Do You Know the Monkey Man? (6 page)

A
fter dinner I noticed the little voice mail icon flashing on my cell phone. I immediately dialed in to get my message. “Hey, Sam. It’s me, Coral. Call me ASAP.”

I had a pretty good idea what that meant.

My mom and Bob were over checking on the progress of our new house, so I didn’t have to worry about them walking in on me. I punched in Coral’s number. “Hey, it’s me,” I said anxiously as soon as she picked up the phone. “What’s up?”

“I thought you’d like to know we heard back from that detective guy,” Coral said.

“We did?” I knew it! I elbowed my bedroom door closed just in case my mom and Bob came home early, then crawled up onto my bed.

“Don’t get too excited. I don’t have a single, definite address and phone number for you,” Coral said. “What I have is three addresses and phone numbers. The e-mail says they’re pretty sure one of these Joseph Wrights is the one you’re searching for. But if it turns out none of them is, they’ll keep looking for free.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling my legs up under me. My whole body trembled. “So what have you got?” For the first time in ten years, I was about to get some
real
information!

“Do you have something to write with?” Coral asked.

“Yeah.” I reached over and grabbed a pencil from my desk and a piece of scratch paper from my garbage can. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely write. But somehow I managed to copy the names, addresses, and phone numbers as Coral read them off. There was one Joseph Wright in San Diego, California, another in Richland, Minnesota, and a third in Omaha, Nebraska.

“Thanks, Coral,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem. Good luck, Sam. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

So did I.

At first I just sat cross-legged on my bed, my cell phone in my hand, staring at those names, addresses, and phone numbers.
One of these men was probably my dad.

Was it possible for a thirteen-year-old to have a heart attack? All I had to do was pick the right number and I could be talking to my dad in about twenty seconds. And even if I didn’t pick the right number, there were only two others to try. Five minutes, tops, and I’d know which of those Joseph Wrights was my dad. Assuming one of them was.

With my mom out of the house, this was the perfect time to try and find out. But I’d never been so nervous in my entire life. How was I supposed to make a phone call when I literally could not breathe?

Of course, I didn’t have to call these people. I had their addresses, too. I could just write them each a letter. There were two reasons writing might be better. One, I wouldn’t have to explain the charge on the phone bill later (though I still might have to explain the charge for hiring the detective). And two, I could take my time and figure out exactly what I wanted to say. But I might have to wait to hear back. And what if the real Joseph Wright never replied? No, calling was definitely the better choice. That way I’d get answers right away. And I’d get to hear my dad’s voice.

I just needed to work up the nerve to do it.

I wished I had more than just names, addresses, and phone numbers. I wished I had photographs. And basic information like whether these guys were married or had children. I’d never thought about my dad having a whole new family before. But it was possible.

“Just do it!” I said out loud. “Just pick up the phone and call.”

But what was I supposed to say? I argued with myself. “Hi, this is Sam, your long-lost daughter?” What if all he had to say back was “Yeah, so?”

I remembered what Angela said about how when you don’t know your dad, you can pretend he’s anyone you want him to be. Maybe she was right. Maybe deep down I did just want to pretend. Maybe I didn’t want to find out who he really was.

No, I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to know whether he ever thought about me. Whether he ever thought about Sarah.

So…which Joseph Wright should I try first?

Probably the one in San Diego. I knew my dad had been in San Diego seven years ago when he sent me that postcard, so San Diego was a good place to start.

I crept out into the hallway and listened for my mom and Bob. It didn’t sound like they were back yet. But if I didn’t hurry this up, they would be. I tiptoed back to my room, closed the door, and hopped back up onto my bed. Then I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and quickly punched in the San Diego number before I could change my mind. The phone felt slippery in my hands. I could feel my heart in my throat. I almost hung up, but I forced myself to hang on until someone finally picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” It was a woman. A woman around my mom’s age, it sounded like. My dad’s new wife?

“Um, hi,” I said. My mind suddenly went blank. Why didn’t I at least write out a speech ahead of time?

“Yes?” the woman said.

I swallowed hard, then plunged ahead. “Um, you don’t know me. My name is Sam. Sam
Wright.”

