Only Son (15 page)

He collapsed the stroller, then hoisted it and Sam up the stairs to the apartment.

“I'm hungry,” Sam said, twiddling his ear.

“I'll fix you a peanut butter sandwich, partner,” Carl said. “You know, you're getting too big to be carried around like this all the time.”

“Sannich,” Sam said, and he sucked on his blanky.

Between Sam's attachment to that smelly, dilapidated, old blanket and his unwillingness to walk, Carl was deeply concerned about him. Dr. Durkee the Humming M. D. surmised that the child of a single, working parent might develop a fixation for a security blanket in lieu of the parent's presence. He added that Sam could be a little slow in his motor skills, and said he'd run some tests if Sam wasn't walking within a couple of months. He told Carl not to worry. But even Ms. Petesch at the day-care center had expressed some concern, since Sam was the only one there in his age group still on all fours.

Carl set Sam on the living room floor, then watched him crawl toward a Fisher Price toy. Frowning, Carl headed into the kitchen. He made Sam's peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then went back into the living room to check on him.

Sam was standing—on his own. His back was to Carl, who froze in the kitchen doorway. He held his breath and watched his son take a few steps toward the TV. Sam didn't know he was being watched. Carl counted each teetering step with amazement and pride: one, two, three, four…

Tears swelled in Carl's eyes. Five, six, seven, eight…

Sam plopped down on his little bottom after nine steps. Then he reached for the channel dial on the TV set.

“Sammy!” Carl cried, elated. “
You walked
—all by yourself!” Carl scooped him up in his arms. He kissed his son, then lifted him up over his head. “That's a good boy!”

Ten minutes later, Sam sat in his high chair, eating and painting the lower part of his face with peanut butter and jelly. Carl was on the phone to his work buddy, Frank Tuttle. He'd never called Frank at home before, but Carl had to tell someone. “All on his own,” he said. “Without any coaching…”

“Well, that's—terrific, Carl,” Frank replied.

“Oh, you should have seen it….”

“Well, that's really something,” Frank said. “So—um, what's going on?”

Carl laughed. “Sam walked! He really can walk now.”

“Oh, then you're not calling about work?”

“No, I just wanted you to be the first to know about Sam.” Carl suddenly felt very foolish. Why, he wondered, should Frank Tuttle give a rat's ass about Sam taking his first steps? He wished he knew someone else to call. There was only one other person who would care as much as him that Sam had walked for the first time. And he couldn't phone her. He'd have to tell her in another letter.

“Anyway, nothing else is new,” Carl managed to say. “Just thought I'd give you a buzz. See you Monday?”

“Sure thing. 'Bye, Carl,” he replied. “Oh, and congratulations again.”

“Thanks,” he said, frowning. Then he hung up the phone.

 

“Do you think Paul has any idea you're doing this?” Dr. Amberg asked.

“I'm sure he doesn't suspect a thing,” Amy said. It was her fourth appointment with Dr. Amberg, and the second session that Paul had managed to miss. “I'm very careful, only during lunch hours. I never give my real name or phone number. So there's no way it could get back to Paul. You know, I've been doing this behind his back for a couple of months now. I started out just thinking about it, and then I—” Amy shook her head and laughed. “The funny thing is I've yet to find one that really satisfied me—at least, not enough that I'd move out on Paul. I guess that must say something. They're always wrong for me.”

“When was the last time?”

Amy slumped lower on the tan sofa seat. “Day before yesterday,” she answered, frowning. “It was awful.”

“What exactly was wrong with it?”

“Too small—and dark. I want an apartment that has some sunlight. This place was like a tomb. If I get my own place, I ought to be thrilled with it, don't you think? Anyway, like I said, maybe I'm not ready to move out. Maybe I'm just stringing myself along. Otherwise I'd tell Paul that I'm looking for an apartment of my own—instead of being so sneaky about it.”

Dr. Amberg just nodded. She was perched beside Amy in the matching sofa seat, a notebook in her lap.

