Only Son (23 page)

Sam remembered how they won the father-son relay race at the school picnic last year. His father had lifted him up and carried him on his shoulders afterward. And Sam remembered he hadn't been embarrassed at all…back then.

Biting his lip, Sam found some Scotch tape in the desk, and tried to mend the picture best he could. But lightning bolt scratches still obscured his father's kind face. He felt awful.

There was a knock on his door. Sam stashed the ruined photo in his desk drawer, then turned around.

His father opened the door, but hesitated before coming inside. He was holding a cup of coffee. “I'm sorry I hit you, Sammy,” he said.

Sam didn't say anything.

His father stepped toward him. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“I'll live,” Sam murmured.

His father gave him an awkward smile. “About that family tree, I'll work on it at the office tomorrow. Okay?”

Sam shrugged, then looked away. “If you want…”

“I'm sorry I wasn't very much help, Sam. It's—difficult for me to talk about your mom. I still miss her. But I'm ready to help now. What is it you wanted to know?”

“Nothing,” Sam mumbled. “It's okay. You're tired…”

“Not anymore. This is my second cup of coffee. I really want to help you with this autobiography. A lot of stuff has happened to you that I'm sure you don't remember. Interesting stuff, too…”

Sam frowned. “Like what?”

His father took a sip of coffee. “Well, did I ever tell you about the time when you were four, and you almost got kidnapped in Southcenter Shopping Mall?”

 

The adventure at Southcenter Mall took up two pages in Sam's seven-page autobiography, which he entitled—at his father's suggestion—“Sam, I Am.” The facts were slightly overembellished by Sam's young imagination. His would-be abductress was now a “
6-foot, 2-inch blond lady with a Russian accent. She threatened to shoot me right there in the mall if I didn't go with her. She grabbed me, and I fought to escape…
”

He vividly described the scene: the horrified, screaming shoppers; his father's brave attempt to chase after the armed villainess, and the screeching tires of the big, black getaway car. “
The police never found the woman
,” Sam wrote. “
She is still at large
.”

Sam's playground accident that resulted in four stitches to his chin also got a lot of coverage. He'd received ten stitches in his own telling, and he graphically recounted the blood-spilling—on his clothes, his father's clothes, the seat of the car, and in the doctor's office. Sam was careful to point out: “
I never cried the whole time. My father said I was very brave
.”

Of the day he was born, Sam didn't add many details to his father's version:

Having a parent who had died made Sam rather unique in his sixth grade class. But he did not dwell on it—probably because his mother's death was one thing that seemed to have happened outside his lifetime. The framed photograph above the couch—of a pretty, blond bride with his father—was the only evidence that she ever existed. Even then, he didn't feel much attachment to that woman in the picture.

 

When I was five months old, my mother got killed in a car accident. She was killed instantly. She was thirty-three years old. I don't remember her at all. She is berried [sic] in Santa Rosa. I have not seen her grave. But my father says there is an angel on her tombstone
.

“Wow,” Amy murmured. She closed the register drawer. It was impossible not to gawk at him. He stood over at the counter in Bedwares, weighed down by two large shopping bags. He was gorgeous; tall, with wavy brown hair and beautiful eyes that seemed to dazzle even in the distance between them. He smiled at her. Automatically, she turned away, and feigned interest in some charge forms on the register counter.

One of her saleswomen, Veronica, slid up beside her. “Hunk alert,” she whispered. “Catch the three-piece suit over in Beds.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm catching him,” Amy mumbled, peeking at the handsome stranger. He was talking to Lila, the sixtyish saleslady in the Bedding department. He seemed to be charming the ruffled panties off her. She was all smiles and giggles.

“Any eye contact yet?” Veronica asked.

“A little.”

Veronica put on her glasses to get a better look at him. The glasses were new, and Veronica, who had just turned forty, didn't like needing—or wearing—them. But she looked cute with them on. Veronica had frosted blond hair and a pale, somewhat mousy face. The glasses camouflaged her tiny, tired-looking eyes. “So what do you think?” she whispered. “Married or gay?”

“I don't know. But if he comes over here, he's mine.”

“That's not fair,” Veronica said. “You always wait on the good-looking guys.”

“Why should you care? You're married.”

“So are you,” Veronica snorted. “To your job.”

After three years at Frederick and Nelson, Amy had taken a job offer from the Bon Marche in downtown Seattle. She became buyer and manager for the Bath department. The job took her to New York and Hong Kong twice a year on buying excursions. She pampered herself: a beautifully furnished two-bedroom apartment in West Seattle with a fireplace and a panoramic view of Puget Sound; a designer wardrobe, and first-class airline tickets she'd send to her mother so she'd come visit.

But these luxuries didn't compensate for what Amy really wanted. During her first year in Seattle, she must have visited Woodland Park Zoo about thirty times, walking along the paths he walked. She wandered around parks and playgrounds, the places he had been; and maybe he came back to from time to time.

She was thirty-five now, and yearned to have another baby. After ten years in a holding pattern, she was ready for a man to love, someone to give her a child.