“Yes?” The woman sounded a little impatient now.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought my chest would crack open. “D-d-does that name mean anything to you?” I asked.

“Well, other than the fact we share the same last name, no.” The woman sounded nicer this time. “Should it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Gee, if this woman was my dad’s new wife, this call could come as a huge shock.

“I-I-I’m looking for my father,” I stammered. “His name is Joseph Wright. I know there’s a Joseph Wright at this number. C-could I maybe talk to him, please?”

“I’m afraid not,” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “Joseph died three years ago.”

“What?” No!

“But Joseph couldn’t have been your father,” the woman went on.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she said that. This was the wrong Joseph Wright. My dad was still alive.

But the feeling disappeared almost as suddenly as it had appeared. “Are you sure?” I asked. Wasn’t it possible my dad ran off to California after Sarah died, got married, and never told his new wife about me?

“Joseph and I were married for fifteen years. We both wanted children very much, but Joseph …” she broke off.

“What?”

“He couldn’t have children,” she said softly.

“Oh.” I suddenly felt very sorry. And very embarrassed. That was such personal information. And it was none of my business.

I felt bad for this woman. She seemed so nice. I bet her husband, Joseph, was nice, too. He probably would’ve been a good dad if he had had children.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “And—I’m really sorry about your husband.” Then I hung up.

Whew! One down, two to go. After making one call, it wasn’t quite as hard to do it again. I wiped my slippery hands on my shorts, then punched in the number for the next Joseph on my list. The one in Minnesota.

This time an answering machine picked up.

Goosebumps dotted my arms.

I knew that voice!

I couldn’t believe that after all those years, I recognized my dad’s voice. But I did. “Yo—”
Yo, Sammy! Yo, Sarah! Yo, Suzanne!
He always said that instead of hello. “We can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message. We’ll get back to ya.”
Beep!

I slammed the receiver down.

I could feel the blood pounding inside my head. My hands were shaking.
It was him.
I knew it was him.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

Another breath.

And another.

What was I going to do now?

I got up from my bed and wandered around my room. He was married. Or at least living with someone. The voice on the answering machine had said, “
We’ll
get back to you.”

I grabbed my pillow, then set it back down. I looked out the window, but my eyes didn’t focus. I replayed that voice,
his
voice, over and over inside my head.
Yo. We can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message. We’ll get back to ya.

He was in Minnesota. Just one state away. Just like Angela’s dad. Had he been there all this time? Why hadn’t he at least called me once in the last however many years?
Why?

I had to call him back. I had to call him back right now and leave him a message. I picked up the phone and started dialing before I could chicken out.

This time the answering machine picked up on the second ring.

“Yo. We can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message. We’ll get back to ya.”

“Hello? Dad?…It’s me, Sam …” My throat tightened as my eyes filled with tears. “Do you remember me? Please call me,” I said. I barely managed to get my cell phone number out before the tears started to roll down my cheeks.

I
didn’t set my cell phone down the rest of the night.
Come on, Dad. Hurry up and call me back before Mom gets home!

Unfortunately my cell phone stayed silent.

Our other phone, on the other hand, never stopped ringing. First the telephone company called wanting to know if we wanted to switch long-distance providers. Then my mom called to tell me she and Bob were going to a movie, did I want to come (no). Then the stationery store called to say the wedding invitations were in. And then Angela called. She probably called our house line because I didn’t answer my cell phone when I saw it was her. I didn’t want to tie up that line.

“Angela!” I said when I picked up the phone. “You’re never going to believe what happened.” I proceeded to tell her all about my evening.

But Angela just couldn’t get excited for me. “How do you know that guy is really your dad?” she asked.

“I know it is. I recognized his voice.”

“You recognized his voice?” She sounded doubtful. “Sam, it’s only been five months since I talked to my father and I hardly recognized his voice.”

“You’re kidding!” Even for Angela, that sounded extreme.

“Why would I recognize a voice I hardly ever hear?”

“Because he’s your dad.”

“Father,” Angela corrected.

