Only Son (22 page)

Carl nodded. “Sam's a bit preoccupied with horror movies.”

“Well, he read it to the class, and they ate it up. I think you have a budding Stephen King on your hands. He's a very talented young man.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, that's about it.”

Carl glanced at the clock above the blackboard. “Do you have any more parents waiting to see you?”

“Nope. Saved the best for last. I enjoyed talking with you, Mr. Jorgenson.” She caught herself and smiled. “I mean,
Carl
.”

He stood up. “Listen, would you like to go out for a cup of coffee or something?”

She stuffed her papers in a briefcase, but hesitated before closing it. “You mean now?”

He nodded. “I just thought—”

“Oh, no. I mean, I'd enjoy that. But I have a stack of English compositions to grade tonight.” She shut her briefcase. “Any other night, I'd jump at the chance.”

“It's all right,” Carl said, a little disappointed.

“Would you mind walking me to my car?” she asked. “The parking lot's very dark….”

“Not at all. Here”—he reached for her briefcase—“let me take that.”

Margo smiled shyly. “Now I know where Sam gets his good manners—and his good looks.” She flicked off the overhead lights in the classroom. They walked down the dark, empty corridor together. “I've a confession,” she said. “I scheduled you for last so we'd have some more time to talk. I'm just sorry I have all this work tonight; otherwise, I'd take you up on your offer.”

“Maybe some other night?” Carl asked, as they stepped outside. “Or are you already seeing somebody or something?”

“Oh, I'm not seeing anybody,” she said, glancing down at the pavement. “The cupboard is disgustingly bare.” She rubbed her arms from the chilly night's breeze.

“So what do you think?” Carl said. “Could I see you again?”

“You mean, like a date?”

Carl shrugged. “Yes…”

Margo laughed. “I'm sorry. God, what a klutz. It's been so long since…Forgive me.” She opened her purse and dug out the keys. “This is me, the blue Volvo.”

“It's been a long time since I've had a date, too—if that's what you were going to say. I'm afraid I've lost my touch.”

“No, you haven't,” Margo said. She smiled, then unlocked her car door. “I'm deeply flattered—and tempted. But I can't help thinking that it would go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter with Sam—I mean, you dating his teacher.”

Carl handed her the briefcase. “Well, if it isn't a problem with Sam, would you have any objections to seeing me again? I understand if the answer's ‘no.'”

“Are you kidding? This is the best offer I've had in over a year.” She threw her briefcase inside the car, then climbed behind the wheel and rolled down her window. “Talk to Sam and call me with the verdict. I'm in the book. Margo Hopper on East Kirkland Place. Okay?”

Carl smiled. “Okay.”

“I think you're pretty terrific, Carl,” she said. Then Margo rolled up the window, started the car, and drove away.

 

“Oh, God, gross! You gotta be kidding, Dad. Please, tell me you're kidding….”

Carl set the last of the dinner dishes aside to dry, then he turned off the water at the kitchen sink. “I don't understand,” he said. “You like her, don't you?”

“But she's my
teacher!
She's not even that pretty…”

“I think she's nice,” Carl said, drying his hands.

“I can't believe this,” Sam moaned. He sat on the countertop. “Why Ms. Hopper?”

“Because I enjoyed talking to her tonight. And she likes you very much. I just want to take her out to dinner. I'm not planning to marry her, for God's sakes. Would it kill you to see your old man have a friend—maybe a girlfriend?”

Sam stuck his finger in his mouth and mimicked throwing up.

“Funny,” Carl grunted, tossing the dish towel in Sam's lap.

“You aren't really going to ask her out, are you?” He climbed off the counter. “I mean, God, what if the guys at school found out? My father, Ms. Hopper's boyfriend. Everyone will think I'm a total geek. C'mon, Dad, anybody but her…”

Carl didn't look at him as he reached into the cabinet for the bourbon. “That's for me to decide,” he said.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means I can go out with whomever I want, and I don't need any lip from you, thanks.” He dropped some ice into his glass. “Ms. Hopper said you're not doing so hot in science and math. You better go study, kiddo. You don't want to have to repeat any of those subjects with Ms. Hopper next year—not when you disapprove of her so much.”

