Only Son (25 page)

She frowned. “Well, what is it with this stupid job of yours? Don't you get any time off?” What kind of father would he be if he couldn't even spend weekends with his child?

“It's my job, Amy, my career. I told you what a pain in the ass it would be that first night we got together.”

She sighed. “Yes, you've been honest from the start.”

He sipped his wine, then glanced out the window at the sailboats. For a moment, he seemed so far away.

Amy moved her plate aside and straightened up in her chair. “Hey, listen,” she said. “I'm long overdue for a vacation. Maybe I can come to Spokane in a couple of weeks.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well, that's—an idea. I'd—I'll have to check my itinerary.”

“You don't seem too enthusiastic.”

“Oh, no, no. I am. I just need to make sure I don't have any commitments. I'll have to get back to you.” He set his crumpled napkin on the table, then glanced out the window.

Amy stared at him, but he wouldn't look at her. “
I'll have to get back to you
.” That was something she'd say to a pain-in-the-ass vendor. He hated the whole idea.

“Barry, if you're worried about me wanting to spend every waking hour with you in Spokane, no problem. If you need time for work or friends—”

“Really, it sounds great,” he cut in. He pushed his plate away. “I'm not pooh-poohing the idea. I just don't feel too sharp right now. Maybe I'm coming down with something…” He looked over his shoulder. “Have you seen our waiter?”

“What's wrong? Your stomach? Your head?”

“I just feel kind of clammy all of the sudden,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Maybe it's work catching up with me.”

“You're stressed-out, that's what's wrong. All this traveling and working weekends…” Every night this past week, he'd brought his briefcase to her place and done homework there. “Whatever they pay you, it's not enough. I thought my job was stressful, but yours is absolutely nuts.”

Barry shifted restlessly in his chair. “Honey, I can't quit. Try to understand…”

But Amy wasn't listening. He looked so pale, it frightened her. She remembered Paul and his epilepsy. “
Did you take your pill today?
” she'd ask; and he'd always answer: “
Yeah. Don't worry, I took it
.” Barry had that same sickly, white look, and she wished he could take some kind of pill to make it go away.

“You look awful,” she murmured. “And you're perspiring…”

“I think I need some fresh air,” he whispered. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Where the hell's our waiter?”

Amy reached for her purse. “Don't worry. I'll pay the check. You go outside, darling. Go. I'll be out in a minute.”

He nodded and got to his feet. “I'm sorry, honey—”

“It's okay. Go, Barry.”

Quickly, he threaded around the tables toward the exit. Some of the customers glanced up from their dinners, looking at him as if he were drunk. Amy flagged down their waiter and asked if he could hurry with the check.

Two minutes later, she was outside. She saw Barry in the parking lot, sagging against his car. It was a beautiful, clear night; she hoped the crisp, lakeside air had done him some good. The way he'd left the restaurant, she was grateful to see him still standing.

Amy hurried toward him, but hesitated when Barry looked up. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. He'd been fine until she'd started talking about spending more time together.

He waved feebly. She noticed a handkerchief clenched in his other hand. Amy stepped toward him. Under the streetlight, she saw his face was wet and shiny. Had he been crying? Strange, she might be carrying his baby; yet he was the one suddenly stricken by physical and emotional attacks. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked, afraid to get too close.

He nodded and took a few deep breaths. “Better,” he replied, still leaning against the car as if it were the only thing holding him up. “I'm sorry, Amy,” he said, in a voice that was low and strained. His shoulders began to shake. He wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. “Please, don't hate me.”

He turned away from her. Amy stroked his back. “I couldn't hate you, darling. What is it? What's wrong?”

“I don't want to lose you. I love you…”

She tried to laugh. “Well, I'm not going anywhere. And I love you, too.” She massaged his shoulders. “Everything's going to be all right. You're not going to lose me…not this easily. I'm not going to do what Gretchen did to you. So we only have ten days a month together, I understand. Maybe we can work something out later. Don't feel pressured. I was just thinking out loud back there in the restaurant.”

Barry turned around, but didn't look at her. His nose was running, and he stared down at the pavement. “Amy, I'm married.”

She told herself that she hadn't heard him right. Her hands slid off his shoulders. She stepped back. “What?” she murmured.

His sorry, tear-filled eyes finally met hers. “Gretchen's my wife. We've been married three years. I've never done anything like this. I didn't expect to fall in love with you. Gretchen's a wonderful woman. So are you. Both of you deserve better. I'm sorry, Amy—”

She slapped him across the face. She didn't want to hear any more. Yet all at once, everything became so repulsively clear: how he'd pulled away from her that first night; and the phone calls—always from his office.

Hunched over, her arms crossed in front of her, Amy backed away from him. It was as if he'd just kicked her in the stomach. Barry reached out to her, but she reeled back. Amy staggered over to the streetlight post. Clutching it, she bent forward and vomited.

She hardly remembered Barry holding her head while she was sick, or him driving her home. His incessant apologies and I-love-you's during the car ride only made her feel sicker. “Oh, would you just shut the fuck up?” she screamed.

