Only Son (19 page)

The only woman in his life at the moment lived in the building across the way, one floor down. He'd checked the names by the front door, and figured she was probably B. Kramer in 203. He imagined her name was Belinda. From his living room window, Carl had a good view of her apartment, very neat and nicely furnished—considering that the building itself was kind of dumpy. She didn't go out or entertain much. Practically every night, Carl would spy her, writing at a desk by her window. He wondered if she were a student, or an aspiring novelist. She wrote by candlelight, always wearing the same pink terry cloth robe, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Carl never got a good look at her face, but she seemed beautiful. He hadn't seen her in anything less than her street clothes or that pink robe. In a strange way, he was glad his watching her was chaste—without any vulgar, Peeping Tomism. Belinda would write late into the night, and sometimes, Carl would look out his living room window just before going to bed. She'd be there, the candlelight glowing around her. And like him, she'd be alone. Somehow, it made him feel better about himself.

Carl dried the dishes and put them away. Then he went into the living room and picked up Sam's toys. He glanced out the window. Belinda wasn't home tonight. But then, it was only eight-thirty. He'd check again later.

Carl brought the toys into Sam's bedroom. Sam was asleep—still dressed—on top of his bed. Carl roused him and got his clothes off. Asleep on his feet, Sam let his father dress him in his Spider-Man pajamas. Carl gave him the G.I. Joe doll and tucked him in bed. “I love you, Sammy,” he whispered, kissing him good-night. But Sam was already asleep again, hugging G.I. Joe as he once had his yellow blanky years before.

Carl would spend the rest of the evening trying to find a mother for him.

There was a tiny crawl space in the front closet. Its little door was warped and the latch often stuck; the damn thing always took some prolonged tugging—sometimes even a screwdriver—to pry open. That made it a perfect place to hide things from Sam.

There, under boxes of Christmas ornaments, loose pads of steel wool, by cans of paint thinner, wood stain, and other rarely used poisonous cleaners, was a large box that held Carl's past.

He dragged it into the living room, put a Dan Fogelberg album on the stereo, and opened a beer.

He'd saved two news clippings about the kidnapping. Looking at the yellowed, fuzzy news photo of Amy McMurray with the baby, Carl saw that Sam had her smile and her eyes. “
Looks like you
,” he imagined telling her in the next note.

But of course, he'd have to find another woman amid all the old papers and photographs.

He shuffled through the papers—the divorce decree, his birth certificate, diplomas—until he found pictures taken during his college years. He'd had a lot of dates, and someone always had a camera—especially for formal dances. But the photos only made him feel old, and they'd never do: him, with his crew cut and dumb-jock smile; the girls' dresses and hairstyles were straight out of 1962, Jackie Kennedy, and Sandra Dee clones—every one of them. Sure, Sam might accept one of these girls as his mother now, but in a few years, he'd know better.

Carl kept looking. There were many pictures of Eve, which he'd saved despite himself. But he would never use them, and he refused to linger over any one. It was getting late, and he could see the bottom of the box.

Then he found it—a five by seven, black-and-white in a cardboard frame. The picture had been taken sometime in the early seventies, before he'd met Eve, when he'd had that coaching job at the grade school. He'd been a groomsman at the wedding of a faculty friend. He posed with a pretty, blond bridesmaid, who looked a little like Candice Bergen. He'd necked with her in a pantry at the reception hall, but he'd forgotten her name.

But it was a splendid picture, not bad of him either—even with those god-awful sideburns and the Sundance Kid hair. The woman's bridesmaid's dress was pale enough to pass as white, and she held a small bouquet. It could be their wedding portrait. He'd show the picture to Sam in the morning, then have it framed and hang it above the couch.

It was past midnight by the time he got the box of junk put away. Carl turned off the living room lights, then paused at the window to see if his girlfriend was home.

Two candles flickered on her writing desk, and the kitchen light was on. Carl kept waiting to see her in that pink robe. After a few minutes, she appeared in the kitchen, wearing a pretty green dress. She pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, then moved out of Carl's line of vision. It was another moment before he saw her again—by the writing desk. She set down the bottle and started to open it with a corkscrew.

