Only Son (36 page)

He pulled the car in front of Amy's apartment building, then turned off the ignition and sat back. He said he wanted Sam to come down to Portland before New Year's, and spend a couple of nights at his house. “Your sister and two brothers are dying to meet you. And Sheila, your stepmother, you'll like her.”

Sam had one hand on the car door handle. He glanced up at Amy's building, then at McMurray. “Aren't you coming up?”

“No. I've got a three-hour drive home ahead of me.”

Sam stared at him for a moment.

“She's got a nice place,” McMurray said, his big hand dangling on the steering wheel. “Huh, you should have seen her ten years ago. You wouldn't think it was the same girl. She's done okay for herself.” His eyes met Sam's and he smiled sadly. “Y'know, I wasn't sure what to expect from you. But you're a nice kid. You turned out real swell. I guess you and her did all right for yourselves without me, huh?”

Sam didn't know what to say. Suddenly, he felt very sorry for this man.

“Well, I'll call you tonight. Okay, son?”

Sam opened the car door. “Sure, that would be great,” he replied. “Thank you for lunch.”

Paul McMurray slid across the seat and embraced him. It was so awkward and forced that Sam didn't feel compelled to hug him back. McMurray didn't seem to want that. His arms were stiff, and he held his head as far away from Sam's as possible. Then he quickly let go and slid back behind the steering wheel. “Well, take care,” he muttered.

“Thanks,” Sam said. He climbed out of the car and almost expected to feel relieved that he was back home. But Amy's apartment wasn't his home. And he didn't think it ever would be.

 

After a week, he still felt like Amy's houseguest. She and his grandmother were constantly asking about what foods he liked, what his routines were for sleeping, eating, and playing. They were always ready to accommodate him, these two nice strangers.

“Do you like opening your presents on Christmas Eve night or on Christmas morning?” Amy McMurray asked.

They were in the kitchen. She stood at the stove, cooking his “favorite breakfast,” French toast. He'd merely agreed that he'd liked French toast when she'd made it for him a few days ago. Now he was about to eat it for the fourth morning in a row.

Sam shrugged. “We usually opened the presents Christmas morning. But if you want to do it tonight, that's okay.”

“Oh, we usually open them Christmas morning, too. Anything special you'd like to do today?”

“Well, I kind of promised my friend, Craig, that I'd get together with him.”

“Okay. I'll drive you. Where does Greg live?”

“Craig. Capitol Hill. I can take a bus.”

“Don't be silly. You'd have to transfer at least three times. I'll drive you. It's no problem.”

“Thanks, Amy,” he said. “Breakfast smells good.”

“It's French toast, your favorite.”

 

The ten-minute trek to Craig's house was now a three-quarter-hour drive across town via the expressway. Amy said for him to call when he wanted to be picked up.

“It's all so totally weird,” Craig said, sitting in his chair, which was turned around and tilted back against his desk.

Sam sat on the bottom bunk bed. Elmo, the family mutt—part cocker spaniel, part lab—lay curled up beside him, his big head in Sam's lap. Sam scratched him behind the ears. “Can I spend the night here?” he asked. “For the rest of my life?”

“She that bad?” Craig asked, pushing his glasses up the shiny bridge of his nose.

“She's okay. I just don't think I'll ever get used to living there. I keep having to remind myself that my dad isn't ever going to come pick me up and take me home.”

“I still can't believe he did it,” Craig frowned.

Craig had always idolized his father. Sam had been forever hearing him say how lucky he was, what a “neat dad” he had. The front-page stories must have really shaken him up.

“You haven't talked to him since?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Last thing he said to me was ‘don't forget to unplug the tree lights.' That was the night before. She's taking me to see him tomorrow. I asked. But now, I'm not sure I can face him.” He hated the idea of seeing his father behind bars in a prison uniform. And if his dad started to cry, he'd really lose it. Sam had never seen him cry before.

“Think he's pissed at you?” Craig asked.

Sam frowned. “I don't know. I'll find out tomorrow.”

