an excerpt:
How the estrangement between himself and his boy came about, Martin could never exactly say, though he considered a hundred different explanations. He struggled to accept what he knew, at least in theory—that in the lives of men the widest gaps often open so gradually they are not seen forming.
But how had he not seen it?
With a true lawyer’s mind, his analysis of his relationship with Robert became strictly chronological. He rehearsed the sequence of events almost daily—at the golf course, over coffee, with his partners, with his friends, with anyone willing to indulge him. He laid it out as though it were a case to be tried and decided.
There was the tutor, hired to help the boy with math, reading, and science. She was closer to Martin’s age than to Robert’s, patient and attentive, and Robert grew very fond of her. So fond, in fact, that Martin could distinctly remember feeling a brief, sharp pang of something very much like jealousy.
Then there was, of course, the Covid outbreak. Robert was nervous at first—then almost paranoid. The pandemic came and went, but the boy never seemed quite the same. It left behind a certain fragility. School became harder. His grades slipped. The disappointments accumulated, and they certainly deepened the growing distance between them.
Martin never punished Robert for grades lower than an A. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. His restraint, he believed, came from a kind of caution—an emotional hesitation that should not have existed between father and son.
When Robert told his father that he would not be going to college, not pursuing a degree in anything—certainly not in law—Martin understood that the question of his future had to be faced directly. He had already abandoned the hope of seeing his son follow him into the profession, but he remained determined to make him into something.
He turned, naturally, to one of the men in his golf foursome—a business owner, steady, practical, accustomed to managing people. A job provider. A potential employer.
The friend offered, as a favor, to take Robert in for a time. He would give him a place to stay, train him in the mechanics of business, show him how deals were made and kept. He would mentor him. Pay him a little. Keep him busy.
Three months later, the two men met again at the course.
“Look here, Martin,” the friend said, resting his club against the cart. “That boy of yours is a charming fellow. But he’ll never make a lawyer. He’s meant for something better. You’re wasting your breath if you think he’s going to turn into one.”
“He’ll do whatever he is, I’m afraid,” Martin answered. And then he was furious with himself—for having exposed his son’s uncertainty to another man.
That afternoon he called Robert and forced himself to speak plainly. When pressed, Robert admitted he had no liking for the law and feared he had no aptitude for it either.
“Would you like to travel for a year?” his father asked.
Robert did not especially want to travel. He had never cared much for it. But he believed it would ease something in his father, so he agreed.
During his absence, he wrote home at regular intervals. The letters astonished Martin. They were observant, vivid, controlled. An account of an excursion from Dresden to Saxon Switzerland and on to Prague struck him as almost literary in its construction. He read those pages again and again, until he nearly knew them by heart.
Dear Father,
The hills outside Dresden slope gradually before they rise, so you don’t meet them all at once. The ground tilts almost without your noticing, and then you’re in it—trees above you, the river farther below than you thought. The foothills feel open because there’s space between things. Light gets through. You can see where you’re going. It made me think of Mom in the kitchen, the way she’d clear a space on the counter before starting anything.
