Son of Rosemary

  Moored to the wall above the dresser, a giant TV screen bloomed into color and music.

  “I’ll have maintenance give you a big one pronto,” Tara said. “This is the remote. Have you worked one?”

  “One like it,” Rosemary said, taking the button-studded paddle. “Clunkier.”

  Tara bent over, tiding Chanel. “It’s a snap,” she said, pointing that stinger-tipped nail. “Volume up and down, channels up and down. These are for the color.”

  Rosemary thumbed the TV picture from a happy woman holding a can of beans to a happy baby eating cereal to a somber newscaster with an I ANDY button on his jacket. She froze her thumb. The mustached Negro newscaster talked about wildfires in California.

  “This is an all-news channel,” Tara whispered in her ear. “It would be a good one to watch.”

  Rosemary, turning to her, asked, “Who’s Andy?”

  Tara stood up straight, drew in breath, and blew it out, pop-eyed. “Where to begin,” she said—and gazed moonily at Rosemary. “Andy,” she said, “is only the most beautiful, the most charismatic man on the face of the earth. He came out of nowhere a few years ago— well, out of New York but nobody knew him before— and he’s inspired and united the entire world. I don’t mean united politically, I mean in terms of—fellow feeling and willingness to cooperate and respect each other. We were in really bad shape, believe me, with all the crazies coming out of the woodwork for the year 2000, and gunfire in the streets and all. Andy made us like realize that whether we call Him God or Allah or Buddha, we’re all children of the same one God. He’s shepherding us into the year 2000—Andy, I mean—as one humanity, refreshed and renewed.”

  Rosemary, leaning against the pillow, looking at her, said, “That’s wonderful...”

  Tara sighed, smiling at her, and said, “You’ll see him any minute, guaranteed. GC runs a ton of commercials, all over the world, every language. That’s his organization, foundation—both, I think. I saw him live last June at Radio City Music Hall. Talk about mesmerizing! He doesn’t do many live appearances; mostly it’s TV specials. And he spends a lot of his time alone, meditating. He’s a very spiritual person but he’s got this fun, human side too. He’s just the greatest, everybody thinks so the buttons are in every language now even Braille!” She stopped for breath.

  Rosemary said, “What’s—his full name?”

  “Adrian Steven Castevet,” Tara said, “but he likes to be called Andy, by everybody.”

  Rosemary stayed looking at her.

  Tara nodded. “Whether it’s in a homeless shelter or a joint session of Congress,” she said. “No difference. That’s the kind of person he is. The first time he met there he is! Look!”

  Rosemary turned.

  Jesus!

  The paddle slipped from her fingers as she stared.

  He looked like Jesus—the calendar Jesus, not the hook-nosed Semite she had seen in NYU lecture slides. His longish hair and trim beard were tawny, his eyes hazel. His nose was straight, his jaw square.

  Hazel eyes? Andy?

  Where were his beautiful tiger eyes that had searched her own eyes so intently?

  He was wearing contact lenses—or he’d had some kind of operation that had been developed while she was out. Nothing could mask him from her though, not the hazel eyes, not the beard, not the twenty-seven years. Andy. Andy. Andy.

  “Oh foo, it’s the short version,” Tara said, as a golden sunlike symbol with GC in it appeared against a sky-blue background. “Isn’t he a gorgeous person? Isn’t he really someone special?”

  Rosemary nodded.

  “Keep watching,” Tara said. “You’ll see the long version. Other ones too. They’re the best commercials on TV. Famous directors make them.”

  Rosemary took the paddle in her hand and looked at it as if she’d forgotten its purpose.

  Tara said, “Are you all right?”

  Rosemary looked at her, and asked, “What does GC stand for?”

  Tara smiled at her. “God’s Children,” she said. “I’ll be back later.” She turned and headed for the doorway, and turned, pointing her stinger at Rosemary. “We’re going to find you your Andy,” she said. “Guaranteed!”

  She saw the long version of the same commercial and two different short ones in the next five minutes.

