Only Son (6 page)

The charges were dropped. His father shook hands with everybody, then led him to the car. “For your sake, young man, I won't mention this to your mother,” he said. “And neither will you.”

As they drove away, Carl looked back at the other father and son. The boy was hopping on the bicycle, laughing and ringing the bell. His father stood beside him. He was laughing, too.

When they got home, Carl ran up to the bathroom and looked into the medicine chest mirror. He ran a hand through his damp hair and studied the side of his face—already turning an ugly grey color. Why, he wondered, didn't the cop or the fat man say anything about it? They must have noticed.

Of course, his mother had reacted the same way as always. She'd met him at the door, her eyes widening at the sight of his battered face. Yet she, too, said nothing.

From that day on, Carl became suspicious whenever his father gave him something. He'd never show the gifts to any of his friends, he kept them secret, hidden, and unused. He was forever afraid that the things he loved would be taken away from him.

“The captain has turned on the No Smoking sign for our approach to Portland. Please extinguish all smoking materials at this time and return your seat backs to their upright positions.”

Carl opened his eyes. The chatty grandmother was smiling at him. “Have a good nap?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he lied.

“You from Portland?”

He nodded, then glanced out the window. It suddenly dawned on him. If he wanted that child, he'd have to move to a new city. There were too many people who knew him in Portland. He'd have to go live somewhere else with his new son. Then there would be no questions, no explanations, no fear of having yet another precious thing taken away from him.

The
Sergeant Pepper
album jacket—opened up and covered with a sheet of Reynold's Wrap—made a good reflector. Amy set it on the lawn chair and kicked off her sandals. She was in the side yard, by the kitchen door—so she could hear the phone in case it rang. She wanted a few quiet, selfish moments to relax.

Unfortunately, Eddie wasn't cooperating. He was cranky and wouldn't fall asleep. She rocked the carriage. “C'mon, guy-guy. Mommy needs rest. Give me a break.” But he kept crying, so Amy picked him up. “This is the last time,” she sighed. “Then it's off to dreamland, okay?”

Pushing aside the reflector, she eased back into the lawn chair and cradled him to her shoulder. He wore diapers and a T-shirt with Sesame Street's Bert and Ernie on it. His skin felt cool and soft. He quieted down a little. “That's right, go to sleep, guy-guy. Mommy needs rays. She looks like an albino.”

Working four days a week at the Safeway and looking after Ed the rest of the time had taken its toll on her appearance. It had been four months, and she still hadn't gotten down to her normal weight before the baby. Miss Thunder Thighs 1977. She could barely squeeze into her old uniform.

But she didn't really care about her appearance when it came to impressing people with her gorgeous child. They'd taken scores of pictures of Eddie, and whenever she was in one with him, she looked awful. Still, if it was a good photo of her little guy-guy, Amy stuck it in the family album anyway.

She was head over heels. She'd do anything, go anywhere, lie, steal, and cheat for him. She thought about him all the time, even in her sleep. Most of her life, she'd wanted someone who would love her; and now she had someone
she loved
. Did Paul have any idea? Did he suspect that the real love of her life was this miracle child?

No, he probably didn't have a clue. Just as he'd never had an inkling that she'd been ready to leave him a year ago. That was when she realized that the marriage was a mistake. Sure, it had been sweet and romantic at first, playing the struggling college bride, having friends over to their modestly furnished newlyweds' nest. Amy knew they were envious. Plus Paul was so cute and sexy. But then he lost his job at the sports equipment store. For several months, Amy was the only one bringing home a paycheck—from the Safeway. She watched her friends graduate from college; she listened to their stories about budding careers, boyfriends, and vacations their parents were paying for. And here she was, in her ugly orange polyester uniform, chained to her cash register and a jobless husband.

Paul wasn't beating the pavement too hard for work either. He wasn't so cute and sexy anymore, spending most of his time with his beer-drinking buddies. He had a lot of time on his hands, too. They were living like white trash, and Amy hated it. She'd come from an upper-middle-class Catholic family in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago. She wanted to go back—alone, for good. Her father was dead, but Mom still had the house. Amy imagined living in her old room again, perhaps day-hopping at Northwestern, and applying for a nice Catholic annulment. Secretly, she started to make plans for her second chance.

Then she got pregnant. Everything changed. It put a fire under Paul. He got a sales job with Hallmark Greeting Cards in Portland. She was able to transfer to another Safeway there. Amy considered his sudden burst of ambition a positive sign.

