”

  Julian shrugged. “I’m not at liberty.”

  “Do you have a site?”

  This was arguably the most important detail of all, and Julian was uncharacteristically coy. “I think you’re going to like it.”

  “Where is it?”

  ”If you could choose a place—anyplace…any city, any site—where would it be?”

  Robert felt a flutter in his chest.

  Julian stuffed his hands in his pockets and casually strolled to the window.

  “If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, you can’t see it,” said Robert. “Not anymore.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I don’t know. I got tired of staring at it. It was a tease.”

  “You can’t have everything, I guess. Not every time.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not available.”

  Julian turned to face him. “No? What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve checked. Believe me.”

  “Interesting. When I checked, it was.” He paused for effect. “We’ve made an offer. I expect a counteroffer any day.”

  Robert was stunned. An inner voice warned him not to get his hopes up. The list of obstacles to such a project was long.

  “The city…” he began, starting with the first and foremost obstacle, but Julian cut him off.

  “Is behind us. More museums, more tourists. More privately funded museums, less drain on the public coffers. More privately funded museums designed by a world-renowned, native son…what could be better? You’ll be a hero. Civic pride is going to pop.”

  Robert was not quite convinced. “I know who owns that piece of land. They haven’t wanted to sell it for fifty years. What makes you think they’ll sell it now?”

  “Robert. Let me ask you something, and I mean no disrespect. Are you a businessman?”

  “I try to be.”

  “Of course. But on a scale of one to ten, what would you say? One being someone who loves to wheel and deal, ten being someone who loves to doodle and dream and do just about anything else.”

  “I don’t see myself as a number.”

  “Exactly. The people I’m working with, they don’t have money by accident. If they want the deal to happen, chances are it will. You can tell me all the reasons that it won’t, but why bother? It’s yours if you want it, Robert. It’s been yours ever since I’ve known you.”

  The words hung in the air, and after a while Robert joined Julian at the window. The building that blocked the view was tall and sleek and rectangular, like a trailer stood on end. It was far from the worst of the new buildings. It wasn’t ugly, just boring. It brought nothing to the skyline but another box.

  “Want to take a drive?” asked Julian.

  Robert didn’t need a drive. He could see the site as clear as day. And the building he would build, he could see that too. It formed itself in his mind just as it had the day Grace inspired it.

  “Sure,” he said. “Let’s.”

  How and where he found the time for it, with all his other work, he never knew, but he did, squeezing, coaxing, milking, wheedling, teasing every second. When he finally came up for air, three months had passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Grace had spent an evening—or even much more than an hour—together. They made a date, but at the last minute, when Robert No.2, who of late was sporting a beret and calling himself Rōbert, an affectation calculated, it seemed, to annoy his progenitor (which it did), fell ill, she had to cancel. This led to a quarrel the following morning, Robert accusing No.2 of obstruction and manipulation. Not to his face but to Grace, who found herself in the strange and challenging position of defending a man against himself. “He was sick,” she said. “Conveniently,” observed Robert. “I don’t know why you say that. He had a rash. You get rashes.”

  “Yes. And I take care of them myself. And they go away.”

  “He had welts all over his body.”

  “On his face?”

  “Yes.”

  Robert conceded that welts on the face were no picnic. “He should have come to me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have medicine.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant why would he come to you when it’s clear you don’t like him? What would be the point?”

  “I like him. I made him.”

  ”You don’t like No.3 either.”

  “No.3’s scared of me.”

  “Not really. He just prefers to be around people who are nice to him.”

  3, thought Robert, was a poster boy for nice. “So then how come he likes to be around No.2?”

  “Rōbert’s nice to him. The two of them are friends. Good friends.”

  “I can’t imagine what he sees in him.”

  She gave him a look. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then I’d say the same thing you see in yourself.”

  “Now that’s a scary thought.”

  She suffered this with the thinnest of smiles, remaining silent until his attempt at humor all but hung itself. They were not, Robert felt, off to the very best of starts.

  He tried a different approach. “Are they nice to you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I care. Because that’s what they’re for.”

  “Yes. They are. Always.”

  “You don’t ever feel left out?”

  “Why would I feel that?”

  “I don’t know. Two of them, one of you?”

  She shrugged.

  “You do,” he said.

  “It’s not like that. The three of us, we’re a family. We come together. We go our separate ways. We interact.” This seemed the spice of life to her, its very essence, and when he didn’t respond, when he just stood and looked at her, she had a sudden, jolt-like thought. “Maybe it’s you who feels left out.”