  Saw Andy at a distance, being applauded by an endless carpet of people in Central Park.

  On the deck of an aircraft carrier, blocks of sailors cheering.

  She saw Andy close up, looking her straight in the eye, warmly, lovingly, and a little playfully too. God, he had grown up handsome, the ordinary eyes notwithstanding. And she was being objective about it, not just his mother.

  She heard him now, his voice strong but gentle, with the same sandy, sort of, texture that had been there yesterday when he was six. He didn’t ask her to make a big thing about it, he just wanted her to give a little thought to the fact that we all really are descended from the same relatively small group of ancestors, whatever size, shape, and color they happened to be, and we really are all family. Did it make sense for us to be giving each other such bad times so often? Couldn’t we all lighten up just a little, and light our candles, and so on . . .

  She weighed it as she was lifted by Clarise and another nurse onto a gurney.

  As she was wheeled into an examining room.

  As Drs. Bandhu and Atkinson drew blood from her arm and passed electronic sensors over her limbs.

  Either she had done a really super job of mothering during Andy’s early years—or the coven had found a really super disguise for the son of Satan.

  That’s who he was, there was no more trying to look the other way. He was Satan’s son too, not just hers.

  But wouldn’t the coven, all its thirteen members, be dead by now? Even the youngest ones, Helen Wees and Stan Shand, had been in their sixties.

  Whatever Andy was doing with a foundation called God’s Children and its flood of commercials, it was his doing, not the coven’s. He liked to be called Andy; wasn’t that a good sign? From the very beginning, Roman had wanted to call him Adrian Steven— his father’s name and his own real one—but she had vetoed it.

  They’d had twenty-seven years to call him Adrian Steven or anything else they wanted. But he chose Andy.

  Maybe Summerhill had worked.

  She was sitting up in bed free of the IV, feeding herself soup, paused at one of the dozens of channels—the wife of a convicted murderer being interviewed by an unctuous jerk—when Tara came in hugging giant explosions of red roses and yellow and rust chrysanthemums. “Hi, look at you!” she said, carrying the bouquets to the dresser, berthing them there. “Nothing on your son yet, I’m sorry to say. They found forty-two Andrew John Woodhouses so far, but only one, in Aberdeen, Scotland, is the right age. He’s a triplet. I’m sure they’ll find yours.”

  Don’t count on it, Tara. “All these interview programs,” she said; “when I’m in decent shape, do you think I could get on one?”

  Turning wide-eyed, Tara said, “Are you kidding? These—are from them! This one you’re watching now, the roses, and his archenemy the mums. Somebody called somebody, who called somebody, who et cetera. Even as we speak, Channel Five is setting up across from the driveway.”

  Rosemary peered at her.

  “You’re famous!” Tara said. “Haven’t you caught the news? You’re the woman who came out of a twenty-seven-and-a-half-year coma this morning, and is now sitting up watching TV! And eating soup. You’re going to be in the Guinness Book of Records. Did they have that back then?”

  Rosemary nodded.

  “When you’re ready,” Tara said, “you can be on any program you want to be on.”

  “Good,” Rosemary said. “And I have sisters and brothers who should still be living, probably in Omaha; would you get your locator service after them?”

  “Maybe they’ll know where your son is,” Tara said, coming to the bed with her memo gizmo in hand.

  “I doubt it,”
Rosemary said.

  “How about his father?”

  She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Is there a famous actor named Guy Woodhouse? Stage and screen?”

  Tara shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “Did you ever hear of a Guy Woodhouse?”

  “Never,” Tara said, “and I see everything.”

  “Then he’s probably dead,” Rosemary said.

  Tara peered at her.

  Rosemary gave her Brian’s name and date of birth first, and then the others’.

  Guy must have died early in the twenty-seven years.

  Or Satan was a welsher—and why not? To mangle Oscar Wilde or whoever, once you commit rape, the next thing you know, you’re not paying your debts.

  For whichever reason, Guy hadn’t gotten his agreed-upon price for nine months’ use of her. He hadn’t become the next Olivier or Brando.

