Only Son (21 page)

 

“I feel fine, Dad. Honest,” Sam said. He sat on a cot in the nurse's office, squirming as Carl felt his forehead.

“I took his temperature,” the nurse offered. She was an emaciated old blonde who wore Keds sneakers with her nurse uniform. “It's normal,” she said.

Carl examined the red mark above Sam's right eye.

“He's going to have a goose egg tonight,” the nurse said. “We put some ice on it earlier.”

Carl took the discarded ice bag from the foot of the cot and gave it to Sam. “Here, keep that on your head. Lie back. You look pale. You feel sick to your stomach?”

Sam sighed. “I feel fine. Geez, Dad…”

“Oh, stop fussing,” Carl whispered. “There's no one here to see. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No? I only passed out in front of the whole class. I wish I was dead.”

Carl turned to the nurse. “Excuse me, where can I find his teacher? She's the one who called me.”

“Ms. Hopper? She's in 602, down the hall on your left.”

Carl found Room 602, and knocked on the windowed door. The teacher was a busty, plump brunette in her late thirties. She wore a stylish, navy blue dress and big, white earrings. She had a kind face. She looked over at Carl, said something to her students, then came to the door. “Yes?” she whispered to Carl.

“Hi, I'm Sam's father—”

“Oh, Mr. Jorgenson…” She peeked back in the classroom. “Earl Gleason, I swear I'm going to beat the tar out of you if you don't get back in your seat this instant! Not a peep out of anyone!” She stepped out to the hallway and closed the door. “Sorry. I'm Margo Hopper. Sam's in the nurse's office…”

“Yes, I know. I saw him. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Well, um, the children were coming in from recess, taking their seats. And I noticed Sam stagger a little as he started toward his desk. Then all of the sudden, he just keeled over. Scared the—lunch out of me. Luckily, he didn't hit himself against one of the desks, but he bumped his head on the floor….”

“Yes, I saw,” Carl said.

“I got one of the boys to help me carry him to the nurse's office, and he came to on the way. He seemed fine by the time I called you. In fact, he kept saying he wanted to go back to class. But I thought you should be notified.”

“Oh, I'm glad you called,” Carl said. “Thank you.”

“Threw me for a loop. Has he ever fainted like that before?”

“No, never…” Beyond the window, he noticed Craig, in the third row staring back, a worried look on his acne-ridden face.

“Well, maybe he just overexerted himself at recess,” Ms. Hopper said. “That can happen. Did you want to take Sam home?”

Carl nodded. “After a visit to our doctor, yes.”

“I hope he's all right. Last time a student fainted on me, I was teaching junior high. It was an eighth grade girl. Turned out she was pregnant.”

Carl grinned. “Well, I don't think that's Sam's problem.”

She shook her head. “No. Ha, what a stupid thing to say. Dumb. Anyway, nice to have met you.” She extended her hand.

Carl shook it. “Thanks, Ms. Hopper.”

“Margo,” she said, blushing a little. “You know, Sam's my favorite student. See you in a couple of weeks, Mr. Jorgenson.”

“A couple of weeks?”

She smiled. “Parent-teacher conferences on the twenty-second. 'Bye now.” She ducked back into the classroom.

 

Dr. Durkee, the Humming M. D., had agreed with Margo Hopper's prognosis. “He seems all right. Have him take it easy tonight. Unless he has any problems like nausea or headaches, I see no reason why he shouldn't go to school tomorrow—so long as he doesn't try to run the decathlon during recess….”

But Carl wasn't taking any chances. He insisted that Sam spend the rest of the day in bed. At the moment, however, Sam was sitting at the foot of his father's bed and talking on the phone to Craig: “I know, my dad saw you, too. He said you looked worried…”

He watched his dad struggle to reach the portable television's plug, which was stuck in an outlet behind the big dresser. After much grunting, Carl finally got the TV unplugged.

“Anyway, I'm fine, except I got a bump on my forehead that looks like a humongous zit…Yeah, we just got back. He says I can go to school tomorrow. So—was everybody talking about it?”

Carl carried the TV into Sam's bedroom. He could barely hear him talking now, because Sam's voice dropped to a whisper. He set the portable TV on the desk, then plugged it in.

