Only Son (30 page)

“You've had a lot of bad dreams lately, haven't you? I can hear you at night. You talk in your sleep, you know. You have—ever since you were a little kid. So what's bothering you?”

He felt Sam's body stiffen. “Nothing's bothering me.”

“Oh, it's gotta be something, Sammy. Maybe you don't even want to think about it—like that stranger in your dream just now, the one you wouldn't let come inside.”

Sam turned over and sat up. “It was just a stupid dream, Dad. Doesn't mean anything.” He coughed again.

“Something
is
bothering you, Sam. It's been bothering you the last couple of weeks now. Why don't you tell me what it is?”

“I'm cold. Could you get that T-shirt, please?”

Carl pulled the sheet up to Sam's chin. “I want to hear what's wrong first.”

Sam turned away and rubbed his forehead.

“Come on,” Carl said. “There isn't anything too personal or embarrassing that you can't tell me. Maybe I can help. Are you in some kind of trouble at school?”

“No, Dad.” He sighed. “School's fine.”

“We don't have to talk about
drugs
, do we?”

“God, no. Of course not.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You know me better than that.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know what's bothering you, Sam. Does it have to do with sex? Whatever it is, I'll understand.”

“It's not sex,” he mumbled.

“Well, we've eliminated sex, drugs, and rock ‘n' roll. That means the problem must be here at home…with me maybe.” Carl waited. He tried not to look nervous as Sam let a few moments pass without responding.

“It's got to do with me, doesn't it?” Carl whispered, the understanding smile frozen on his face. Sam had seen the journal, or perhaps he'd found that box in the crawl space. Carl wondered how he could lie his way out of this. A sickly emptiness swelled in his stomach. Twelve years of hiding the truth from him, and now Sam knew. He kept smiling, but felt his whole world about to crumble. He wished he hadn't pushed him this far. Right now, if Sam said nothing was troubling him, Carl would gladly let it go.

“It's kind of weird,” Sam said, frowning. “See, a couple of weeks ago, Craig and I were tossing the football—in the living room. It was my idea, not his. And I know I shouldn't have been—y'know, doing that inside.”

“Go on,” Carl said.

Sam wouldn't look at him. “Anyway, I knocked over th-the wedding picture, and the glass in the frame broke.”

“The
wedding
picture?” Carl murmured. Then he cleared his throat. “I—didn't notice the glass was missing from that.”

“I replaced it.”

“Wait a minute,” Carl said steadily. He got to his feet, then went into the living room and took the wedding picture off the wall. The back of it was hastily taped up. Was this what had been troubling Sam these past two weeks? A stupid little accident he'd covered up?

If only it were that easy. Carl bit down on his lip. Of all the pictures Sam could have broken, it had to be this one. Sam knew something—or at least, thought he did.

Just deny it
, Carl told himself;
whatever he says, deny it
. He didn't want to go back into that bedroom and face him. But he'd have to give Sam a lecture for playing football in the living room, breaking the picture, then covering it up.
Shit
.

Carl took a deep breath, then he brought the picture back into Sam's bedroom. “Lesson number one,” he said, showing him the back side of the frame. “A sloppy repair job like this will get you busted every time—eventually.” He sat down on the bed and Sam moved away from him a little.

“There's writing on the back of the picture,” he mumbled, his eyes downcast. “Take a look.”

“What are you talking about?” Carl peeled off the tape, then pried out the tiny nails that held the cardboard backing in place. His hands were shaking. He lifted out the cardboard. Then he saw his own faded handwriting on the back of the photograph: “
Tom Welshons Wedding—Groomsman, 1970
.”

“You and Mom were married in 1976, right?”

“That's right,” Carl heard himself answer.

“Well, what does that writing mean?”

Carl tried to smile. “What did you think it meant, Sam?”

Now Sam was staring at him. “I think it's a picture from somebody else's wedding in 1970,” he replied steadily. “And maybe that's not my mother.”

“Sam, that's crazy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! I've never heard anything so ridiculous. If you'd come to me about breaking the glass in the first place, I could have told you, saved you a lot of worry.” He shook his head and tried to laugh. “‘
Not my mother
.' Of course, this is your mother. Good God, Sammy. What an imagination.”

“Then what's that writing mean? Who's Tom Welshon?”

