DAN McCALL
THE GENTLEMAN CALLER
The Gentleman Caller
by Dan McCall
Synopsis
“My big brother drank himself to death at 49. He said what were to be his last words to me, over the phone, long distance from his Indio, California home to mine in Ithaca, New York: “Take care of my boy-- Robert’s got to get out of here—by the time he’s twenty-five he’ll be dead or in the penitentiary.”
So begins The Gentleman Caller from novelist Dan McCall. And despite the warnings-- “He’s so much trouble—all he’ll do is break your heart”— the narrator (Tom) is compelled by a sense of loving obligation to offer to host Robert in his home for a year and help turn his nephew’s life around. Robert’s been going from bad to worse, he’s hanging out with violent friends and is struggling with alcohol and pot and even crystal meth. Tom, an English professor at Cornell University, provides some unusual “therapy” in the only way he knows how—to mentor his nephew by exposing him to great works of literature. Tom—who himself struggles with addiction—seems a most unlikely man to provide a “rehab house” for Robert, but the tender and intense bond the two men share produces some surprising results.
Excerpt
I went inside to make myself another cup of coffee, and when I looked back out the window, there he was—Robert. I said to myself, My God, he’s turned into Clint Eastwood (in my mind I heard the guitar and the rattlesnake), he looked so dangerous, all in black, including his stiff cowboy hat and boots. He was talking to the black Lab. Then he took off his hat and shirt. Over six feet now, lean sculpted muscles, a sunburst tattoo on one bicep and a big fierce eagle on the other. He took off his socks and neatly folded his pants. Tattoos of rabbit tracks led down from the small of his back and disappeared between the buttocks (I was later to learn that his father had given him that nifty decoration for his 18th birthday). Robert stood naked for a moment by the edge of the pool, a K-Mart Greek God, and then dove in, disappearing for what must have been a full minute.
When he re-surfaced I went out to the pool and bent down: he came up and looked at me with those ferocious green eyes of his. Clearly he knew why I was here. His voice was perfectly pitched, “Hey Uncle T”—somewhere between funereal and an almost sweet ‘Long time no see.’ He waded to the shallow end, climbed out and shook himself like a dog, and grabbed a towel. I slapped away his extended right hand, and we embraced—his wet arms around me, damn near crushing me, Jesus, the kid’s strong.