Amy got up and moved to the window. Dr. Amberg's office was on the second floor of a small office building near the Lloyd Center. There was a lot of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk below, and Amy watched through the slats of the Venetian blinds as a shirtless young man climbed inside a beat-up Mustang. Apartments weren't the only thing she'd been looking at on the sly lately. She'd notice men—in the store or on the street—checking her out too. Some of them were young and cute, and they'd smile at her. But she never had the nerve to smile back.

She still shopped at the old Safeway, and her former coworkers complimented her on the designer dresses she wore from Frederick and Nelson (the employee discount helped Amy expand her wardrobe and upgrade her taste). One of the girls down in Cosmetics had done her colors (she was a fall), and shown her how to accent her eyes and cheekbones. With her shoulder-length hair wavy and shimmering—thanks to an expensive auburn tint—Amy had never looked so close to beautiful in all her life. Yet Paul wouldn't have known the difference if it were the Bride of Frankenstein crawling into bed with him every night.

“Our sex life—or lack thereof—is the same,” she said, turning away from the window.

“Have you and Paul tried what I suggested during our last session?” Dr. Amberg asked.

“Paul wasn't exactly gung ho on the idea,” Amy replied. In an effort to reactivate their sex lives, Dr. Amberg had suggested fifteen minutes of touching, kissing, and caressing—without intercourse. Amy called it foreplay therapy. Paul called it an experiment in prick-teasing and a waste of time. “To tell you the truth, Dr. Amberg, he doesn't put much stock into any kind of therapy. I really don't think he minds that we haven't had sex in eons. If it were up to him, we'd go on living like nonsexual roommates until the cows come home.”

Amy wandered behind Dr. Amberg's desk and gave the empty chair a little spin. “When I think about it now, I realize I got married for all the wrong reasons,” she said. “I mean, he was the first guy I'd ever been to bed with. And when my parents found out we were living together…Well, I guess I married him to fix things with my family.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Amy picked up a letter opener, then put it down. “Well, I felt I should.” She uttered a pathetic laugh. “Those
shoulds
get you every time. There's a world of difference between doing something you
want
to do and doing something because you think you
should
. I let those
shoulds
guide me into this miserable marriage. I thought I
should
make my parents happy, I
should
be like my brother and sister….”

“Yet from what you've told me, you don't seem very close to anyone in your family except for your mother.”

“That's right,” Amy said, swinging the empty chair from side to side. “My brother and sister are so—respectable, squeaky clean. I've always felt as if I didn't measure up. See, they're pretty judgmental. I feel like the family fuck-up around them.” Amy got to her feet. “I haven't talked to either one in months. My mom fills me in on what they're doing. How am I on time?”

“We still have a few minutes left.”

Amy moved to the window again. She checked the scenery on the street below. No hunks. “I'm supposed to look at another apartment at one-fifteen,” she said. “I'm not sure I'm ready to go out in that heat again.” A bank sign across the way flashed the time, date, and temperature: “
12:42 PM; TUES, 8-20; 93°
.”

“A minute ago you said the ‘shoulds' guided you into a ‘miserable marriage,'” Dr. Amberg remarked. “Have you always felt this way about your relationship with Paul?”

“First couple of months, the marriage was great,” Amy said, twirling the cord to the Venetian blind around her finger. “Then I found myself having to invent reasons for staying with him. I guess the best reason came with the baby. I felt that I really should make the marriage work. Huh, there I go with the stupid ‘shoulds' again….”

“And after you lost the baby?” Dr. Amberg asked soberly. “What's kept you together this last year and a half?”

“This last sexless year and a half?” Amy said. “I don't know. Maybe that's why I wanted us to come to you. I've run out of excuses for staying together. I'm hoping you'll give us one.”

“You don't have a reason of your own? Think, Amy. Why do you want to save your marriage?”

“Well, I feel I should.”

The doctor smiled a bit condescendingly. “There you go with those ‘shoulds' again. I asked why you
wanted
to stay with Paul.”

“I don't know,” she answered edgily.

“Do you want to stay married to Paul? Do you love him?”

