Only Son (37 page)

Amy squeezed her eyes shut. “Goddamn it,” she whispered. She glanced at the gift box in her hands. “I wanted so much for this to go well. Oh, Mom…” She sank down beside her mother on the sofa and started to cry. She'd given her son “the crummiest Christmas he'd ever had.” He hated her, and he'd never accept her as his mother. “God, he hates my guts. Did you hear him?”

“I did.” Lauraine smiled. “I heard every word, honey. And you did everything right.”

Amy stared at her mother, and wondered how she could look so happy after everything had just fallen apart in front of her eyes. She was grinning, for God's sakes.

“He called you ‘Mom,'” Lauraine whispered. “In the middle of all that, he called you ‘Mom.'”

 

Sam emerged from his bedroom an hour later. Amy and his grandmother had changed from their nightgowns and robes into regular clothes. They were throwing out discarded wrapping paper and trying to set the opened presents in some kind of order beneath the tree. Both of them just smiled at him when he wandered into the living room. Then they went back to what they were doing—as if nothing had happened earlier.

“I'm sorry,” Sam mumbled, looking down at the carpet. “You're right. I was acting like a brat. And I'm sorry I told you to go to hell.”

Amy crunched up some used wrapping paper and sighed. “Well, it wasn't very bright of me to tell you about the skateboard, then say you couldn't keep it. But I was afraid he'd mention it to you this afternoon. I didn't want you to think I was holding out on you.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Guess from where you stand, seems like I'm holding out on you anyway. I understand why you don't want to take the skateboard back. Maybe you can give it to Craig—or loan it to him.”

Sam frowned. “Naw. Craig's mom won't let him have one.”

“
What?
” Stunned, Amy had to laugh. “Then what are you giving
me
such a hard time for?”

He cracked a smile. “Well, I said I'm sorry—”

“Listen, fella, are we all forgiven or what?” she asked.

He nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

“Hallelujah,” she said. “Well, don't just stand there. You've still got one more present to open.” She grabbed the wrapped box from under the tree and handed it to him. “Here, from Grandma and me.”

It was a bit heavy. Sam tore off the paper and gazed at the box from AT&T: a cordless telephone.

“There's a jack in your room,” Amy said. “We figured you'd like a little privacy when you talk to your friends—and all the girlfriends you're going to have.”

Sam hugged his grandmother and thanked her. Then he went to Amy. Sam kissed her. Amy's arms came around him, and he returned his mother's embrace.

 

“Nervous?” Amy whispered.

“Kind of,” Sam said. He wore one of the new sweaters she'd given him. They sat close together in a couple of dirty, orange plastic chairs. Just as his mother clung to her purse, Sam kept a tight grip on the thin bag that held a present for his dad.

He counted: there were only four other white people among the thirty or so who crowded the visitors' waiting room at King County jail. It felt strange and scary to be a minority all of the sudden. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke; and most of the smokers just flicked their ashes onto the floor. Babies screamed, little kids ran around unattended, and women checked their faces in compacts. Two big, obnoxious, teenage boys threw around a plastic ornament from the scrawny, fake tree in the corner of the room. Knocking into people, they laughed and swore loudly. Old couples looked sad and lost. Everyone was dressed in their bargain basement best. Sam imagined what it must be like for his dad, living with husbands, fathers, sons, and boyfriends of these sorry people.

“I hope you don't mind,” Amy whispered to him. “But I've invited everyone here to our place tonight for Christmas dinner.”

Sam laughed.
She's pretty cool
, he thought.

A cop stepped into the room and called out: “
Jorgenson?
”

Sam got to his feet.

“It'll be fine,” Amy whispered.

At the door, the policeman examined the contents of the paper bag Sam held. “Can you make sure he gets this while I'm in there with him?” Sam asked. “It's kind of a Christmas present.”

