Only Son (38 page)

“But you never felt bad enough to give him back, did you?” Amy said. “All I got were postcards—telling me what I was missing. And even those stopped after four years.”

“I never knew if you got any of those,” Carl said, his eyes avoiding hers. “It was selfish of me to send them. I didn't have anyone else to talk with about Sam. You were the only person who cared as much as I did. They weren't meant to hurt you.”

“I was glad to get them,” she admitted, shrugging.

“All these years, I've imagined how you must have felt—the hell I put you through. Now, I don't have to imagine it, because I know what it's like to lose him.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Amy asked.

“No. I just want you to understand how bad I feel for causing you so much pain.”

Amy let out a tiny, pitiful laugh. She shifted in the chair. “A couple of weeks ago, I met a woman. I'd taken something of hers. So I know what it's like to
take
and cling to something. I hadn't meant to hurt her. I told her so, too. I gave her pretty much the same speech you just gave me. And you know what she did? She slapped me across the face. I wanted her to understand me, and wound up with a fat lip. Now, I realize I deserved to get slapped. It's so insulting to hear that: ‘
I know what I did to you was horrible, but I feel bad about it, so you should have some compassion for me
.' Well, it doesn't wash.”

Carl just nodded.

“Don't you see? It doesn't begin to make up for all the Christmases and birthdays I didn't get to spend with my son, my baby. He's a young man now, and he's mine once again.” She leaned forward, her eyes wrestling with his. “But I never got to be that
little boy's mommy
. And nothing you can do or say will ever bring those lost years back.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“And I'm not the only one you hurt. There's his real father, his grandparents, my mother—all of us are just strangers to him now.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“I hear him crying in his room at night,” Amy said. “And I know he isn't crying for himself, or for me. He's crying for you.”

Carl felt a pang in his gut. He moved a finger along the base of the glass partition, then slowly shook his head. “I wanted so much for him to be a happy, healthy, normal kid. Guess I've screwed up on that one, huh?”

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Amy's mouth. “I think he'll pull through this,” she said.

“I hope so.”

“I wish he hated you,” she whispered. “That would make it easier. I wish I hated you too…but I don't.”

Carl stared at her on the other side of the glass.

Amy shrugged. “Sam went to a friend's house yesterday afternoon. Well, you know—Craig. Anyway, when Sam called for me to pick him up, it was from your apartment. He had a shopping bag. I didn't ask about it. But later, Sam and my mother went to midnight mass. I said I had a headache and stayed home. I found the bag in his room. There were Christmas presents for my mother and me, and something of yours too…” She nodded at the notebook in Carl's hands.

“Did you read any of it?” he asked. His face felt hot, and he was blushing. He couldn't look at Amy Sheehan, because now she knew his private thoughts.

“I read the whole thing,” she replied steadily. “There's a lot in there that might help you at the trial—the times you got in trouble at work when he was sick and you stayed home; sticking with that job you didn't like; letting your love life and social life take a backseat to him; his welfare coming before everything else. You could probably sway a jury to give you a lighter sentence if some of it got read at the trial. Maybe that's why Sam gave it to you.”

Carl shook his head. “I think Sam gave me this notebook so I could write in it while I'm here—and so I could read and remember how it was when we were together.”

She stared down at the base of the glass partition. “If you think it might help you at the trial, you should use it.”

“I won't,” Carl said. “I don't really care about a lighter sentence—at least, not enough to make this public.” He tapped the cover of his journal. “I won't be able to see him for a long, long time. That's the real punishment. He's all I ever had.”

“But then, you know you will see him,” Amy said. “It might be a long, long time, but you'll see him again. You're sure of that, aren't you?”

“I can't give up hoping,” he replied.

“Neither did I—for twelve years.” Amy frowned, then stood up. “I better go,” she said, but then she hesitated, and the lines around her mouth softened. She glanced down at the notebook. “I read about how you weren't sure you were a good enough father to Sam. That came up again and again…”

Carl looked up at her.

She touched the glass divider, near where his hands were resting. “My son is a nice boy, Carl,” she said, unsmiling. “He loves you very much—even now. You were a good father to him, Carl, a very good father.”

As he watched her walk away, Carl thought about what she said. He was a good father. That thought would get him through the next several years without Sam. Hell, it would get him through anything.

Trembling, Sam stood and listened outside the door to his father's apartment. The baby screamed and screamed. It wasn't the TV; it was real. He had a baby in there. All at once, Sam just hated his father. He thought about finding the nearest phone booth and calling the cops on him
.

“C'mon, sweetheart, settle down,” he heard his father say. “Give those pipes a rest.”