“Whatever.” I didn’t want to argue over words. “The point is there’s a connection between you. A father-daughter connection. You’ll always recognize your dad’s voice because of that connection.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Angela said. “Look, Sam. I don’t know whether this guy is your dad or not. But just because you’re father and daughter doesn’t mean you’re always connected. Sometimes connections get broken.”

True. But that didn’t mean they had to stay broken.

It was almost ten o’clock when Angela and I hung up. I knew my mom would be home soon. I would’ve thought that wherever my dad was, he would be getting home soon, too. I could picture him walking into his house. I didn’t know what he might look like now. I’d only seen that one picture of him, and it was really old. I imagined a man with really blond hair like mine pressing the message button on his answering machine. I could see the look of surprise on his face when he heard my voice, because of course he’d recognize my voice, too. I could see him replaying that message over and over again just to hear my voice. And I could see him checking a clock on the wall, wondering whether it was too late to call me back.

It’s not.
I tried to send thought waves through the phone line.
Call me. Please call me.

He never called that night.

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

And there were a million reasons why he wouldn’t have called. Reasons other than he just didn’t want to talk to me. One, he could have been on vacation. Two, he could have been working a lot. Three, maybe he worked nights and slept during the day. That would make it awfully hard to find a good time to call me back.

Right?

It was also possible he had a new wife who had gotten the message and erased it before he’d even heard it. Even if he was perfectly happy to hear from me, a new wife might not be so happy about it. Now that I really thought about it, I probably shouldn’t have left a message like that.

Or maybe there was another reason. Maybe he was afraid my mom would answer the phone.

After three days, I figured it was okay to try him again. But what if he really didn’t want to talk to me? What if he didn’t care about me at all? I couldn’t deal with that possibility, so I decided to hold off a couple more days. We were coming up on the weekend. Surely he’d call during the weekend.

But on Saturday Mom had a huge list of things she wanted to do. First she wanted to pick up the wedding invitations. Then she wanted to stop in at the bakery, the florist, and Xavier’s, the place where she and Bob were having the wedding reception, just to make sure everything was set. She also had an appointment at Julianne’s for her final dress fitting and then she was hoping to meet with the minister to make her final music selections. She and Bob’s mother had the whole day planned out, and they wanted to drag me along for all of it.

I hesitated. “I don’t know.” I was sure my dad was going to call that day and I didn’t want to miss him. Sure, I could bring my cell phone along, but I couldn’t exactly talk to him in front of my mom.

“Sam, taking care of these last-minute wedding details is supposed to be fun. I would’ve thought you’d want to come along.” Mom sounded hurt.

“Fine,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll go.” It wasn’t like I had a choice anyway. So when my mom wasn’t looking, I set my phone to vibrate and shoved it in my shorts pocket. At least I’d know whether my dad called or not. Then she and I headed out.

We stopped to pick up Bob’s mother first. “Oh, I’m so glad you girls invited me along!” she said as she hopped into the front seat. “We’re going to have such a nice day.”

Yeah, real nice.

Then the two of them started talking about how close the wedding was and how it was finally going to happen. I just sat in the back with my hand resting on my cell phone and watched the world go by.

We stopped at the florist first. Everything was in order there. Then we stopped at the bakery. Everything was in order there, too. On the way to the stationery store, my mom said, “They were supposed to tile the bathrooms at the new house yesterday. It’s not that far out of the way. Would anyone like to go over and see it?” She glanced pointedly at me in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, I would love to see your new place,” Bob’s mother said. “I’ve been by it, you know. But I’ve never been inside.”

“You haven’t seen the inside?” Mom asked, sounding surprised.

“No.”

“Well, then we’re definitely going to stop.” Mom put on her turn signal and moved into the left lane. Then she turned onto Ridge Drive. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen the house, too, Sam. It’s almost done.”

“Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“This is such a nice neighborhood,” Bob’s mom prattled on as we drove past rows of identical two-story beige houses. “Dan and Becky really like it.” I couldn’t remember whether Dan was Bob’s brother or Becky was his sister. Either way, they lived about two blocks from where we were going to live, which my mom considered a huge plus.