“Tom
Welshons
.” Carl pointed to the faded, incriminating note. “He was my groomsman, just like it says. In fact, he—he took this picture, see? Tom took a lot of pictures at the wedding. Did you think this was
his
wedding?”

Sam just shrugged. But his mouth was still twisted in a skeptical frown.

“Sammy, why would I be posing with the bride if this wasn't my own wedding? What do you think your mother is in this picture? The flower girl?”

“Why does it say 1970? You were married in seventy-six.”

“Well, nineteen-seventy certainly isn't the date,” Carl said. “I know I paid Tom for the pictures. It was around twenty bucks. I guess it's how much the pictures cost.” One look at Sam, and Carl knew he wasn't buying it.

But a childhood of keeping his own father's abuse a secret, and the last twelve years of shielding the truth from Sam and others had made Carl a master at fabrication. He needed details here, something real Sam could latch onto.

“Y'know, Tom wouldn't even let me pay him back. He said the pictures were a wedding present. But he'd already given us one. That lamp in the corner of the living room, it was Tom's wedding present to your mom and me. You know the lamp I'm talking about?”

Sam nodded.

“That's from Tom Welshons, the guy who took this picture.”

“How come you never talked about him before?”

“Well, after your mom died and we moved up here, Tom and I just lost track of each other. It happens when friends move away.” Carl set the cardboard back inside the frame, then started pushing the tiny nails in place.

Sam was quiet for a few moments. Putting the frame back together, Carl glanced at him only briefly; but he detected an inner struggle behind Sam's tired, bloodshot eyes. Sam shivered and he pulled the sheet back up around his neck. “Dad?”

“Hmmm?” Carl pushed in the last nail.

“I have a birth certificate, don't I?”

“Of course you do,” Carl said, for there was no other answer he could give. “Do you think you were adopted or something? Is that what's bothering you?”

He shrugged and looked away.

Carl set the picture down on the night table. “Sam, practically every kid at one time or another wonders if he was adopted. Heck, I used to think the same thing way back when.”

Now Sam looked directly at him. “So where is it?”

“Where's what?”

“My birth certificate. You said I have one. I know it's weird, but I'd really like to see it.”

“Well…” Carl hesitated. “That won't be so easy. It's not here. See, it got lost in the move up from Santa Rosa.”

Nodding, Sam sighed and reached for his water glass. “Along with all the other pictures of my mother and the early medical records from when I was a baby. I figured you'd say that.”

There was no defiance or sarcasm in his tone, just disappointment.

“I'm sorry, Sam.” He tried to smile. “Look, if it's any consolation, my birth certificate got lost in the move, too.”

“At least you got to see yours,” he grumbled.

One small solace: Sam didn't catch his lie. He must not have discovered that box in the crawl space, because Carl's birth certificate was in there. The wheels started spinning again. He could take his own birth certificate to work, Xerox it, white out all the names and dates, then type in the information about Sam. He'd have the proof he needed. The idea was so simple, he wished he'd thought of it years ago, when some immunization records and a lot of evasive smooth talk had gotten Sam enrolled in school without a Birth Certificate.

“Listen,” Carl said. “If you don't believe me, would seeing a copy of your birth certificate make you feel any better?”

“You said it was lost.”

“I'll write the county clerk in Santa Rosa and see if they can send us a copy. I know it's on file in the county records.”

Sam's tired eyes lit up. “You could do that?”

Carl nodded. “Seeing that you won't take my word for it.”

“Well, you don't have to,” Sam said. “I believe you, Dad. I only wanted to—y'know—see for myself. But if it's a lot of trouble for you…”

“I'll write them.” Smiling, Carl reached over and smoothed back his hair. “No problem. Remind me Monday, and I'll get right on it. In the meantime, stop worrying about this nonsense. It's bad for your complexion.”

Sam chuckled, a bit relieved, it seemed. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I will.” He slouched down until his head rested against the pillow.

Climbing off the bed, Carl grabbed the framed wedding picture. He took it back to the living room and set it down on the coffee table. Carl decided he must be an alcoholic, because it wasn't even two o'clock in the afternoon and he very much wanted a drink. Instead, he got a clean undershirt from his bedroom dresser and took it in to Sam. This time, Sam didn't pull away when Carl helped him put it on.

Sam settled back again and watched him check the water level in the vaporizer. “Huh, small wonder that thing doesn't blow up. It's older than I am.”

