Only Son (35 page)

She sat beside him at the dinner table, describing the awful period of waiting, hoping, and praying after he'd been abducted. Everything she said made his dad out a criminal. Sam felt as if she were his kidnapper now. He knew Amy McMurray wouldn't let him go home. Since she'd first embraced him at the store, she was never more than a reach away. She didn't give him a moment alone. It was hard to breathe around her. If only he were home, he could breathe right again.

“Can I use your bathroom, please?” he asked.

She sprang up from the dining room table—almost as if she planned to go with him. “Oh, of course. Let me show you.” She held out her hand for a moment, then seemed to think better of it, and scratched behind her neck instead. “It's right over there,” she said, pointing down the hall.

“Thanks,” Sam said. He started toward the bathroom.

“I'm sorry if I seem nervous,” she called, her voice quivering.

“It's okay,” he called back, closing the bathroom door.

 

Amy had always hoped for this day, but never prepared for it. The calendar suddenly seemed to whirl back twelve and a half years, and she was giving birth to him all over again; the same joy mixed with terror; the sudden, huge responsibility. All at once, she had someone who mattered more than herself.

She knew her son, holed up in the bathroom, was in a state of shock and confusion. Amy didn't dare curse his abductor out loud, because her son still loved the SOB. And she held back from smothering her boy with affection, too.
Let him get used to you
, she told herself.
Take it slow. Don't push, Amy. Don't push
. The Lamaze method all over again. She wanted her baby to feel loved and safe as he saw the light.

But she could tell, he just wanted to get away. He'd been in her apartment for nearly an hour and still hadn't taken off his jacket.

She gathered up his old baby pictures from the table. Amy glanced at the framed photo of Eddie with her and her mother. She set it back on the end table in the living room. Her mom would be so happy, and Amy could lean on her a little, the same way she'd come to her for help when Eddie was just an infant. She reached for the telephone.

The bathroom door opened down the hall. “Excuse me!” he called, running toward her. “What are you doing?”

Quickly, she put down the receiver. “What's wrong?”

“Are you calling the police?”

“No. I just wanted to tell my mom the good news.”

He seemed relieved when she stepped away from the phone. But Amy noticed his eyes were puffy and bloodshot; and she realized that he'd been crying in her bathroom. “Oh, what's wrong?” she whispered. She started to reach out to him.

But Sam stepped back.

Letting her arm drop to her side, Amy shrugged. “‘What's wrong?' Huh, talk about your stupid questions.”

Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Sam looked down at the carpet. “I miss my home,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just want to be back there right now. I'm sorry. You can come with me if you want. Please, just let me go back home…”

 

They didn't say much to each other in the car, except when she asked for directions. She found a parking spot about half a block from the building. Sam was so happy to see it again. The hours away had seemed like days.

In the lobby, Sam opened the mailbox and fished out a couple of bills. “We're okay. My dad isn't home. Otherwise, he'd have gotten the mail. Follow me.”

In the back of his mind, Sam hoped that once she saw where he lived, she'd allow him to stay there. She wouldn't call the police on his dad, and maybe they could work out some kind of arrangement for her to visit from time to time. Divorced couples did it. Why couldn't she and his dad work something out?

He showed her into the living room, and all at once, he saw the place through her critical eyes. Until now, he'd never cared about the water rings he'd made on the coffee table, or the food stains on the sofa. “We're getting the couch reupholstered after New Year's,” Sam felt compelled to say. “I guess your place is a lot nicer. But I like it here a lot. It's real comfortable.”

She just nodded.

Sam plugged in the Christmas lights for her.

A look of pain and regret ran across her face as she touched one of the dilapidated ornaments he'd made in kindergarten. “It's a very pretty tree,” she said.

Sam draped his jacket over the back of his father's favorite chair. “We put it up night before last.”

“You took off your jacket,” she said.

“Yeah. Oh, I'm sorry. Can I hang yours up for you?”

