Only Son (7 page)

“What did you just say to me?” The old man reached over to grab him by the hair.

Carl knocked his hand away. “Cut it out!”

His father got up. “Why, you little shit—”

“No, Walter, don't,” Carl's mother was saying.

Carl jumped up and backed away. With a clinched fist, his father swung at him, but Carl dodged it. He was getting too fast for the old man; didn't have all that extra weight to slow him down. Cursing, his father got redder in the face with each failed swing until he managed to connect, cuffing Carl on the side of the head.

Carl had gotten tagged worse during football scrimmages; it dazed him for only a second. Then his father grabbed him by the hair. Carl could no longer hold back. Years of silent submission and powerlessness suddenly ended. He punched the old man back, a hard blow to his soft gut. He didn't stop there. Without thinking, he hit him across the mouth with his fist.

His father stumbled back into the table. Food, plates, and silverware toppled to the floor. He fell to his knees and held a hand over his mouth. As if in shock, he gazed at the blood on his fingertips.

Carl stood there, paralyzed with fear. He could barely hear his mother, pleading for them to stop. He'd never seen his father look so angry.

“I'll show you,” the old man whispered. He grabbed a steak knife off the floor and got to his feet. “C'mon, football hero.”

“No, Walter…God, please…”

Carl backed away until he bumped into the breakfront.

Cutting at the air, his father came closer and closer. He jabbed the knife toward Carl's face, but Carl lurched to one side. The old man took another swing with the blade. Carl put his hand up, and blood suddenly sprayed onto his father's white shirt. He'd sliced a deep line across Carl's palm.

He came at Carl with the knife again.

“
Fucking asshole!
” Carl kicked the old man in the balls. The knife flew out of his father's hand. Carl didn't even realize what he'd done until he blinked and saw his father curled up on the floor, writhing in pain, his hands cupped between his legs. He made a strange, choking sound as he gasped for air. Carl knew what it was like to have the breath knocked out of him.

He grabbed a napkin and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. The cut would need stitching. It stung, worse than any burn. He looked down at his mother, now kneeling over the old man. “Mom?” Carl said. “Mom, can you drive me to the hospital?” The napkin was already soaked through, dripping blood. “Mom, please…”

But she just shook her head helplessly, not moving from her place by the old man.

Carl left them there together, and ran down the block to his friend, Timmy Monda's house. He told them that his folks were gone for the night and he'd cut himself fixing dinner. Timmy and Mr. Monda drove him to the hospital. Carl gave the same story to the doctor who put six stitches into his hand.

“It'll be sore for a couple of days,” the doctor told him. Then he squinted at Carl and touched his bruised cheek. “Say, you've got quite a shiner there. How did that happen?”

“Oh, well, after I—I cut my hand, I ran into a cabinet. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Put some ice on that cheek when you get home,” the doctor said.

Carl nodded and looked away. Just once, he wished someone wouldn't believe his lies.

“You're Walter Jorgenson's boy, aren't you?”

“That's right,” he murmured.

“Give him my regards. He's a fine man…fine man.”

Carl spent the night at the Mondas' house. He phoned his mother, and she said his father was packing for a business trip. It would be safe to come home the next morning.

Never again would his father get the best of him. Carl put a swift end to every attack. He didn't allow the old man to catch him vulnerable or unprepared. He bought a hinged padlock and screwed it to the inside of his bedroom door. He hid the lock and key inside an old pair of gym shoes at the back of his closet, and pulled them out before going to sleep. No more sneak attacks. Often, he'd wake up at night to the sound of his father beating against the secured door, the muted curses as he vainly tried to force it open.

The knocking wouldn't stop. Then the doorbell. Carl opened his eyes. He squinted at the shades drawn against the living room windows, and he threw the blanket aside. Climbing off the couch, he glanced at his wristwatch: 4:40. Must have fallen asleep after all.

The doorbell rang again. “Just a minute!” he called, almost tripping as he stepped into his pants. He grabbed his shirt—draped over the railing of the baby's crib—put it on and fumbled at a couple of buttons in the front. Staggering to the door, he checked the peephole.