  The image of 2’s face, swollen with welts, rose up in Robert’s mind, vivid and visceral, and he wondered if Grace had touched him with her soft and tender hands, touched him and healed him, and his stomach clenched, for he knew she had.

  “I did last night,” he said softly. “Not that I had any right.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. And she was. “Maybe there should be two of me.”

  This drew a smile. “It’s go
od to see you, Grace.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  They were in the living room, facing each other, and now it became clear how desperate they were to connect. But they were shy, like young lovers, each afraid to make the wrong move. Robert felt he’d somehow failed Grace. To Grace the only failure would have been not to do what both of them so plainly wanted.

  The boys were downstairs and occupied. There was really no reason for restraint. Grace was the first to take action. She held out her hand. Robert hesitated, not from reluctance to take it but from relief, and from wanting to savor the moment, the full meaning and impact of reconciliation and love. When at last he slid his palm into hers, he felt a shiver down his spine. They embraced, and shortly afterwards retired to the bedroom.

  To Robert it seemed like a lifetime since they’d made love. Grace was unquestionably the most beautiful, responsive woman he’d ever known. He was instantly aroused and began to kiss her, beginning at her face and moving slowly and methodically downward, as though to possess her, inch by intoxicating inch. Her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly…her skin impossibly soft and warm and sensual. She spread her legs to him, and he slipped his head between them, ever so gently caressing her tender parts with his tongue and lips. She quivered, then started to heave, and he pulled back, positioning himself to enter her, and in the process noted a mark on one of her thighs. Somehow he had missed it earlier. It appeared to be a bruise, but it didn’t seem to hurt her. In fact, she didn’t even know it was there, until he pointed it out. In retrospect, this was a mistake, for if he hadn’t, he could have made up his own story as to how it appeared. She could have bumped herself. Strained and popped a blood vessel. But once mentioned, it could no longer be ignored.

  “It’s a hickey,” said Grace, craning her neck to see it. “I guess.”

  “You guess.”

  “Seems like one.”

  “From whom?”

  “Robert,” she said.

  “Me? I don’t remember.”

  Silently, she swore. It got so confusing sometimes: even though they acted differently, when all was said and done, the three of them were extremely alike. Especially Robert and Robert’s Robert, the Robert he had given her. “I mean Robert No.1. I mean 2. Rōbert!”

  The blood drained from Robert’s face. “You two have been having sex?”

  Grace was still aroused, and given the choice between fulfillment and frustration, she much preferred the former. “Can we maybe talk about this later?”

  He looked at her, confused and hurt, and it was clear there was no possibility of deferring the discussion. As his penis shriveled, at a rate only slightly less than it had grown (what a marvel, thought Grace, and what a pity to say goodbye), she sat up. In response to the cold look in his eyes, she covered herself with a sheet. She didn’t quite understand the fuss.

  “Isn’t that why you gave him to me? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I wanted you to have someone to talk to. To do things with when I wasn’t around.”

  “This is a thing.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing I had in mind.”

  “But you made him. He’s just like you. He is you, Robert. If you like it, why wouldn’t he?”

  “He is not the point.”

  “No? Then what is?”

  “You are. I am.”

  She drew a breath and slowly let it out. “Okay. That’s nice. You’re right. I can deal with that.” She held out her arms to him, as though the healing could now commence.

  But no.

  “How was it?” he asked dully.

  Several exceedingly unpleasant seconds elapsed as he waited for her to respond, which she did not..

  “Was it good? Did he say he loved you? What did you reply, Grace? Did you pant? Did you moan? Did you purr?”

  “Stop.”

  “I’m trying to understand.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Understand and empathize. Experience it from your point of view. Because strange to say, I think I already know his.”

  “You act as if I betrayed you. But I was only being myself. And you’re the one who made me. I was only being who you made.”

  “Well then maybe I should have made somebody else.”

  It was a terrible thing to say, but Grace refused to be blamed. “Don’t say that. It makes me think you don’t love me.”

  “I adore you,” he said miserably, and he knew right then, as well as he knew anything, that Robert No.2 had said the same. And he knew how he had touched her, and kissed her, and fucked her. And he knew how she had fucked him. And the look on her face afterwards, the softness, the flush, the radiance, he knew that too, and how she had floated around the house, disturbing nothing, as if in a dream.

  “Don’t be jealous, Robert. When I’m with him, it just reminds me what a good man you are. It makes me love you more than ever.” Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. “As if I could.”

