Only Son (9 page)

Carl waited to hear more—some explanation. But the rest was mere legal jargon. He couldn't believe the old man had been so generous to him, and he wondered if perhaps this wasn't just another one of his father's gifts he couldn't keep. Yet it was legitimate, and the lawyer was now explaining that after taxes and the funeral costs, he'd get about forty thousand dollars. It was enough for him to start a new life with his son in Seattle.

He sat in a stupor until it was over. Then Mrs. Serum got up, shook the lawyer's hand, and without a glance at Carl, she went out the door. He caught up with her outside the building, just as she was about to climb into her car. “Mrs. Serum?”

She opened the car door, then hesitated and gave him an icy, imperious look.

Carl felt foolish under her cold, silent stare. “Um, I just wanted to say, if there's anything I can do for you, you can—”

“I can what?” she said. “Write to you care of that post office box?” She shook her head at him. “I was with your father twelve years. And in all that time, you never visited him. He waited and hoped. I never knew a son could be so indifferent toward his own father. My God, you would not even give him your phone number or home address. Well, you got what you came here for, Mr. Jorgenson. You are fifty-five thousand dollars richer.”

“Now, wait a minute.” He touched her arm, and the Asian woman reeled back. Carl held up his hand as if to show that he wouldn't dare touch her again. “It's true,” he said. “I wanted to keep a distance from him. I had my reasons—”

“You do not deserve all the love he had for you.”

“
What?
” Carl let out a bitter laugh. “If he loved me, he had a peculiar way of showing it. You've no idea what he did to me when I was a kid.”

“And you do not know what it was like for him the last twelve years,” she said. “You were all he ever talked about. He wanted so much to see you again. If there were bad feelings, maybe he wanted to resolve them.”

“My father didn't love me, Mrs. Serum.” It hurt to admit that truth to someone. “Please, don't make me out a lousy son, just because he might have had a few regrets in his old age. He never loved me.”

“You would not say that if you knew how happy he was whenever he received one of your
infrequent
letters. It broke my heart the way he carried on over a son who wanted no part of him. You do not seem to understand. You were all he had.”

“He had you….”

“I
worked
for him. You were his son.”

Carl shook his head.
You were all he had
. For the last few months, Carl knew what it was like to have no one—except a boy that wasn't quite his. He'd invested all his love and hope in that elusive son; perhaps his father had done the same.

“He didn't love you?” Mrs. Serum whispered. “Why, you were his whole world.”

“I'm sorry,” Carl heard himself say as tears filled his eyes. “If that's true, it's such a shame. And it's not going to happen to my little boy. He won't have to wait until after I'm dead to know how much I love him.”

“You have a child?” she murmured.

Carl hesitated. He never wanted to be like his father. He wouldn't go on loving a son that was not really his. “Yes,” he said. “My boy is five months old. I miss him a lot right now. The couple looking after him, I don't have much confidence in them. I'll feel better once I take him home.” Carl smiled at Mrs. Serum. “He's all I have.”

Halloween afternoon, Amy loaded Ed into his car seat and drove to town. She had a flight to Chicago the next morning—and a load of last-minute errands now: the bank, the cleaners, then the Safeway for—among other things—trick-or-treat candy and a supply of Swansons for Paul during her absence.

The last couple of days, everything seemed to be going so well that she'd practically considered canceling the trip. Paul was suddenly very helpful with Ed; and the night before, he'd made love to her. It had been wonderful. He'd managed to make her feel like a desirable college girl again. He seemed to rediscover her body in the hungry, urgent way he'd worked his hands and mouth over it. For the first time in weeks, they'd fallen asleep together, naked in each other's arms.

If all this attention to her and Eddie was a last-ditch effort to keep them from leaving, she didn't mind. As sweet as he was, it didn't change her plans. Better to go knowing she'd miss Paul. Better for her mother to see her pining for her husband than harassed, tired, and bitter.

Eddie was in a happy mood. Amy liked showing him off to the girls at the market. She'd dressed him in his cutest outfit: yellow OshKosh overalls, yellow-striped shirt, and a baby blue cardigan. A tiny pair of Adidas covered his feet, which dangled and kicked over the car seat. He laughed and sang, keeping time with the Supremes on the radio. “It's Rockin' Baby Eddie!” Amy announced. “He digs the Motown beat. Rock on, guy-guy…”

She found a parking spot right around the corner from the bank's new outdoor cash machine. “You're going to see Grandma tomorrow,” she said, searching through her purse until she found her bank card. “Haven't seen her in four whole months…”

Eddie was still babbling and kicking in rhythm, although she'd turned off the engine—and the radio. She tried to unfasten him from the car seat. “Cutie, keep still for Mommy. Jam session's over…” He kept wiggling and she couldn't get the strap loose. “Oh, Amy, forget it,” she mumbled. It wasn't worth the time and aggravation for a quick trip around the corner. It would take twice as long to get him out of the car seat.

Amy stuck the bank card in her teeth, shoved her purse under the seat, and climbed out of the car. She locked her door and shut it. If there was a line for the cash machine, she'd come back and get Ed. He'd start to cry once he realized she was gone.