“Correction,” Carl said, moving to the portable TV that sat on top of Sam's bookcase. “It's eleven years old. I bought it when you were thirteen months and had the croup.”

“What are you doing, Dad?”

Carl unplugged the TV and picked it up. “I'm taking this out of here, kiddo. Sorry.”

“But there are a lot of good shows on tonight.”

“I know. Too bad.” Holding the TV, Carl paused at Sam's bedside. “What do you expect when you play football in the living room, bust a picture, and cover it up for two weeks?”

“But that's not fair!” Sam protested.

“You're right. ‘Fair' would be no TV for a week. But since you're sick, you can have the TV back tomorrow.” He bent down and kissed Sam's forehead. “Get some rest.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sam snorted. “I hope you get a hernia carrying that.”

“I love you, too.” Carl started for the door.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” He looked back at him.

“I'm sorry about earlier—for y'know, thinking all that stuff. I musta' been nuts or something.”

Carl smiled. “Yeah, well, you've always been a pretty weird kid.” He carried the television out of Sam's bedroom.

“So tell me the truth,” Amy said, setting the gift box on the register counter. She opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue paper. “What do you think?”

“It's gorgeous,” Veronica said. The object of her approval was a Ralph Lauren navy blue crew neck sweater with tiny V-shaped cream and burgundy designs symmetrically woven throughout it. “Let me take a wild guess. Christmas present for Barry?”

Amy nodded. “I'm giving it to him next Thursday. It's our last week together before the holidays.”

“How much did it set you back?”

“Ronnie, you can't put a price tag on love. Two hundred forty-one bucks including employee discount and tax.”

“I hope his wife likes it.”

Amy frowned at Veronica, then put the top back on the gift box. “So he'll wear it here for a while,” she said. Amy glanced around for a customer so she could get Veronica off her back. But the Christmas rush didn't include the Bath department today.

“I'll bet my next paycheck whatever he gets you won't be half the cost of that sweater.”

“Well, I don't expect him to be extravagant,” Amy replied.

“Flowers and dinner out,” Veronica said, leaning against the counter.

“What?”

“That's what he's giving you for Christmas, flowers and dinner out. Maybe expensive. But that's all you get.”

It had been exactly what he'd given her on her birthday—well, not
on
her birthday; he'd been in Spokane then. But the following week, he'd treated her to a postbirthday dinner at the Space Needle and a dozen coral roses. It certainly hadn't been a cheap birthday present; yet Amy had been disappointed. She would have preferred an inexpensive locket or bracelet, something she could have
kept
. She never should have told Veronica about her secret disappointment after the roses and the Space Needle dinner.

“Sometimes, I don't think you like Barry,” she said, tidying up the register counter. “You don't know him. I've never had a guy treat me so nice—so caring and considerate.”

“Yeah, but you deserve someone like that who is all yours, Amy. I mean, look at the setup. You'll go out, buy a tree, and have your Christmas with him two weeks early. Then come Christmas Day, you're stuck alone in your apartment with the damn tree, which by then is a dried-up, needle-shedding fire hazard.”

“Thanks for the cheery thought,” Amy muttered. She stuffed the sweater box inside a shopping bag. “You just don't like Barry, that's all.”

“I think he's real cute, honey, and awfully sweet. But what he's doing to you makes him a real creep.”

Amy sighed. “Guess it doesn't make me Mother Teresa either.”

“He's the one who's cheating…and stringing you along.”

“If you found out Bill had been involved with a woman for the past six months, who would you blame more—him or the slut he was seeing?”

Veronica shrugged evasively.

“I rest my case,” Amy said. “So Barry and I are a couple of sleazeballs.” It hurt to say that out loud. For she knew they were both nice people. They had fallen into a routine of dining out at a favorite Italian restaurant every Thursday night he was in town. All the waiters and waitresses knew them by name, and most of them assumed Barry and she were married. They'd come by the table, even when it wasn't their station, just to chat. Barry learned their names quickly, long before Amy did. There was Marilyn, the pretty, struggling law student; Debbie, the thin, neurotic one who sometimes read them snippets of poison-pen poems dedicated to ex-boyfriends; and Justin, the gay waiter with a terminally ill roommate. Barry remembered all their problems, and after stopping by the table, they'd always walk away smiling.