“I didn't say that, Dad. I just—”

“Go study, Sam.” He sighed.

Frowning, Sam rolled his eyes. “Excuse me for living,” he mumbled. Then he turned and walked toward his bedroom.

Carl sipped his bourbon and water. He left the bottle on the counter, because he'd probably have another drink before the night was over.

 

Carl had stretched out on the sofa to watch TV after dinner, and the next thing he knew, Sam was shaking him. “C'mon, Dad. Wake up. You promised to help with this…”

“What is it? Can't it wait, sport?”

“No. I gotta hand this in day after tomorrow.” He shook him again. “C'mon, Dad. You promised.”

“Sammy, I'm tired….”

“But it isn't even eight-thirty yet,” Sam said. Carl saw him sneer at the half-emptied glass of bourbon on the coffee table. Sam clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“All right, all right,” Carl grumbled. He sat up. “What do you need help with?”

“My autobiography for English class. It's got to be at least a thousand words, and include a family tree. I've only told you about it a million times, Dad. Geez.” He sat down on the floor, set his spiral notebook on the coffee table, and took a Bic pen from behind his ear. “Jimmy Cadwell's family tree goes all the way back to his great-great-grandfather, who fought in the Civil War….”

“Bully for Jimmy Cadwell,” Carl said, rubbing his eyes. “I can't tell you stuff that far back, Sammy. I'm sorry.”

“Well, all
I
got so far is: ‘Father: Carl Jorgenson, born, 1939. Mother: Anne Brewster.' When was Mom born?”

Carl reached for his drink. Most of the ice had melted. “Um, she was five years younger than me. Nineteen…forty…”

“Forty-four?”

“Right.”

“Nineteen forty-four till nineteen seventy-seven. Right?”

Carl nodded and sipped his drink.

“I said you work for Allstate Insurance. What did Mom do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like a job,” Sam said. “Did she have a job?”

Carl shook his head. “She quit after we got married.”

“Well, what did she do before that?”

He hadn't prepared himself for all these questions. He was too tired, and yes, perhaps he'd had too much to drink. The lies weren't coming easily. He remembered now that Sam had indeed mentioned several times about having to write his autobiography for Ms. Hopper's English class.
Margo Hopper
. It had been a month since the parent-teacher conference. He'd never called her. It had seemed stupid, phoning to say that Sam had vehemently objected to his dad dating his teacher.

“Dad?” Sam was raising his voice. “What was Mom's job?”

“She was a—teacher. Put down that she was a teacher.”

“You don't sound too sure,” he said.

“Of course I'm sure. She taught third grade—in Santa Rosa.” Carl took another sip of his drink.

Sam jotted it down in his notebook. “What year did you guys get married?”

“Th-the year before you were born.”

“Nineteen seventy-six?”

“Yeah, right, right. Seventy-six.” Carl rubbed his forehead. “Sammy, can't this wait until morning? I'm bushed.”

“Dad, it isn't even eight-thirty yet!” he wailed. “Want me to get an ‘F' on this? C'mon!” He wrote something in his notebook. “You and Mom didn't have any brothers or sisters, right?”

“Right.”

“What were Mom's parents' names?”

Carl hesitated. “Walter and Teresa.”

“That's
your
parents. I want Mom's.”

Carl drew a blank. He reached for his drink again.

“God, Dad. Can't you remember?”

“They were dead before I met her,” he answered, exasperated. “I never knew them.”

“How did they die?”

“Um, they were in a car accident.”

“That's how
Mom
died, Dad. How did
they
die?”

“Old age. They were very old.”

Sam dropped the notebook in his lap and stared up at him. “Dad, are you making all this up?”

“Of course not! I—I just…” Carl shook his head. “I'm just tired. Isn't there some other homework you can do tonight? I'll help you tomorrow, when I'm not so tired.”

“Huh,” Sam mumbled. “When you're not so drunk, you mean.” He grabbed his notebook and got to his feet.

“What did you say?” Carl asked, suddenly alert and angry.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He stomped toward his bedroom.

