Mom once told me that when she met my father, he was typecast playing men that women fall hopelessly in love with.  He'd had great successes as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar and Skye Masterson in Guys and Dolls and the Vicomte de Valmont in Les Liasons Dangereuses. The years had eroded his good looks but had not obliterated them; from a distance he was still a handsome man.  He had a shock of close-cropped white hair.  The beautiful cheekbones were still there; the chin was as sharply defined as it had been in his first headshot.  His gray eyes were distant and a little dreamy, as if he were preoccupied with the War of the Roses or the problem of evil. 

"Jen," he said, "what's going on out here?"  He still had the big voice that could reach into the second balcony without a mike.  I thought for a moment he was talking to me.

"We have company, Daddy," said the bot, in a four-year-old trill that took me by surprise.  "A lady."

"I can see that it's a lady, sweetheart."  He took a hand from the pocket of his jeans, stroked the touchpad on his belt and his exolegs walked him stiffly across the room.  "I'm Peter Fancy," he said.

"The lady is from Strawberry Fields."   The bot swung around behind my father.  She shot me a look that made the terms and conditions of my continued presence clear: if I broke the illusion, I was out.  "She came by to see if everything is all right with our house." The bot disurbed me even more, now that she sounded like young Jen Fancy. 

As I heaved myself out the beanbag chair, my father gave me one of those lopsided, flirting grins I knew so well.  "Does the lady have a name?"  He must have shaved just for the company, because now that he had come close I could see that he had a couple of fresh nicks.  There was a button-sized patch of gray whiskers by his ear that he had missed altogether.

"Her name is Ms. Johnson," said the bot.  It was my ex, Rob's, last name.  I had never been Jennifer Johnson.

"Well, Ms. Johnson," he said, hooking thumbs in his pants pockets.  "The water in my toilet is brown."

"I'll ... um ... see that it's taken care of."   I was at a loss for what to say next, then inspiration struck. "Actually, I had another reason for coming."   I could see the bot stiffen. "I don't know if you've seen Yesterday, our little newsletter?  Anyway, I was talking to Mrs. Chesley next door and she told me that you were an actor once.  I was wondering if I might interview you.  Just a few questions, if you have the time.  I think your neighbors might ..."

"Were?" he said, drawing himself up. "Once?   Madame, I am now an actor and will always be."

"My Daddy's famous," said the bot. 

I cringed at that; it was something I used to say.   My father squinted at me.  "What did you say your name was?"

"Johnson," I said. "Jane Johnson."

"And you're a reporter?  You're sure you're not a critic?"

"Positive."      

He seemed satisfied.  "I'm Peter Fancy."  He extended his right hand to shake.  The hand was spotted and bony and it trembled like a reflection in a lake.  Clearly whatever magic -- or surgeon's skill -- it was that had preserved my father's face had not extended to his extremities.  I was so disturbed by his infirmity that I took his cold hand in mine and pumped it three, four times.  It was dry as a page of one of the bot's dead books.   When I let go, the hand seemed steadier.  He gestured at the beanbag.

"Sit," he said. "Please." 

After I had settled in, he tapped the touchpad and stumped over to the picture window.  "Barbara Chesley is a broken and bitter old woman," he said, "and I will not have dinner with her under any circumstances, do you understand?"   He peered up Bluejay Way and down.

"Yes, Daddy," said the bot.

"I believe she voted for Nixon, so she has no reason to complain now."  Apparently satisfied that the neighbor weren't sneaking up on us, he leaned against the windowsill, facing me.  "Mrs. Thompson, I think today may well be a happy one for both of us.  I have an announcement."  He paused for effect. "I've been thinking of Lear again."

The bot settled onto one of her little chairs.  "Oh, Daddy, that's wonderful." 

"It's the only one of the big four I haven't done," said my father.  "I was set for a production in Stratford, Ontario back in '99; Polly Matthews was to play Cordelia.  Now there was an actor; she could bring tears to a stone.  But then my wife Hannah had one of her bad times and I had to withdraw so I could take care of Jen.   The two of us stayed down at my mother's cottage on the Cape; I wasted the entire season tending bar.   And when Hannah came out of rehab, she decided that she didn't want to be married to an underemployed actor anymore, so things were tight for a while.   She had all the money, so I had to scramble -- spent almost two years on the road.  But I think it might have been for the best.  I was only forty-eight.   Too old for Hamlet, too young for Lear.  My Hamlet was very well received, you know.  There were overtures from PBS about a taping, but that was when the BBC decided to do the Shakespeare series with that doctor, what was his name?  Jonathan Miller.  So instead of Peter Fancy, we had Derek Jacobi, whose brilliant idea it was to roll across the stage, frothing his lines like a rabid raccoon.  You'd think he'd seen an alien, not his father's ghost.  Well, that was another missed opportunity, except, of course, that I was too young.  Ripeness is all, eh?   So I still have Lear to do.  Unfinished business.  My comeback."