“No thanks—Sam.” She glanced at one of the framed photos hanging on the wall behind the couch. “Huh, you look just like my brother in this one of you on the swing.” Her smile waned as she gazed at another photo—of him and his father at a Little League game. “He's very handsome,” she said, her voice cracking.

“He's real nice, too,” Sam replied. “I mean, he never hit me or beat me up or anything like that. He's a good father.”

She kept studying the pictures of him through the years. She began to weep, and she rubbed the back of her neck as if she had a sharp pain there. “Damn it!” she cried. “Damn it, I hate him! The son of a bitch! Look what he stole from me.” She waved a hand in front of the pictures on the wall. “I didn't get to see you grow up. Those ornaments should be on
my
tree. This couch, this stupid couch, mine should look like this! Every stain on the carpet, every smudge on the walls, they should be in
my
house! And I'd yell at you for making a mess, and worry about you, and nurse your bruises and cuts, and love you. Goddamn him for taking that away from me! He's a monster—”

“He isn't,” Sam said, backing away from her.

“That's the worst part,” she retorted, shaking her finger at him. “He's got you sticking up for him! You were the love of my life, my baby, and he tore you away from me. He may as well have cut out my heart. Oh, damn it.”

She dug a handkerchief out of her purse, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She seemed calmer now, but Sam still kept a distance. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I know you love him. I know it's hard for you to believe he did what he did.”

“It is,” Sam replied, staring at her.

She stuffed the handkerchief back in her purse. “Are you still unsure about who I am?”

“No. I think you're my real mother,” Sam heard himself say. He nodded toward the pictures on the wall. “But to me, he's still my father, y'know? It doesn't matter what he's done. I mean, I'm sorry he hurt you. But he's always treated me nice. He's a good guy. He doesn't deserve…”

“Deserve what?” she asked.

Sam frowned at her. “I don't want you to tell the police.”

“I'll have to,” she whispered. “I'm sorry—”

“But they'll put him in jail. I don't want to do that to him. He's my father. This is my home. I don't want to live anywhere else. If I thought all this was going to happen, I never would have come to you.”

She reached out to him. “Listen, Eddie—”

“Sam!” He pulled away. “My name's Sam.”

“Okay,
Sam
. Believe me, I understand what you must be going through. I know you don't want your whole life turned around. But that man did a horrible thing. And he could do it again. He could turn around and steal someone else's baby.”

“He wouldn't do that. You don't know him like I do.”

“Do you really know him?” she asked. “After all this, do you think you know him? Could you ever trust him again?”

Sam couldn't answer her.

Amy McMurray glanced at the telephone over on the kitchen wall, then her eyes met his. She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. Now, I'll call you Sam, because it's the name you grew up with. And anything here that's yours you can take…”

“No!” Sam yelled. “I don't want to live with you!”

“You'll have to give me a chance,” she said. “You'll have to.” She moved toward the kitchen.

“You can't!” he cried. “Jesus! Who do you think you are, coming in and—”

“I'm your mother,” Amy McMurray said. She picked up the receiver. “That's who I am. I'm your mother, Sam. And I'm going to make everything all right again.”

Then she dialed for the police.

 

Carl left work early. On his way home, he stopped by the supermarket, then the video store. He rented
A Christmas Story
. The clerk reminded him that he still hadn't returned
It's a Wonderful Life
from last night. Carl walked away, wondering why Sam hadn't returned the video yet. He'd called home from work three times today and never got an answer.

All day long, he'd been fighting an eerie premonition that something had happened at home. He'd told himself he was imagining things. But now he was worried again.

“Nothing's wrong,” he whispered to himself. “You're being ridiculous, Carl. You always get this way when you leave him alone. He's okay, stupid. Probably at Craig's…” But Carl's hands kept a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he drove home. There was a light rain, and beyond the windshield wipers, he saw a couple of police cars parked in front of the apartment building. His heart stopped for a moment. He told himself that if something were really wrong, there would be an ambulance.

