Only Son (4 page)

Naked, he wandered around the darkened living room, peeking into boxes until he found the one holding his socks, shirts, and underwear. Then Carl pulled on a clean pair of undershorts.

He stopped to stare at all the boxes. The place was a mess. He'd been living there three days; everything should have been unpacked and put away by now. Usually, he liked things very tidy, organized, in their proper place. Eve used to say he lived his life like that, in rituals and routines. He had to have his morning run, his Post Raisin Bran breakfast, and his two cups of coffee every day before work. Coming home, he needed his forty-five minutes alone to look at the mail, enjoy his beer, then take his second shower of the day. Eve claimed these routines were the result of being an only child and living alone so long in adulthood. She said he made his “rituals” a companion to him. Eve was a real pain in the ass when she analyzed him like that.

Carl started unpacking one of the boxes, but only got halfway through it before he went to work on another. Soon, the living room was even more of a mess. Clothes, books, records, towels, and kitchen supplies lay in piles around the boxes—none of which had been completely emptied. He found the box containing parts to the bassinet, and he began to assemble it.

Two hours later, Carl was asleep on the new sofa. He hadn't bothered to open it up and test the bed, because he couldn't find where he'd packed the linens. A thawed-out pizza still sat in the cold oven, and nothing he'd unpacked had been put away. But the bassinet—sturdy and complete—stood in the corner of the living room. It was the only thing Carl had finished that night.

 

He felt a little lost on his morning run. The new neighborhood meant charting a new route, and he wasn't sure he was getting enough miles in. He explored unfamiliar streets for something picturesque, shady, or level; but it just wasn't the same as his old route. Carl felt his lungs reach that last-mile burning point, and decided to head back to the apartment.

He wondered if Eve was trying to phone him right now.
Fat chance
. That business about wanting his number from Jerry was a crock. All she had to do was call Directory Assistance. The calls to his office were a joke, too, just a pretense that she was
trying
to get in touch with him. She always made the calls during his lunch hour, for God's sakes. If she really wanted to talk with him, she knew where and when to call.

He wasn't about to phone her, although he'd been tempted so many times in the last six days. He missed her terribly and still loved her. But he couldn't forget what she'd done. There was no way of bringing back the baby she'd destroyed. He wanted to tell her that.

But the bitch probably wouldn't call, so thinking about it was a waste of mental energy.

As Carl rounded the corner to his apartment building, he noticed a small crowd gathered on the street. He heard an old woman's anguished cries. Everyone was staring down at something on the pavement, but Carl couldn't see what it was.

“Oh, gross me out!” a teenage girl was saying.

Her friend giggled. “That old lady is crazy…”

It was Mrs. Gunther, his landlady. With her pointed glasses off, she looked even more ancient and feeble. Tears streamed down from her puffy eyes. She wrung her hands and stood over the mangled, bloody thing on the pavement. Mrs. Gunther kept crying the dog's name over and over again. Carl saw some of the people in the crowd snickering at her. “God, she's acting like it's her kid or something.” One of the teenagers laughed.

Carl bumped against her, hoping he'd smeared some of his sweat on the girl. “Excuse me, you little dipshit,” he mumbled.

“Hey, I heard that, asshole,” she called after him.

Carl went to Mrs. Gunther. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he led the old woman inside.

The next day, he played hooky from work. He spent the morning at the Humane Society's Animal Shelter. “I want to buy a dog,” he told the man at the pound. The place smelled like hell, and the caged dogs were howling and barking. “I'm looking for a white or grey poodle,” he said over the noise. “Preferably housebroken and—well, this sounds crazy, but if you've got a poodle like that with a crooked lower jaw, it would be terrific.”

The mangy mutt, which cost fifteen dollars, could have passed as Sparkle's twin. He spent another seven dollars on a leash and collar. Carl felt like a jerk walking the rodentlike thing up the walkway to his apartment building. He tied the leash to the knob on Mrs. Gunther's door, then fixed a note to the dog's collar. “
Will you take care of me?
” it said. “
Yours Hopefully, Sparkle II
.”

Carl pressed the doorbell, then ran up the corridor. He ducked around the corner and peeked back down the hallway.