The bedroom walls were covered with movie posters:
Top Gun, Raiders of the Lost Ark
, and
Aliens;
and there was a Christie Brinkley calendar; a University of Washington pennant; a stop sign someone had knocked down; and several grisly looking pictures of movie creatures clipped from some sci-fi magazine.

Carl turned down the bedsheets. He heard Sam say good-bye to Craig, then, after a moment, he plodded into the room. “We've gotta move to another town, so I can go to a school where no one knows me,” he announced, unbuttoning his shirt.

“So you're the news of the day, huh?” Carl said.

“You kidding? This is worse than when Cindy Levenson barfed in the middle of fourth grade math class. That was two years ago, and people are still talking about it. I'll never live this down.” He kicked off his shoes. “Craig said that Earl was making fag jokes about me for fainting like that.”

“I can't believe you still consider that little weasel a friend,” Carl said, swiping a discarded sweatshirt off the floor. “Last week, he tries to cheat off you during a test, and today he's calling you a….”

“Fag,” Sam said, frowning.

“I don't like you using that word, Sammy.”

“He said it, not me.” Sam climbed out of his pants, then crawled into bed. “Y'know, Dad, I really feel fine. Do I gotta stay in bed tonight?”

“Doctor's orders,” Carl said, folding up the sweatshirt.

“I was there, remember? I should take it easy, he said.”

“So humor me.” Carl put the sweatshirt away, then moved over to the TV. “What channel do you want?”

“Five, I guess.” Sam sighed and tugged the bedsheets. “God, I can't face them at school tomorrow. Earl making jokes, everybody laughing at me. What am I gonna do, Dad?”

Carl sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, make jokes about it yourself. Act like you think it was really funny. Get them laughing with you instead of at you.”

Sam rolled his eyes, then looked away.

“Okay,” Carl said. “You sit next to Earl, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So when he starts in with the jokes, tell him—tell him—I don't know—that his BO made you pass out.”

“Ha! That ought to shut him up!”

“Well, don't start unless he provokes you,” Carl said soberly. “And save it for the playground. I don't want you disrupting class or getting into a fight over this. Promise me.”

“I won't pick a fight, Dad,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I mean it, kiddo.”

“I promise,” Sam said, more seriously.

Leaning over, Carl kissed him on the forehead. “I'll bring dinner to you in an hour.”

In the kitchen, Carl pulled some chicken out of the freezer and set it under the faucet. Then he fixed himself a much-needed drink.

 

Sam considered the school cafeteria's fish sticks a total gross-out, so he'd brought his lunch today. While most other brown-baggers settled for their mothers' bland sandwiches, Sam would feast on hot macaroni and cheese, SpaghettiOs, or corned beef hash that his father cooked and spooned into his thermos. Today, the thermos held a hot dog, which Sam plucked out of the steaming water. He set it on a bun, then squeezed out a McDonald's packet of mustard.

“Trade ya?” Craig asked, holding up his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The jelly had bled through the white bread.

“Know the meaning of ‘fat chance'?” Sam replied. He opened a small bag of potato chips, then set his orange in front of him. “Y'know, I can't believe nobody's said anything about yesterday.”

But then, almost as if on cue, Earl Gleason plopped his tray directly across from Sam. “So, Jorgenson,” he announced loudly. All the kids seated at the long table looked up at him. “Why'd you faint yesterday? You pregnant?”

A couple of guys laughed. Sam tried to laugh, too.

“Maybe you got your period,” Earl said, snickering. He sat down and munched on a fish stick. Everyone was staring.

“Shut up, Earl,” Craig mumbled. He sipped his milk through a straw.

“Maybe your panty hose were too tight,” Earl went on.

“It's because YOU FARTED!” Sam shot back. “I PASSED OUT BECAUSE ONE OF YOUR ROTTEN-EGG FARTS POLLUTED THE ATMOSPHERE, EARL!”

Craig lurched forward, coughing. Milk dripped out of his nose and mouth as he laughed hysterically.

Sam glanced down at the other guys seated at the table. They were laughing too—not at him, not with him, but at Earl.

“I did not fart yesterday,” Earl grumbled, his eyes narrowed at Sam.

“Oh, God, you didn't?” Sam cried. “THEN WE'RE IN FOR A BIG, MEAN ONE ANY SECOND NOW! WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST!”

