Only Son (20 page)

“I'm sorry!” Amy hissed, her heart pounding. “But this is ridiculous. She's a lousy manager and a nasty person, and I'm about to get fired for helping a customer find something she needed—”

“I said that's quite enough,” he barked. His face was almost the color of his hair. “Please, wait outside, Ms. Sheehan.”

Tiffany wasn't looking at her. She had a stony, slightly pained expression on her face, like someone getting a tetanus shot from the doctor and pretending it didn't hurt.

Amy took the long walk out of Ballentine's office. She sank down in a chair outside his door. His secretary had stepped away from her desk; for that, Amy was grateful, because she could barely hold back the tears.

What the hell was she going to do for a living? She didn't have a college degree or any secretarial skills. There went her employee discount No more bargains on clothes and furniture. She'd have to move; the rent was too high. And the only friends she had were at that store. In one reckless moment, she lost everything that had made her meaningless life bearable.

“
I can't believe I called Tiffany a ‘creep' to her face
,” she whispered to herself. She started to laugh. It was worth it. At least she'd stood up for herself; she would try to remember that when the goddamn unemployment office denied her application.

The door to Ballentine's office opened. Tiffany strutted past her without a glance, then disappeared around the corridor. Amy had expected some snide good-bye. It was a good thing the bitch sailed by, too. Had she stopped for even a moment, Amy would have punched her lights out. Perhaps Tiffany knew a little bit about people after all.

Ballentine poked his head out the doorway. “Ms. Sheehan?” He motioned for her to come inside his office.

Amy followed him in. She'd never been fired from a job before—a new experience in her lifetime of screwing up.

Ballentine told her to sit down, and she took the chair Tiffany had vacated. “I'm afraid you've made it impossible for me to keep you on at this store any longer,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“Yes, I know,” she murmured. “I'm sorry for that outburst. It was very unprofessional. But Tiffany had it coming—”

“That's enough,” he said, holding up a hand. “I don't want to hear another word about Ms, Kimbler.”

“I just want you to know before you fire me that I've been a good employee. And I don't like telling people off. I'm not the shiftless jerk she's probably made me out to be.”

“Yes, you have been a good employee,” Ballentine said. “I read some of those customer cards you talked about, and I was very impressed. I hate having to let you go, Ms. Sheehan.”

“That makes two of us.” She tried to smile. “Huh, maybe you'd write me a letter of recommendation…”

He shook his head. “I'll just make a call. There's an opening for manager of Bathwares at our Southcenter Mall store in Seattle. The job's yours if you'll relocate. You'd be making more money, and you wouldn't have to deal with Ms. Kimbler.”

Amy stared at him. “You mean, you aren't firing me?”

“I'm asking if you can relocate to Seattle. It's either that or yes, I'll have to dismiss you. After what just happened, I can't very well allow you to stay on here.” He glanced at an open file folder on his desk. “It says here you're divorced…\no children…next of kin is a mother in Chicago. Is there any reason why you'd be unwilling to move to Seattle?”

Amy shrugged. “I don't know. This is all so sudden…” She still couldn't believe he hadn't fired her. “Do I have to give you an answer now?”

“Tomorrow's Saturday. Were you working this weekend?”

“Yes, on Sunday.”

“Not anymore. You can clear out anything that's yours downstairs. As of now, you're no longer working at this store. Call me Monday and let me know if you want the Seattle job.”

With uncertainty, Amy nodded and got to her feet. “Well…thank you, Mr. Ballentine…”

“By the way,” he said. “If you should run into Ms. Kimbler between here and the exit door, I'll thank you not to say anything to her.”

“All right,” Amy said. She winced a little. “But you know, if I take that Seattle job, Tiffany's bound to find out eventually anyway, won't she?”

“Oh, I already told her, and she was livid. I just don't want you giving her another speech. See, you showed remarkably good judgment in helping that customer find her mirror. I told Tiffany so, too. But that little speech you made did you in, remarkably bad judgment on your part. That's why you're the one who has to relocate or lose her job. Between you and me, I'm sorry it wasn't the other way around.”

Amy dared to crack a smile. “You mean you…?”

He nodded. “I can't stand that woman either. Now, go on. I want your decision on Monday morning. In the meantime, you can sleep on it.”