Mrs. Gunther opened her door, yanking the leash so the poodle yelped and tumbled to the ground. The old woman let out a horrified gasp. Her frail, bony hand came up to her mouth. “Oh, no,” she cried. “Lord, no…”

Carl felt his well-meant plan backfiring. He'd been so sure this dog could replace the one she had lost.

The poodle bounced back up and sniffed at Mrs. Gunther's feet. She just stared down at it, shaking her head. “Oh, who would do this?” she cried.

Carl watched her stoop down to read the note. He got ready to step forward and beg her forgiveness. But after a moment, he heard her laugh. “Oh, of course I'll take care of you!” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. Mrs. Gunther gathered the poodle in her arms and carried it inside her apartment.

Carl retreated upstairs to his own place. Maybe he should have gotten a dog for himself at that pound. Even some obnoxious barking would have been better than the lonely silence greeting him now. After sharing his life with someone for four years, he wasn't sure he could live alone again. He wanted something—someone—that would ask of him: “
Will you take care of me?
”

He flopped down on the new couch. His shirt from the day before yesterday was strewn across the armrest, and he dug the cigar out of the pocket. He studied it.
Congratulate me. I'm a daddy
.

 

A package under his arm, Carl returned from his lunch break. He had his own office, but not much privacy. Half a wall and a glass partition separated him from his best friend at the office, Greg Remick. Carl set the package on his desk.

Greg waved at him from the office next door. Greg was forty-two, lean, with straight, black hair and thick, Coke-bottle-bottom glasses. He came in and sat on the edge of Carl's desk. “I've got one for you,” he said. “‘Wild Thing.'”

“The Trogs,” Carl said, sticking the package in his bottom drawer.

“What'd you buy?”

“Just some underwear,” Carl replied. “How about ‘Five O'Clock World'?”

“The Association?”

Carl made a noise like a buzzer. “Oh, we're sorry. That song was by The Vogues. But we have a lovely parting gift for you. This slim, elegant ballpoint pen from the people at Paper Mate.” He set the pen in his friend's hand.

Greg laughed weakly. By the time he'd stuck the pen in his shirt pocket and loosened his tie, his smile was gone. “Listen, Carl,” he said. “This might not be any of my business, but—well, Eve called while you were at lunch. She asked me if I had your phone number. I didn't even know you two had split up…”

Carl looked down at his desk blotter and nodded. “Yeah, well, it happened last week. Just one of those things, as they say.” He glanced up at his friend. “Did you talk to her long?”

“No.” Greg shrugged. “Kind of threw me for a loop. I mean, I thought you two were really happy, with the baby on the way and everything. This seems so sudden. You moved out?”

Carl smiled tightly and nodded.

“Listen, you want to go for a drink after work?” Greg asked, leaning toward him.

He shook his head. “Really, thanks anyway, Greg. But I still have stuff to unpack and I've got to get my new place in order—”

“Just as soon not talk about it, huh?”

“No, that's not it,” Carl said. In fact, Greg was probably his closest friend, which suddenly struck him as very odd, because he never really
confided
in Greg much. Up until the week before, he'd considered Eve his best friend. It had been difficult the last few days. So many times, he'd wanted to call up his best friend and tell her about the awful thing his wife had done. He had only his lawyer and Greg as confidants now, and he really didn't feel like talking about it with Greg. “Um, maybe later in the week we can get together, okay?” he said.

“Sure.” His friend nodded. “Whenever you're up for it.” Greg climbed off the desk, but he hesitated at the door and looked back at him. “One thing though, if you don't mind my asking. What about—the baby?”

“I'm taking him,” Carl said. “Eve didn't want the baby.”

Greg let out a little laugh. “That's unusual. She's going to have it, and you'll be—”

Carl nodded. “It's all settled. I'm taking him.”

“
Him
, huh? What makes you so sure it'll be a boy?”

“I just know.” Carl smiled.

His friend gave him a puzzled look. Then the telephone rang next door, and Greg hurried back to his office to answer it.

Carl turned in his swivel chair. He slid open the bottom drawer to his desk and took out the package. Setting it on his lap so no one could see, he carefully pulled out his lunch hour purchase and admired it once again. It was a little mobile, with wooden giraffes, tigers, and monkeys.