At that time, she'd told herself not to expect miracles. It didn't matter that Paul was no superhusband, just so long as he would be a good father.

Her sweet guy-guy deserved a terrific daddy.

He didn't deserve a father who bathed and changed him so infrequently that he always had to ask where the diapers were. Paul would step around a glob of baby puke on the floor without ever thinking to clean it up. He seemed to treat Eddie like a toy he'd grown tired of. Amy resented him for that most of all. He no longer shared with her the wonder of this terrific baby. The dumb lughead didn't seem to give a shit.

Amy patted little Eddie on the back. He'd finally fallen asleep. Gently, she set him in the carriage. He stirred for a moment, then sighed and went back to sleep. Amy turned the carriage around so he wouldn't get burned. The sun was strong for late September.

She sank back in the lawn chair and picked up the homemade reflector. The warm sun baked her face and she felt herself drifting off—almost floating in a sea of semiconsciousness.

The telephone rang. “Shit!” Dropping the reflector, Amy jumped up and ran inside the kitchen. She grabbed the receiver on the third ring, then listened outside for a moment. No cranky cries; Eddie hadn't woken up. “Hello?” she said.

“Hi, hon.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, hi. What's up?”

“Well, you know what tonight is?” he asked.

Amy edged toward the sink, as far as the phone cord stretched. From the window, she could see only the top of Ed's carriage. The side yard was unfenced and awfully close to the street. She didn't like leaving him out there. “It's just a plain old Monday, Monday, can't trust that day. Why? What's going on?”

“It's ‘Monday Night Football,' the season premiere!”

“Oh,” she said, turning from the window. “Well, you're gonna have to watch it in black-and-white, because I've got dibs on the color set.
West Side Story
is on tonight.”

“Sorry, hon. But I've already invited Don, Allen, and Rich over for dinner and the game.”

“You
what?
”

“Oh, c'mon, don't have a hissy fit on me. It's no big deal. You know you'd fall asleep during the movie anyway.”

“God, that's just like you to be so selfish—”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I've already got plans for tonight,” she answered. “Besides, we're having leftovers, and there won't be enough for five.” She opened the refrigerator. “And we're but of beer.”

“I'll pick up some steaks and beer on the way home. I'll barbecue. For cryin' out loud, you won't have to lift a finger.”

“Oh, bullshit! The place is a pigsty.”

“Well, like that's
my
fault?”

“I seem to recall you live here, too.” She heard something outside, the carriage squeaking. “Just a second,” she said into the phone. Amy went to the window again, and once more, she saw just the top of the baby carriage. She couldn't hear Ed.

“All I'm asking is that you straighten up the living room a little,” Paul was saying. “Christ, you'd think I wanted you to donate a kidney.”

Amy turned and stomped toward the breakfast table. “Dammit, Paul, I was really looking forward to this movie…”

“Okay, fine, fine. You want me to call Don, Allen, and Rich, and tell them you don't want them over, fine. Great.”

She looked toward the screen door. At times like this, Ed's silence caused more worries than his crying. “Oh, all right,” she sighed. “Bring them over, have a blast. I haven't got time to argue with you now. Just do me a favor and get some Midol while you're at the market. Better get some Tater Tots, too.”

“No problem,” he replied. “Oh, and hey, hon, clean up the bathroom a little. Okay?”

In response, Amy slammed the receiver on its cradle, then glared at the dirty dishes piled up on the counter. Defeatedly, she wandered over to the sink and turned on the water. She reached for a plate. “God, Eddie!” she whispered. What an awful mother she was, leaving him out there. How could she forget her own child? She ran outside, her heart pounding. There hadn't been a peep out of him. She half expected to find him gone.

But he was there, asleep in the carriage, his little hands cupped beneath the double chin.

“Dammit, Amy,” she scolded herself aloud. She'd never do that again. God only knew how long she'd left him out there.

 

Four and a half minutes. She'd left the baby alone that long, and he'd just sat in the car, too scared to make a move. Hell, in the past nine weeks, he'd used up almost all his sick days from work so he could watch the house and possibly get an opportunity like the one he'd just blown.
Stupid, stupid…

Pulling away from the curb, Carl gripped the steering wheel tightly. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. He just didn't have the nerve to pull it off. He didn't have the money either.

He'd found an apartment up in Seattle, and on weekends he was furnishing the place that would be his son's new home. His money had wings; paying rent on two apartments put an extra bite into his wallet. He was down to his last thousand in the bank.