It was like that wherever she and Barry went. People just seemed drawn to them. During walks, he never failed to smile and say hello to old people—lonely, withered old men, and bent-over skeletons of ladies walking alone. Their faces lit up at the friendly words. Often, they'd become the patient audience to some senior citizen's tales of woe or past glories. What really got her was that Barry genuinely enjoyed listening to these people. If Barry taught her anything, it was how to be truly nice to people—not just to friends or customers in the store. Everyone. It was starting to rub off on her, too. Amy found herself being nice to people who weren't even there. Hell, now whenever she took a load of laundry out of the dryer, she automatically cleaned the lint trap for the next person. She'd seen Barry do it once.

They were two very nice people. Damn nice. They loved each other, and it was beautiful. And for that, these two nice people were a couple of sleazeballs.

 

Amy rode home on the bus that night, her purse and Barry's present in her lap. Her mood had perked up. It was Thursday and TV was good tonight. She'd fix herself a salad, address some Christmas cards, watch the tube. Veronica had insisted she come over for Christmas dinner. Some neighbors—a few of them single—would be there too, so Amy need not feel like she was imposing on some family celebration. At least she wouldn't have to be alone on Christmas night.

She got off at her stop. A light, wet snow drifted down from the dark sky and melted as it reached the ground. Definitely a Duraflame night.

Stepping into the lobby of her apartment building, Amy saw a woman there. She sat on the carpeted stairs, eating a Nestlé's Crunch bar. She was pretty with wavy, shoulder-length red hair; smartly dressed in a tan polo coat. She was around Amy's age, maybe younger; and heavier—by about seventy pounds.

“Hi,” Amy said, checking her mailbox. “Ugly night out, isn't it?” She pulled out her letters: a bill, what looked like two Christmas cards, and some stupid sweepstakes thing saying on the envelope that she was eligible to win fifty thousand dollars.

“Are you in apartment 306?” the woman asked, tossing the half-eaten candy bar inside her purse.

Amy looked up from her mail. “Yes. Are we neighbors?”

The woman grabbed hold of the banister and pulled herself up. “You're Amy Sheehan?” she asked.

Amy dropped her letters in the shopping bag, then hugged the package against her breasts.
Oh, Jesus
, she thought;
I've seen your picture. Why didn't I recognize you?

“Are you Amy Sheehan?” she asked again.

Trying not to wince, Amy stepped back and bumped into the mailboxes. She nodded. “Can I—help you?”

“Yes. You can help by staying away from my husband.”

Numbly she stared at Barry's wife. She'd dreaded this moment, had nightmares about it. Amy almost wanted to throw herself at Gretchen's feet and beg for her forgiveness. But all she could say was: “Are you Gretchen Horton?”

“Yes. Why do you need to ask? Are you screwing someone else's husband, too?”

Stunned, Amy just shook her head. “I'm so sorry.”

“I'm sure you are,” Gretchen replied.

Amy dared to take a step toward her. “Please…listen, would you like to come up to my apartment and sit for a while? We can talk. You'll be warmer and more comfortable.”

Gretchen looked at her as if she were insane. “No, I don't want to come up to your apartment! I want you to stop seeing my husband.”

It was just as well Gretchen refused to come up; Amy suddenly remembered the framed photo on the table by her sofa: her and Barry at a restaurant, very cozy, very much in love. Gretchen didn't need to see that now. “Listen,” Amy said meekly. “I never wanted to break up your marriage or anything. It's not like that. I started seeing him before I knew about you.”

One hand on the newel post, Gretchen glared down at her.

“I fell in love with him before I knew,” Amy continued. “I never wanted you to get hurt. And you mustn't blame Barry. He was just lonely and…He loves you very much.”

Gretchen folded her arms. “Of course he loves me,
stupid
. You don't mean a thing to him. He's just killing time with you.”

“Did Barry tell you that?” Amy murmured.

Gretchen just smiled—as if she knew her remark had hit a vulnerable nerve.

“You two discussed this?” Amy asked. “He—he told you? Is that how you found out about me?”

“That's not your concern.”

“I think it concerns me very much.”

“No. What you should be concerned about is finding yourself another guy to fuck. Because it's over between you and Barry.” Gretchen came down from the steps and brushed past her as she headed for the door.

“If you only knew how bad I've felt about all this.” Amy reached out for her. “Please, try to understand—”

Gretchen swiveled around and slapped her hard across the face. The sound echoed in the cold hallway.

