Only Son (13 page)

The nurse followed him to the hallway, closing the examining room door after her. Carl thought he heard the lock click—and Sam crying. “That's the way out, Mr. Jorgenson,” the nurse said, pointing to another door.

Slowly, he started through the waiting room. No police. No sign of the brunette and her daughter. Carl stared at the parking lot beyond the glass doors. There were no squad cars or police. And his headlights were on. He stepped outside, and looked around the lot: no one. He noticed the ambulance parked by the hospital across the street, and realized it hadn't been a police siren after all. But he still didn't feel safe. He hurried to his car, climbed inside, and turned off the lights. Then he swiped Sam's smelly blanket off the car seat and ran back inside the clinic.

“Thanks,” he said to the nurse, out of breath. “Can I go back in there with him? He probably wants his security blanket.”

She smiled. “Of course. He probably wants
you
is more like it. You should have heard the shrieks when you left him alone with Dr. Durkee.”

Sammy reached out for him the moment Carl stepped into the examining room. The doctor had already put his T-shirt back on him. “He has a touch of roseola,” he said. “But he's past the worst of it. The rash ought to completely disappear by tomorrow. Give me a buzz if it persists or the fever returns.”

Carl gathered Sam in his arms. The baby grabbed his blanky and started sucking on it. “That's all?” Carl asked.

“I'd like to see him again in two months and bring those medical records over as soon as you can. That's all. No problems outside of the roseola.” He started humming a Beatles tune while he jotted something on the nurse's clipboard.

Carl buttoned up Sam's shirt. “Um, is it okay to take him outside, to the store, things like that?”

“Sure. Just keep him warm.” The doctor resumed his humming.

“Then he's really going to be all right?” Carl asked.

Dr. Durkee laughed. “He's fine. Don't worry, Mr. Jorgenson.”

“Sorry.” Carl shrugged. “It's just that I'm new at this single parent business. My—late wife, she was so good with him. I didn't have a worry.” He slipped Sam's little arms into his jacket. It was such a relief to talk to another adult—even if the truth had to be mixed with lies. After three weeks of enslaved solitude, just to be
around
another grown-up was like a reprieve. “I keep thinking I'm doing everything wrong,” Carl confessed.

“Looks like you're managing fine,” the doctor replied. “Roseola is pretty common in babies Sam's age. Don't worry.” He finished writing on his medical form, then stopped to gaze at Carl and Sam. “You'd never guess he was your son,” he said.

The words hung in the air like an accusation. Carl was dumbstruck for a moment. “Well, he—takes after his mother—”

“I was joking,” the doctor laughed. “He looks just like you, Carl. A regular chip off the old block.” He slapped him on the back. “See you in two months. “Bye, Sam.” Then he started for the door, humming again—as if nothing were the matter at all.

 

Driving home from Dr. Durkee's office, Carl wondered why the nurse hadn't noticed the Oregon plates when she'd seen the headlights. He imagined her talking to the doctor now: “
But he said he was from Santa Rosa, California. That doesn't make sense. He must have been lying…
”

“Shit, Carl,” he whispered to himself. “Don't be so paranoid.” The nurse hadn't mentioned the license plates. People didn't notice those things. They didn't remember stories in the newspaper that were three weeks old either. He had nothing to worry about, the doctor had said so.

Carl smiled. Now Sam had a pediatrician: Dr. Durkee, the Humming M. D. And Carl had made his first friend in Seattle too—at least, his first acquaintance.

He made another friend that day. Mrs. Kern stopped by the apartment while he was feeding Sam. Carl told her Dr. Durkee's prognosis.

“Oh, roseola,” she said. “I should have guessed. Two of my own had that. The rash will go away, honey. Don't you worry. Now, I know what a chore feeding time can be. But before I skedaddle, let me tell you, if ever you need to go out, feel free to leave that little angel with yours truly. I mean it now.”

