Home Song (8 page)

“That's not the point. The point is that if I have a father somewhere around this city, maybe it's time I got to know him.”

“No!” she shouted.

In the silence following her outburst, he stared at her while his cheeks grew pink.

Realizing her mistake, she covered her mouth tightly with one hand. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please, Kent,” she pleaded, much softer, “not now.”

“Why not now?”

“Because.”

“Mom, listen to yourself,” he said reasonably, more quietly.

“It isn't a good time for either one of us. You're . . . well, look, this move to a new city, a new school, making new friends . . . it's all you can handle right now. Why load more onto yourself by bringing up this issue now?”

“Did you think I never would, Mother?”

“I don't know what I thought. I just. . .I guess I thought . . . well, when you were old enough to have children of your own, maybe then.”

He looked at her with questioning brown eyes, then said, “Would you tell me something about him?”

“I don't know much.”

“You never kept in touch after I was born?”

“No.”

“But he lives here now?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“Have you seen him since we moved back?”

She told her first lie ever to her son. “No.”

He stared at her with a solemn expression on his face, his mind working and wondering.

Quietly, he told her, “Mom, I want to know him.”

Above all, she realized he had that right. Beyond that, it seemed almost as if fate had placed him and his father in the same arena for the sole purpose of forcing their introduction. Was it possible that some ineluctable energy was at work when the two of them were together, mysteriously shifting protons and neutrons in the atmosphere and giving Kent some sixth sense about his father? Could the bond of blood be so powerful as to key some recondite thought transference between the two of them? If not, why had he asked now?

“Kent, I can't tell you now. Please accept that for the time being.”

“But, Mom . . .”

“No! Not now! I'm not saying I won't ever tell you. I will, but you've got to trust me. This isn't the right time.”

She watched his face turn hard, then he spun from the kitchen and headed for his room.

He slammed the door the way he'd been taught years ago he was
not
to slam doors, then flung himself onto his bed and clamped his hands beneath his head. Through a haze of angry tears he stared at the ceiling.

She didn't have any right to keep it from him! None! He was a person, wasn't he? And a person came from two people, and a lot of what that person was and felt and hoped and yearned for stemmed from who he came from. And everybody knew who they came from but him! Well, it wasn't fair! And she knew it, otherwise she would have stormed in here and chewed him out for slamming the door.

All his life she'd been doing extra things to make up to him for not having a dad, and all his life he'd pretended it didn't matter. But it did, and he wanted to know. She'd had a dad, so she didn't know what it felt like in elementary school when everybody drew pictures of their families and
his just had two figures in it. She didn't know what it felt like to stand in a circle of boys and listen to one of them tell about how his dad had put a cool set of handlebars on his bike for him, or taken him out fishing or shown him how to use a soldering gun. When they'd lived in Iowa, he remembered a boy named Bobby Jankowski, whose dad did everything with him, taught Bobby how to pitch and hit a baseball, took him camping, helped him make a soapbox car and enter it in a race. And one sublimely wonderful day when the schools closed for a blizzard, Bobby's dad built a two-story snow fort with a stairway, windows made of hard plastic, and furniture made of packed snow. He took a lantern out and let the kids play in the fort after dark, and when they asked if they could sleep out in it in their sleeping bags, Mr. Jankowski said, “Sure.” All the kids except Kent got to try sleeping in that fort. Sure, they were all back in their own houses after an hour, but Kent's mother gave an adamant “No!” right off the bat. Forever after, he'd been convinced that if he'd had a dad, he'd have gotten to try sleeping in that fort. He had never quite forgiven his mother for refusing to let him try it. Now that he was grown he realized that all those moms and dads knew perfectly well the boys wouldn't last out in that cold . . . but the chance to share the adventure for even one hour—that's what Kent had missed.

Bobby Jankowski: the luckiest kid Kent had ever known.

And now today, that girl, Chelsea . . .