 

She folded up the $150 in fives and twenties, then grabbed her receipt and bank card. It had only taken a minute. Amy trotted around the corner. Eddie would be crying, and she'd have to turn on the car radio to quiet him.

She walked toward the car. From the distance, it looked empty. A sickly pang hit her in the stomach, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. She imagined the worst thing that could possibly happen, then immediately blocked it out.
No, it's just the sun on the windshield
, she told herself. That was why she couldn't see him. He was in there. It had only been a minute…

She'd never leave him alone after this. She'd learned her lesson. She didn't want to feel this kind of panic ever again. Oh, why couldn't she see him? Eddie had to be in there….

Amy rushed around to his side of the car and tugged the door open. The unfastened seat belt slid down, its metal buckle dangling toward her feet. She gazed into the empty car. Even the infant seat was gone.
Please, God, this isn't happening…

Amy swiveled around. She looked up and down the street. Whoever took him, they couldn't be far.

“Eddie!”
she screamed, and she ran toward the corner. Amy stopped, frantically looking around at a streetful of strangers. She glanced back at the empty car, his door still open.

Someone must have taken him into the bank. That was it. Somebody got concerned when they saw him alone in the car….

She rushed to the front entrance and opened the glass door, hoping—half-expecting—to hear Eddie crying. But there were only muted voices. Blindly, she wandered through the bank. At first, she just whispered his name, then she began screaming it. Someone grabbed her arm, the security guard. Amy struggled to get free. She started toward the side door to check the parking lot. She imagined someone right now loading Eddie and his infant seat into a car, ready to drive off with him forever. For some reason, she imagined it was a woman who had taken him.

“Let go of me!” she cried. “Somebody took my little boy…”

Later, they told her that she'd knocked the guard down and run out to the parking lot. She'd gone from car to car, pounding on the windows and peering inside each one until the police had come. Then she'd fainted. Amy had no memory of it.

She suddenly found herself back inside the bank, in a chair by some desk, surrounded by policemen and bank employees. They were all staring at her. Some of them wore strange costumes, and she felt as if she were awakening from a nightmare that wasn't quite over yet. Then she remembered it was Halloween. And Eddie was gone. She wanted to run outside and search for him. But someone held her down.

It was Paul. She almost didn't recognize him among all the strangers. They must have called him, although she didn't recall giving them his number. Still, he was there. But he brought her no comfort. He seemed as bewildered as the rest, just another stranger who couldn't comprehend what she'd let happen.

 

The baby cried and cried. Carl imagined the shrieking could be heard for blocks. He navigated through the slow city traffic. His hands shook despite a taut grip on the steering wheel. Every two minutes, a stoplight held him up, and he'd glance down at the baby in the car seat—on the floor of the passenger side. Carl prayed it wouldn't tip over. He still couldn't believe he finally had him. It had been so easy. Too easy.

Carl kept checking his rearview mirror for police cars. More than anything, he wanted to have the baby in their new home. Then he'd feel safe. But Seattle was three hours away.

What had he left behind in the apartment? Not much. If there was anything, he had a whole month to go back and get it.

At the traffic light just before the expressway on-ramp, he hoisted up the baby and buckled in the infant seat. All the while, the kid kept screaming. The light changed and Carl drove on.

“LEAVING OREGON,” said the sign on the bridge. Somehow, it made Carl feel better—they'd made it across the state line. He kept waiting for the baby to fall asleep. But the kid wouldn't stop crying. His feet kicked at the car seat—as if protesting what was happening to him. Carl reached over and patted his head. The baby seemed to recoil and shrieked louder.

Carl saw another sign, posted along Interstate 5: “SEATTLE—123 MILES.” It was still too far. He sped down the left lane, not certain he could take another two hours of this. Maybe there was something on the news already, a bulletin. Carl switched on the radio. But he could barely hear it over the incessant screams. He fiddled with the selector buttons and glanced at the rearview mirror.
Jesus, a police car
.

He'd already passed it, parked along the highway's shoulder. Instinctively, he tapped the brake. He could only think that they'd already gotten a description of him, the car, the baby…

He checked the rearview mirror again.
Please, stay there, don't move
. But the squad car pulled onto the highway.

The baby's cries seemed to get worse. There was no way to quiet him down—or hide him.

The cop car veered into the left lane and sped up behind him. The red strobe went on. “Oh, shit,” Carl whispered.

He felt his stomach turn. For a crazy moment, he pressed harder on the accelerator. But then he signaled and steered to the side of the highway. He clung to a tiny grain of hope that the cop had pulled him over for speeding. The patrol car parked behind him. Carl turned off the engine, then gazed at the baby. With a shaky hand, he reached over and gently rocked his infant seat. He hadn't even gotten him home yet, hadn't even held him in his arms.

The tapping started on the window.

Carl turned and saw the pudgy, blond-haired cop—a little older than him, maybe forty. He hadn't drawn a gun, but he looked as if he were about to read him his rights.