 

Amy couldn't sleep. The clock on her nightstand said 2:20. “Shit,” she grumbled, climbing out of bed. She put on her plaid flannel robe, padded down the hall to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. From the bottom drawer of her antique desk in the living room she pulled out a stack of postcards. Amy curled up on the couch with her glass of wine and read them again. She lingered over the most recent one:

That was the last, almost two years ago. She wondered if the stitches had left Eddie with a scar. On the street and in the store, she found herself staring at blond-haired boys, and each time, she'd look for a mark on his chin.

When Ballentine had asked if there was any reason why she couldn't move to Seattle, she'd thought about Eddie and these postcards. If she left Portland, her son's keeper would never be able to reach her, she couldn't hope to get Eddie back.

Yet in recent months, she'd given up even hoping for another card about him. Only on her really dismal days at work did Amy dare wish for some comforting news about Ed when she returned home. Even then, she knew she was stringing herself along.

Today, she'd found herself doing it again. She'd put off her zoo date with Joe D'Angelo until tomorrow, then spent the day scouting want ads and inquiring at stores. No jobs. Nothing. Even if there were something, it couldn't have compared to the Seattle job: management position; a salary increase; the employee discount. Yet by the end of the afternoon, she was picking up an application at her old Safeway. She'd prayed for a new postcard in her mailbox—something to make her staying in Portland seem worthwhile. But she was no closer to finding Ed than she had been five years ago.

In fact, she was farther away. The first couple of years, her son's keeper had sent several postcards. But he seemed to have forgotten her. Ed should have started kindergarten by now. All the little landmarks in his life that she was missing: his learning to read and tie his shoes, riding a two-wheel bike; losing his front teeth and growing new ones; his first report card. Why hadn't there been a note about these things? For all she knew, this postcard about the stitches would be the last she'd ever get.

Amy turned over the card and glanced at the postmark:
SEPT 2 81, SEATTLE, WA
. She needed more than that before she'd move to Seattle. The other cards were postmarked from all over the Pacific Northwest.

Paul had thrown away the first, and given the second to the police. Amy had noted their unspectacular conclusion from the handwriting analysis: the writer was a male in his forties. The notes told Amy a bit more about this man who had taken her son.

Except for her baby, this guy lived alone. He probably didn't have any family, close friends, or love interest. If he was close to anyone, he wouldn't need to write to her about all these events in her baby's life. This guy was a loner.

He was educated, maybe even a college graduate. The quotes around the word, “dog,” and his correct grammar and spelling in all the cards were an indication that he wasn't some illiterate slimeball with about eight teeth missing. The guy was smart.

For a while, she'd imagined that he was a widower, living on a farm somewhere. But the next postcard helped her realize that Ed was in a major city, or at least close to one:

“At the zoo today,” he wrote. The tone implied—she hoped, unintentionally—that zoo trips were a pretty regular thing for him and her little boy. The card about him cutting his chin in the
park playground
seemed to corroborate her theory that this man was an urban dweller, close to parks and zoos.

Then again, what if these postcards were full of lies?

No, she had to believe that the man who took her son had a spark of decency, that he wasn't abusing Eddie in any way. She had to believe, or she wouldn't have been able to bear it.

Amy got to her feet and put the postcards back in her desk. She frowned at the Safeway application, there on the desk top. She'd fill it out tomorrow, before her date with Joe. “You can't leave Portland,” she muttered to herself as she plodded back to bed. “Not until you have a better idea of where he is.”

That Halloween nearly five years ago, they'd forced her to go home from the bank. She kept thinking that Eddie would be returned to the place she'd lost him, and she didn't want to leave. She felt the same way about Portland. She couldn't move.

 

Joe was a nice guy. He'd kissed her good-night the last time they'd been together. She didn't know what to expect with him once this afternoon's zoo trip was finished—maybe dinner, maybe even sex. They walked through the monkey house. Joe wore a pink Polo sport shirt that complemented his olive complexion. He held Amy's hand and talked about his job with a consulting firm. Amy pretended to listen. She was still thinking about her own job, and Seattle.

When they came out of the monkey house, she saw the giraffes in their wildlife setting. Amy stopped dead. Joe kept walking a couple of feet before realizing he was alone.