Nodding, the policeman took the bag and led him through a metal detector, then into a long, fluorescent-lit room. A couple of other cops were pacing back and forth while the visitors sat in cubicles along a glass wall. As he followed the policeman to a seat in the end cubicle, Sam glimpsed the faces of the inmates on the other side of the glass. They looked so sad—even when they were smiling or laughing. It was as if the vacant, hollow eyes had become a part of their work shirt and dark trouser uniform.

Then he saw his father through the glass partition. His eyes were still the same—clear and kind. But someone had given him a bad haircut, and it made him look like an overage marine recruit. With a lopsided smile, he ran a hand over the short, grey-brown bristles of hair that stood up on his head.

Sam tried to smile back. He sat down in the cubicle. There was a grilled circular metal disc in the window which allowed them to speak. But Sam couldn't think of anything to say.

“How are you, Sammy?” his father asked.

Sam stared at the number on his work shirt. He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“I like your sweater. She give it to you?”

He nodded. “Christmas present.”

“She's got good taste, your mom has.”

“She gave me your presents, too,” Sam said. “Thanks.”

“Not much of a surprise, I'm afraid.”

“The skateboard was. But she won't let me keep it. She thinks it's too dangerous.”

“She's your mom. You've got to respect her decision.”

Sam glanced at the smeared fingerprints near the base of the glass divider. He couldn't quite look at his father. His eyes had been avoiding him ever since he sat down.

“Are you taking your medication?”

“Yes.”

His father said nothing for a moment, then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you hate me, Sam?”

He looked up. “No, Dad. I miss you.”

He'd been so uncomfortable, so afraid his father might cry. But now, Sam felt the tears burning his own eyes. “I'm sorry, Dad,” he said, past the tight pain in his throat. “I didn't think it would turn out this way. It's all my fault—”

“Stop that,” his father said. “I put myself in here. You didn't. I don't want you crying for me, Sam. I did a terrible thing twelve years ago, and I deserve everything I've got coming to me. Now, please, stop crying.”

“I can't help it,” Sam murmured, wiping his eyes. “I miss you, Dad—”

“Quit it!” His father seemed angry. “Stop acting like a baby. There are people around. Want everyone to see you?”

“I don't give a shit,” Sam said, his voice quivering. “Why are you acting like such a hard-ass all of the sudden?”

“Just stop,” his father whispered. “It kills me to see you cry when I can't hug you, Sammy. Please, save it for later, when I won't see.” He touched the glass with his fingertips. “Okay?”

Sam just nodded.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“What's going to happen to you?”

His father idly traced a circle with his finger along the bottom of the window. “Well, I took you across the state line, and that's a federal offense. So I'll spend some time in a federal—place. Most likely down in California. But since there was no ‘criminal intent'—I mean, like holding you for ransom or abusing you—my lawyer says it'll probably be only a year or two before I'm out again. And I hear the federal prisons are pretty nice compared to here—better conditions, better food…” He worked up a smile. “A better class of criminals.”

Sam grimaced. “Has anyone tried to—y'know, beat you up or anything? I mean, you hear all sorts of stories about what goes on in jails.”

“Don't worry, Sammy. No one's tried to rape me if that's what you're thinking. I've got a lot of years on most of the guys here. They leave an old fart like me alone.”

Sam leaned forward. “But what's it like, Dad?”

His father shrugged. “Oh, it's not half as bad as I thought it would be. Missing you is the worst part. Outside of that, I guess my only complaint is the way the newspapers always refer to me as ‘Carl Dean Jorgenson.' Makes me sound like a serial killer from the boonies or something—with the middle name in there. Know what I mean?” He grinned, but only for a moment.

Sam knew it had to be awful for his dad, living with drug dealers, murderers, rapists, and robbers. Hell, his father could hardly tolerate litterbugs. He thought about those two loud, obnoxious teenagers in the visitors' waiting room; and if his dad had seen them, it would have really gotten him mad. He had no patience with rude people. And yet, now he had to eat breakfast every morning with people who were much worse than that.

“Speaking of reporters,” his father said, “I guess you and your mom have had your share of them. I'm sorry to put both of you through that. I'm sorry for everything, Sam.”