“So what's the other guy like? You didn't tell me how it went with him.”

“That's because when I talked to you on the phone, she and my grandmother were right in the next room. There's no place in her apartment to have a private phone conversation.”

“So how did it go? Does the guy look like you?”

Patting the dog's head, Sam shrugged. “A little, I guess. But he's kind of a greaser. He tried real hard to act like we were old buddies or something. In fact, that's what he kept on calling me, ‘old buddy.' I'm supposed to go visit him and his family down in Portland next week. He wants me to spend a couple of nights there. I'd rather have all my nose hairs torn out.”

Craig shook his head. “Totally weird.”

 

Sam had twenty dollars in his pocket. He figured he ought to buy Christmas presents for his grandmother and Amy. Craig accompanied him to the same expensive knickknack shop where he'd gotten Mitzi Bateman's Secret Santa present. Sam chose an eight-dollar brass pin for his grandmother. It was of a smiling cat. For Amy's present, Sam fell back on the same glass angel ornament he'd given to Mitzi, the girl he felt sorry for.

“Where to now?” Craig asked, zipping up his jacket as they stepped outside the store.

“I kind of want to go home,” Sam said.

“Already? It's not even one o'clock. What are you gonna do at her place all afternoon?”

“No,” Sam said. “Not her place. Home. I still got the key to the old apartment. Wanna go?”

Through some arrangement by his father's attorney, everything from the Capitol Hill apartment was going into storage. Amy said they'd have to go there before New Year's Day to grab anything else he wanted. The apartment had to be emptied and ready for its new tenant by December 31.

It seemed empty already. He and Amy had been there twice this week. They'd taken down the Christmas tree, and he'd removed the pictures from the walls. They were now in boxes in Amy's basement storage space. Someone had turned off the heat, and it was cold. Most of the plants were dying.

“This is bizarre,” Craig whispered. “I feel like we're trespassing or something. I mean, everything's practically just the same, but it
feels
different.”

“We're not trespassing,” Sam said. Yet Craig was right. This wasn't his home anymore.

He wandered into his old bedroom. The walls and bookshelves had been stripped of everything he treasured. He sat on his bed—without its pillow.

Craig sat beside him. “You coming back to school after New Year's? Or will she make you go someplace in West Seattle?”

“She said I could finish here,” Sam replied, staring at the blank walls.

“The commute will be a pain in the ass.”

Sam nodded. “Guess everybody's going to treat me like some kind of freak when I get back.”

“It'll be a couple of weeks. Maybe they'll forget by then.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam groaned.

“Well, it beats starting at some new school, doesn't it?”

Sam tried to smile. “You'll still be my friend, won't you?”

“I don't know. Your dad used to pay me twenty bucks a week. How much is What's-Her-Name gonna pay?”

Grinning, Sam punched his shoulder. “Eat shit.”

Craig laughed. But then he glanced around the bedroom, and the smile ran away from his face. “God, it's gonna be weird not coming here anymore. All the bullshit sessions we've had in this room…”

“Don't get sentimental on me, Craig. Because if you're trying to make me cry, it ain't gonna work.”

“Sorry. I'm just going to miss this place, that's all.”

“Me too,” Sam said. “Listen, would you think I'm a total shit if I kicked you out? I kind of want to be alone right now.”

“Of course I think you're a total shit,” Craig said, getting to his feet. “But that's nothing new. You coming over later?”

Sam shook his head. “I'll call you tomorrow night.”

Craig paused in the doorway. “When you talk to your dad tomorrow, will you say hi to him for me?”

Sam nodded.

“I'll really miss this place,” Craig said, giving the room one long, last look. “You gonna be okay here?”

Sam nodded again.

“You gonna cry?”

“Probably,” Sam whispered.

 

For the first time in his life, Sam needed to be awakened at nine on Christmas morning. Another first, he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and got dressed before opening up his presents. He tried to act excited. But he was tired and nervous. He'd been up most of the night thinking about the visit to his dad today.