Like a mesmerized, wide-eyed child, Amy stared at the giraffes on the other side of the moat. “
At the zoo today, he pointed to a young giraffe, and said, ‘Look at the baby giraffe!'
”

Joe D'Angelo didn't understand Amy's urgent need to visit the zoo's Administrative Office. Behind the counter, the white-haired woman with a hearing aid wasn't very understanding either. She'd merely stopped by the office for an hour that Sunday; but for the anxious, teary-eyed young woman, she looked back into their records for 1978 and 1979. “We only had one giraffe that summer, a full-grown male.” She read from a folder, which she'd set on the counter. “But I have a clipping someone stuck in here from the
Seattle Times
, dated May 3, 1979.
‘Seattle's Woodland Park Zoo announces the arrival of a healthy baby giraffe, Toby, born Sunday evening…
' Is that what you're looking for?”

Amy nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I'd offer to make you a copy,” the lady said. “But the Xerox is broken.”

“It's all right,” Amy murmured. “You've been more help than you'll ever know. Thank you very much.”

Joe nudged her. “I don't get it. What does all this mean?”

“It means I'm moving to Seattle.”

“Seattle? Really?” He sounded disappointed. “Why?”

“Job offer—too good to resist.”

“Do you know anyone in Seattle?”

“I might,” Amy said. “I just might….”

The Mariners led by two runs in the last inning. Carl had gotten excellent seats—above the third base bullpen in the Kingdome. In addition to ticket costs, he'd shelled out a small fortune on popcorn, hot dogs, and soda pop for Sam and his two friends. No special occasion—just another Saturday Carl was spending with his son—now eleven years old. He prided himself as one of those fathers who made time for his son's friends, too. Though he wasn't exactly crazy over Sam's choice of buddies.

Sitting beside him was Craig, a painfully skinny boy with glasses and adolescence in bloom all over his face. He was very smart and polite, but Carl figured poor Craig was something of an outcast at school; and he wondered if Sam was considered a loser too—since he and Craig were best friends. Carl couldn't help wishing that Sam made friends with kids more athletic and—well, normal-looking. But the only other boy who sometimes hung around with Sam was Earl Gleason, a squinty-eyed, future juvenile delinquent. He was short and wiry, with straight black hair and the snakelike charm of Eddie Haskell. The evening Carl had come home from work to find the apartment smelling of cigarette smoke—and an unflushed butt floating in the toilet—had been after Earl Gleason had come over to play. Although Sam was catching on that Earl got him into more trouble than he was worth, he hadn't quite shaken him off yet. During the eighth inning, Carl had overheard Earl whisper to Sam: “Check out the lady with the big tits in the pink dress behind us. She's got her legs apart. I thought I saw beaver.”

Seated between the young nerd and the preteen hood was Sam. His little boy, angelic beauty had been replaced by an awkward handsomeness. He had a solid, athletic build, and his hair was curly and dark gold. He tried to comb it straight, but it was full of cowlicks and bumps. He had better success—thanks to nightly applications of Clearasil—keeping his complexion smooth. His eyes already seemed to belong to an adult—so beautiful and serious, an enchanting blue-green color, thick-lashed, under dark heavy brows that nearly—but not quite—grew together. He'd be a real heartbreaker when the rest of him caught up with those eyes. But then, Carl wasn't very anxious for that to happen. Sam was growing up fast enough already.

He wasn't watching the game. His head was turned ever so casually as he tried to peek up the dress of the woman behind him. Carl reached across Craig's lap and tapped Sam on the knee. “Cut that out,” he whispered. “It's rude, Sam.”

“Sorry, Dad,” he mumbled, once again focusing his attention on me game.

He was a good kid. Oh, sure, sometimes it was like pulling teeth getting him to empty the garbage or clean his room. A week before, he'd thrown a fit when Carl refused to let him go see
Fatal Attraction
. But Sam always kissed him hello when Carl got back from work, and again at night before going to bed. He was smart enough most of the time not to fall under Earl's influence, and sincere enough to remain friends with an obviously unpopular, nice boy like Craig. There were times while Carl was washing the dinner dishes that—for no apparent reason—Sam would come up behind him, slide his arms around his waist and say: “I love you, Dad.”

Yet Carl never stopped worrying about him. Even those sweet hugs raised some concern. Was Sam too affectionate for his age? Overly protected? Left alone in the apartment too much? Was the absence of a mother going to warp him? Did he need more time with just his friends? Did he even have any other friends besides these two?

Carl glanced over at Craig, who was blowing his nose on a long string of toilet paper that came from his pants pocket like an umbilical cord. “You're so lucky to have a dad who does stuff with you,” Craig said to Sam. He shoved the toilet paper back in his pocket. “Mine never takes me anyplace.”