That night, after work, Carl once again started driving toward the old neighborhood. He could have turned back, but didn't. Instead, he drove to the town house, and parked across the street. No one came outside or arrived during the two hours he just sat in his car and watched. But he remained there, until the last light went off inside the McMurrays' house.

Mrs. Gunther and the poodle met him in the lobby of his building. “Oh, Carl, there's something I need to ask you,” she said, clutching the dog to her sagging bosom. “We had a bug-sprayer here yesterday, and while we were in your apartment, I couldn't help noticing all the baby things…”

Carl stood by the elevator, a blank smile stretched across his face. He wore his swim trunks and a sport shirt; a damp beach towel was thrown over his shoulder. It was a glorious, hot July Saturday. He'd been so certain he would see them at the pool today, but they hadn't come. He'd even checked the kiddie pool. He'd returned home still damp from his laps and very disappointed. His landlady had caught him totally off guard.

From behind the rhinestone, pointed glasses, Mrs. Gunther squinted at him. “I wasn't sure what to think with the crib, and the changing table, and what-have-you.”

He nodded. “Oh, yes, well, I—should have told you when I signed the rental agreement last month. But I—wasn't sure then.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “See, my wife died giving birth to our son. And the baby was very premature. They didn't think he'd live either, but now it looks like he'll pull through.” Carl wondered if she was buying any of this. “They say I might be able to bring him home soon. Anyway, I'm buying some stuff for him. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. It won't be a problem, will it?”

“Oh, of course not,” she murmured, stroking the dog's head. “I'll just change the number of occupants to two on the rental agreement. Don't you worry. You poor man…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gunther.” He pressed the elevator button. “I see you have a new dog.”

“Yes!” She grabbed the poodle's paw and waved it at him. “Twinkle, say hello to Mr. Jorgenson.”

“Twinkle, huh?” He wondered what happened to Sparkle II.

“I found him on my doorstep the day after Sparkle died.” With a tiny pout, she shook her head. “I never thought I could replace Sparkle, but Twinkle here is the sweetest pooch.” She pressed her cheek against the dog's head.

He smiled. “You really love that new poodle, don't you?”

“Oh, yes. She's my baby…”

 

In his living room, Carl surveyed the purchases he'd made in the last three weeks. In a way, he was relieved Mrs. Gunther had seen the bassinet and everything else. Now, he didn't have to worry about their being discovered. He could take some of the baby's clothes and toys out of their boxes now.

Grabbing a beer, Carl sat on the floor, and went through the packages. He smiled at the little tennis shoes, the tiny pajamas with a Superman emblem on the chest, and the toy tiger. Then he pulled out a Felix the Cat clock from another box. He found a nail on the wall, hung up the clock, and plugged it in. He laughed. The dial was on Felix's belly, and his eyes and tail moved back and forth, keeping time. He'd gotten a kick out of it in the store. But now he imagined the clock in his little boy's room after dark, those big, cartoon eyes darting from side to side, the whiskered grin—almost sinister.
Jesus, it would scare the hell out of the kid
.

He'd have to take the god-awful thing back. How quickly adults forgot that certain “cute” decorative items for a kid's room were nightmare material for the kid.

He remembered a clown portrait that hung in his room when he was a little boy. It was a Bozo-type clown, with a bald, white head with red tufts of hair at the temples like horns; the huge, painted smile, and laughing eyes that seemed to look back at him. Sometimes in the night, that clown picture looked so evil and scary. Carl would turn his head away, yet still feel those eyes studying him.

Throughout his childhood, he was plagued by bad dreams. He had no brothers or sisters; and the Jorgenson house was large and formidable. There were rooms that Carl was afraid to enter alone. He was convinced that a monster lurked in that house.

And he was right.

 

“When's Amy going to bring the baby by so we can see him, Mrs. Sheehan?” the checkout girl asked.

Carl stood in the next line at the Safeway. After four weeks of watching the slim, sixtyish blond lady come and go from the town house, he'd assumed she was the McMurray guy's mother. She looked nothing like the girl. The elegant way she dressed and carried herself, she seemed to have a lot more class than either of them. He was more willing to acknowledge her as the baby's grandmother than he was to accept that young, white trash couple as the parents.