All the baby things were still at the place on Weidler. He liked having them around, but he couldn't afford to indulge himself much longer. Everything had to be ready in the new apartment if he took the baby. What he'd do for money when he got to Seattle was another question.

Shit, don't think about that now
. Carl told himself.
You need a nap. Hardly got any sleep last night. Everything seems worse when you haven't had enough sleep. Just a few winks and you'll feel better….

But back in his apartment, stripped down to his undershorts and sprawled across the living room sofa with a blanket over him, Carl couldn't fall asleep. Typical. And he was dead tired, too. Even as a kid, he'd been plagued with insomnia.

Back then, he was never sure when closing his eyes to sleep if he'd make it to morning without a beating.

The attacks during the night were the worst. Carl was never quite sure what he'd said or done during the day that set his father off. Maybe he'd eaten the last of the Toll House cookies that night; or yesterday, forgotten to take out the garbage; or last week, been late for dinner. Then again, the old man didn't always need an excuse to start in on him. Sometimes, all it took was a bad day or too much scotch. He'd wake up Carl with a slap or a blow to the stomach. Often during the night attacks, the old man would grab Carl's pillow and press it over his face to muffle the screams. Carl would feel the knee come down hard on his stomach, the breath squeezed out of him until he'd think he was going to die. The pressure of the pillow crushing his face sometimes caused a nosebleed.

At first, Mrs. Jorgenson tried to dismiss the attacks as “bad dreams.” Her stock explanation for the bloodstained pillowcase and sheets was: “Well, you must have hit yourself in your sleep again, honey.” Still, she nursed the bruises and cuts. Carl often noticed a puffy discoloration by his mother's lip or eye that makeup didn't quite camouflage, and he knew the old man was beating up on her, too. But she never let on, not even when Carl asked her. She was adamant that he keep his own suffering a secret as well: “You mustn't let anyone know about this. It would ruin us.” She made it a point to casually mention to all the other mothers that eleven-year-old Carl was “accident-prone.”

Despite such gloomy credentials, many of his friends' parents welcomed him into their homes—for supper or to spend the night. He'd learned early on not to confide in anyone; yet for survival, he sought out and won several friends. He was safe in their homes—away from his father.

He couldn't predict what the old man would do. Days, even weeks could go by, and his father wouldn't touch him, then suddenly, he'd just explode. The assaults always managed to catch Carl unprepared and vulnerable. Carl decided to build himself up—like that skinny weasel in the Charles Atlas ads on the back of his comic books. Then he'd be strong enough to defend himself. Carl exercised, and checked out books from the library on bodybuilding. His efforts boosted his athletic status at school. He held the record for chin-ups in his seventh grade class, but he was still no match for his father.

On the frame to his closet doorway, Carl had penciled a line at six feet, two inches—his father's height. He marked off his growth every week. When he entered high school, he stood just three inches short of his father's line, and he became the freshman team's first-string quarterback.

Carl was often mentioned in the town newspaper's sports pages; once there was even a whole article written about him, predicting a great future for him on the varsity team. Walter Jorgenson wasn't mentioned in the story. As one of the town's “leading citizens,” he'd become accustomed to seeing his name in the newspaper. But he'd gotten another sales job and stopped devoting so much time to civic projects. He hated the new mayor. And he seemed to hate Carl, too, because now he was the only Jorgenson who got written up by the local press.

“So how's the football star tonight? Drop any more passes?”

Suppertime at the Jorgenson household was always a semi-formal occasion: candlelight, tablecloth, and polite conversation amid the clanking of silverware. Carl was not expected to talk. It was unusual for his father to address him at the dinner table—unless something was about to happen. And Carl felt it coming. “I'm the quarterback, Dad,” he answered quietly. “I'm the one who does the passing.”

“Must have a classload of fairies if they made
you
quarterback,” the old man grumbled.

“We've won eight out of nine games so far this season,” Carl pointed out.

“Is the roast beef all right, honey?” Carl's mother asked, looking at her husband. She fidgeted with her pearl necklace.

He wasn't eating. With his fork, he idly pushed the food around his plate. “Huh, thinks he's a big man just because he got his name in the newspaper a couple of times.” He tossed his head in Carl's direction. “Football hero. He's not worth a damn around here. Sits around on his ass all day.”

Carl took a deep breath. “Mom,” he murmured. “Can I please be excused?”

“Excuse you?” his father said. “Why? For being so worthless? For being a lazy, good-for-nothing—”

“Shut up,” Carl growled. His whole body tingled as he talked back to his father for the first time.