Amy checked her wristwatch, even with the bank sign across the way in clear view. “Our time's almost over, isn't it?”

“It's all right,” she heard Dr. Amberg say.

“Well, I should go.” Amy returned to the sofa seat and grabbed her purse. “I told this landlord I'd be there at one-fifteen, and it's eight blocks from here. I think it was a good session, don't you? See you next Tuesday, okay? I'll make sure Paul comes, too.” She headed for the door, but the doctor's voice stopped her.

“Amy,” she said. “Give some thought to what I asked you.”

“I will,” she said, nodding. Then Amy hurried out of the office.

Amy had copied it down. She never circled the classified ads, because Paul sometimes read the morning paper when he came home from work. She liked the building, although there seemed room for more renovations. The courtyard garden was overgrown, and brown paint flaked and peeled around the three stories of windows. She checked the names by the door and buzzed the manager. No answer. She tried again.

“Whoizzit?” came a voice on the fuzzy intercom.

“Is this Terry?” she called into the speaker.

“Yes….”

“I'm Jennifer Russell. I called about the apartment….”

“Come on in. Be right down.”

The door buzzed. Amy gave it a push and stepped inside. The lobby seemed hotter than outside. She pulled a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her forehead. The teal wraparound dress she wore was damp and sticky against her skin.

It was such a waste of time. She'd already given the guy a fake name; she couldn't very well change it if she wanted to fill out an application. She thought about just leaving now, but she heard someone on the stairway.

Amy caught a glimpse of his broad, hairy chest. He was pulling on a green Izod sport shirt as he came down the stairs. He was barefoot, and it was obvious by the loose movement at his crotch that he wore nothing beneath his grey sweatpants. He smiled at her, all shiny with sweat. His long brown hair fell over his brow in damp clumps. He needed a shave.

“I'm Terry Harlowe,” he said, jingling a set of keys in his hand. “You caught me lifting weights. Excuse my appearance.”

“It's okay.” She liked his eyes—green, with long lashes, shadowed under dark, heavy eyebrows. He was about thirty years old. The thick bulging arms, his tapered waist and V-shaped torso all attested to his weight-lifting ritual. He stood only an inch or two above her. She liked her men taller. Amy tried to find something else about him that would diminish his attractiveness, the same way she'd always find fault in all the apartments she'd seen. Then she could go on searching—window-shopping.

Why do you want to stay with Paul?

“The place is ready for occupancy now,” he said. He gave her a crooked smile. “It's on the third floor and there's no elevator. That's the one drawback. Are you still game?”

Amy nodded, and followed him up the darkened stairway. She checked his buns. He kept glancing back to grin at her as if he knew where her eyes were looking. “You new to Portland?”

“No. I just want to get out of my old place. It's a little noisy, and the rent's going up.” She gave the same story to every apartment manager. “Plus,” she said, “I'm living with this guy and we're breaking up.” That was a new angle, and she'd just blurted it out.

Again, he grinned at her. He had a sexy smile, knew it, too. “He's crazy to let a girl like you go without a fight.”

She managed to smile back at him. “Well, there have been a few too many fights. That's why we're breaking up.” She laughed nervously and wondered if this was how people talked when they met in bars. Pickup conversation. The last time she'd even attempted something like this, the line had been, “
What's your major?
,” and the evening together had never gone beyond necking in the guy's car. She hadn't gotten many opportunities to flirt lately. Sure, sometimes she'd flirt with customers in the store. Harmless stuff. She wasn't even about to contemplate having an affair with any of them. They'd always know where to find her five days a week. And it could so easily get back to Paul.

But this hunky stranger beside her now didn't even know her real name. The no-risk possibilities suddenly terrified her.

“Me, I'm a lover, not a fighter,” he said.

Amy laughed cordially, even though the line was pretty stupid. Then again, with his looks and that body, he probably never had to rely much on sweet talk to get a girl into bed. She wondered how many airheads he'd laid during her two years of enforced celibacy. It would be so easy with him. She'd let him do everything. She shouldn't be afraid. All she had to do was respond when he made his move.