Those nights of sitting in his car, parked across the street from the town house had become a routine—something he looked forward to after work, before going to his empty apartment. Back in high school, he'd made the same kind of lovesick surveillance on Mary Woodrich's house. Nothing had ever happened with that secret crush. Sometimes, he thought this business in front of the McMurrays' house was just as pointless. Still, he wanted to find out everything he could about them, the child especially. But from where he watched, he only caught an occasional glimpse of someone in the window. He'd yet to get a good look at the baby. If they took the boy outside, it must have been during the day, while he was at work. Like the checkout girl, he too wondered:
When can I see him?

“Maybe we'll bring Eddie by on our way to the airport,” Mrs. Sheehan was saying. She gave the girl a playful pout. “I have a 2:40 flight tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to be one lonesome grandma. Little Ed is so sweet and lovable, I just want to take him back to Chicago with me.”

 

“Thank you for calling Northwest Orient. This is April. Can I help you?”

Leaning over the kitchen counter with the receiver to his ear, Carl doodled on a notepad. He'd written down the names of twelve major airlines, and already crossed out four. “Hello,” he said. “I'd like to make a reservation on your flight to Chicago that leaves Portland at 2:40 tomorrow afternoon.”

“One minute, please.”

He waited. The four other airlines he'd just tried had no such flight.

“Yes, there are still seats available on our flight 57 to Chicago O'Hare. How many will be traveling?”

Bingo
. He'd only wanted to find out the airline, so he could see them at the boarding gate, but Carl heard himself answer: “One. Just me. Um, my mother-in-law's on that flight, and I'm wondering if I could sit next to her. The name's Sheehan…”

At two o'clock the next afternoon, Carl stood at the boarding gate for Northwest Flight 57. He'd been assigned a middle seat—ordinarily the least desirable place to be stuck for three and a half hours; but he'd be sitting next to the grandmother. This whole trip had him deliberately seeking the in-flight situations he usually tried to avoid. This trip, he hoped to sit next to a chatty grandmother. He wanted to see photographs of her grandchild. He wanted her to talk all about the baby.

Carl glanced down the terminal's long corridor, then checked his wristwatch. He'd left work early, saying he had a dentist appointment; and he still wore his light blue seersucker suit. He liked looking neat and presentable for plane rides. He never understood how some people allowed themselves to appear as if they'd just finished cleaning the garage before jumping into the car and driving to the airport.

The father of the baby boy looked exactly like that. He wore a dirty T-shirt and cut off jeans. Carl cringed a little at the sight of him, holding the baby in his sweaty, dirt-stained arms. Beside him, the grandmother was a sharp contrast in an airy, yellow, “Sunday-go-to-church” dress; immaculate, every blond hair in place. The girl seemed like a compromise between the two, sporting a white shirt and khaki shorts. But she looked a bit haggard and bloated. Her brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail. Carl couldn't quite see the baby's face.

He put on his sunglasses as they approached the gate area. It had been almost a month since seeing Paul McMurray at the hospital; still, he thought he might be recognized.

“Hey, would ya take him for a minute, hon?” McMurray said. He unloaded the baby into his wife's arms. Then he pulled a thin paper bag from under the front of his T-shirt. “Lauraine, I got you a going-away present.”

“Oh, Paul, how thoughtful,” she said. “You shouldn't have.”

Carl saw what McMurray pulled out of the paper bag. It was a bumper sticker that said, “FOXY GRANDMA.”

The blond lady's smile seemed to lock on her face. “Well, my, isn't that
sweet?
” She almost sounded sincere. She kissed his cheek, then examined the sign again, a trace of mystification in her eyes. “Um, I—think I'll frame it…”

“You don't frame it, Lauraine.” He laughed. “It's for the back of your car. Even glows in the dark.”

The girl giggled and said how cute it was, but Carl detected a desperation in her enthusiasm—as if she'd support her husband to the point of embarrassment.

They turned and started to move away. Carl could no longer hear them, but he finally got a look at the baby's face. The beautiful, little golden-haired boy seemed to peer back at him from behind the girl's shoulder. His tiny hand stretched out.
He's reaching toward me
, Carl thought;
he wants me to take him
.

 

“Would you like my nuts?”

She looked up from her book, the bumper sticker inserted in the back pages. “Beg your pardon?”