Still, Carl pulled over to the curb, a few spaces behind the squad cars. A cop stood in the doorway of the building, talking to two men in trench coats. They looked like police.

Carl hurried out of the car. They all stared at him, and one of the plainclothesmen nudged the policeman. Carl stopped suddenly in front of them.

“Carl Jorgenson?” the policeman asked.

“Yes?” he replied, a little out of breath. He sensed someone coming up behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Another cop. All of them looked so grim. He knew something had happened to Sam, something awful.

“Seattle Police,” one of them said, flashing his badge.

Carl shook his head. “Oh, no, God,” he murmured. “Is he all right? Tell me my son's all right…”

The cop behind him grabbed his arm.

“Is my boy okay? Please, tell me what happened!” Carl struggled with the cop who had a hold of him. Tears stung his eyes. “Good God, where's my boy?”

“He's all right, Mr. Jorgenson,” the plainclothes cop said. “He's with his mother.”

From his desk, Sam looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was past midnight. He thought about changing the date at the top of the letter to December 22nd, but that meant scratching out the old date or starting all over again. He'd already ripped up four letters he'd started. He put down his pen and idly glanced around the room.

His new bedroom was an odd mix of Amy McMurray's tasteful guest quarter furnishings and his old posters, pictures, and artifacts. Like him, they didn't seem to belong in the room. She'd insisted he take anything from the old apartment that he wanted. It was her attempt to make him feel more at home in her place. But everything just clashed with what had been there already, cluttering up her elegant decor. Even her “perfect” tree, with its blue-and-white theme, was spoiled by the addition of a dozen ornaments he'd grown up with. She'd insisted. And now, it was the ugliest Christmas tree he'd ever seen.

Sam picked up his pen.

Sam slapped the pen down on his desk, then crumpled up the letter and threw it in the wastebasket. It was too late to start another, and he wasn't going to think about it.

Sam undressed, but then remembered. He had to put his pants back on before going to use her bathroom down the hall. No more walking around in his underwear; no more peeing with the door open; and now, he always had to remind himself to put the toilet seat back down afterward. She was manager of the store's Bath department, so her own bathroom was like a goddamn shrine: the towels, rug, shower curtain—everything, new and perfect. He spent most of his time in there cleaning up after himself.

When he finally crawled into bed that night, Sam knew sleep was a long time coming. Even with his old pillow from home, he didn't sleep well in Amy McMurray's guest bed.

 

Someone buzzed from the lobby downstairs. Sam was in the bathroom, trying to shine his loafers with some wadded-up toilet paper. The lunch date with his real father seemed like an important occasion, and Sam dressed for it: a sport jacket and tie. His dad used to make him get all decked out for rare special occasions when they dined out at some fancy restaurant.

He heard Amy open the front door. “Hi,” she said. “Hope you didn't have any trouble finding the place.”

“No. Why? Am I late?” Sam heard him ask.

“Oh, no. In fact, you're early. Come in, come in. You look good, Paul. You really do.”

“You too. God, you've gotten even skinnier. But it—it looks good, I mean. And your hair, you—”

“Yeah, I know. It's a henna rinse I use. Lightens it up.”

Sam had his ear to the bathroom door and one hand on the doorknob. They sounded so nervous—like a couple of strangers.

“Hi, Lauraine,” Sam heard him say. “Boy, you don't look any older than when I first met Amy.”

“Thank you, Paul. You're sweet to say that. How are you?”

“How's your family?” Amy asked.

“Fine. We're all fine. So where is he?”

“In the bathroom,” Amy said. Then she called out: “Sam!”

“What's this ‘Sam' shit? Um, excuse me, Lauraine.”

