Only Son (5 page)

Carl nodded. “Yes, he's three years old.”

“What's his name?”

“Sam.” That had been the name he'd wanted for Eve and his baby. He'd been so sure it would be a boy. “It's tough being away from him on these business trips,” Carl thought to add. “Um, what kind of work does your son-in-law do?”

“He's a salesman for Hallmark.”

“A salesman,” Carl echoed. That had been his father's profession. He was retired now, still living in Santa Rosa, the same house in which Carl had grown up.

“Yes, they both work,” Mrs. Sheehan was saying. She glanced briefly out the plane window. “I think it was much easier back when I was a young mother. Nowadays, these working moms have it the worst. Their mothers were always there for them, and they feel badly that they can't do the same for their own children. I know my Amy feels that way.”

“Isn't your son-in-law helping out?” Carl asked.

“Well, it's not that Paul isn't trying. I mean, there's the rub. He can diaper or feed the baby a couple of times a week and
rightly
feel he's doing more than his father ever did, but it still isn't enough.”

“Well, my wife never had to worry about that with me,” Carl said. “I wanted to spend as much time with my baby as I possibly could, even with my full-time job…”

She smiled. “I'd say you were an exception. I don't know if it's due to the economy or women's liberation or what. I just know I don't envy my daughter's position right now.”

“Personally, I'm in favor of
men's
liberation,” Carl said. “That's all you hear about now, women saying they want to ‘choose for themselves.' When have men had that luxury? Married or not, they've always had to get a job. When a war comes along, we get drafted. Talk about never having a choice! And if a man wants to have a child…” He laughed bitterly. “Nowadays, an unmarried woman can have a baby without becoming a social outcast. It's even fashionable in some circles. She doesn't have to ‘commit' to the child's father. But a man who wants a baby needs some woman to cooperate—not just for one night, but for nine months, and usually a helluva lot longer than that.”

Mrs. Sheehan started to laugh.

“I'm serious,” Carl said. “When parents split up, who gets the kid? Nine times out of ten, it's her.”

“That's because nine times out of ten, the father doesn't want the child—”

“Some fathers, yeah. But not this one. That's another thing, a woman doesn't want her baby, hell, she can take care of that before it's even born. She doesn't need the father's consent to go off and have an—operation…”

Mrs. Sheehan stared at him.

Carl suddenly realized how crazy he was sounding; the fervency in his own voice was almost embarrassing. He chuckled uneasily. “Sometimes, I take the—the idea of single parenthood too seriously,” he said.

Mrs. Sheehan smiled tightly. “You certainly sound like someone who”—she paused—“who wanted very much to be a father. I'm sure you're a good one to your own little boy.”

Glancing away, Carl nodded. “I hope to be,” he said.

 

When they landed at O'Hare, he helped Mrs. Sheehan with her bag from the overhead compartment. They shook hands and said good-bye in the terminal. Carl watched her walk away, then he went to the ticket line for the next flight to Portland.

For the trip back, two hours later, Carl sat beside another old lady. She was peppy and talkative, with breath that smelled like an old people's home. Carl got a whiff of it when she asked him what he thought the weather would be like in Portland.

“Oh, a lot milder than Chicago, I imagine,” he replied.

She wore a kelly green pantsuit, with a button on the collar of her polyester jacket: ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDCHILD.

Carl didn't ask. Shortly before takeoff, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. But he didn't doze. The kid behind him kept kicking his seat back; and the grandmother loudly chatted with a young woman in the aisle seat; now and then she'd lean over him to look out the window, and she'd comment to the girl.

He kept thinking about the coincidence: his father and Paul McMurray, both salesmen. Although Carl's father would have outweighed McMurray by about fifty pounds, the two men looked like the same type: crudely handsome, swaggering ex-jocks. Carl guessed that both men had something else in common, maybe a sadistic streak. After all, he'd seen McMurray in action, the cruel way he'd tripped that poor little kid at the pool. Of course, as a child, Carl had routinely endured a lot worse.

