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     There were many things that punctuated their time in that house. One of the steadiest, most consistent was the call of the owl. The somber whoot was occasionally audible during the daytime, carrying over from the fields and woods. At night, the owl’s call was steadier, piercing through the dark stillness, its serious and melodic cry emanating from parts unknown.

     It was no surprise that the death of Cory’s father sparked a myriad of emotions, a catalyst to sift through the tangled history of their father-son dynamics. His father’s increasing physical and mental frailty, the erratic behavior, made the last few years especially harrowing. And with impeccable timing, Jeanette, his father’s long-suffering second wife, had also fallen ill and died a few months later.

     His father’s worst traits had always been kept, more or less, at a functional level. Those worst traits were now given free rein during that period of decline. Cory’s father had immersed himself in the business that he and his late partner, Eddie, had created. Now his preoccupation with the business—a business long since defunct—shifted into a sort of monomania, where every deal, every slight, every triumph, was examined in excruciating detail. Although his father’s business and personal relationship with Eddie had terminated years and years before, Eddie’s flaws, stupidity, and treachery were rehashed over and over, as if these were current concerns. And as if Eddie was still alive—which he wasn’t.

     Cory’s father had always been crude, prone to trumpeting one offensive comment after another or ethnic joke. Now, in his decline, he became even more offensive, vulgar, overtly racist. His father had given scant attention to his own appearance, an endless source of embarrassment to Cory. Now he was overtly slovenly, unshaven, unwashed.

     Cory and his wife, Tammy, had been spontaneously—courtesy of their laptop-- taking refuge in old TV shows. There was something soothing and comforting about this. Cory would never stoop to such a New Agey expression as “practicing self-care.” But in essence, that was exactly what he was doing: undertaking a regimen of self-care.

     The program they most came to love—oddly enough—was What’s My Line? This was the show’s first incarnation; the episodes were from the 1950s and early 1960s. The urbane John Charles Daly presided over a core panel that included the legendary publisher Bennett Cerf, journalist Dorothy Kilgallen—who would die in the 1960s under mysterious circumstances as she was probing the murkier aspects of the JFK assassination—and the bubbly Arlene Francis. There was a rotating fourth panelist, drawn from a wide array of the era’s show biz luminaries.

    What’s My Line? began with its jaunty theme and old-fashioned announcer’s voice. The show moved at a stately pace that would be inconceivable by today’s standards. The prize money was minimal. John Charles Daly would welcome a man or woman and then, with a ritualistic “sign in, please,” the contestant would affix their name on a simple blackboard and state where they were from. The studio audience and those watching at home would be privy to the contestant’s unusual endeavor. It was up to the panel to ascertain what this endeavor was.

     The culmination of any episode was the appearance of the mystery guest. For this segment, the panelists were blindfolded. The mystery guests ran the gamut of famous personages and could be uncommonly eclectic: Eleanor Roosevelt, Frank Lloyd Wright, Yul Brynner. 

     The show was oddly New York–centric, almost as if What’s My Line? was confined to the metropolitan area and not, after all, popular all over the country. John Charles Daly at times would open the show with a brief commentary on the city’s weather: a snowstorm, a downpour. The panelists gave off the aura of Broadway, highballs, formalwear. Daly had the demeanor of someone who would imbibe his favorite scotch or cognac and then recite some Yeats. It was hard to believe the show had national appeal.

     With the owl breaking into the dark night from time to time, he and Tammy arranged the pillows, settled into bed, and—feeling slightly sheepish at such enthusiasm for this creaky old warhorse--partook of What’s My Line?

__________

     It had been a hotter than usual summer day. By nighttime, the heat had only lessened slightly and still hung over their bedroom. True to form, the owl called off into the distance. It was as if the other animals were all asleep or had fallen silent, ceding the floor to the owl. 

     The viewing began. This episode’s first contestant was a formidable middle-aged woman from Michigan who stumped the panel’s regular trio, along with Peter Lawford: She was a dentist, evidently such an unusual slot for a woman that nobody succeeded in ascertaining her occupation.

     The second contestant--a man--entered, signed in, gave his name and locale: Eugene, Oregon. It was Cory’s father. 

     Cory had assumed that the standard trope of experiencing something so earth-shattering that the room felt as if it was spinning was simply a dramatic embellishment. But it did, in fact, feel as if the room was spinning. He was gripped by pure terror. This was some catastrophic mental or physical manifestation. 

     The man was indisputably his father. His father’s name had been announced too audibly for any misunderstanding. The physical appearance certainly matched the photos Cory had grown up with. Yet as far as he knew, his father had never been to Eugene, Oregon. And this version of his father was in dramatic contrast to his usual appearance: Cheery, well-groomed, sporting a dandyish suit.

     Cory was only dimly aware of Tammy beside him. John Charles Daly ushered this man—Cory’s father—to his seat. And now the audience was privy to this man’s unusual line: He was a constructor of harpsichords.

     Another layer of panic washed over him. Tammy was staring in open-mouthed disbelief at the screen. This was slightly reassuring: He was not hallucinating or undergoing a mental collapse. Unless, of course, he was imagining that Tammy was staring in open-mouthed disbelief at the screen. Cory checked his breathing and willed himself to breathe steadily. One simply did not snap into insanity. There was empirical proof that he and Tammy were sitting in bed, watching this well-groomed, younger incarnation of his father of What’s My Line?