  Poor Guy.

  Sorry, no more tears.

  3

  ON TUESDAY evening, November 23, two days before Thanksgiving and two weeks after her miraculous awakening, Rip Van Rosie—the tabloids’ consensus—gave her first interview, live, on television.

  With her hair refurbished (compliments of the hot new hairdresser), wrapped in a stylish coat (compliments of a leading department store), she stepped from the long white limo (compliments of the network) that had carried her to the West Side studio from the Waldorf-Astoria, where that morning she had checked into a tower suite (compliments of the management). Bracketed by security men, she walked ably and bravely through a rudeness of reporters.

  “I was a production assistant at CBS-TV before I got married,” she told the makeup woman prepping her.

  “I heard that somewhere,” the makeup woman said, powdering.

  “In the sixties, women stayed home after,” Rosemary said. “At least I did.”

  “I could live with that,” the makeup woman said, brushing.

  Enthroned in a tall chair, her dress (compliments of a leading bridal salon) caped with a towel (compliments of the makeup woman), Rosemary couldn’t help but admire Aunt Peg in the mirror. Forty-five, tops. “You’re a magician,” she said.

  “You’ve got good bones,” the makeup woman said, spraying.

  “What’s left of them,” Rosemary said.

  She had chosen this program for two reasons: first, because it was broadcast live, so what she planned to say couldn’t be edited out—in case, surprise, they thought she was crazy; and second, because the host seemed intelligent and genuinely interested in his guests.

  She faced him across his narrow console, cameras lurking.

  “Tell us, Rosemary,” he said, leaning forward over his folded arms, “what was your very first thought when you came to?” He wore his customary shirtsleeves, suspenders, and I ANDY button.

  Rosemary smiled. Home free. “My first thought was of my son Andy,” she said.

  “Yes, I know you had or have a son somewhere named Andrew. So you’re really wearing your button for two Andys, right?”

  She took a breath—bless the man—and smiled down at her I ANDY button. “No,” she said, touching it, and looked up. “I’m wearing it for just one Andy—my son, Andrew John Woodhouse. We lived next door to people named Castevet, they were friends of ours. What happened, apparently, is after I went into the coma, they took care of Andy. Maybe they adopted him legally. I hope I’ll be able to find out soon, now that I’m on my feet.”

  The host stared through his glasses at her. He said, “You’re saying, Rip—Rosemary, that Andy, Andy Castevet, is your son?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know Minnie Castevet is supposed to have been his mother, but she was much too old. Our apartment, Andy’s and mine, was back to back with the Castevets’. That was in the Bram, the Bramford.” Her face remained on the studio monitors, the camera poring over her mouth, her eyes.

  “And . . . was Roman Castevet Andy’s father?”

  “No,” she said. “Andy’s father was my ex-husband, a man named Guy Woodhouse. I think he’s dead now.”

  The host, blinking behind his glasses, said, “That’s a stunning announcement, Rosemary Reilly. It’s common knowledge, you know, that the Bram was Andy’s boyhood home.”

  Rosemary said, “No, I didn’t know that. That it’s common knowledge, I mean.”

  “Have you tried to contact him?”

  “That’s what I’m doing now,” she said. “I thought it would be a way to save a lot of explaining, to a lot of people who would all be skeptical.”

  “We’ll find out,” the host said, smiling at her across the console. “Maybe we’ll be hearing from Andy before the end of the program.” He turned to the camera, looking skeptical. “You never know,” he said, close up. “We’ve had a presidential candidacy announced here, an embezzler arrested—why not Andy’s real mother? We’re going to take a break now, we’ll be back with Rosemary Reilly, ‘Rip Van Rosie,’ and we’ll have clips from Andy’s appearances here plus your phone calls—and maybe a reaction from Andy himself. You know you’re not going to touch that button!”

  Telephone companies all over the world registered their highest ever three-minute surge in usage.