The man in Bedwares was the perfect age for her—mid to late thirties. From the suit, she guessed he was a lawyer, possibly an advertising executive. He played racquetball during his lunch hour; and on weekends, he went sailing. Yes, definitely the type who owned a boat. Very Kennedy-looking.

He moved away from Lila's counter.

“Oh, he's headed this way!” Veronica whispered, scurrying out from behind the counter. “He's yours, honey. Go for it!”

Amy adjusted the shoulder padding to her Evan-Picone blouse, but kept her eyes averted from him as he approached her. He was so handsome, it made her nervous just to look at him. She reached into the depths of her professional resources and gave him a cool smile. “Can I help you?” she asked. God, his eyes were beautiful—the brilliant blue color of a chlorine pool.

He slumped against the counter, and gave her a tired, lopsided grin that was incredibly cute. “I need bathroom stuff. I'm furnishing a new apartment from scratch, and I'm brain-dead.”

Amy laughed, then stole a glance at his left hand. No wedding ring. Probably gay.

“Let's put your bags behind the counter here, and I'll show you some towels we have on sale.” She helped him with the bags. “Is there a particular color or pattern you have in mind?”

“Um, well, the tiles in the bathroom are green.”

“Sort of a deep forest green or more of a mint?” she asked as they approached the towel display.

He chuckled. “I don't know. Light green, I guess. Whatever you think goes with that is fine. I trust you.”

Amy smiled. In her sales experience, gay men usually knew colors and exactly what they wanted; but this man didn't seem to care at all. And if he were married, his wife would be the one shopping for linen and bathroom accessories. Maybe he was recently divorced. That would explain the new apartment.

She picked out a jade-colored set of towels. He seemed happy with the selection. She noticed that when she looked at him, he was looking at the towels; but the moment she turned her eyes away, she felt him glancing at her face and her body. “You just moved to Seattle?” she asked, showing him shower curtains.

“I live in Spokane, but my job takes me here two weeks every month. The company figured it would be cheaper if I got a studio apartment here. So from now on, I'll have to buy my own soap and shampoo instead of stealing it from the Westin every other week. What do you think of this clear one with the watermelons on it?”

“I think it's cute,” Amy said.
And so are you
. She gazed at his profile. “Must be hard on you, traveling so much.”

“Oh, it's not so bad,” he said, absently turning the shower curtains on the tall rack—like so many pages of a magazine he wasn't really reading. “I like Seattle, but don't know anyone here. I keep telling myself, ‘See a show while you're here, check out the Space Needle, go to a restaurant.' But who wants to go out alone? So I always end up staying in my hotel room, watching the tube and eating room service. Crazy, isn't it?”

“No, not really,” Amy said. “I know what it's like. I take a lot of business trips. They can be awfully lonely.”

The blue eyes studied her. “Somehow, I just can't picture you sitting alone in some hotel room all night. You must have guys constantly asking you out wherever you go.”

Amy shrugged. “Oh, most of my dates on the road are business-related and boring.” She laughed. “For that matter, so are most of my dates at home.”

He suddenly looked interested in the watermelon shower curtain again. “I think I'll take this one.”

Amy found the boxed model in a drawer beneath the display. She kept telling herself:
“Ask him out, stupid!”

He gave her his VISA card. The name on the card was Barry Horton. “Promise me something, Mr. Horton,” Amy said as she rang up the items. “Don't sit alone in your hotel room tonight. Seattle's a great city. You should go out and have some fun.”

“What's your name?” he asked.

She stole another glance at him as she totaled up the sale. “Amy—Amy Sheehan.”

“I'll take it under advisement, Amy Sheehan.”

She handed him a pen, then watched him sign the sales slip. “I guess I'm not one to talk,” she said casually. “I'll probably just sit at home tonight myself….”

Her words hung in the air for a few seconds. He said nothing. He gave her back the pen and the charge slip. Amy managed to work up a polite smile, then she started loading the shower curtain and towels into a bag.

“I was wondering…” he said.

She looked up. “Yes?”

“When do you finish up around here?”

“Six.”

“Um, there's a movie at seven, one of my all-time favorites. But I don't know where the theater is. Anyway, I figured in turn for giving me directions, I'd treat you to the movie and perhaps dinner afterward.” His shy smile was very endearing. “Do you know where the Neptune Theater is?”

“Sure. It's a revival house in the University District. What's playing?”

“
West Side Story
.”

 

Barry picked her up in front of the store at six-fifteen. On their way to the theater, Amy learned that he had a house in Spokane, which he'd shared for two years with his fiancée, Gretchen. But they'd broken up, and she'd moved out. A friendly parting, he said. Gretchen hadn't liked him traveling so much. He was a sales manager for a computer software company. For fun, he played racquetball; he loved old movies, and despite an indifference toward spectator football and baseball, he read the sports pages every morning so he'd come off as “one of the guys” with clients and coworkers.