Sam exploded. He started pounding on the door. “Goddamn bastard!” he yelled. “How could you? How could you?” He didn't care who heard him. He didn't care that the door panel split a little more with every crashing blow from his fist
.

The door flung open, and his father looked as if he were about to grab him by the throat. But he hesitated. “Sammy?”

Sam attacked him. He swung at his face and connected, cuffing the corner of his father's mouth. His dad stumbled back for a moment, then lunged forward, grabbing Sam's wrists before he could take another swing. For someone who had looked so old a minute ago, his father still had a powerful grip. Sam struggled to get free. “Son of a bitch!” he cried. “How could you? How—”

His father pinned him against the doorway frame. “Calm down!” he said. “My God, Sam, what's wrong with you?”

“Should I call the police?” a woman yelled
.

Sam noticed her for the first time. She stood a few feet behind his father. Gaping back at him, she clutched the baby to her bosom. She was plump, with a round, rather pretty face and honey-colored hair. She looked about thirty-five years old, and wore jeans with a lavender pullover
.

“It's okay, Rosie,” he heard his father say. “This is Sam.” Slowly, his father released him and smiled. “Sammy, this is my wife, Rose. And our daughter, Claire. Are you okay now?”

After a moment, Sam finally caught his breath. “I thought you'd done it again.” He started to laugh and cry at the same time. “I thought…”

“It's okay,” his dad said, embracing him. After four years, Sam felt his father's arms around him again. Sam's lips brushed against his scratchy cheek, and it was moist with tears
.

 

His dad pulled away first, holding him at arm's length and looking him up and down. “I almost didn't recognize you.”

Sam grinned. “You just passed me in the lobby a minute ago.”

His father's smile ran away, and his eyes narrowed. “Does your mother know where you are?”

“She thinks I'm home,” Sam mumbled
.

“And where is she?”

“On her honeymoon in Hawaii.”

Rose went into the bedroom with the baby, while his dad called information for the number of the Royal Mahana Hotel in Hawaii. Ignoring Sam's protests, he dialed the hotel, then handed the phone to him. Unfortunately, when Sam asked for the honeymoon suite, his mother was in. He told her where he was, and who he was with
.

“Oh, Sammy, how could you?” she said. Her wounded tone made him feel horrible. “Why didn't you talk to me first, honey? God, I thought I could trust you. I feel so betrayed…”

What killed Sam was that she didn't yell at him for snooping in her notebook (it was obvious now that he had), or for using her car, or even for ruining her honeymoon. She was upset because he'd gone back to
him.
At least she didn't start crying. Sam could hear his new stepfather, Dan, trying to calm her down. Dan was a graphic artist his mom had been dating for a year now. Sam liked him. Dan finally got on the line, asked Sam for the phone number there, and said he'd call back in ten minutes
.

His mother seemed more forgiving by the time they called back. She thought that Sam's dad had shown good judgment in making him call, and she didn't blame him. “You and I are going to have a long talk when I get home,” she said. “In the meantime, I love you, Sammy. Now, I'm putting Dan on. Get a pencil and paper. We've booked you on a flight out of Eugene tonight.”

His dad would drive him to the airport in an hour for the last direct flight to Seattle that evening. A limousine would be waiting for him at Sea-Tac Airport upon his arrival. And he was to call the Royal Mahana the minute he got home. As for the Toyota, he'd screwed himself out of a car for the duration of his mother's honeymoon. They'd figure out how to retrieve the car later. They trusted his dad with the car, but not with him
.

 

Rose and his dad took turns checking on Claire, who wouldn't fall asleep. Rose insisted that Sam eat something before he left, and she reheated some sloppy joes. She and his dad seemed really happy, and Sam didn't quite know how to feel about it. Did he want his dad to be happy without him?

The apartment was tidy and nicely furnished. He recognized lamps, chairs, some bookends, an end table that he'd chipped long ago, now mended; and the old sofa, reupholstered. The last time he'd seen all these things, they'd been left behind in a vacated apartment. Now, they seemed to have a whole new life. Sam saw pictures of himself with his dad on the living room wall. There were pictures of Rose and Claire, too; and Sam found himself counting to see who had the most pictures. Rose won
.

She was a good cook. At least her sloppy joes were tasty. “Want some more, Sam?” she asked, before taking away his plate
.

“No, thank you, ma'am.” He sat at the head of their kitchen table next to his dad
.

She grabbed Sam's plate, then patted his shoulder. “Oh, just call me Rosie. We're practically family, aren't we?”

“How old is the baby, Rosie?” he asked
.

“Ten months. And let me tell you, Sam, she's like a gift from heaven. We'd been trying for over a year.”