When her dad had put his arm around her and introduced her, and later when she'd said how proud she was of him because all her friends thought he was a fair man—heck, Kent's mother couldn't begin to imagine the mix of emotions that caused in him. Uppermost was a sort of sick longing tinged with regret, followed today by anger and a strong resolve to find out who his father was and meet the man.

And no matter what, he was going to do that.

* * *

Wesley Gardner drove a nine-year-old Ford pickup with more than eighty thousand miles on it, wore styleless trousers with flappy legs and a dirty blue fishing cap. He lived largely on venison and walleyed pike, loved a beer before supper, and brought smiles to the faces of his grandchildren when he walked into their house late Friday afternoon.

“Hi, Grandpa!” Chelsea said enthusiastically as he gave her a hug.

“Hi, snookums.”

She reached up to cock his silver-rimmed eyeglasses lower on the left side. “Your glasses are crooked again, Grandpa; what am I going to do with you?”

He took off his glasses and threw them onto the kitchen counter, where they ricocheted off the canisters and landed with the earpieces sticking up in the air. “Well, straighten the dang things then. They always bother you more than they do me. Robby, look what I brought for you and me.” Into his grandson's hand Wesley thrust a plastic bag sealed with a Twist-Tie, holding a curl of white meat. “Walleye. We'll cook it in some beer batter the way you like it.”

“Walleye. All
right
. They been bitin' out there?”

“Caught this one yesterday off the sandbar. A four-pounder. Thought you were gonna come out this week and go fishing with me.”

“I wanted to, but I had football practice every afternoon except today.”

“So are you gonna whup Blaine this year or not?” Blaine High School was the archrival of the HHH Senators.

“We're gonna give it a try.”

“Well, you better, by gol, 'cause I got a bet on with Clyde.” Clyde was Wesley's brother and next-door neighbor. They lived out on Eagle Lake, side by side, in a pair of
cabins they'd built when they were young married men. Both were now widowers, content to sit on their front porches and look at the water when they weren't on it in their fishing boats.

“Chelsea, go out in my truck and get those tomatoes I brought, and there's some new potatoes too. I dug up the first hill this morning and, say, do they look good. We'll have us a supper fit for a king.”

Tom came through the kitchen carrying a garment bag and an overnight case. “Hi, Dad.”

“Well, if it isn't Romeo”—he smiled as Claire followed Tom into the room—“and here comes Juliet.”

She kissed his cheek in passing. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you two lovebirds going?”

“To Duluth.”

“Well, you don't have to worry about a thing back here. I'll keep these two in line.” To the kids he said, “I remember once when your grandma was alive, I took her up there just north of Duluth during smelting season, and, say, those smelt were running so thick we were scooping 'em out of the river by the washtubful. Never saw a year when the smelt ran like that. Well, your grandma, she never really liked smelt, hated cleaning 'em, but she was a good sport and went along—just the same. We camped out in a tent that night, and next morning when I got up and stuck my foot into my boot, something wiggled in there. She'd stuck a couple smelt in each of my boots, and, say, when those fish started wiggling, I threw that boot so far the fish flew, and your grandma, she laaaaughed.” He drew the word out in fond memory. “Yup, your grandma, she was a good sport. Knew how to make fun out of hard work, and let me tell you, that smelting was hard work.”

Tom came back into the kitchen after taking the clothes
to the car. “You telling that old smelt-in-the-boot story again, Dad?”

“Not to you, I'm not. You get on out of here and leave us three alone so we can fry fish. Robby, I got a six-pack of Schlitz in the truck. You go get it and put it in the refrigerator for me, but leave one can out so I can mix up that batter.”

“Sure, Grandpa.”

“Well, I guess Mom and I are packed,” Tom said, leading the procession out to the driveway, where goodbye hugs were exchanged by all. Tom hugged his father last. It was a real hug, involving four strong arms and thumps on the back. “Thanks for staying with the kids.”

“Are you kidding? I wish I could do it more often. Keeps me young. You just have a good time with your bride.”

“I will.”

“And, Claire,” Wesley said, “if he doesn't do right, just put a fish in his boot. Man needs a fish in his boot every now and then to make him stop and appreciate what a good woman he's got.”