It was Eve.

What the hell does she want?
he wondered. It had been over three months since he'd even spoken to her. All communications were now handled through their attorneys.

Damn
. Their first meeting after the divorce: she should find him looking terrific, healthy, and happy. Not like this: tired, disheveled, his ugly apartment barely furnished—
and full of baby things
.

She was looking directly at the peephole. “Carl, I know you're there. Are you going to open the door or what?”

He opened it only a crack. Then he stepped outside, set the catch and quickly shut the door behind him. “Hi,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “How've you been, Eve?”

“Fine.” Her eyes avoided his. “I guess you're not going to ask me in…”

“The place is kind of a mess right now. Otherwise I would.”

“I tried you at work. They said you called in sick today.”

“I'm feeling better now,” he said. Carl smiled at her. She looked beautiful, that relaxed, “natural” beauty which took her twenty minutes in front of the makeup mirror to achieve. Carl hated himself for still feeling drawn to it. She wore the lavender blouse he'd given her last Christmas, his favorite on her. Had she come to try for a reconciliation? He wondered if it were possible. “You look very nice, Eve,” he managed to say.

She glanced down at his bare feet, then at the undone buttons on his shirt. “I seem to have caught you at a bad time.” She looked beyond him at the door. A tiny frown came to her face. “You have company, don't you?”

He swallowed. All the baby things, he couldn't let her come in and see them. “Yes,” he said. “Sorry.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, then I'll get right to the point, Carl. I almost gave them your number here, but I thought, well…” She shrugged. “I felt you shouldn't hear it over the phone from some stranger. I got a call from this man in Santa Rosa, and he said he'd been trying to locate you for two days. It seems your father had a severe stroke. He—he passed away on Saturday, Carl. I'm sorry.”

Carl stared at her for a moment. “You're kidding…”

“The funeral is day after tomorrow,” she murmured.

He wondered why he didn't feel anything. There was no sorrow, not even relief. It merely struck him as ironic, since he'd been thinking so much about the old man recently. “Well, thank you for telling me, Eve,” he heard himself say. “It was very thoughtful of you to come here…very considerate…”

Was that the only reason she'd come? Had she made herself so alluring just to give him this news, or was there more? He kept telling himself that his father was dead, but he'd never loved him. Yet he still felt something for Eve. And she stood in front of him now, touching his arm. Against all his resolves, he hoped she'd missed him too, and been as lonely as he.

“Are you going to be all right?” she was asking. “I have a feeling this isn't sinking in yet.”

“Oh, I'm fine,” he said. “It's sweet of you to be so concerned.” He smiled shyly. “Listen, Eve, I'm alone here. There's no company. I just said that because, well, this place is kind of a rathole, and I didn't want you pitying me—like I was living in squalor without you…”

“I wouldn't think that, Carl,” she said.

“Listen, maybe if you're not busy tomorrow night, we could have dinner together.” As he spoke, Carl felt he shouldn't be so honest and impulsive. It was like opening a wound. “Just dinner,” he mumbled.

“You're expected in Santa Rosa tomorrow for a memorial service,” she replied. “They'll be calling you tonight about the arrangements. In any event, I don't think dinner together is a good idea, not at this time. But I'm flattered.”

Could she have sounded more impersonal?
he wondered.
But I'm flattered
, that was a polite “get-lost” line to some schmuck trying to pick her up in a bar. Hell, he was still her husband. Maybe if she'd said it with a smile instead of that glacial expression, it might not have been so humiliating. What was he thinking anyway? He didn't really want to be with her again. It would spoil all his plans for the baby. How could he be so stupid? “I see what you mean,” he said finally.

She studied him in a pained and wondering way—as if staring at some juvenile delinquent in jail. “It doesn't faze you at all, does it?” she asked quietly. “I know you and your father had problems, Carl. Maybe if you'd told me just a little more about that, I'd understand. But he's dead. And you don't seem a bit sorry. Isn't there an ounce of forgiveness in you?”