Carl realized that this stout woman with the flowery housecoat and the canaries in her apartment knew about babies. He had a seasoned, willing baby-sitter right in his building, someone who would give him a break once in a while. No more frantic sprints to the 7-Eleven. He could actually shop for things now. He could pick up Washington plates for his car and stop worrying. He'd be free to go out and get a telephone now. He could
call
an insurance company, a diaper service, even order pizza when he was too tired to cook. His fugitive days were over. He wanted to kiss this woman. “God bless you, Mrs. Kern,” he said. “God bless you…”

 

Carl couldn't fall asleep and he'd have to get up for Sam in about five hours. Still, he lay in bed, restless and depressed. He told himself everything would be all right from now on. He'd come out of hiding today. Sam was off the critical list. He'd found a doctor and a baby-sitter for Sam, his first two friends in Seattle. In time, he would make more friends.

But he couldn't risk getting close to anyone—ever. For the rest of his life, he'd be looking over his shoulder, always lying to people about his past and his son. He'd always have to lie to Sam as well.

What kind of father was he anyway? For the last three days, his baby boy had been sick. Yet he'd waited until this afternoon to find a doctor. He'd been too worried about getting arrested. He'd let Sam suffer for three days. It was negligence. Certainly the McMurrays would have gotten him to a doctor sooner. And he'd taken their baby believing he would make a better parent than either of them.

Now Carl couldn't sleep, because he wasn't sure what kind of father he'd be to that little boy sleeping in the next room.

 

As Sam climbed out of the car, the cool night air hit him, and a pang of homesickness swelled in his gut. He stared at his father's apartment building, so much like their home together years ago. Sam walked up to the front door and checked the names by the buzzers. There it was:
Jorgenson—309.

Sam hadn't seen him in four years—not since before the trial. He'd wanted to testify on his father's behalf, but they sent him to stay with his grandmother in Chicago during the trial and sentencing. They'd made it so he couldn't be a help to him
.

Suddenly, all the pain and wondering during the last four years came back to him now. Did his father even want to see him? His letters, forwarded through some lawyer, had stopped coming. Sam still received cards from him on his birthday and Christmas. But the notes inside had become more impersonal with each passing year. Maybe his dad was trying to pull away from him, figuring it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances
.

A thin, black man in Spandex bicycling garb brushed past him, unlocked the door, then stepped inside. Sam slipped in after him
.

At that moment, someone came down the front steps, toting a couple of garbage bags. Sam's heart stopped
.

His father looked older. The hair was almost completely grey now, and his face seemed a little droopy; more lines, darker around the eyes. He'd always appeared younger than his age; but now he looked like a guy in his fifties. He wore khakis and a white shirt. He smiled and nodded at the bicyclist without really looking at him, then rounded the corner. Sam heard a door open, then the clatter of a dumpster lid
.

The black man moved to the mailboxes and opened one up
.

Sam waited for his father to reappear—that guy who had passed through the lobby a moment ago was almost a stranger. Still, there was a gentleness to him that Sam recognized. He'd been afraid that prison would make his father mean, but he didn't look all that different. Sam had no idea what it had been like for him. In his letters, his dad had never talked about jail, no mention of a cellmate, or work programs, or how many months he had left. His dad just wrote about him, and how proud he was; and occasionally, he'd share a memory with him
.

All the lawyers, and everyone involved thought it best that he not know where the jail was, or how long his dad had to stay there. They hushed it up pretty well, too. Press coverage had died down by the time of the trial. When Sam had returned from Chicago, he'd scanned through week-old newspapers in the library, but couldn't find anything on the trial or the sentencing. He'd asked his mom, but all she told him was that he was someplace in California, minimum security, and they could still write to each other through the lawyer. They must have figured this was how they'd keep him from making direct contact with his dad. Well, it had worked pretty well up until now
.

The back door opened and closed once more. Sam watched him pass through the lobby again and start up the stairs. His father didn't even glance at him. Wounded, Sam had to remind himself that he'd changed, too. He'd grown at least ten inches, and filled out. Besides, his dad certainly wasn't expecting him. Maybe he and the black guy looked like buddies or something
.

He started up the stairs after his father. It no longer mattered that his dad looked old, or that he'd stopped writing to him. He just wanted to see his father's tired-looking face light up with recognition and love
.