He'd been five years old when Walter Jorgenson quit his sales job to enlist in the army. Despite Mr. Jorgenson's absence, an abundance of money kept coming in—from where it had always come, Grandfather Jorgenson's estate. Carl's father was gone three years, and during that time, Carl's bad dreams gradually faded away—along with the bruises on his little body.

Carl's father returned with his honorable discharge and a chestful of ribbons and medals. He had them mounted on red velvet in a mahogany display case that adorned the living room mantel. With his money and war record, Walter Jorgenson became a big man in Santa Rosa. Instead of going back to his old job, he got involved in a lot of civic causes, contributing money and spearheading campaigns for buildings, parks, and monuments.

At home, however, he hardly looked like a “pillar of the community,” sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, smoking Camels, and slowly getting tanked on scotch and waters.

A few weeks after his father's homecoming, Carl got to tag along with him on his Saturday afternoon poker game. It was held in the bar of a bowling alley a few miles from their house. Carl's mother was sick; otherwise, he figured, the old man never would have taken him. For three hours, Carl bowled alone, ate a hot dog, and played pinball. Every now and then, he checked with his father to see if he wanted to go home yet. The last time Carl checked, his father's poker game had disbanded, and he was sitting in a booth with a red-haired woman who had a beauty mark on her cheek. His father still wasn't ready to go yet. But five minutes later, he was tapping Carl's shoulder over by the gumball machine. He had a surprise for him, he said. Then he led him out to the parking lot, where the bicycles were parked. He pointed to a shiny, blue Schwinn. “Look what I won for you in my poker game.”

Carl studied it with awe, running a hand over the leather seat. He rang the St. Christopher bell on the handlebars. From the handgrips dangled plastic red, white, and blue streamers. “Is it really mine?” he asked.

His father nodded. “Think you can ride it home from here?”

“Boy, I sure can! Thank you, sir,” and he shook his father's hand.

“I have to go to another poker game. Won't be home till late. Enjoy the bike, son.”

Of course he'd enjoy it. His old bike was a rusty, pint-size two wheeler. This was a big boy's bike, and he was in love with it. For two days, he rode his “blue bomber” everywhere. Then one afternoon he came out of the five and dime and caught another kid trying to steal it. The boy was older—maybe ten—but skinny. “Hey, whaddaya think you're doing with my bike?” Carl said, stomping toward him. He made a fist.

The other boy looked past Carl's shoulder. “Hey, Dad!”

Carl spun around. A balding, fat man came out of the store. Carl couldn't figure out what was happening. He glanced back at the boy pulling his blue bomber from the bicycle stand. “Hey, take your grubby mitts off my bike!” he said, grabbing the seat.

Suddenly, the man's hand came down on his shoulder. “Now, hold on a minute, young man,” he said. “We reported this bicycle stolen three days ago…”

“Not this bike,” Carl said, still clutching onto the leather seat. “My dad gave this to me. He won it in a poker game.”

The fat man squeezed Carl's arm even tighter. “Listen you, I'm not going to stand here and argue.” He nodded up the street. “There's the police station. We'll walk the bicycle over there and discuss this with them. It's a police matter anyway.”

On their way to the police station, Carl clung to the seat while the other kid gripped the handlebars, both of them in a silent tug-of-war for ownership. He glanced back at the kid's father, who frowned at him. They were treating him like a criminal, and he hadn't even
done
anything.

“Jorgenson?” the policeman said, after Carl told him his name. The cop was big, with an acne-scarred face. He didn't seem very old, just stern and scary-looking. He stood behind a tall desk that hit Carl at neck level. The station was starkly lit, but seemed gloomy nevertheless. “Your father isn't
Walter
Jorgenson, is he?” the policeman asked.

Carl nodded nervously. “Yessir.”

The boy's father touched Carl's back. “You're
Walter Jorgenson's
son?” he asked.

He nodded again. His dad was very well respected in town. He'd clear all this up. They'd listen to him.

The policeman smiled. “Um, why don't you have a seat, Carl? I'll be right back.” He retreated to an office down the hallway.