Craig's prediction from a while back came true. Except for a thirty-dollar gift certificate to Tower Records, all of the presents from “mother” were clothes. “Gosh, this is great,” Sam said as he pulled out each new garment. “Thank you, Amy.”

His grandmother seemed delighted with the brass cat brooch. She kissed him, and pinned it on the lapel of the robe Amy had given her—the store tags still dangled from her sleeve. “Your mother and I got you something together,” she said. “But we're saving that for last.”

Sam pretended he was dying of curiosity, and in the meantime, unwrapped a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt from Paul McMurray. Then Amy opened up her glass angel, and she carried on as if it were the Hope diamond. She hugged and kissed him, then made a big production about hanging it on the tree.

All the presents had been unwrapped. Then, in a sober tone, Amy announced: “There are some other things from—Mr. Jorgenson.” She retreated to her bedroom.

Sam looked at his grandmother. She smiled and fingered the cat brooch on her lapel. “His lawyer talked to your mom,” she explained. “He wanted you to have these.”

Amy carried the Meier & Frank box into the living room. On top of it was the gift-wrapped basketball and another, smaller package. She set the boxes in front of him, but held on to the other gift—obviously the one they were saving for last.

Sitting on the floor, Sam unwrapped the basketball. Then he opened the Meier & Frank box and glanced at the Springsteen book, the videos, the calendar, and
Pictionary
—all the gifts he'd wanted. But he hardly even smiled.

“I'm supposed to tell you that the color TV and the VCR are yours if you want them,” Amy said.

Sam just nodded.

“I don't mean to undermine his judgment,” he heard her say. “But I don't think the
Lethal Weapon
video is suitable for a boy your age. After all, it's rated ‘R.'”

“It's okay,” Sam answered quietly. “I've seen the movie, Amy. Seeing it again isn't going to corrupt me or anything.”

“Well, it's bad enough that he gave you
Psycho
. When I was your age, your grandma wouldn't even let me go see it.”

“But you sneaked out and saw it anyway,” Sam's grandmother interjected.

The three of them laughed, and for a moment, the tension was gone. Then Amy said, “Well, I might as well tell you, he bought you something else. But I don't think you should have it.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. “It's a—a skateboard.”

“He got a skateboard for me?” Sam broke into a smile. But then, all of the sudden, he remembered where his father was now. It was like getting a wonderful present from someone who had since died. “Where is it?” he murmured.

“In my bedroom closet. But why even look at it? I don't think it's safe, Sam. I'm sorry. I don't want you to have it.”

“But
he
gave it to me, and
he
must have figured it was safe enough.”

“Yes, well, worrying about you is my job now,” Amy replied. “And I get ulcers thinking about you wiping out on that thing. I have a friend at work. Her son smashed himself up on a skateboard. He's had to have three operations on his knee.”

“Geez, Mom, he could have had the same kind of accident falling off his bike,” Sam argued. “I'll be careful on it.”

“I'm sorry, Sam—”

“But more than anything, a skateboard's what I wanted for Christmas.
He
knew how much I wanted one.”

“Let's not start in on that. Now, you can take the skateboard back and buy something else with the money.”

Sam stood up. “You just don't want me to have it, because
he
gave it to me.”

“That's not true. I'm letting you keep the videos and everything else. Now, come on, quit pouting.” She held out the gift-wrapped box. “You still haven't opened the present from Grandma and me.”

“I don't want it,” he grumbled, sneering at her.

“Oh, now, Sammy—”

“No. Why don't you ‘
take it back and buy something else with the money
'? You can take back the lousy sweaters you got me—and all the rest of this junk, too.” He kicked the box that held the Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt. “I don't want any of it.”

“Stop it.”

“I think this is the crummiest Christmas I've ever had.”

“And I think,” Amy replied steadily, “that you're acting like a brat, because you didn't get what you wanted.”

“Yeah? Well, fine, fine. Merry Christmas to you, too, and go to hell while you're at it.” He marched into his room, then slammed the door.