Amy was already imagining pictures of them together in a photo album. He looked photogenic—with those chiseled, Northern European features. He dressed so fine, too. He'd changed from his suit into an expensive-looking sweater and pleated khakis. Amy remembered how she'd practically had to dress Paul, the Polyester King, for every social outing.

During the movie, Barry didn't put his arm around her, but they shared a bucket of popcorn. Amy remembered trying to watch this same movie on a black-and-white portable TV in the kitchen, while Paul and his buddies had booed and cheered to some stupid football game in the next room. She glanced at Barry beside her, the light from the movie screen flickering across his handsome face. He was so much better-looking than Paul.

Amy wondered why she kept comparing them. On other dates, she'd never thought about her ex-husband. Why was it different with Barry Horton? Maybe because for the first time since her divorce, she found herself with a man she could easily marry.

He was smiling, but not up at Natalie Wood. At her. Barry then took her hand in his.

The movie ended at 9:45, and, as the lights came on, Amy wiped the tears from her eyes. She felt embarrassed for crying. But Barry put his arm around her and kissed her on the lips. It was a romantic, yet chaste kiss—and over with much too quickly.

They headed up the theater aisle, and he asked where she'd like to go for dinner. “What I'd really like to do,” Amy said, “is go home and change out of these work clothes. Then we could order a pizza—if that's okay with you.”

It was okay with him. Barry uncorked a bottle of red wine while Amy telephoned Domino's. He helped her build a fire in the fireplace. Then Amy changed into a pullover and designer jeans that were both comfortable and attractive. When she emerged from the bedroom, Barry was sitting on the sofa. He studied the framed photograph of her with Eddie and her mother. He held it up. “Is this you in this picture?” he asked.

Amy took her glass of wine. She nodded. “That was taken eleven years and several excess pounds ago. I was twenty-four at the time.” She wished he'd put the picture down.

“Is this your mother?”

“Yes.”

“She's lovely. Who's the baby?”

“My nephew. I'm his godmother. It's my sister's baby. He—” Amy quickly shook her head. “No, that's a lie….”

Barry looked up at her, confused.

Amy took a gulp of wine. “It's my son. His name's Eddie.”

He put the picture down. “Your son. Is he—still around?”

“No,” Amy whispered. “He's been gone a long time.”

The door buzzer rang. It was the pizza man. Barry paid for it. They sat on the thick, white shag rug and ate in front of the fireplace. With Nat King Cole on the stereo and the lights turned down low, it might have been very romantic if Amy hadn't felt compelled to give Barry an explanation about her failed marriage and her missing child.

“I'm sorry,” Amy said, refilling her wineglass a third time. “I shouldn't be going on like this, Barry. God, not on our first date. I'm not the morose type.” She toasted him with her wineglass. “Huh, I usually don't drink like this either. Honest. I don't go around pouring out my tales of woe to people. In fact, I haven't told a soul about Eddie since I moved to Seattle five years ago. None of my Seattle friends know. You're the first one I've told.”

“Well, then I'm flattered, Amy,” he said, his beautiful eyes full of kindness and understanding.

“The thing is,” she said, “I know my son's still alive. And that's kept me from finding someone new and starting a family. I still have a son out there somewhere, and
he's
my family.”

The wine must have caught up with her, because for the second time that evening, she found herself crying in front of him. Once again, her tears prompted Barry to reach out to her. He rested a long, graceful hand on the back of Amy's neck. She looked into his blue eyes and felt so weak.

“It's all right,” he whispered. Then he kissed her.

Amy melted inside. She wrapped her arms around him, and they gently tumbled onto the shag rug together. He kissed her tears, and when his lips met hers again, they were wet, soft, and warm. Amy took comfort in his strong arms. For a moment, she almost panicked as she thought he was about to pull away. She clung to his shoulders and kissed him more deeply. She didn't want him to stop.

But suddenly he did draw back. He sat up. “I'm sorry,” he muttered. “This isn't right….”

Amy touched her mouth, where his lips had been just a moment before. Numbly, she stared up at him.

He turned away. “It's no good.” He rubbed his forehead. “You're very vulnerable right now.”

Amy sat up. “I know what I'm doing, Barry,” she whispered in a voice still throaty from crying. “I like you…very much.”

He got to his feet. “I like you too, Amy,” he said.

“Are you leaving?”

“I think I better.” He glanced toward the door. “I've got a breakfast meeting at seven-thirty tomorrow.”

Amy smoothed back her hair. Her face was still flushed and moist from his kisses. Unsteadily, she got up and followed him to the door. “Will I see you again?” she heard herself ask.

“I leave for Spokane day after tomorrow. I'm not sure. I'll call you.”

Amy frowned. “You don't have to say that. In fact, I'd rather know now if tonight was it for us. Otherwise, I'll spend the next few days in limbo, waiting and hoping for you to call.” Before he could answer, Amy buried her face in her hands. “God, listen to me, what an ass.” She took a deep breath and managed to smile at him. “If you call, you call. If you don't, fine, I understand. Anyway, I think you're a wonderful guy, and thanks for the movie.”

He smiled back—almost regretfully. Barry gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'll call you,” he whispered. Then he left.