He was quiet all the rest of the way. When he pulled up in front of her building, Amy hurried out of the car and ran inside. His car was still there, two hours later. Amy looked down at it from her window, before staggering into her bedroom. She fell asleep crying—for herself and her poor, poor bastard child.

The next morning, Friday, his car was gone. He was on his way back to Spokane, back to his wife.

“Amy, there's a call for you on 9-2,” Veronica said. “It's Barry.”

Amy went on ringing up a sale, bagged the items, and handed the plastic sack to the old man she'd been waiting on. “Thanks a lot,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

She gazed at the blinking light on the telephone until both the customer and Veronica had wandered away from the counter. Amy lifted up the receiver and pressed the lighted button. “Bathwares. This is Amy.”

“Hi, honey. It's me…”

Amy said nothing. Slowly she lowered the receiver back on its cradle. The light went out.

She got her period that day. It was June 6, 1989, the eve of her Eddie's twelfth birthday.

Carl put down the pen and sipped his bourbon and water—heavy on the water. He was at his desk in his bedroom, the only place where he wrote in his private journal. He refused to call it a
diary
, because that smacked of teenage girls writing in leather-bound books with flap locks on the outside. Carl's
journal
was just a spiral notebook. He'd started it seven months before, because he'd needed someone to talk to. That had been a low point for him, last November.

He'd been drinking too much, too often, and had hit bottom that night he'd struck Sam. He considered counseling. But a journal was cheaper and less risky than having someone probe into his past. The journal even helped him keep tabs on his drinking. Most nights, he'd limit himself to a couple of beers.

Sam noticed the change too—as Carl had reported in a journal entry on February 8:

Keeping a journal wasn't entirely risk-free. There was always a chance Sam might find the blue spiral notebook hidden under a pile of sweaters on Carl's closet shelf. Carl referred to Amy and Paul McMurray only by their initials, and he never mentioned who “A.M.” or “P.M.” were or how they were related to Sam. He was equally cryptic about his sexual fantasies and frustrations. A memorable one-night stand (he'd met the woman in a bar one evening when Sam had been sleeping over at Craig's) was never reported. It was frustrating to conceal some truths from his own journal, but Carl didn't want to risk having his son discover certain secrets.

Another source of secrets that made him nervous was the box of memorabilia, still hidden in the front closet crawl space. What would happen if Sam ever found that box—with the pictures of Eve, the divorce papers, and news clippings about a kidnapping in Portland? The “evidence” was buried under a layer of old bills and bank statements. Risky as it seemed, Carl held on to that box. His past was in there, his uncensored past.

Bruce Springsteen was interrupted mid-song, then the TV came on. “Saturday Night Live.” Sam and Craig were watching it on the portable in his room.

Carl picked up his pen and wrote:

Sam and Craig yelled in loud, prolonged unison. They sat in the front cart of the Wild Mouse, and, as it careened downward, they flayed their arms crazily. Then they broke up laughing. It was all an act. They'd pretty much outgrown the skimpy Wild Mouse. Still, they were having fun. When the ride ended, they staggered over to Carl, laughing and breathless. “Are you going on the Tilt-O-Whirl with us, Mr. Jorgenson?” Craig asked.

“No way.” He dug into his pocket for more ticket money.

“Go for it, Dad.” Sam took the five dollars. “C'mon!”

“Sammy, I'm fifty years old. Want me to have a heart attack?” He looked over at the Tilt-O-Whirl. “Besides, that damn thing turns you upside down. I'll probably lose everything out of my pockets—and my stomach.”

“Barf-o-rama!” Sam yelled. He nudged his father. “You're gonna Tilt-z-
Hurl!
”

“Funny guy.” Carl smiled at Sam. He and Craig were laughing as they strolled past the booths, toward the Tilt-O-Whirl. “Having a good time?” he whispered.

Sam was still laughing. But then the smile sort of froze on his face. His eyes rolled back.

“
Sam?
”

It happened so fast. Suddenly, Sam's legs sank from under him, and he fell toward the pavement. It was as if he'd been struck down by a bullet. Somehow, Carl managed to grab him before his body hit the concrete. “Oh, Jesus,” Carl whispered. Sam felt so heavy and lifeless in his arms.

Carl hoisted him up, and started running toward the Pavilion Offices. “Do you see a phone?” he yelled back at Craig, who was following them. “Look for a phone!”

“He'll be okay, Mr. Jorgenson….”

Carl heard Sam groan a little. The heavy, limp body stirred. Carl stopped and laid him on a park bench. He pulled off his jacket, balled it up, then placed it under Sam's feet. “Sam?” he whispered. “Sammy?”

“Oh…God…” Sam moaned, his eyes still closed.

Carl glanced over his shoulder at Craig. “Get a cup of water from one of the vendors. Okay?”

“He'll be all right in a minute,” Craig said, hovering over him. “This happened at my house twice last week.”

Carl swiveled around. “
What?
”

“He was okay right afterward—both times,” Craig explained. “Didn't he tell you he fainted last week?”

Carl frowned. “No, Craig. He didn't.”

With half-slit eyes, Sam looked at his father—and then at his friend, as if betrayed by him. “Oh, God,” he murmured.