“We figured he's adjusting to enough changes as it is,” Amy whispered. “Least we can do is let him keep the name he grew up with. Besides, he prefers ‘Sam.' I told you that on the phone yesterday.” She called out again: “Sam! Your father's here!”

Sam straightened his tie one last time. Then he opened the door and started down the hallway to the living room. Paul McMurray was grinning at him, his arms spread open like a singer belting out the last, long note of a song. It was as if he expected Sam to run and embrace him.

But Sam stopped just a few feet away from his real father. He felt stupid, all dressed up for this special occasion. Meanwhile, Paul McMurray wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and a goosedown vest. He looked like a lumberjack. “Well, howdy, stranger!” he said, his arms still sticking out.

Sam extended his hand. “Hello.”

“Well, well, real grown-up, I see,” McMurray said, shaking his hand. He laughed. “And dressed so dapper. Look at you. Jesus, wow! I mean, excuse me…” Tears brimmed in his eyes. He gently touched Sam on the side of his face. “It's like looking in a mirror. Oh, we won't be strangers for long, old buddy. We're going to get reacquainted real quick. You'll see…”

Sam nodded. He glanced over at Amy and his grandmother—the awkward smiles stretched across their faces.

McMurray clapped his hands then rubbed them together. “Well, what do you say we hit the road, son? You hungry?”

“Sure, I guess.”

He mussed his hair, which Sam had spent ten minutes combing so all the cowlicks would stay down. “‘
Sure, I guess
'—what?” McMurray said, grinning.

“Pardon?” Sam asked.

“Sure you guess—
what?
”

“Sure, I guess I'm hungry?” Sam replied, though he had a pretty good idea what McMurray wanted him to say.

“C'mon. Who are you talking to here?”

Amy let out a loud sigh.

McMurray gently punched his arm. “Okay, I'll ask you again, old buddy. Are you hungry?”

Sam gave him a pale smile. “Sure…Dad.”

 

Paul McMurray drove a silver Chevrolet Cavalier that had a bumper sticker which said: “
IF YOU DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING, CALL 1-800-EAT-SHIT!
” From his rearview mirror dangled a flat, cardboard air-freshener that bore the
Playboy
bunny insignia. McMurray told him this was his company car. “I get a brand-new car every two years,” he explained as they slowed down for a stoplight. “Last year, I had a Monte Carlo, and next year, we're supposed to get a Corsica.”

“That's nice,” Sam said.

“My wife, Sheila—you'll like her—she has an old beater station wagon, but she's insured to drive this, too. How long until you get your driver's license?”

“Not for another three and a half years.”

“Well, when you do, I'll include you in the coverage.”

“My—” Sam stopped himself. He was about to say, “My dad works for an insurance company,” but thought better of it.

“That way,” McMurray continued, “every time you come down to Portland for a visit, you can use the wheels. How about that? Sound good, old buddy?”

“Great,” Sam replied. He hated being called “old buddy,” by this stranger. It was what the Skipper called Gilligan. Or was it “Little Buddy”? Either way, it sounded stupid.

McMurray went on about all the options on his Cavalier—V-6, cruise control, miles per gallon, and blah-blah-blah. Sam just nodded and pretended to listen. He stared at his real father. He was handsome, rugged-looking, like some guy in a beer commercial or cigarette ad. Sam couldn't imagine him cooking a pot roast, washing dishes, or folding laundry—all the things he'd seen his dad do so often. He'd never considered his dad a wimp, but there had been times Sam wished he were more like those idols of masculinity, the brawny outdoorsmen from the beer commercials. Now he'd gotten his wish, and he hated it.

As they pulled into the parking lot of a Denny's, Sam took off his tie and stuffed it inside the pocket of his sport coat.

In the restaurant, McMurray flirted a little with the waitress, and she seemed to think he was a pretty hot number. He ordered a cheeseburger, and Sam asked for the chicken strips. The waitress was pretty, but her elbows were dirty, and she snapped her chewing gum while she wrote down their orders. Paul McMurray stared after her as she sauntered away with their menus. Then he turned to grin at Sam. “Not bad, huh?”