Sam heard someone howl, and the table shook. But he kept his eyes fixed on Earl, whose face had turned blush red. “Real funny, Jorgenson,” he whispered. “So shut up already.”

“I'll shut up if you shut up,” Sam replied in a low voice.

Earl just nodded, then bit into a fish stick. For the rest of the day, Earl didn't say another word about Sam's fainting spell. Nor did anyone else. But a few jokes circulated regarding Earl Gleason's lethal, rotten-egg farts. Sam could hardly wait to tell his dad all about it tonight.

 

“I gather from Sam's perfect attendance these last two weeks that there haven't been any more fainting spells.”

Margo Hopper wore a crisp, ivory-colored blouse and sat with her hands folded on the desk top. Carl, seated across from her in one of two hard, wooden chairs, noticed she wore no wedding ring. He'd thought about Margo Hopper a lot since their meeting two weeks before. He had a feeling she liked him. And he was attracted to her, which was something new. He usually went for cool, svelte, long-haired beauties. Margo Hopper didn't fit that mold at all: Botticelli plump, and pale, with straight, close-cropped black hair. She didn't exactly light a fire in his loins, but she was a woman he could easily love—intelligent, warm, and obviously good with kids. He wondered when those attributes had replaced passion in his want for a companion.

“So—Sam's all right, isn't he?” she asked.

“Oh, he's great,” Carl said. “I want to thank you for taking care of him that day, Ms. Hopper.”

“Margo,” she said.

He nodded. “Margo…”

“You know, I've been a teacher for almost twenty years.” She let out a wry laugh. “Whew! Makes me feel ancient to hear myself say that. Anyway, I always end up with a favorite student every year. This year, it's your Sam.”

Carl couldn't contain a proud smile. “That's music to my ears,” he said. “I had my favorites too—back when I was coaching grammar school.”

“A fellow teacher? My God. Where did you coach?”

“Oh, not around here. In Portland.” Carl immediately regretted letting that slip out. Santa Rosa was supposed to be the only place he'd lived before Seattle. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “But I know what you mean about having favorites.”

She leaned forward. “And isn't it usually the one who puts you to the test? The one without any friends—or he disrupts class, because he's starved for love and attention. I'm such a sucker for hard luck cases.”

Carl cleared his throat. “Well, I hope Sam isn't a ‘hard luck case.'”

“Oh, no, no. On the contrary. Sam's unique in my Favorite Students' Hall of Fame. He's a good student, well behaved. His homework's always in on time. He's very conscientious….”

Carl nodded and kept waiting for her to name the flaw that made Sam her favorite.

“He's very mature for his age,” she continued. “Like a little adult.”

“Are you saying that he doesn't fit in with the other kids?”

“No, he seems to fit in fine.” She laughed. “Listen, will you forget what I said about hard luck cases? You don't have to worry about Sam, Mr. Jorgenson. He's a fine boy.”

Carl laughed a little, too. “I'm sorry. These conferences scare the hell out of me. I'm always afraid I'll hear the worst—some big surprise like he's a bully, or he's being bullied, or he's friendless, or he hasn't shown up for school in over a month.” Carl nodded to the empty chair beside him. “And there's no one else here to share the blame with me.”

“Well, Sam's a wonderful boy. So I'd say that you deserve all the
credit
, Mr. Jorgenson.”

He smiled. “Carl.”

She nodded. “Carl.” Margo picked up a pencil and tapped it against her desk. “No, what makes Sam stand out from the others is—Well, don't take this the wrong way. But I know you're a widower, and it's just you and Sam at home. Forgive me for speaking so candidly.”

“No, it's okay, really.”

“See, I'm divorced and I have two teenage daughters of my own. I couldn't love them more. But I always wanted a son. I've got a soft spot for little boys. Sam's a very handsome and sweet kid. How could I resist him?” She shrugged and started to gather up some papers on her desk. “Anyway, there's not much else to tell you. Sam's a trifle weak in math and science, but I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. He really excels in history and English—especially creative writing. Has quite an imagination. Last week, I had the class write a short story about a boy and girl who find something in the woods. The students had to determine what it was. Well, about ten kids had them discover a chest full of money; a couple more came up with a space ship; one had Big Foot. But Sam had them find a classmate's decomposing body. It was very gruesome, and for the next eight pages—three more than the required length, mind you—he had the boy and girl stalked by some homicidal maniac.”