That was when Carl noticed the man in the apartment with her. He wore a suit and tie, and looked much closer to her twenty-something years than Carl was. The man took the corkscrew and bottle, then kissed her on the cheek. She kissed him back—on the lips, it looked like. Then she turned toward the window. Carl stepped back. She glared at him, shaking her head in disgust. Then she lowered the blinds.

“I've already rung these up. She's taking them with her.” Tiffany shoved a set of plates toward Amy's register, then handed her a copper teakettle. “But she's sending this out of state.”

Tiffany was her boss. Word around the store had it that Tiffany was either related to or sleeping with some bigwig. There seemed no other explanation for her tenurelike position in management. Personnel had a stack of complaints from employees who had worked for Tiffany, yet she remained at the Housewares helm, continuing to treat her saleswomen like incompetent serfs.

Amy recalled how impressed and intimidated she'd been back when Tiffany had first interviewed her for the sales job. That was four years ago, when she was married to Paul, dressing in J.C. Penney rack specials, struggling to lose weight and wishing she were as sophisticated-looking as this woman named Tiffany. Amy felt like a fashion flunky in the company of the thirty-six-year-old, with her wavy black perm, oversize glasses and designer dress. She didn't resent Tiffany's condescending manner or her bossiness when she'd started at the store.

Amy knew better now. Had she strolled into that interview today, she never would have gotten hired. No, not the 1983-model Amy Sheehan (she'd shed the McMurray once she'd shed Paul): trim and sporty in a Liz Claiborne blouse and skirt ensemble. She was damn good at her job, and every month, averaged about five customer compliment cards. Yet Tiffany only got more cold and critical toward her. Amy might have given a shit, except no one in the store liked Tiffany—that included most of the customers.

The lady buying the teakettle was no exception. She frowned a tiny bit at Tiffany, who acted as if she wasn't there. “She wants the kettle gift wrapped,” Tiffany said. “Ring it up, code 17.” The code was Tiffany's, so she'd get the commission.

Amy made some small talk with the customer and the lady instantly warmed up to her. “You know,” she said, “I bet you could help me. I'm looking for this retractable makeup mirror that was in your catalogue, but they don't have it at the bath department. And that snooty woman waiting on me just now wasn't any help. Do you know where I can get one?”

Amy hid a smile as she finished ringing up the sale. “Tell you what,” she said. “I'll make some calls. They might have the mirror in another one of our stores, or somewhere else in the mall. Why don't you browse a bit while I check it out for you?”

Ten minutes later, Amy gave her the name of another store in the Lloyd Center, Rosemary's Bed & Bath Boutique. They had the mirror. The lady thanked her about five times.

The woman would probably ask for her the next time she came into the store. That drove Tiffany crazy—people passing her over so Amy could wait on them. And oh, if the customer was a handsome guy, it really burned her. “I'll thank you not to flirt with the customers,” Tiffany had whispered to her, after a certain cute guy had returned to ask for Amy's assistance last week.

Amy had just laughed. “Oh, Tiffany. I sold him a mini-microwave yesterday. I wasn't flirting for goodness' sakes…”

He had dark chestnut hair and brown eyes like Al Pacino. Amy wrote her home phone number on a business card and gave it to him. Perhaps Tiffany had seen her do it.

The woman was such a snoop. Amy wasn't about to tell her that Mr. Microwave (his real name was Joe D'Angelo) had already taken her out. And she had a date with him tomorrow, the zoo.

There wasn't exactly a swarm of single, heterosexual males coming through Housewares, but she got asked out on occasion. Guys like Joe gave her their business cards, or asked for hers. Among her single and divorced girlfriends at the store, dating was the big thing to do. At least, they all said she should be out there dating. So she dated. Most of the guys were nice, but Amy never got serious with any of them. Divorced three years now, and of her hundred-plus dates, she'd had sex with only two. There was the widower with the toddler son and baby daughter. Instant Family. She almost convinced herself that she loved him just to be a mother to those kids. But he was boring and kept sending the kids to his sister's every time Amy came over—so they could be alone. That lasted three weeks. The other guy was a
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
stint from loneliness. The dark, wiry naked stranger in her bed was sexy and nice, but he terrified her. Amy asked that he not spend the night. After he left, she threw up. So much for her life as a swinging divorcée. Yet for every man she shut out of her life, there would be another to come into the store and give her his business card.