Sam nodded. “She seemed to like you, too.”

He laughed, then held up his hands. “Hey, I'm a married man.”

Sam just nodded again.

“How about you? Got a girlfriend?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, give it time. Good-looking kid like you, you'll have the babes chasing you all over pretty soon.”

Sam shrugged, then managed a lame chuckle.

“You're on the football team at school, I hear.”

“That's right.”

“Well, you like football. That's a good sign.”

“What's it a good sign of?” Sam asked.

McMurray smiled tightly. “Nothing. Shows you're a normal kid, that's all.” He glanced down at the place mat and moved it a little on the green Formica tabletop. “I mean, that creep had you for twelve years, I can't help but wonder…”

Sam said nothing.

“I know what you told the cops and the story the newspapers gave,” McMurray continued. “But here, it's just you and me—you and your old man. Nobody else has to know. You can tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Sam asked, frowning a little.

“You know, there's no way he can get at you now. You don't have to protect him. Whatever happened, it's not your fault. I'm not going to blame you for anything that guy made you do.”

“He didn't make me do anything,” Sam said.

McMurray glanced at him for only a moment, then he fingered the salt shaker and pretended to be interested in it. “You mean this guy never made you go to bed with him?”

“Only when I was little and if I was sick,” Sam said angrily. “And that was only so he could get me to the toilet in time if I had to throw up. Sometimes, if I had a nightmare, he'd let me climb into bed with him. But he never tried to do anything to me the way you think.”

“Okay, settle down,” McMurray said.

“No, really,” Sam went on. “You want to know if he touched my dick? Well, he did once, when I was eight or nine. I got it caught in my zipper, and he got me unstuck. Okay? And he changed my diapers for a couple of years. Maybe you want to count that. But I don't remember exactly what went on back then.”

“You finished?” McMurray asked.

“I'm sorry.” Sam took a deep breath. “But everyone's trying to make him out a pervert, and that's just not true. He's a real nice guy.”

McMurray frowned at him. “Well, twelve years ago, that ‘real nice guy' stole my son away from me. So you'll forgive me if I don't share your high opinion of him. If it were up to me, I'd put that scumbag away for life. Lock the bastard up and throw away the key. Let him rot, that's what I'd do.”

Sam didn't say anything.

“I used to change your diapers, too, you know,” McMurray whispered.

The gum-snapping waitress returned with their lunches, apparently a little disappointed that McMurray didn't flirt with her anymore. They ate quietly. Sam hardly touched his chicken strips. He told Paul McMurray that he wasn't so hungry after all.

 

“I've been doing most of the talking here,” Paul McMurray said, turning onto the West Seattle Freeway. “You've hardly said a word since lunch.”

Sam stared at the road ahead. He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“You're sore at me, aren't you?” McMurray threw him a condescending smile. “I think I know why, too. You're sore at me because I waited until today to come see you. You think I don't care. I let four days go by—”

“That's okay. I'm not—”

“No, let me explain,” he cut in. “I wanted to drive up and see you on Friday night after your mother phoned with the news. I don't mind admitting, I cried like a baby when I heard. I was ready to drop everything and come to see you. But your mother said it was too soon. Said you were tired and confused.”

“That's right,” Sam nodded. “I was. She—”

“I was dying to see you,” McMurray cut in again. “And she tells me to wait a few days until the hubbub dies down with the reporters and cops. Meanwhile, you're wondering where the heck your dad is. I never should have listened to her.”

“No, she was right,” Sam said. “I've been kind of out of it the last few days. It's better you waited. Sorry I haven't talked much. It's all kind of strange to me, that's all.”

“Well, your mother's the one who made me wait,” McMurray said. “I've wanted to see you since Friday night. Hell, old buddy, I've been looking forward to this day for twelve years.”