Sam watched him walk to the far end of the hallway. And the old guy began to whistle “Sweet Baby James,” one of his favorite songs. At that moment, the stranger became his father. Tears brimmed in Sam's eyes as he listened to his dad butcher the melancholy tune. He was never very good at whistling. Sam almost called to him, but his father stepped into the apartment and closed the door
.

“He pointed right to it and said, ‘Look at the baby giraffe, Daddy.' I mean, he said it almost like an adult—clear as that.”

“Hot damn,” Frank Tuttle said, dropping his fork with mock surprise. “Call Ripley's, Carl!”

Frank was thirty-three, with black, curly, receding hair, a mustache, and about twenty excess pounds. He occupied the cubicle neighboring Carl in the Accounting Department at Allstate.

At first, Carl's inheritance had seemed like a bottomless pool of security, but it had diminished to a few thousand dollars in a fleeting sixteen months. So, begrudgingly, Carl had started looking for work. He'd landed a job in Allstate's management trainee program. All of the guys in his section were younger than he, all married with kids. But they acted like a bunch of horny frat boys—with their after-work, beer chugalugs, and the way they hit on the waitresses during group lunches at the Red Robin Burger Emporium near the office. Carl rarely went along on these excursions; this was only his second lunch with Frank.

“Okay, so I'm a bore on the subject,” he said, grinning tiredly. “How old were your kids when they started talking in complete sentences?”

“Same age as yours, Carl—two years. Frank Jr. and Janey were walking by then, too.”

Carl frowned. “Do you think Sam's—backward? I mean, he'll stand up if there's something to hold on to, but he won't even try walking—no matter what I do. I'm starting to worry about him.”

“I'm starting to worry about
you
,” Frank said.

“How do you mean?”

Frank looked up at the pretty, blond waitress, who stood by their table, a coffeepot in her hand. “More?” she asked.

He nodded, almost leering at her. She refilled his cup, but smiled at Carl. She had pale, cream-colored skin, and breasts that seemed too ripe on such a nubile body. “A warm-up, Carl?”

“Sure, thank you.” He tried not to gawk at the display of cleavage beneath her scooped-neck white blouse as she leaned forward to replenish his coffee cup. Then she sauntered away.

The leering smile fell off Frank's face. “That's how,” he whispered. “Shit, buddy. Connie is the best-looking waitress in the place. Everyone in the office is hot for her. I've been eating lunch here twice a week for over a year now, and the girl probably couldn't pick me out of a lineup. You've been in here only once—what? two weeks ago?—and she remembers your name…”

“So?”

“So you're telling me about how you took your kid to the zoo this weekend. Meanwhile Connie's bumping her hip against your shoulder while she takes your order. Man, she's warm for your form. Why don't you do something about it?”

“Gee, think I ought to try to bang her behind the salad bar, Frank?” Carl sipped his coffee and noticed Connie smiling at him from across the restaurant. The girl made him nervous.

The last time he'd been with a woman was Eve—over two years ago. No girlfriends, no dates, no one-night stands, nothing. Carl got by with an ever-increasing collection of
Playboy
and
Penthouse
magazines, which he hid under his bed. He spent Saturday nights alone with Sam asleep in the next room and the Channel 13 Eight O'Clock Movie on TV. There were only three commercial interruptions. He'd order pizza, and usually fell asleep before the movie ended. Last week he'd shared his dinner and dreams with Audrey Hepburn. It was Lee Remick the week before that. These were the only women in his life.

Now this blond waitress over by the kitchen door was smiling at him.

“Connie's giving you the eye,” Frank whispered. “She wants it, man.”

“For chrissakes, Frank, she's just a kid…”

“She's twenty-eight. Bernie in Claims found out from one of the other waitresses. Unmarried, unattached, unyielding in her lust for your bod. So are you going to make your move or what?”

“Frank, she's just being friendly. I'm too old for her…”

“What are you giving me with this ‘too old' bit? Jesus, you look younger than half the guys at the office.” Frank leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a hush-hush confidential whisper. “Y'know, Carl, we're really disappointed in you. We're all married, getting spare tires around the middle. Then you come swaggering in—good-looking and single. We thought you'd be the office stud. We counted on living vicariously through you and your sexploits. We even had a pool going. Half of us bet you were nailing Pam in Personnel during lunch hour. The other half were sure it was Morton's secretary, Barbara….”