There was a lull, and Amy replenished the sales table with some stoneware. Flo, the other saleswoman, was helping her. She liked Flo, a cheery, fiftyish widow with three grown children. She had a wonderful, blond bubble hairdo, and spoke in a gravelly, yet daffy voice. “That new guy in Men's—the cute one? I have it on good authority that he's got a crush on you, hon.”

Amy busied herself arranging some plates. She shrugged.

“Or are things heating up with the Microwave Man?”

“I'm seeing him tomorrow,” Amy replied listlessly.

“You don't sound too excited about it. What's wrong, hon? Last few weeks, you haven't seemed too excited about
anything
. You've been in a real rut ever since…” Flo shook her head.

“Ever since I found out that Paul got remarried,” Amy said, frowning.

“Yeah,” Flo said.

“I don't know what it is,” Amy sighed. “I certainly don't miss him or envy his new wife.”

“The poor girl,” Flo interjected.

Amy managed a weak chuckle. Flo had been there during the divorce, and she knew everything—except about Ed. She'd made several friends at the store, but none of them knew she had a son. On an end table in her living room, she kept a framed photograph of her mother, herself, and Ed. She told everyone it was her godchild she was holding in the photograph. She loved that picture, and the explanation seemed easier than trying to hide the photo every time someone came over.

“I guess it's just strange to know he's getting settled again,” Amy admitted. “Going on with his life.” Meanwhile, she still clung to the past—and to Eddie. Knowing he was out there somewhere kept her from moving on. She'd been in a holding pattern ever since the divorce.

“Well, cheer up,” Flo said. “Your ex is someone else's headache now.”

Amy artfully arranged some coffee mugs on the display table. “I don't know why it makes me blue,” she said. “I suppose I should be happy for him.”

“Who can't you be happy for?” It was Tiffany. She appeared from behind a tall display rack. Amy wondered how long she'd been eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Oh, nothing, Tiffany,” she said, trying to look busy.

“No, what is it?” she pressed, a phony look of concern.

Amy didn't like confiding things to Tiffany, especially something personal and painful; but she'd been caught in a weak moment. She shrugged. “Oh, my ex-husband got remarried, and I was telling Flo that I feel a little funny about it, that's all.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” Tiffany chirped. Yet a bright smile lit up her face, and her eyes widened with delight behind the designer glasses. “Really too bad….”

“Then why are you smiling, Tiffany?” Amy asked.

“Well, I was just thinking you might buy him and his bride something nice here in Housewares. You know, we could always use the business.” With a bounce in her step, she walked away.

“Meow,” Flo said, under her breath.

“God, what a creep,” Amy muttered, going back to work on the display table. She glanced at Tiffany, a few sales tables away. Amy studied the superior expression on Tiffany as she waited on an old black lady. “You know,” she said, “I'll never figure out what I did to make her dislike me so much.”

“Oh, that's easy,” Flo said. “You're younger and prettier than her. Plus I have it on good authority that if it weren't for her upstairs connections, you'd have had her job ages ago.”

Amy had heard the same thing. She'd applied for positions in several other departments, but never got a transfer. Tiffany was always the one to tell her: “
I'm not supposed to know, but that job in Linens? They found someone else. So our happy family here in Housewares won't be breaking up after all. Isn't that nice?
” It was as if Tiffany wanted to keep Amy under her thumb until she found an excuse to fire her.

“Oh, miss?”

Amy looked up. It was the teakettle woman, bypassing Tiffany to talk to her.

“Well, hello again,” Amy said.

Laden with shopping bags, the woman patted the only one not from Frederick and Nelson. “I just want to thank you,” she said. “They had the mirror at that Rosemary's Bath place. And can you believe? It was two dollars less than the one in your catalogue.”

“Well, then you got a bargain. Good.”

“And I'm ever so grateful,” the woman said.