  After two more breaks, the host leaned forward, shoulders hunched, and said, “Rosemary, during the last break we received a call from Diane Kalem, GC’s press coordinator, who’s also been a guest on this program. Andy is in his retreat in Arizona, but he’s been told about the claim you’ve made here tonight, that you’re in fact his mother. He’s been watching for the past quarter hour.” He glanced at the red-lighted camera—“Yo, Andy”—and looked back at Rosemary. “Diane tells me,” he said, “and it comes as no surprise, that Andy wishes you well with all his heart, and he joins everybody in congratulating you on your miraculous recovery.”

  Rosemary said, “Thank you, I thank him.” She glanced at the red-lighted camera.

  “Diane also tells me that Andy has a question for you. Will you try to answer it?”

  “Of course,” Rosemary said.

  “Andy would like to know,” the host said, as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of him, “if you remember exactly what you were doing when you fell into your twenty-seven-and-a-half-year coma.”

  Cut to Rosemary. “Yes, I do,” she said. “In my memory it was just two weeks ago. I was sitting at a desk by my bedroom window, an antique school desk with a top that lifts. I was typing a letter on an Olivetti portable.” She turned to the red-lighted camera. “Andy was lying on the floor on his stomach,” she said. “Watching television. Kukla, Fran, and Ollie.”

  The host, across the console from her, chuckled as she faced him. “Kukla, Fran, and Ollie...” He turned to the camera, shaking his head smiling. “It has the ring of truth to me,” he said. “We’ll wait to hear Andy’s reaction. You never know what’s coming next here. Malmö, Sweden, you’re on!”

  Andy asked for privacy, so another break was taken and Rosemary was shown into someone’s empty office, where the phone on the desk blinked red.

  She sat down, took a deep breath, and lifted the handset. Put it to her ear. Said, “Andy?”

  “Tears are running down my face.”

  Her tears welled.

  “They told me you died! I’m so angry—and so joyful, all in one moment—!”

  Neither spoke.

  She tried a desk drawer—locked—and another, looking for tissues.

  “You there?”

  Wiping with the side of her hand beneath her eyes, she said, “Yes, dear!”

  “Listen. My press coordinator is on another line with them. You don’t have to do the last segment if you don’t want to. Do you?”

  She weighed it, wiping. “I’ll do it,” she said. “He brought us together; I don’t want to leave him stuck out there alone.”

  He laughed in her ear. What a laugh. “I forgot how sweet you are. No, no, I didn’t forget. I’ll talk too. We’ll have to do a full press conference tomorrow, unless you don’t want to. Where did they pu
t you?”

  “The Waldorf,” she said. “This is weird! I’m talking with a grown man and it’s you! You were six two weeks ago, Andy!”

  “When will you be there, Mother?”

  “As soon as the program’s over!” she said. “As soon as I can get there!”

  “Figure on ten-thirty with traffic. I’ll be there at ten-forty-five.”

  She gaped. “From Arizona?”

  “I’m at Columbus Circle. I have an apartment here, over the GCNY offices. We’ll say I’m flying in. What’s your room number?”

  “I can’t remember! It’s a tower suite!”

  “I’ll be there. You’re gorgeous on television!”

  Laughing-crying, she said, “Oh my angel, so are you!”

  4

  THE CROWD outside the studio, expanding exponentially, was excuse enough for a quick getaway. Rosemary repeated Andy’s and her on-air promise to return to the program together, and went with the security men out a side door, through the kitchen of a Greek restaurant and a garage, to the limo waiting on Ninth Avenue—the escape route originally planned for just plain Rip Van Rosie.

  The driver, a champ, had her back at the Waldorf by ten after. The security men steered her through the buzzing lobby into the right elevator and up to the right floor, the thirty-first. A concierge ran a card through the door lock for her as she signed scraps of paper from the security men’s wallets.

  The message gizmo by the foyer phone read 37. She pushed HOLD and DON’T RING.

  By twenty of eleven she had showered, touched up the well-disguised old face—it still really sickened her—and was standing before the bedroom mirror pinning her I ANDY button to the least bizarre at-home garment among the mountains of stuff the stores had sent, a cobalt-blue velour caftan. Sort of.