“What?” Sam glanced at his father
.

Rosie hadn't heard. She was at the sink, and couldn't see the look that passed between him and his dad. “I'm leaving you guys alone for a bit,” she said, heading toward the baby's room. “You've got about ten minutes before you should get a move on.”

His dad was pressing a Baggie full of ice cubes to his lip from where Sam had hit him. “Are you adding up the months, sport?” he whispered
.

Indeed he was: “trying” for over a year, nine months pregnant, ten-month-old baby. His dad must have been out of jail for at least three years
.

Sam shook his head. “What happened? Did you get an early parole or something? Why didn't you write and tell me when you got out? I would have come—”

“You would have come sooner?” his father cut in
.

Sam stared down at the place mat. He didn't answer
.

“And you would have come, too,” his father continued
.

“Is that why you stopped sending me letters? Is that why you didn't write and tell me you were married and had a kid and everything? You didn't want me around?”

“That's exactly why,” he answered steadily. “It was part of an agreement.”

Sam's eyes wrestled with his. “What do you mean?”

“Sammy, your mother dropped the charges. She didn't want you on a witness stand, having your entire childhood put under a public microscope. Not that I had any say in it, but I didn't want you to have to go through that either.” His father set down the ice pack. “They kept it from the press. While you were in Chicago with your grandmother, the lawyers got together and a deal was made. I only had to serve six months.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Six months in jail, and a year of outpatient psychiatric counseling, which I needed. Your mother knew that just from one peek at my childhood memories in my journal. I agreed not to live in Washington state as long as you were there. And I agreed not to contact you except through her lawyer.”

“But how could you let me keep on thinking that you were in jail?” Sam murmured. “You tricked me, both of you…”

“We had to, Sammy. You said so yourself, if you knew I wasn't in jail, you'd come running to me—like you did tonight. Your mom doesn't deserve that.”

Sam frowned at him
.

He dug out his wallet from his back pocket, then opened it up on the kitchen table. He flipped past a photo of his baby girl, and there was a picture of Edward “Sam” McMurray from the high school yearbook. It was taken the year before. Sam was in his junior varsity basketball uniform. “That's a pretty normal kid there,” his dad said. “Not some freak kidnap victim whose life gets dissected on the ‘Geraldo' show. Your mom was making sure you turned out okay, Sam. This arrangement allowed all of us a second chance—you, your mom, and me.”

“Where did you get that picture?” Sam asked. The last time he'd sent his dad a snapshot of himself was three years ago
.

His father pried the photo out of the wallet and showed him the back. Sam recognized his mother's handwriting. It said:

We're happy. He's a great kid
.

5'10", 154 lbs
.

“I haven't talked to your mom in a long, long time,” his father said. He slipped the photo back inside his wallet. “Then this arrived a few months ago. I hope it's true—that you're happy, Sam.”

He nodded. “I guess so. She's a neat mom.” He cracked a little smile. “How's your mouth?”

“I'll survive.” He put his wallet back in his pants pocket and picked up the ice pack. “You were pretty damn angry at me, weren't you?”

“I didn't know you had a family now. I thought you'd done it again. I heard the baby—”

“It's okay, I know.” He patted his hand. “What I did was terrible. If someone ever tried to steal my little Claire away, I'd kill them. And I put you through hell. That punch was long overdue, Sam.”

Sam hesitated, then pulled his hand away. “I still get mad at you sometimes, when I think about it. But the worst part was that your letters stopped coming. Now I understand. But for a while there, I thought maybe you'd stopped loving me.”

His father smiled. “Oh, I'll never stop loving you, Sammy. You know that.”

Sam took hold of his father's hand, then kissed him on the uninjured side of his face. “I've missed you so much, Dad,” he whispered. He felt his father's shoulders tremble, and heard him stifle the sobs. Sam managed to say what they were both thinking: “I guess we better not see each other for a while, huh, Dad?”

His father just nodded. They sat there at the breakfast table and hugged each other until Rosie came into the kitchen with Claire in her arms
.

“You two better get the show on the road,” Rosie announced, over baby's soft cries. “Guess who just won't settle down tonight? Sam, you want to take her for a minute?”

He wiped his eyes. He'd never held a baby before. “What do I do?” he asked
.

“Nothing, just hold her in your lap,” Rose said. Before Sam could protest, she lowered the whining infant into his arms
.

Claire wiggled and still complained, but at least she didn't start shrieking. Sam smiled down at her. And he felt his father touch him on the head
.

The baby was ten months old. Was I with you at this age? Sam wanted to ask his father. But he knew. He'd been with him even sooner than ten months. His dad had been there from the beginning, on the day he was born
.