Tiffany stared at them. She waited until the lady walked away, then asked in a hushed voice: “What was that all about?”

Amy explained how she'd helped the woman find the mirror, downplaying it so Tiffany wouldn't feel threatened by her superior finesse with customers. Tiffany's ego was already bruised since the woman had completely ignored her. “I didn't do any more for her than you'd have done, Tiffany,” Amy concluded.

“You're right about that,” Tiffany shot back. “I certainly wouldn't have sent one of
our
customers to another store—for an item in
our
catalogue no less.”

“Tiffany, I checked. We don't have the mirror in stock yet. I even phoned our store at Vancouver Mall, and nothing.”

“So you made calls to other stores on company time?”

“Well, yes,” Amy said. “But it's not like we were
real
busy. I don't see why you're so upset. The customer was happy, and it's good PR for us.”

Tiffany swiveled around and stalked into the back room.

“Score one for our side,” Flo whispered.

But Amy wasn't sure. Maybe Tiffany would use this business with the mirror and twist it around so she could get rid of her.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Tiffany pulled Amy away from a customer. “I called the stockroom about that mirror,” she whispered. “They expect a shipment of them tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tiffany, I'm with a customer….”

“We have an appointment in Mr. Ballentine's office in twenty minutes. I've covered up a lot for you in the past, but I'm afraid you've gone just a little too far this time, Amy.”

“
What?
”

Ballentine was the store manager, and—if rumors were correct—the bigwig Tiffany had on a leash.

 

Hadn't these people seen
Miracle on 34th Street?
Didn't they know how much business Macy's generated in that movie when they sent shoppers to Gimbels for items not in their store? This “customer first” approach seemed totally alien to Ballentine. He was in his forties, skinny, with red hair, and an ugly mustache. He dressed nicely though—some dark, designer suit and a flashy tie. The image of him and Tiffany naked, doing things to each other in bed, popped into Amy's mind and made her stomach turn.

Her stomach was already a mess of knots, as she stood there in front of Ballentine's desk like a soldier ready for court-martial. Tiffany was ensconced in a chair at Amy's side, enjoying the show. Ballentine hadn't said much. Amy did all the talking: “And while I made those calls, the lady bought two more items—at a cost of twenty-seven dollars.” She hadn't told Tiffany that part, and she revealed it now as sort of a trump card to win her case.

But Ballentine's passive expression didn't change. He just scratched his ugly red mustache and kept staring at her as if he expected more. She hadn't won him over. How could she? He was Tiffany's boyfriend. They were going to fire her—and for making a customer happy, no less. It was so insane and unfair.

“Mr. Ballentine,” she said, “I'm a good employee. You can check with anyone in the store. Personnel has a whole stack of cards from satisfied customers thanking me for helping them—”

“She works harder to get those customer compliment cards than she does trying to sell merchandise,” Tiffany remarked.

“You know that's not true,” Amy replied in a low voice.

“The point is,” Tiffany said, shaking a finger at her, “you have an attitude problem. You went off on your own with this. Had you consulted me, we might not have lost that customer.”

“But we didn't lose the customer! She came back just to thank me!” She turned toward Ballentine and tried to bring some control to her voice. “And correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that lady will come back to Frederick and Nelson next time she needs something—anything, because she knows we'll help her.”

“How?” Tiffany asked smugly. “By sending her to another store to shop?”

“Listen,” Amy said. She felt her whole body tingling. “This is crazy. I should be getting a pat on the back instead of this—interrogation. That customer was grateful.” She glared down at her boss. “I didn't see her thanking you for anything, Tiffany. In fact, she told me you were ‘snooty.' Maybe if you learned how to deal with people better, they might actually like you. I don't know one person in this store—customer or employee—who likes you at all.”

“Now, hold on,” Ballentine said.

But Amy couldn't stop now. She'd suffered in silence too long. Tiffany's nasty smile when she'd made that crack about buying Paul a wedding present was still fresh in Amy's mind. “I tried to be your friend,” she said, shaking her head at Tiffany. “God knows why, but I tried—for four years! Well, want to know something? You aren't worth the effort, you insufferable creep!”

“That's enough!” Ballentine said.