Chuckling, Carl shook his head.

“What a shame it ain't so,” Frank said, pushing his coffee cup away. “You've been telling the truth about your lunch hours, haven't you? You really have been brown-bagging it and eating with your kid at the day-care center.”

Carl tried to laugh. “You make it sound like a crime.”

“It's a
waste
—guy with your looks and all.”

Carl often said the same thing to himself. Vain as it seemed, he'd study his reflection in the bathroom mirror and wonder how long he could hold onto his deceptively youthful handsomeness. He didn't have many years left before women like Connie would take no notice of him.

“Don't you ever get lonely, Carl?” he heard Frank ask, his tone suddenly serious.

“Of course I do,” he replied edgily. “But I have an obligation to my boy. You just don't understand what it's like to be a single parent, Frank.”

“Maybe you're right,” he said, glancing at the check. He pulled out his wallet. “This is on me, Carl, if you'll take a little bit of advice.” He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Kids grow up, buddy. If I were a single parent like you, I'd be looking for someone so I wouldn't be single anymore.”

Frank went to the men's room. Carl was waiting by the restaurant door, when Connie brushed up against him. She slipped a matchbook into his hand. “My phone number's inside,” she whispered. “Call me sometime, okay?” She smiled, then turned around and hurried to a tableful of people.

Returning to the office with Connie's phone number in his pocket, Carl turned into his cubicle then stopped dead.

Eve sat at his desk. She wore a light trench coat, and her black hair had been trimmed and curled at shoulder length. She held a framed photo of Sam from Carl's desk and she was studying it. Then Eve looked up at him. “Hi. The girl said you'd be back soon, so I waited.”

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Like I said, waiting for you.” She laughed. “That's not a very warm greeting after two years, Carl.”

“I'm sorry,” he heard himself say.

She put the picture frame down, crossed her beautiful legs, then swayed from side to side on the swivel chair. “Maybe I shouldn't have surprised you like this. In fact, I was in for a surprise myself. When I told the girl out there who I was, she said she thought Mrs. Jorgenson was dead. I was about to check my pulse when you came in.” Eve glanced at the photo again. “Who's the little boy anyway?”

“Eve, I can't talk to you here,” he said, under his breath.

She let out a wry laugh. “I wouldn't doubt it, since you must have told
everyone
here that I'm pushing up daisies.”

She looked so very smug, rocking from side to side in the desk chair. Carl frowned at her. “Eve, the
second
Mrs. Jorgenson died in a car accident shortly after our son was born. That's him in the picture. His name's Sam.”

The smirk fell from her face and she stopped playing with the chair. “Oh, Carl…I'm…I'm sorry…”

“It's okay. If you want to talk, we can go somewhere else.”

“Of course,” she whispered, then got to her feet. “I'm sorry, Carl. You should have told me—and not let me go on like that. Somehow, I just never figured you'd remarry so soon.”

“Let's go outside. I still have fifteen minutes of my lunch hour left.” He led her toward the elevators, ignoring the curious stares from his coworkers. Carl congratulated himself for the “second Mrs. Jorgenson” story. He could use it on the people at the office: “
Yeah, the brunette dish was my first wife. I don't know why she still calls herself Mrs. Jorgenson. It's been years since we've even spoken…
”

They were alone in the elevator. Eve gave him a strained smile. She was even prettier than he remembered. The new hairstyle flattered her. But Carl didn't feel any attraction left. “You look good, Eve,” he remarked.

“Thanks, Carl. You too.” She looked up at the lit numbers above the door.

Carl took her to a delicatessen, where they sat by the window and ordered coffee. It was one of those brightly lit places with plastic tables and chairs like patio furniture. The lunch crowd was starting to dwindle.

Carl asked how she'd tracked him down. Eve explained that she'd gotten his Seattle address from his father's attorney. Then she'd met Mrs. Kern, who had Carl's work address. “She thought ‘Mrs. Jorgenson' was dead, too,” Eve said, frowning. “I figured you must really hate me if you were telling people that. Now I feel rather silly.” She leaned back in her chair. “You certainly didn't waste any time after we split up, did you?”