Carl showed her the packet of peanuts. “Would you like these? I'm not going to eat them.”

Setting the book in her lap, she took the foil packet. “Well, thank you.”

He smiled. “Do you live in Chicago?”

She nodded. “I was in Portland visiting my daughter and son-in-law and my new grandchild.”

“I bet you took a ton of pictures of him while you were there,” Carl said, hoping to see some photos.

“I was just about to tell you it was a boy.” Mrs. Sheehan gave him a puzzled smile. “How did you know?”

“Didn't you just say you were visiting your grandson?” he asked. But she'd said “grand
child
.” He wanted to kick himself for slipping like that.

She shrugged and nibbled on a peanut. “I must have…”

“Did you take any pictures?” Carl realized how pushy he sounded, and quickly explained: “My folks could have filled a whole album with the pictures they took of my little boy. During a one-week visit, they must have gone through ten rolls of film.”

“You're married?” She glanced at his left hand.

He'd taken off his wedding ring three weeks ago, when Jerry had filed the divorce petition and Eve's calls to the office had stopped. “Um, I'm a widower,” he said.

“How awful,” she said. Then Mrs. Sheehan blushed and shook her head. “I'm sorry. What I mean is that you seem so young…”

“Oh, I'm thirty-nine.”

“Really? I thought you were my son-in-law's age. He's twenty-seven. In fact, you look very much like him.”

Carl didn't appreciate the comparison as much as he did her estimation of his age. “Do I?” he said. “I'd like to see what he looks like. Do you have a picture of him?”

“Not with me, but I do have one of my grandson,” she said, reaching under the seat in front for her purse. “His name is Edward. He's four weeks old. Isn't he handsome?” She handed him a cardboard folder frame from Sears Photography Studio.

Carl gazed at the photograph. The baby clutched a toy stuffed elephant. He wore a light blue pajamalike outfit with a little choo-choo train embroidered over the left breast. He sat propped up against a blanket backdrop. His eyes were bright and big, and he had an open mouth, toothless smile. The baby's sparse, dark blond hair was exactly the same shade as Carl's. He could have been the father. “He's beautiful,” Carl murmured.

“Maybe I'm biased,” Mrs. Sheehan said. “But he has the sweetest disposition. Oh, and what a smile. He's a real cutie.” She reached for the photograph.

Carl hated surrendering it. “He doesn't cry much?” he asked.

“Well, less than most babies, and I speak from experience. But Amy—that's my daughter—she's had a few sleepless nights with him. That's to be expected at this stage.”

“It's easier after a couple of months, isn't it?” Carl asked. He heard the naïveté in his voice and tried to cover himself. “I mean, it was with my own little boy…”

“Well, at least when they start sleeping through the night, it's easier,” she agreed.

“My son had colic,” Carl said. He'd read about it in one of the baby books he'd bought for Eve. “And he was allergic to dairy products. We had a tough time with him for a while. Your grandson doesn't have any problems like that, does he?”

“No, thank goodness. It'll be hard enough on my daughter. See, she has to go back to work in a couple of weeks—part-time.”

“What does your daughter do?” Carl asked.

“She's a cashier at the Safeway in her neighborhood. I think she'd rather have another kind of job, but she never finished college, so her choices are limited.”

“Why didn't she finish school?” Carl asked. “Grades?”

“Oh, no, her grades were good.” Mrs. Sheehan sighed. “No, see, Amy and my son-in-law met in college. They eloped during her sophomore year. My late husband—well, he wasn't too happy about it. We'd been paying for her college, but he felt they were on their own after that. So Amy had to quit school.

“Last year, I gave her some money to go back for her degree, but then she found out she was pregnant, and they used the money as a down payment for their house. It's a sweet little town house. I think they'll be happy there.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but you don't sound very sure.”

Mrs. Sheehan gave him a wry, sidelong glance. “You're pardoned, and quite correct.” She lowered her seat back and sighed. “Juggling a job, a house, a husband, and a baby…I don't know. Amy feels terrible leaving the baby with this day-care center, like she's abandoning him or something. She's my youngest. I suppose that's why I worry about her more than I do my other two children. I still think of her as my baby.” Mrs. Sheehan smiled tiredly. “It never really gets easy, does it? Do you just have the one? The little boy?”