     That familiar format of questioning commenced. It was his father, his voice. Then Cory noticed the sartorial flair—the impeccable suit, knotted tie, perfectly folded handkerchief—and his panic began anew.

     His father was not a craftsman. He had no interest in anything musical or cultural. The house was practically devoid of music when Cory was growing up, save for Pal Joey and an album of old radio themes. He doubted his father even knew what a harpsichord was.

     His mind was racing, grasping for any conceivable explanation. Perhaps this was some elaborate hoax his father had constructed, shocking in its audacity. But this would have been wildly, completely out of character. And had this occurred, everyone near and far would have known about it. The details would have been related to anyone who would listen, an enshrined family story. But what would have been the point, exactly, of undertaking such an elaborate masquerade? 

     It occurred to Cory that this could be some sort of delayed trauma brought on by the death of a parent. Tammy, though, was glued to the screen as well. They were both viewing the same thing.

     Bennett Cerf, Dorothy Kilgallen, Arlene Francis, and Peter Lawford came close to guessing, but ultimately Cory’s father stumped the panel. When the answer was revealed, there was happy surprise all around, the panel delighted to find a maker of harpsichords in their midst. Cory’s father went on to explain that as a child in Eugene—and here Cory experienced another jolt, knowing full well his father had been born and raised in Bridgeport, Connecticut—he had always been entranced by this instrument of uncommon delicacy and expressiveness. He had resolved, as a young man, to devote his life to tending to this instrument that had so fallen out of fashion, so unfairly relegated to the misty past. After a lengthy apprenticeship in Verona, Italy, he had returned to Eugene and set up his own shop.

     “Unfortunately,” John Charles Daly continued, “constraints of time and format preclude an actual harpsichord recital here and now.” Dorothy Kilgallen expressed regret that she would not be treated to a harpsichord recital. Daly went on in his high-blown manner: “I have seen an example of his exquisite craftsmanship here in New York.” He nodded toward Cory’s father, who nodded back with a wide, engaging smile, the sort of demeanor Cory had never seen on him, ever. “I can assure you,” Daly concluded, “that these really are stunning creations.”

     And then Cory’s father, following the show’s protocol, walked over to the panel to greet each one individually. Then he exited.

     Some of the pounding shock began to slightly dissipate. He became fully aware, now, of Tammy. 

     “Was that… my father?” he asked, his voice sounding squeaky to his own ears. Perhaps, somehow he’d been mistaken, although that was impossible. “That was my father,” he said now and it was less of a question this time.

     “I know,” she answered simply. He felt slightly, incrementally better, able to form more coherent sentences. “He never played the harpsichord. He never played anything.”

     “I know.”

     “He’s not from Eugene. He’s from Bridgeport.”

     “I know.”

     He’d been in a state of shock. Now he swung into action, seizing the laptop and watching the segment again. The identical sequence of events transpired: His father entered. He said he was from Eugene, Oregon. His occupation as harpsichord maker was revealed. The panel was stumped. Dorothy Kilgallen expressed regret. John Charles Daly testified to his father’s exquisite craftsmanship. 

     Cory and Tammy watched it again, and then again, and then again. He finally shut it off, emphatically moving the laptop to the end of the bed, as if the slight distance could erase all they’d seen. 

     Cory desperately groped for an explanation. Daly had vouched for the veracity of the story: He had seen one of these harpsichords for himself. Had this been a hoax of such an elaborate nature that John Charles Daly himself had been hoodwinked? But for what? His father’s prime motivations were making money and self-aggrandizement. What would his father have to gain from this? 

     And if this wasn’t some sort of elaborate hoax, the mystery only deepened. His father was incapable of being so tight-lipped as to harbor a decades-long secret. And harboring a major secret implied something scandalous, verboten. None of that applied here. Once again, the more he considered the possibilities, the more confused he became.

     He now grabbed the laptop again and began an intensive, far-ranging search, entering his father’s name along with harpsichord, then harpsichord maker. Nothing. He and Tammy spent the next two hours hunting for every conceivable possibility: harpsichord makers in Eugene, Oregon. harpsichord apprenticeship in Verona, Italy. harpsichords in the 1950s. And on and on and on. Nothing.

    Cory shut the laptop in resigned defeat. The bedroom, finally, had cooled off. The night was utterly still. He and Tammy looked at each other, exhausted, at a complete loss for words.

     His parents had been divorced for decades, his mother now coping with progressing ill health and loss of acuity. She had lost her second husband a few years before. She would not have the slightest idea what he was talking about and would probably become distraught in her confusion.

     He was on polite, but not especially friendly terms with his two younger brothers. One had lived in Mexico for years. The other was currently embroiled in a messy divorce and custody battle. His father had always saved his more indiscreet revelations and diatribes for Cory’s ears—the privilege of being the oldest. He imagined, now, interrupting his brothers’ lives to tell them he had seen an episode of What’s My Line? from the 1950s, where their father had been a contestant: a harpsichord maker from Eugene, Oregon. They would think him out of his mind.

     “You’re not going to have me committed, are you?” he asked Tammy now. The joke, as forced as it was, helped.

     “I’d have to be committed too. I watched it with you.”    

    Cory reached again for the laptop, then stopped. What was the point? The owl, somewhere off in the dark distance, began its call. Cory listened attentively, hoping—somehow—for a clue, a modicum of understanding.