Carl stirred his coffee. “Why did you want to see me, Eve?”

“I'm attending this tennis tournament in town, and figured I'd look you up.” She shrugged. “My therapist recommended it. She thought I should try to resolve the bitterness between us.”

“What bitterness? It's ancient history, Eve. My life's going well. I'm happy.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Yes, you finally got the son you always wanted.”

He nodded.

She glanced out the window for a moment. “You know, that whole abortion thing wasn't easy for me, Carl. You never seemed to understand that.”

“Well, c'mon, Eve,” he sighed. “At the time, you acted like all you'd done was go in for a haircut or something—like I had no say in the matter. ‘My Body, My Choice,' you said.”

She leaned forward. “Listen, back when I first got pregnant, you were the one who wouldn't let me have any ‘say in the matter,' Carl. I tried to get through to you, but you didn't take my feelings into account at all.”

“All right, fine.” He tried to smile. “Let's not argue, Eve. It's history. I've put it behind me. Time wounds all heels.”

She frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's a joke,” he said tiredly. “It's been a long time, and a lot has happened for me. I'm happy with my life now. I wish you the same, I really do.”

Eve drank some coffee. “I'm seeing somebody,” she said. “An architect.”

“That's nice,” Carl said.

She smiled awkwardly at him. “So—when did you remarry? It must have been pretty soon after the divorce….”

“That's right.” He glanced at his watch, then pulled out some money for the check. “I should get back to work now, Eve. Thanks for stopping by to see me.” He got ready to stand up.

“Well, are you free for dinner tonight?” she asked. “We haven't had much of a chance to—”

“Oh, I'm afraid not. Thanks anyway, Eve.”

“Then that's it?” she asked.

“Then what's it?”

“I thought we might be friends. Carl.”

“What for?” he said. Then he smiled gently. “I'm sorry. What I mean is, you live in Portland, and you're seeing an architect. I live in Seattle and have a son. Why be friends? So we can send each other Christmas cards once a year? Where else could a friendship between us go?”

Eve raised her eyebrows. “And you said you weren't bitter.”

“I'm not, honest. I just don't see any point in trying to keep in touch and be friends.” He didn't want her pulling any more surprise visits, or asking about his son, or his “dead wife.” He wanted Eve to go back to Portland, marry this architect, and forget about him. “Listen, Eve,” he said. “I want you to be happy. There are no hard feelings.”

“No, as a matter of fact, you don't feel anything at all, do you, Carl?” she whispered. “It's just like that time I told you that your father died. You didn't feel anything then either.”

Carl glanced around the delicatessen. They'd been talking in strained whispers, and people were starting to stare. He'd seen couples quietly arguing in restaurants, making everyone around them uncomfortable; and he hated being half of that kind of couple now. It didn't seem to bother Eve.

She let out a sad, embarrassed laugh. “I didn't expect it to turn out like this,” she said. “I certainly hadn't counted on you remarrying. Funny thing is, you've hardly mentioned your dead wife….”

Carl automatically shook his head. He tried to think of some details that might lend credence to his fabrication. But he was stumped—and afraid Eve knew it was a lie.

“I shouldn't be surprised you don't talk about her—or that her picture isn't on your desk beside the one of your little boy. You have a way of sweeping your painful past under the rug, Carl. Not just the pain, but the whole works. I imagine our six years together are buried under that rug—along with your father and the mother of your child. The trouble with that is, Carl, it'll catch up with you eventually. You'll have to pay a price for not facing your past. It'll come back to haunt you.”

Carl gave her a strained smile. Eve was two-thirds right; he hadn't thought about her much—nor about his father. But not a week went by without him remembering—and wondering about—someone he'd never even met. Every time Sam did something charming, every time he was sick, and every time he seemed to take another step toward growing up—Carl would think about Amy McMurray. And he'd want her to know just what Sam had done.

“Maybe you're right, Eve,” he said, to stop her from analyzing him any further. He stood up. “Thanks for stopping by. Take care, okay?”