It stung, and took Amy by such surprise that she dropped her bag. She hadn't been slapped like that since the nuns in grammar school. It was fierce and brutal. Mean.

“Goddamn you,” Gretchen whispered. Then she pushed open the door and hurried outside.

Amy touched her mouth. Numbly, she gazed at her fingertips. Blood. She picked up the shopping bag and ran up the stairs, three flights. She felt sick and ashamed. The side of her face still throbbed from Gretchen's slap. Yet something inside her wanted to turn, run back down, and try to explain things to her again. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was not how she wanted it to end.

 

She didn't buy a Christmas tree that weekend. But she didn't return Barry's sweater either. Amy put everything on hold, waiting for Monday, when he'd call. No matter what Gretchen had said, nothing would keep Barry from at least phoning her.

She felt sorry for Gretchen Horton one minute and hated her the next. Amy now regretted all her self-sacrificing speeches to Barry about not wanting to ruin his marriage. The idea of him leaving Gretchen for her didn't seem so wrong anymore. Barry deserved better. He couldn't possibly love that woman.

On Sunday, she was writing out Christmas cards—the ones she'd put off for last—to long-lost college friends. They all had husbands and families. Amy saved their cards from year to year so she could keep track of the kids' and spouses' names. It got so writing out Christmas cards was like an open book exam.

“
Dear Mary Lou
,” she wrote.
“Once again, I've let too much time slip by without writing or calling. I loved your card last year. The girls are beautiful.”

She studied Mary Lou's card from last year again, then wrote:
“You were going back to work when you last wrote. How's the job? Give me all the scoops. Me, I'm still working for the Bon Marche & loving it. Haven't heard from Paul in ages, but Lynn Davis wrote & told me his wife had another baby last year.”

Amy hesitated for a moment, then scribbled: “
Met a wonderful guy in May. Despite a job that keeps him on the road a lot, we're still going strong. His name is Barry…
”

By the fourth card to another college friend, she wrote that she and Barry were “
practically engaged
,” and somehow, she'd convinced herself that it was almost the truth.

She was addressing envelopes when the phone rang. Amy jumped up and answered it before the machine went on. “Hello?”

“Hi, it's me.”

“Where are you?” she asked. “I didn't think you'd call until tomorrow.”

“I'm at a pay phone, not far from our place.”

“You're here?”

“No, I mean, Gretchen's and my house,” he said.

Amy suddenly felt very silly, assuming “our place” meant her apartment. “You sound funny. I guess Gretchen has told you then.”

“Yeah. She lowered the boom this morning—after church.”

“Something tells me you've been forgiven so long as you don't see me again,” Amy said, a slight tremor in her voice. “Am I right?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“How did she find out?” Amy asked. “She wouldn't tell me.”

“A few weeks ago, while I was away, she stopped by my office. Something about an electric bill she wasn't sure got paid. Anyway, she went through my desk and found receipts from the flower shop next door. Your name and address were on them.”

Amy sat down on the sofa. “She tell you about her visiting me on Thursday?”

“Yeah. I thought she was spending the day with her sister in Kettle Falls.”

“And you believed her. Well, I guess she's a better liar than either of us.”

Barry said nothing for a moment. “Listen,” he muttered finally. “I can't talk long. I'm standing in this phone booth with five dollars' worth of quarters in my hand. I just wanted to let you know, I probably won't be coming to Seattle tomorrow.”

“Later in the week then?” she asked. But she already knew the answer.

“I'm sorry. I don't think so.”

“In other words, you're not going to see or call me again,” Amy said, tugging at the receiver cord. “Am I right, honey?”

“Well, see, I won't be coming to Seattle much anymore,” he said. “Something more—grounded has opened up here in the Spokane office. Actually, it's a promotion.”

“Congratulations,” she murmured.

“The truth is, Amy, I've known about this job opening for a couple of months. They approached me a while back. But I've been stalling them. Now, I think I better take the offer. I don't see any other way.”

“It's the practical thing to do,” Amy said listlessly. “I hope the job works out for you, Barry.” She glanced at the framed black-and-white photograph on the end table—beside the one of her mom, Eddie and herself. She had her head on Barry's shoulder, both of them smiling and starry-eyed. They looked so beautiful in the candlelight of the restaurant, dressed to the nines, champagne glasses on the table in front of them.

“I'll miss you, honey,” he whispered.