“I’m sure we’ll be very happy here,” Mom said. “Don’t you think so, Sam?”

I gave the correct answer, which was “Yes, of course.” After all, my mom and Bob were plunking down a huge amount of money for this house. And most of my friends lived nearby. As far as my mom was concerned, there was absolutely no reason I shouldn’t be happy here. So, of course, I would be.

Mom pulled up in front of a house that looked just like all the other two-story beige houses on the block. I don’t know how she knew which one was ours. There was no grass and no driveway yet. But there were doors on the house now. A front door and probably a garage door, too. Though it was hard to tell for sure because the garage door was up and there was somebody sawing something in the garage.

We all got out of the car and the guy in the garage stopped whatever he was doing. It turned out he was the builder, so he was thrilled to show us around.

Bob’s mother had nice things to say about everything—the new cabinets and hardwood floor in the kitchen, the screen porch that wasn’t screened in yet, the fireplace in the living room, the ceramic tile in the entryway… . The carpet wasn’t in yet in the living room and dining room, but the builder said it was coming in the next couple of days.

He led us up the uncarpeted stairway so we could check out the bedrooms and the freshly tiled bathrooms. My bedroom was the first one at the top of the stairs. There was a guy working on the window seat in there. He had sawdust in his hair, on his face, and all over his shirt. He looked up when he saw me lingering in the doorway.

My mom and Bob’s mom had continued on down the hall with the builder.

“Are you the lucky lady who gets this room?” Sawdust Man asked with a wide grin that showed the gap between his two top front teeth.

“Yup.” That was me. The lucky lady.

It was a nice room. I loved the built-in bookshelves. And I couldn’t complain about the view of the woods from the window. But nice as it was, it just didn’t feel like my room. And the rest of the house didn’t feel like my house. It didn’t feel like anybody’s house. It had no personality. No feelings. No memories.

The thing about houses is they’re filled with the memories of all the people who have ever lived in them. Our little house on Hartman Lane has memories of me, my mom, my dad, Sarah, and lots of people I’ve never even met. Those memories are all part of that house. When we move, my mom and I will remember things that happened when we lived there. But in a way, memories stay with a house. Like ghosts.

I knew exactly what my mom would say to that. She’d say, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to create memories for our new house as soon as we can. And there are no such things as ghosts.”

The only problem is, this is a huge house. It would take a long time to create enough memories to fill the whole thing. Honestly, I just didn’t think I was up to it.

It had been five days since I’d left the message on my dad’s answering machine and he still hadn’t called me back.
What is the deal?
I wondered as I paced anxiously back and forth in my room.

Was his answering machine broken? Maybe he got the message, wrote my number down so he could call me back later, but then lost the number? Maybe he’d been tearing his whole house apart like a crazy person, trying to find my number, scared to death he’ll never hear from me again.

Or maybe I was wrong? Maybe the person I called wasn’t my dad after all?

No. One thing I was sure of—that was my dad’s voice on the answering machine.

It couldn’t be that he just didn’t want to talk to me. That he just didn’t care. I remember stuff he used to do, like monkey back rides and monkey faces. He was the monkey man and I was his Sammy Bear. He had to call me back. He just
had
to.

Maybe he was in the hospital? Or maybe he’d been in a terrible accident? What if after all these years I finally found my dad, only to have him die some terrible death before I could make contact with him? Like the Joseph Wright in San Diego did?

Maybe I should call that number again and leave another message? This was a good time to do it—Mom and Bob were busy addressing wedding invitations. They weren’t likely to check on me for a while.

I could say something like, “Hey, even if you don’t ever want to see me or talk to me again, at least call me back and tell me. Just so I know.”

I reached under my mattress and pulled out the scrap of paper with the information about the three Joseph Wrights. I didn’t really need the paper, though. I had his phone number memorized.

My heart pounding, I picked up my phone and punched in the number. But this time the phone didn’t ring at all. Instead I got a bunch of tones and a recording that said, “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

Disconnected? I stared at the cell phone in my hand. That couldn’t be right. I’d just dialed that number five days ago. Maybe my finger slipped and I dialed the wrong number?

I tried again. But all I got was the same recording.