“Not for him,” he said. “But for you, Eve, yes. Only you don't want my forgiveness, do you?”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Carl, I don't think I did anything wrong. It's my body, my decision. I'm sorry you got hurt, and I'm sorry you don't understand. But I don't need you to forgive me for what I did…”

The little speech seemed more carefully thought out than when she'd given it before, and he imagined Eve rehearsing it in the car on her way to his place. In all the time he'd known her, in all the fights they'd had, not once had she admitted to being wrong. She'd never said to him, “I'm sorry.” Instead, it was: “I'm sorry you misunderstood,” or “I'm sorry you're upset about it,”—always qualifying the apology so it came back to him, as if he were too thick-headed to accept something hurtful she'd said or done. He often wondered why she couldn't ever tell him she was just plain sorry.

“I haven't done anything wrong,” she said with finality, her head held high, tilted to one side.

He just nodded. “Well, Eve, I guess that's where we'll never see eye to eye.” He reached for the doorknob. “Listen, it was very nice of you to come here in person to tell me the news about my father. I appreciate it. Thanks.” He nodded again and smiled. “Take care.” Then he ducked inside and closed the door.

Carl felt proud of himself for keeping his cool, acting so civil and friendly when she'd probably expected an argument. It was almost like a victory for him—but a small, sad one. He had no connection to anyone at all anymore, not her, not the father he'd hated. He was alone in the ugly, nearly barren apartment now. And the baby's crib was still empty.

 

Natalie Wood danced alone on a rooftop.
West Side Story
lost a lot of its impact on the twelve-inch black-and-white screen. The portable TV sat on the breakfast table, while Amy slouched in the chair, trying to ignore all the noise from the living room. Nearly every tender moment in the movie was spoiled by loud cheers or groans, or Paul coming in for more beer.

He was right, damn him. If she were on the living room sofa watching this, she'd have fallen asleep before Tony and Maria even met. She hated the heaviness dragging down her eyelids.

A chorus of hoots and applause from the living room made her sit up. Someone must have scored a touchdown. Did they have to be so damn loud? They'd wake up the baby…

Then, as the noise died down, sure enough, she heard Eddie crying—his sleepy cry. If she went into him now, he'd never go back to sleep. And she had work in the morning. Didn't Paul realize that? Didn't he care at all? She might as well have been a single parent. Sometimes, that didn't seem like a bad idea.

Amy turned down the volume on the movie and listened. Eddie got a little quieter.
That's it, honey, go back to sleep
…She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting off in the lull.

“OH, SHIT! THE BALL WAS RIGHT IN HIS HANDS!” someone boomed.

This was followed by the sound of stomping on the floor, loud moans, and hisses. Then Eddie—screaming.

Amy snapped off the TV, got to her feet and marched into the living room.
All of you, get the hell out of here right now!
she wanted to yell. But she put on her best cordial smile, although four sets of eyes were glued to the set. “Paul,” she said steadily. “Can I see you for a second?”

“Can't it wait until next commercial?”

She kept the smile stretched across her face. “Now, sweetheart, okay?” Amy swiveled around and walked into their bedroom. Ed was still crying, but his voice was weak and sleepy.

Paul came into the bedroom. “Hey, hon,” he whispered. “Can't you do something to quiet him down? We're trying to watch a game in there.”

 

“Anyway, that's when I hit him,” Amy told her mother on the phone. It was ten-thirty her mother's time; Amy knew she'd woken her, but thought she'd go crazy if she didn't talk to someone.

“Well,
where
did you hit him?”

“Just on the shoulder,” she sighed. Amy was sitting in the dark, on the bed.

“What did he do then?”

“He said 'ouch' and laughed.” Actually, he'd said: “What the fuck is the matter with you?” Then she'd torn into him about the racket he and his friends were making. They were quieter now, and she didn't want to pass through that living room with them still there. Eddie hadn't let out a peep in the last ten minutes. “Anyway, Mom, everything's okay now.” Amy got up and pulled the phone to the window. “Listen, one of the reasons I called,” she said. “Would it be okay—just as soon as I get some time off from work—if we came for a visit?”