Sam was watching the game. “Yeah. He's okay, I guess,” he replied, yawning.

Carl almost dropped his beer. He was kissing off close to sixty bucks so Sam and his friends could have a fun afternoon. And that was all Sam had to say on his behalf? Of course, what did he expect him to say? “
Oh, I'm the luckiest kid alive! I love my dad
.” Sam had to act cool in front of his friends.

They dropped off Earl first. The words “thank you” weren't in his vocabulary. He just got out of the car and slammed the door, then ran into his house.

“Oh-oh!” Sam said lightly. “Earl didn't thank Dad again. We're gonna hear about it all the way to your house, Craig.”

“Would it kill him just to say two simple words?” Carl asked, stepping on the gas. “Why do you hang around with that kid anyway?”

“He hasn't got any other friends but us,” Sam said.

“Small wonder.”

“Listen, Dad. Is it okay if I spend the night at Craig's?”

“Tonight?”

“It's okay with my folks,” Craig piped in from the backseat. “I asked this morning. Sam's invited to dinner, too.”

Carl hesitated. He stared at the road ahead. “Why don't I drop you first, Craig? Then Sam will call and let you know.”

“Why can't I?” Sam asked.

“I didn't say you couldn't. We'll discuss it later.”

“What's to discuss?”

“The key word here is ‘later,' Sammy. We'll talk about it, okay?” He glanced at Craig in the rearview mirror. “We might have other plans, Craig. Sam will call you.”

“Okay, Mr. Jorgenson.”

Craig thanked him—as always—when Carl let him off in front of his house. Then Sam slouched lower in the front seat, his arms folded. The breeze through the open window whipped his golden hair into a disarray. “So why can't I spend the night at Craig's?” he asked. “You mad 'cuz of Earl? He won't be there….”

“I'm not mad,” Carl said. “I just want to get our schedules in order. I mean, you and I had plans to go to the beach tomorrow—early, before the crowds get there. Remember?”

“That's no problem,” Sam said. “I can go with Craig. His mom won't mind driving us. Is that all?”

Carl said nothing for a moment. He tried to smile. “Listen, why not invite Craig to spend the night at our place? Then I'll take you guys to the beach.” He glanced over at Sam, who was frowning. “What's wrong? On the beach, I'll go sit somewhere else—if it's uncool to be seen there with your dad. You know, you've slept over at Craig's at least a dozen times, and we've yet to reciprocate.”

“To
what?
”

“Invite him over to our place for the night.”

“Oh.”

“‘
Oh
.' Well, how about it? Don't you think it's time we had him at
our
place for an overnight?”

“But there's nothing to
do
at our place,” Sam groaned.

“And what's Craig's house? Disneyland?”

“Well, at least they got a backyard,
and
a tree house,
and
a basement rec room,
and
a VCR,
and
a dog…”

“Sam, for the umpteenth time, we cannot have a dog. They don't allow pets in our building.”

“Well, it's no fun living in a stupid apartment. Everybody else lives in houses.”

Carl couldn't blame him for wanting to be like other kids. Sam had been out of after-school day care for two years. Since then, he'd been returning from school every day to an empty apartment, where TV was his only diversion. No wonder he wanted a VCR. How many “Partridge Family” reruns could a kid take? If not for day camp and Little League during the summer, Sam would have gone crazy cooped up in the apartment all day. He really seemed to enjoy spending the night at Craig's house—as if it were some kind of liberty-leave.

But for Carl, those nights without Sam were dull, lonely, and long. He often told himself he should take advantage of the time alone—go to a movie, or perhaps even a bar, where he could meet someone. Hell, with Sam gone, he was free to take a girl home. He was free to spend the entire night with her.

Yet those nights of “freedom” were spent alone, belting back a few too many bourbon and waters and eating leftovers in front of the TV. Then he, too, would wish for a VCR, a dog, a house, and a yard. He knew what it must be like for Sam, alone in the apartment so much.

“Listen,” he said. “It's okay for tonight, sport. But next time, let's have Craig over. We owe him.”

“Hot damn! Great! Thanks, Dad.”

That night alone, Carl bought an early Sunday paper and went through the Real Estate section. He started pricing houses in the area.

 

“You had a cost-of-living increase just four months ago, Carl. You're not due for another raise until next year.”