Carl sat on a long, wooden bench against the wall. The kid and his father situated themselves on the other end—far away. After what seemed like an eternity, the policeman came back. “Your father's on his way here, Carl,” he said. “Just sit tight.”

Carl nodded. He couldn't figure out why his dad didn't just tell the cop over the phone that the bike was his. But Carl kept silent. He stared at the clock on the wall, behind the desk; then at the cigarette stubs in the dirty ashtray stand by his side, and at the fat man's underthighs hanging over the bench. He spied a water fountain down the hall. His mouth felt dry, but he was too scared to ask for permission to get a drink.

Finally, his father came through the swinging doors. “I'm Walter Jorgenson,” he told the policeman.

Carl got to his feet, but he remained silent in his father's presence.

“Mr. Jorgenson,” the policeman said. “We're terribly sorry to inconvenience you—”

“No apologies necessary. We'll straighten this out in no time.” He turned and smiled at the fat man, who stood up. “We haven't met. Walter Jorgenson.” He shook the man's plump hand. “I hear your son got his bike stolen, and you think my Carl here is the culprit.”

“Well, Mr. Jorgenson, I—”

“Oh, call me Walter.”

The man nodded timidly. “Well, the bicycle your son has, it—it's exactly like the one that was stolen, right down to the St. Christopher bell on the handlebars.”

“And you think my boy did it?”

The fat man looked very uncomfortable. “It appears to be my son's bicycle. But your son claims that you gave him the bike.”

Suddenly, his father seemed agitated. “Well, if that's what my son says,” he replied hotly, “then on top of being a thief, he's also a liar. And believe me, he'll be punished.”

Carl couldn't believe what his father was saying. “But Dad, what do you mean? You—you
gave
it to me!”

“I'm going to give it to you, all right.” He grabbed Carl's arm, then looked at the policeman. “I'd like a word in private with him.”

Carl fought back the tears. He didn't understand how this could be happening. His father's grip nearly cut off the circulation in his arm. The other boy smirked at him.

“I think we have an empty office,” the policeman offered.

“The men's room is good enough,” his father said.

Carl was terrified. “Dad, why don't you tell them they made a mistake?” he whispered. “Please, Dad…”

Silent, his father dragged him into the men's room, past the urinals and stalls. He checked each one to make sure it was empty. Finally, he shoved Carl into the last stall, stepped in after him and locked the door. Carl cried uncontrollably now. He knew his precious blue bomber was lost to him, and he'd have to endure a beating from his father. Maybe even jail, too.

“Quit that slobbering!” He grabbed Carl's hair. “I'll give you something to cry about.” He smacked him across the face with the back of his hand. “Want another?”

Carl stifled his sobs. Biting down hard on his lip, he stared up at him with trepidation. His whole head hurt, and he thought he might get sick. The old man let go of his scalp, and several hairs fell out of his hand. “Tell me how you're going to apologize to them,” he whispered.

“Apologize? But I didn't—”

He grabbed his head again before Carl got another word out. He forced him to his knees on the dirty, tiled floor. Carl bumped his cheek against the toilet bowl. Before he knew what was happening, his father pushed his head into the water. It entered his nose and he swallowed some when he opened his mouth to breathe. The big hand held him down, pressing his face against the porcelain. The toilet water got into his ears. He no longer heard what his father was saying—not until the old man dragged him up for air.

“—peep out of you. Understand?”

He was coughing and gagging. “I didn't hear you,” he gasped. “I'm sorry—”

“That's right. You're sorry for stealing the bike, aren't you? Aren't you?”

“I'm very, very sorry, sir,” Carl told the fat man five minutes later. His hair was still wet, and his face felt swollen from the slap he'd gotten. He stood by the officer's desk, eyes downcast. His father had a tight grip on his arm. Carl had never hated anyone so much in all his life. “It was wrong of me to take the bicycle,” he mumbled to the man. “And I shouldn't have lied about it. I hope you won't press charges…”

While he carefully repeated all the lines his father had fed him in the lavatory, the old man kept interrupting, joking with the cop and the other boy's father about the “licking this little criminal's got coming to him.”