But Carl reached over and grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute, young man…”

“Let go!” Sam yelled.

“Who do you think you're talking to?”

“Let go of me! You're drunk!”

Carl slapped him across the face. It was as if he couldn't stop himself, and he didn't realize what he'd done until he heard the smack. His hand stung. He saw the hatred and hurt in Sam's eyes. Sam rubbed his cheek. Carl waited for him to cry, because he wanted to hug him and say he was sorry. He wanted to erase the hurt—and that defiant look of contempt on his son's face. He reached out to him.

But Sam lurched back. He ran into his bedroom and slammed the door. He hadn't cried at all.

 

Sam ripped a picture off the bulletin board above his bed. The photo was of him and his father, taken on a ferry ride last summer. Sam remembered how embarrassed he'd been when his dad had stopped some total stranger on the deck, handed him the camera, and asked him to snap their picture. He was always doing weird stuff like that.

“Fuck you,” Sam whispered to the smiling image of his father. He hated him so much right now. He spit on the picture—right on his father's face. The slap hadn't hurt very badly. But he wanted to hurt his father back for it.

Sam found a pencil compass in the top drawer of his desk. He wiped the spit off the photo, then with the pointed end of the compass, he slashed a line across his father's face—from his hair down to his shirt collar. With another angry stroke, he made a jagged line across his eyes. He wondered if by some kind of voodoo, this would cause his father to go blind.

Frowning, Sam put down the compass. He wished he could run away. He'd tried that a few times when he was little, and his dad had always let him go without an argument. “'Bye,” he'd say. “Take care of yourself. Write now and then to let me know how you're doing.”
What an asshole
. His father had seemed to know he'd crawl back after a couple of hours—or at least before dark. Running away wouldn't do any good now. It was already dark, and besides, his father was too drunk to even notice he'd gone.

He
did
drink too much. Oh, he wasn't a stumbling, loud drunk like the ones on TV; and he wasn't mean either. He'd never, ever hit him—until tonight. Usually, he'd just dump the dinner dishes in the sink to wash in the morning, then drink in hand, he'd plod over to the sofa and conk out before the first commercial of whatever show was on TV. He wasn't that way all the time; but the thing was, he never used to be like that.

At least, he didn't get drunk in front of anyone else. All of Sam's friends thought he had a cool dad. But they didn't have to live with him. They didn't have to see him passed out, or listen to his stupid lectures: “
Why, if I talked to my old man the way you talk to me, he'd have knocked me across the room! You don't know how lucky you are…
” And blah, blah, blah. Yeah, he was a really neat dad, all right.

Sam picked up the compass again and put another gash through his father's image. At that moment, he would have gladly traded parents with any kid in his class. Then at least he'd be like everybody else.

When Ms. Hopper had assigned them the autobiography, she suggested a lot of things everyone could write about—everyone but him. “I'm sure your parents have stories about the day you were born,” she'd said. “You can write about your brothers and sisters. Maybe you have household pets, and you can include them in your autobiography. Stories about dogs and cats are always fun. A lot of you have moved from other cities—or from one house to another. You can write about that. Maybe you can remember a special day you spent with a grandparent or an aunt or uncle. A favorite Christmas or holiday you remember…”

Sam had glanced around the classroom at all the other kids, jotting notes. He couldn't think of a thing to write about.

They'd lived in the same, stupid apartment ever since he could remember. Every Christmas and holiday, it was just his father and him. No aunts or uncles or grandparents. No cats or dogs. No fun. And it was all his father's fault.

Sam absently drew another scratch through his father's picture, and he tried to remember what they did last Christmas. He'd gotten the electronic football game set that he wanted so badly. They spent all morning in their pajamas, assembling the pieces, then playing with the game. It was somewhere in the back of his closet now, half the pieces lost long ago. Everyone else probably had a lot more interesting Christmas.

He stared at the mangled photo of his father—the proud smile on his face. What had he given him last Christmas? Soap on a Rope. And his dad had given him the money. Ten bucks. The soap only cost six. He should have gotten him something else, but he didn't. It was the only present his dad received last Christmas. And Sam had raked in about a dozen other gifts in addition to the football game.