Carl rolled down the window. He couldn't look the cop in the eyes, so he focused on his badge instead. If his nervousness didn't give him away, the infant's angry cries would.

“In quite a hurry,” the policeman remarked.

Carl said nothing.

“Can I see your license, please?”

His hands still trembling, Carl pulled out his wallet, then gave him the driver's license. Across from him on the passenger side, the baby screamed and tugged at the infant seat's cushioned bar like a prisoner wanting to be freed.

The cop studied Carl's license. “I clocked you going at sixty-four, Mr. Jorgenson.”

He doesn't know
, Carl thought.

“Were you aware that you were going so fast?” the cop asked, having to shout over the baby's crying.

“I'm sorry,” Carl said. He tried to laugh. “Um, somebody needs a nap. Guess I was in a hurry to get him home and in bed.”

The policeman frowned a little. “This your correct address?” he asked, squinting at the license again.

“Yes—”

“Well, if you're headed home, you're going the wrong way. Says here you live in—”

“Yes, I'm sorry,” Carl said. “Actually, I—I just moved to Portland—I mean, Seattle. We just moved to Seattle a week ago.”

The cop's eyes narrowed at him—then at the baby, but it was only for a moment. He walked around to the front of the car and checked the plate. The baby's shrill cries continued. Carl waited. A drop of sweat slithered down from his underarm.

Finally, the patrolman returned to Carl's window. “I'm letting you off with a warning this time, Mr. Jorgenson,” he said. “Take it easy the rest of the way to Seattle, then you and your little boy will stand a better chance of making it there. All right?” He gave him back the license.

Carl took it. He nodded a few more times than necessary. “I will. Thank you, Officer.” He turned the key in the ignition.

But the cop still stared at him, unmoving. With a brief nod at the baby, he cracked a smile. “Powerful set of lungs. How old is he?”

Carl hesitated. “Five months. Why do you ask that?”

“I've got a two-year-old at home myself. What's his name?”

Again, Carl didn't answer right away. He looked at the baby for a moment. “Um, Sam,” he said. “Sam Jorgenson.”

“Well, Sam,” the policeman said. “Tell your daddy to obey the speed limit.” Then, with a grin, he waved him on.

Carl rolled up the window, put his license away, and slowly started back onto the highway. He checked his rearview mirror. The cop was getting inside the squad car—perhaps to an APB over his radio about a Portland kidnapping. Certainly, by now the McMurray girl had given the police a description of her missing child, and what he was wearing. The cop would remember.

Carl picked up speed. He wondered if he should get rid of his car after today. Thank God the new place in Seattle had an underground garage. He could keep the car down there for the next few days until he figured out what to do. The police wouldn't be looking for it there. But they'd be looking for him.

He wished the baby would be quiet for just a minute. His head was pounding. “Oh, please, shut up,” he said hotly. This red-faced, screaming urchin wasn't anything like the happy baby in the portrait Mrs. Sheehan had shown him on the plane.

If only he could drive back to Portland, bring the kid into a police station, and claim he'd found him in an abandoned car someplace. With a little luck, they might have believed the story. But it was too late now. That cop had seen him.

The damn crying wouldn't stop.
“Oh, for chrissakes, can't you be quiet?”
he hissed.
“Shut up!”

One hand on the wheel, Carl frantically dug into his pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief. The car rocked and swerved as he reached over and got ready to stuff the handkerchief in the baby's mouth. Then Carl remembered what his mother had once told him:
“I'd find he'd stuck a rag or something in your mouth to stop the crying…”

Carl threw the handkerchief to the car floor. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, rubbing the baby's leg. He turned and gazed at the road ahead, then started crying with his son. “I'm sorry. Hush, now, Sammy, please. I'll never hurt you. I'm not my father. I'll take good care of you….”

 

When Carl lifted him out of his car seat, the baby let out a howl. His cries took on a staccato rhythm as Carl hurried up the back stairwell with him to the second floor. Carl could hardly breathe without gagging, because the kid had loaded up his diaper shortly after they'd pulled off the interstate at Seattle. Staggering inside his apartment, Carl set the smelly, wiggling, screaming thing on the carpeted floor.

He heard the baby crying as he ran into the nursery and tore open a box of Pampers. All the neighbors could hear the screams, too, no doubt.

The nursery was completely furnished, loaded with Pampers, clothes, and toys. The rest of the apartment wasn't far behind, except he hadn't gotten a phone yet. It was a spacious two-bedroom with a fireplace and bay windows. He'd even figured out where to put the Christmas tree already.

But he didn't know what to do with this crying, stinking kid. Carl spread a bath towel on the living room floor. “All right, Sammy, okay,” he whispered, pulling him by his feet onto the towel. He ripped apart the snaps on the insides of the overall legs. The baby kicked and squirmed. “Please, keep—keep still,” Carl pleaded, choking at the smell.

The baby kept screaming—that inhuman squeal—and Carl worked quickly, cleaning him off, then fastening a new Pamper around him. It seemed so haphazard and temporary. He'd studied diapering in a baby book, but wasn't sure he put it on right. He had a feeling he wasn't doing
anything
right.