“She says it's a lot easier to handle compared to the last time she had her name in the newspapers.”

“She's a good woman, Sammy. You know, this meeting here—you and me—it's totally unorthodox. But she agreed to it, because you asked. I thought I'd taken you from a bimbo and a dumb-ass greaser. But I was wrong about your mother.”

Sam cracked a tiny smile. “On the other hand, you were right about
him
, Dad. I met the guy.”

“Give him a chance.”

“I'd rather wait for you.”

His father was shaking his head. “Sam, if I'm paroled, one of the stipulations would be that I don't try to contact you for a number of years. I'm pretty sure about that.”

“But if I talked to her, I'm sure she'd let you come visit me at least. I mean—”

“That wouldn't be fair to your mother—or your real father. Now, don't get teary on me again, please, or I'm going to lose it. You can still write to me…”

A cop came up behind him. His father turned. Sam couldn't hear what the policeman said, but he handed the bag to his dad, then walked away. His dad turned again and gave him a puzzled smile. “What's this?” he asked, fingering the thin paper bag.

Sam shrugged. “Kind of a Christmas present.”

His father reached inside the bag and pulled out the blue spiral notebook. He smiled, but his eyes watered up, too.

“I didn't read it this time,” Sam said.

“I never thought I'd get this back,” his father whispered, clutching the journal. “How in the world did you find it?”

“Craig and I went to the apartment yesterday. He says to tell you ‘hi,' by the way.”

Wiping his eyes, Carl nodded and smiled.

“Anyway, I sent him home,” Sam continued. “Then I started looking through your room. I didn't want the movers or the new tenants to find it. Took me close to an hour. Anyway, I figured you missed it. And writing in it would give you something to do while you're here—someone to talk to, kind of. I stuck a picture of us inside.” He shrugged. “Not much of a Christmas present, but then it hasn't been much of a Christmas.”

“Oh, you're wrong, Sammy,” his father said, smiling at the photo of them together at the Space Needle's observation deck. “This is the best present I ever got. If I'd made a Christmas list, this would have been at the top. Thanks.” He slipped the photo back inside the notebook. “Listen, you better go, Sammy. I think I'm about to get a little teary here.”

“I still love you, Dad,” Sam whispered. He got to his feet.

Carl smiled. “Be good to your parents. Make me proud.”

 

His head down, Carl remained seated at the cubicle for another minute after Sam had left. He physically ached from the emptiness in his heart. He didn't want anyone to see him crying. If he could ride it out for another minute, concentrate on his breathing, count the seconds, then he might make it back to his cell without sobbing. Once there, he could curl up on his cot, face the wall, and cry. But not now. Not here, in front of the other inmates and guards.

He took several deep breaths, and when he looked up again, Amy Sheehan was sitting in the chair Sam had vacated. His eyes were still watery and red; and somehow, her watching him cry was even worse than having the guards and inmates see him. He just wanted to mutter an apology and shrink away from her icy gaze. He had no license for self-pity in her presence. How she must hate him.

Carl quickly wiped his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

She just stared at him with such pain and wonder that Carl could say nothing else. He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

“Why me?” she said finally.

Carl was silent. Even if he tried to explain, it wouldn't bring Sam back. It wouldn't make her hate him any less.

“Why my baby? If you wanted a child so badly, why didn't you adopt one? Why did you have to steal my son?”

“I—I don't expect you to understand,” he muttered. “Twelve and a half years ago, I thought I was going to be a father. I lived in your neighborhood. I'd see you at the store, the neighborhood pool. You were pregnant at the time, and I used to imagine my wife looking like you in a few months. I wanted to be a father so much. But my wife…Well, it didn't happen. I felt gypped. Then I saw you at the pool again one day, and I followed you and your husband around that night—to the movies, then the hospital. I was there when he was born. I didn't want any other child. I wanted him.”

“You've got to be sick,” she said.

“I guess I was—back then,” he said. “It was a crazy, terrible thing I did. I've always regretted that you got hurt. More than just ‘hurt,' I know—”