The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (27)
I let the sun warm my face as I remember with an illicit thrill that Robert’s tape is waiting for me, like an early Christmas present demanding to be unwrapped. The sooner I can find something to play it on, the better.
In the kitchen I make a plump stack of silver-dollar pancakes with streaky bacon and wait for Edward to emerge from the bedroom. I know I should tell him about the tape, about the conversation with his father last night, but selfishly I want to hear what’s on it first. That, and I promised Robert I would keep it between us, for now.
When Edward finally enters the kitchen, bleary-eyed and hungover, my desire for total honesty has thankfully passed.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I slip Robert’s tape into my pocket. I need to do a little research. If I want something to play the miniature cassette, I’m going to need to find a specialty store.
As I head out the door, Edward kisses me goodbye, a portrait of hungover shame. “Thank you for breakfast. You’re too good to me,” he says with a shake of his head. “And listen, I’m sorry again about last night. I should have prepared you better. I should have told you about…I’m sorry if you felt thrown in at the deep end.”
“It’s okay. It’s always weird meeting someone else’s family. Probably good I didn’t know about Bobby. It would have been another thing on my mind.”
He takes my hand across the table. “How did I get so lucky with you?”
I feign remembrance of our first meeting. “I think you picked me off from the herd while I was trapped. That sound about right?” I ask with a grin, the hard plastic angles of R.D.’s cassette tape digging into my thigh with almost anthropomorphic insistence.
* * *
—
Out on the blustery streets of Manhattan I check my route again before heading down a set of subway steps. The temperature has dropped in the city in spite of the cobalt-blue sky, my fingers already red and numbed as I swipe my MetroCard. I was warned about New York winters; they sneak up on you.
After a little googling, I managed to find a secondhand electrical store down in the Financial District. The store specializes in used audio and recording equipment, so if I can get my hands on a Dictaphone, I could be listening to Robert Holbeck’s story before the day is out. I would be lying if I said the idea of that alone wasn’t enough to propel me across town.
The tiny tape Robert handed me last night is an Olympus XH15 microcassette, placing its time of manufacture firmly in the late 1990s. According to the internet, I need a similar microcassette recorder to listen to it.
Although the tape is old, it’s impossible to know when he recorded it. I get a jolt of excitement at the thought of hearing a younger Robert’s voice, his words coming to me directly from the past. I wonder what the tape will tell me about his life, his family, his children.
As every writer knows, even if a story is pure fiction, there are truths hidden in there—about the writer, about the time it was written—that are incontrovertible. I get a now familiar shiver of guilt as I hop through the doors of the subway carriage and slide into one of its glossy plastic seats. I shouldn’t be this excited about hearing Edward’s father’s voice.
But thoughts are just that: thoughts. It’s impossible to police them, and as long as they stay just thoughts, I have no reason to feel guilty—do I?
I put this odd little infatuation down to two very simple things: early-pregnancy hormones and novelty. I haven’t had access to Edward’s family until now and I’m getting carried away. This mild obsession with Robert is just an obsession with everything to do with that family, with Edward’s life before me, as shrouded in mystery and exoticism as it is.
I’m no psychoanalyst, but I’d say there’s definitely some orphan/daddy stuff thrown in there too for good measure. But fantasies are fantasies, and I haven’t actually done anything wrong.
I relax back into my seat, my eyes flitting over the packed subway carriage. A sleeping girl with headphones on catches my attention, her face so peaceful as the subway rattles on around her. I used to be able to do that back in London, sleep on the Underground, but I don’t think I ever could here. Then, breaking the tranquility of the moment, I notice a man beyond the sleeping girl staring at me.
He isn’t looking at the girl; he’s looking directly at me. As soon as I catch his eyes, he stands and calmly slips deeper into the busy train car, as if caught. As if I knew him or he knew me.
I repress a sudden urge to jump up and follow him, to confront him. Oddly, I can’t help but feel this has something to do with the Holbecks. The knowledge of Robert’s tape and what might be on it is burning in my mind.
The train doors slam open and a fresh batch of travelers bustle on, replacing those that disembark. I watch the crowded platform beyond, hoping to catch a glimpse of him disappearing, but he is nowhere to be seen.
I run his appearance back through my mind. White, mid-forties, short brown hair, dark trousers, dark sweater, nondescript jacket, and a dark baseball cap. All deliberately unassuming.
Before I can stop myself, I am up on my feet and making my way farther into the car, in the direction he went. I dodge through the packed carriage as it shudders on, my nerves tightening into a ball in my throat. I know how irrational I am being right now. I have no logical reason to be doing what I am doing. I’m just following an instinct.