Tom didn't need a fish in his boot. He realized what a good woman he had and performed the forgotten courtesy of holding the car door open for her.

“Woo,” she said, slipping into her seat. “I like this already.”

He slammed her door, got in, and they backed down the driveway waving goodbye. She waved for half a block down the street, then arched back against her seat and said to the roof, “I can't believe we're actually going!” Impulsively she caught Tom around the neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I've wanted to do this for so long. You're going to be
sooo
happy you got this idea.”

She ran a finger down his Adam's apple into the open neck
of his shirt, then smiled to herself and settled back for the ride.

 

They reached the port city an hour before sunset and found The Mansion with no trouble. It was located north of downtown on London Road, a wooded thoroughfare where the area's most elegant estates had been built in Duluth's golden days in the early part of the century. The twenty-five-room house, originally the home of a wealthy iron ore magnate, was perched high on a promontory above Lake Superior, surrounded by trees and lawns and separated from the road by a thickly wooded front lot and a pond populated by a flock of tame ducks. The ducks all came waddling and shaking off their wings, looking for handouts as Tom and Claire got out of their car.

Inside, they were shown to the immense south guest room, with a wide sweep of leaded windows set into solid brass casings, a step-down bathroom, and an antique bed so tall it could not have been housed beneath the ceilings of most contemporary homes. The view was awe-inspiring. It stretched east over six acres of emerald lawns, ending at the brink of the tall rocky cliffs overlooking the lake. Out on the water, incoming oil tankers and outgoing grain boats raised wisps of smoke on the horizon. The property was flanked by ancient pine trees, and off to the right the remains of a sixty-year-old garden led to terraced steps that dropped down to an aged orchard, then the hundred railed steps that clung to the rock wall leading down to the lakeshore far below.

When the innkeeper closed their door, Claire moved directly to the window, opened the casement, and breathed reverently, “Wow.”

A landward breeze carried in the scent of pine and
honeysuckle, which bloomed on the terrace below. The brass window casings were cool beneath her palms as she leaned on them and filled her senses with the serenity of the setting.

“Wow,” she said again as Tom dropped his car keys on an ornate marble-topped dresser.

He moved up behind her and crooked his hands over her shoulders.
Tell her
, an inner voice chided.
Tell her and get it over with so you can enjoy the rest of your time here with her
. But once he told her, this almost mystical perfection would be shattered. She was so happy he didn't want to do that to her. Or to himself.

“Should I open the wine?” he asked, thinking maybe it would be easier with wine.

“Mmm . . . yes. Wine, give me wine,” she said euphorically, flinging her arms around herself straitjacket style, whirling into his embrace. “But first kiss me.”

She had been his only lover for eighteen years; how extraordinary that he could feel the charge still, after so long, but it returned in a glorious wave that carried them through a succession of kisses to the pouring and drinking of wine, to disrobing, and onto the bed within minutes of their arrival. What happened there rather stunned them both with its intensity and wiped from his mind the idea of baring his secret. When it ended, she said, “Did you ever think it would be this way after all these years?”

“No,” he whispered, his voice nearly failing. “I never did.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She touched his face. “So somber though. Tom . . . what is it? I just keep thinking something's wrong. You've been so preoccupied.”

He smiled for her, caught her hand, and kissed the inner
curl of her fingers, then left the bed to return a minute later with their wineglasses refilled. Stacking his pillows, he sat down beside her.

“Here's to you and me,” he toasted, “and a good school year ahead.”

They drank, then he rested his glass on an upraised knee and stared out the window beyond the foot of the bed, rehearsing various ways of telling her about Monica and Kent Arens, terrified of bringing it up, realizing he must.

She cuddled close and ran the foot of her wineglass across his chest. “You know what sounds good for supper? Chinese. Linda Wanamaker said she's eaten at a place called The Chinese Lantern and they do lobster some kind of exotic way that'll knock your socks off. You in the mood for lobster?”