 

“Dad, if it's okay with you, I'd rather go into the examination room by myself.”

They sat on the long sectional sofa in the waiting room to the doctor's office. Two toddlers played in the kiddie area, and a pregnant woman sat across from them, jotting in a notebook.

“Why?” Carl asked. “Don't you want me in there with you?”

Sam picked up a copy of
Highlights
, sneered at the cover, then tossed it back on the end table. “I'm old enough to go in by myself, Dad,” he muttered. “It's bad enough that I'm still going to a
baby
doctor.”

“He's my doctor too, Sam. He's a general practitioner. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Just the same, Dad, would you mind staying out here while I go in? I don't want to feel like a total spaz.”

Carl unfolded the newspaper in his lap. “Suit yourself.”

“Now you're ticked off,” Sam said.

He studied his newspaper. “No, you're right,” he said coolly. “You're not a baby anymore.”

 

Sam knew his father's feelings were hurt. But he really hated waiting in that outer room with babies, kids, and pregnant ladies. Sure, his dad wasn't embarrassed going to the Humming M. D. He was already grown-up.

Sam had thought turning twelve would somehow suddenly make him more “adult.” But he was still a kid and hated it. His father continued to tower over him by a foot. But worse, he didn't have any pubic hair yet. In junior high, most of the guys who hadn't reached puberty were pip-squeaks and wimps. He didn't want to be considered one of them.

It was kind of tough feeling grown-up while a baby doctor examined his hairless body with his
daddy
in the room.

There was another reason why Sam didn't want his father with him now. They were peeved at each other.

Driving back from the fairgrounds yesterday, his dad had waited until they'd dropped off Craig, then he'd bawled him out: “
What do you mean not telling me that you fainted twice last week? I have to find out from Craig? God, Sammy, you let me put you on all those rides when you could be sick! You practically gave me a heart attack…
” And blah, blah, blah. Then more of the same after his father's call to Dr. Durkee. Outside of a headache, Sam had felt fine, but his dad had made him spend the rest of the day in bed—as if he were really sick or something.

Begrudgingly, Sam had to admit—at least to himself—that he should have told his dad after fainting last week for the second time. Even Craig had bugged him about it: “
God, Sam, twice in one week. You should get a checkup or something. Aren't you worried?
”

He was, but said he wasn't. He didn't like to think he might be sick, and he hated going to the doctor.

Yet that was where he sat now—on the edge of the examination table, nervous and alone, feeling the sweat trickle down from his hairless armpits.

The nurse came in. Her name was Judy. She was thin and pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair; and she'd been Dr. Durkee's nurse for as long as he could remember. “Hi ya, Sam,” she said, tossing a clipboard on the examining table. She had a friendly smile that helped put him at ease. “So you passed out on us yesterday, huh?”

He nodded.

“How's about losing the shoes and stepping over to the scale here so I can get your height and weight?”

Sam pulled off his shoes, then got on the scale.

“By the way,” she said, fiddling with the measuring rod attached to the scale. “Happy birthday tomorrow.”

“Thanks. But my birthday was Saturday.”

“Sixty-two inches, 131 pounds,” she announced, writing on her clipboard. “You can step down now. What's that you said? You had a party on Saturday?”

“I said my
birthday
was Saturday.”

“But isn't tomorrow the tenth?” she asked.

“Yeah. But my birthday's June seventh.”

She glanced at the clipboard again. “You sure?”

“Positive,” he chuckled. Sam sat back down on the table.

“Well, that's strange. I got it down here as ‘6-10-77.'” She went to the cabinet and got out a disposable thermometer. “June seventh, huh? I must be losing my mind. Open up.” Sam opened his mouth and she slipped the thermometer under his tongue. He watched her adjust the birthdate on his medical form, scratching out the zero and making the one into a seven. “All this time, I thought we had the same birthday,” she said. “See, mine's tomorrow.”

“Habby birday,” Sam said, the thermometer in his mouth.

Judy frowned as she chewed on the top of her pen. “I remember telling your dad that my birthday was the tenth, too. I was here the day he first brought you in. You were just a baby then. I think you had roseola. Your dad was so worried. I felt so sorry for him. And wow, what a handsome guy. You'd just moved here, and we had to send away for your medical records…” She frowned again, then shook her head. “No, I remember now. We never got any early medical records on you. Your dad said they were lost or something. That's right. I remember now.”

Sam wondered how his father, who had saved all of his report cards since kindergarten, could have lost his early medical records. It just didn't make sense.

 

“So—you've fainted three times within the last ten days. Is that right?” Dr. Durkee stared at him from behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Sam was sitting on the examining table in his BVDs. He nodded. “What do you think? Am I really sick or something?”

Dr. Durkee pulled a chair over to the table and sat down. “Sam…” He took a deep breath, then ran a hand through his curly grey hair. “I want you to be totally honest with me. Have you been—doing some things you shouldn't?”

Sam gulped.
Uh-oh
, he thought;
he wants to know if I've been masturbating, that's what this is all about—I'm fainting because I whack off too much
. Sam gave him a pale smile. “What do you mean, Doc?” he asked innocently.