  Dear God, thought Robert, what had he wrought? He was helpless before her. As his soft little mushroom began to stir, he realized it was pointless to be jealous. If he wanted Grace to himself, he had to make himself available. Either that or get rid of the competition. Would it be called murder or suicide, he wondered, if one killed one’s duplicate? Or perhaps, he thought, brightening, it would simply be seen as a very late—and eminently sensible—abortion.

  As much as he possibly could, Robert steered clear of his rival, and when he couldn’t, when they passed on the stairs or in a hall, he ignored him. As a strategy for improved relations, this was not well-conceived. Eventually, he realized its futility and, swallowing his pride, he went to No.2 to talk things out.

  2 received him coolly. He’d been ill-treated; no one, least of all a Robert, liked to be ignored. He did, however, understand the reasons. He knew about jealousy and possessiveness and how they fed on each other and grew until they drove out all else, turning a man into a slave, thwarting love and kindness, poisoning the mind and heart. They were a sign, he believed, of insecurity, a lack, not a surfeit, of love. He suggested, somewhat cryptically, that Robert expand his thinking, look beyond Grace and learn to love himself more. With that he excused himself, leaving much unanswered and unsaid.

  It was a troubling conversation, which Robert tried to parse in the days that followed. 2 had made no concessions. Notably, he had not agreed to stop seeing Grace. Rather, he had put the burden on Robert, who, it must be said, did not bear it well. He remained jealous, though to his credit he tried to keep it to himself. He was about as successful as most jealous men were, and Grace had the fortune of being the principal beneficiary of his triumph.

  She was in the kitchen one evening, sifting through their latest argument, when Robert No.3 entered the room. The two of them often made dinner together. It was something they shared, the pleasure of giving pleasure, in this case, the pleasure of preparing and serving food.

  Tonight she was making a chicken and vegetable casserole, and No.3 grabbed a paring knife and joined in. He asked about her day, and eventually the conversation turned to their living situation. The Robert Wars, as 3 liked to call them. He wondered what, if anything, Grace was going to do.

  “I know you’ve talked to them,” he said.

  “Til I’m blue.”

  “Any progress?”

  She sighed. “What’s that?”

  “Have you thought of moving out?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To take a break. Get away.”

  “I don’t want to move.”

  “Of course not. But look how miserable you are.”

  She was. “It shows?”

  ”Like a news report.”

  “They’re acting like children.”

  “Like brats.”

  “Like apes.”

  No.3 smiled. “Maybe if they would just beat their chests and bellow. Get it over with.”

  “They do.”

  “Brutes,” he said emphatically.
<
br />   “If they would only do it outside. Then at least I wouldn’t have to watch. Now that would be progress.”

  “Like I said, a little separation… “

  He was dicing a carrot, each cut measured and precise. Fussy almost. Like Robert, Grace thought, with his cut-up cardboard project models, built to perfection. Like and unlike.

  “You do trigger them,” he said.

  “Do I?”

  “Well I know I don’t.”

  “They trigger themselves.”

  “Bang bang.”

  “They do.”

  “Men in close quarters. What can you do? It’s either love or hate.”

  Some hair had come loose and fallen into her face, and she pushed it back, tucking it behind an ear. Almost immediately it worked its way free, and again she pushed it back, and then again, as though soothed by—indeed, as if dependent on—the repetition.

  “What was it like before?” No.3 asked.

  “Before? What do you mean?”

  ”Before we arrived. What was it like then?”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “Were you happy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Lonely?”

  She thought about it. “It’s hard to remember.”

  She wasn’t being evasive. For No.3 too, and also for Rōbert, the past was often vague and difficult to recall. In real time the three of them had only been alive a short while; in a sense, they were infants. New experiences piled up and quickly overshadowed older ones. “Now” was sharp; “then” went in and out of focus. As if time itself was unstable and couldn’t settle down.

  “Maybe I was. Sometimes. A little. But I managed. It was okay. Things usually are.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if it was like that again?”

  “Like what?”

  “Living with Robert.”

  “I do live with him.” She glanced at 3. Something wasn’t being said. “What’s this about?” Tick tick tick, and then she got it. “You’re the one who wants to move out.”

  “I want to do what’s best for you.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Then forgive me.”

  “Or for Robert.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She wasn’t. “Have you talked about this with No.2?”

  A smile flickered across his face at her use of that name. It was no mere slip of the tongue. He knew how her mind worked, being an echo of that mind. She was upset, and in response was establishing, or attempting to establish, her position in the pecking order, her place.