He sat across from the desk of his boss, Glen Enright. They were the same age, forty-nine, but Enright seemed older—with his thick glasses, the sparse, Grecian Formula black hair, and the pompous way he smoked a pipe. He had a private office. After eight years as a claims adjuster, stuck in a cubicle, Carl felt overdue for the same kind of setup. Until now, he'd been reluctant to ask for a raise. He didn't want to come off as disgruntled about his job or salary—the squeaky wheel that gets replaced.

But he wanted to buy a house for Sam and himself—a place Sam could have his friends over and not feel ashamed, a home like normal families had. Fat chance on his current income. And he deserved more money. Hell, to replace him they'd need three people. Everyone in the department came to him for help. Good old Glen was just a figurehead, who spent most of his time bullshitting, playing computer games on his desktop terminal, and taking every business trip he could—so long as it included a day of executive golf. Things at the office went very smoothly in his absence. But when Carl was out sick, the place went to pot. They needed him. Didn't Enright realize how valuable he was?

“Well, I was thinking about a raise based on my performance, Glen,” Carl said. “I've worked very hard—”

“Yes, yes, of course, Carl.” Enright lit his pipe and waved out the match. The sickeningly sweet aroma filled the room. He was studying some papers on his desk. “I've got your record here,” he said. “I didn't know this, but you missed a whole week while I was on vacation last month.”

Carl nodded. “My boy was sick. German measles.”

“You couldn't get a sitter?”

“Well, my usual sitter is my landlady, Mrs. Kern. But she fell down and broke her hip last July. I'm afraid she's getting up in years…”
Besides, asshole
. Carl thought;
you have kids, don't you know how serious German measles can be?

Enright puffed on his pipe and nodded impatiently. “I see here that you've used up most of your sick leave, Carl. You've left early quite a bit, too.”

“Yes, I know,” Carl replied quietly. Could he help it if Sam got sick a lot? Enright had written on his last employee evaluation form: “
Carl Jorgenson is very capable. He carries out his duties efficiently and writes excellent reports. However, his frequent absences and an unwillingness to take out-of-town trips makes him less than dependable for a management position
.”

“That week I missed,” Carl said. “I caught up on all the work by the middle of the following week. I did it at home.”

Through the curtain of smoke, Enright nodded. “Yes, well, these sick days and early quits, they don't
look
good, Carl.”

Carl said nothing. He glanced at the framed fake
Golf Digest
cover on the credenza behind Enright's desk. A grinning Enright was on the cover, with “GOLFER OF THE YEAR,” across his Munsingwear shirt.

Enright put down his pipe, and gave him a phony, concerned-big-brother look. “Are you happy here at Allstate, Carl?”

“Why, yes, I'm very happy. I like working here.” Carl squirmed in the chair. He wondered if everyone who asked for a raise had to go through this grilling. He wished Enright would simply say “no,” instead of questioning his dedication to the company. If he didn't have Sam to support, he'd have said “Fuck you very much,” and walked. But Carl managed to smile at Enright. “Listen,” he said. “About the raise. I was just asking on account of I'm thinking of buying a house. I understand if it's a problem. Just thought I'd ask.” He stood up.

“Well, I'm afraid it's not in the budget right now, Carl.”

When he returned to his cubicle, Carl flopped down at his desk and yanked open the bottom drawer. He took out a folder, which the real estate lady had given him, and he dumped it in the wastebasket. The telephone rang.

“Claims,” he said into the receiver. “This is Carl Jorgenson.” He slumped back in his chair.

“Mr. Jorgenson?” It was a woman's voice.

“Yes, this is Carl Jorgenson. Can I help you?”

“Mr. Jorgenson, I'm Margo Hopper, Sam's sixth grade homeroom teacher—”

Carl sat up. “What's wrong? Is he sick?”

“Well, he had a little fainting spell after recess. He seems all right now, but I thought you might want to come take him home—just to be on the safe side.”

“He
fainted?
Did he hurt himself?”

“He bumped his head on the floor a little. We've got him resting in the nurse's office. As I said, he seems fine now—”

“I'll be right there,” Carl said.

He passed Enright's office on his way to the elevator. It didn't occur to him until he'd pressed the “down” button for the fifth time that he should tell his boss he needed the rest of the afternoon off. He was too frazzled to care what Enright thought as he ran back and poked his head past the office door. “I'm sorry,” he said, out of breath. “There's an emergency at my son's school. I may be gone the rest of the day. I'm sorry.”

Enright gave Carl the sickly smile of someone who didn't especially like being proved right. “Go ahead, Carl,” he said.