Only Son (24 page)

 

The next day, Amy returned home from work, and before even taking off her coat, she checked her phone answering machine. There was a call from her mother, and another message from this self-involved drip who had taken her to dinner two weeks before: “
Hi. This is Christopher. Why haven't you returned any of my calls? Are you away on vacation or something?
” There were also two hang-ups. Amy was convinced the hang-ups were from Barry. But more likely, it was someone trying to sell her something.

“Oh, he's not going to call,” Amy lamented to her mother over the phone an hour later. “I was such a twit. Our first date, and I spill my guts to him about Paul and Eddie and everything. I even cried, for God's sakes.”

“Well, what's so terrible about that?” her mother asked.

“Pouring out your personal problems isn't exactly recommended first-date procedure, Mom. It puts a guy off. I may as well have told him about my last Pap test.” She couldn't very well tell her mother about the most humiliating event of the evening—the incomplete pass.

“Who's to say he won't call?” her mother offered. “It's only eight o'clock there. He might be trying to call you right now.”

“He would have beeped in,” Amy said, frowning.

Barry didn't call, beep in, or leave a message for the next nine days. And typical—that jerk Christopher called three times. By Monday, Amy figured Barry was back in town. But he didn't call that day. There wasn't even a hang-up on the machine; so she couldn't fool herself into thinking he'd tried.

Then on Tuesday, something happened at the store that made her stop thinking about Barry Horton—for a short while anyway. A smartly dressed, tawny-haired woman in her twenties came into Bathwares, pushing a baby in a stroller-chair. As Amy helped her shop for towels, she asked how old the baby was.

“He's going to be a year old next month.”

The little boy had dark hair and brown eyes like his mother. He kicked his legs and seemed to babble baby talk to her.

Amy grinned. “What's his name?” she asked.

“Eddie.”

“Eddie?” Amy repeated. Her hand went to her heart. “Could I—hold him?” she whispered. “Would it be okay?”

The young mother smiled and nodded. She unfastened the straps harnessing him in the stroller. Amy reached down and gathered the baby boy in her arms. The tiny hand came up to fondle her mouth and nose; and Amy pretended to bite at it. The baby laughed. She found herself smiling and holding back the tears at the same time. The boy's large brown eyes stared at her with wonder. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh, he's drooling all over your beautiful blouse,” the woman said. “I better take him.”

Amy continued to bounce him in her arms. “Hey ya, little Eddie,” she whispered. “Hey, handsome.” She rubbed her nose against his, and he giggled.

“Miss…”

Amy kissed him again. His cheek was so warm and smooth.

“
Miss?
”

Amy glanced at the woman. She'd forgotten that she was there.

The young mother gave her a strained smile. “I think I better take him now,” she said, holding out her arms.

Amy felt so foolish as she handed the baby back to his mother—foolish and empty. She watched the young mother push her own little Eddie in his stroller toward the elevators.

Once again, Amy thought about Barry Horton. She would have adored having a child by him—a little boy with Barry's dimples, that golden brown hair, and those blue eyes.

Why are you doing this to yourself?
She was picking out their kids' names, and they'd had only one bomb-of-a-date, then he'd walked out of her life forever.

When she returned home that night, she deliberately ignored the blinking light on her answering machine until after she'd changed her clothes, opened up a Diet Coke, and read her mail. Then she played back her messages. There was only one: “
Well, hello. It's Christopher. I got tickets to a play on Thursday—
”

“OH, CAN'T YOU TAKE A HINT?” Amy screamed. She realized, despite the odds, she still hoped to hear from Barry again.

As she watched “Moonlighting,” and ate her Lean Cuisine, the telephone rang. Amy let the machine answer it. She heard his voice, over a car chase scene on TV: “
Um, in. This is Barry Horton, y'know, from a couple of weeks ago almost? From Spokane? I just got back into town yesterday…
”

Amy put aside her dinner and got up from the couch. She stared at the telephone, not quite sure she should pick up the receiver. He'd made her wait so long for this.

“
I'd like to see you this week. My number is 555-0820. Give me a call if you feel like getting together…
”

Amy's hand hovered over the receiver. She let him go on talking: “
If you don't call back, I understand. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. Oh, by the way, it's Tuesday night at—um, nine-twenty. Hope you're—
”

Amy grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

“Oh, hi…”

“Just a sec,” she said hurriedly. “I just got in the door. Let me turn off this machine. There. Hi, this is Amy.”

“Hi, Amy. This is Barry Horton.”

“Barry Horton?” she repeated.

“Yes, from a couple of weeks ago. Um,
West Side Story?
”

“Oh, sure. Hi, Barry. How are you?”

 

Naked, they lay together in front of the fireplace. The fire was dying, and they held each other tighter to fight off the chill. Neither she nor Barry wanted to move. It was as if they couldn't bear separating—if only for the minute it would take to get a blanket or throw another log on the fire.

It had been a perfect evening. With a single yellow rose, he'd appeared at her door, dressed elegantly in a Giorgio Armani grey suit. He was even more handsome than she'd remembered. At McCormick's Restaurant, they put away a bottle of vintage wine, a plate of mussels swimming in butter, and two melt-in-your-mouth baked salmon fillets. Outside the restaurant, they got caught in the rain, a glorious downpour. Barry took off his suit coat and placed it over her shoulders. While he ran for the car, Amy stood beneath the restaurant awning, wrapped in his coat. She could smell his cologne on it, a spicy, masculine fragrance.

They started kissing as soon as they got into the front seat of his car. She didn't say anything, and neither did Barry. But their breath steamed the windows, while rain hammered at the car roof. Their faces were wet and warm. Yet they both couldn't stop trembling.

Inside the lobby of her apartment building, they started kissing again. Along the row of mailboxes, he hungrily kissed her neck and ran his fingers through her damp hair. “Oh, God,” he whispered, between kisses. “God, I didn't plan on this.”

Through the layers of clothes, she felt his erection, pressing against her. “You're coming upstairs, aren't you?” she asked, clinging to him.

His hands were on her breasts now. He licked her ear. “I didn't bring anything, Amy. I didn't—”

“Shut up,” she whispered, kissing him again. She held him tightly and looked over his shoulder at the rain outside. “We're okay, Barry,” she heard herself say. “You've got nothing to worry about. I'm—fully insured.” She couldn't say how—IUD., the pill, the sponge—because, she had none of those things. Nor had she had any use for them in the last few months. She was lying to him.

She couldn't bear it if he walked out on her again. She wanted to make love with him, and the notion of his seed inside her suddenly made the act even more desirable. A baby. His baby. She wanted that.

Barry Horton smiled, kissed her once more, then they started up the stairs together.

At first, their lovemaking had been so urgent—almost selfish; but then he'd become tender and warm, endearingly conscious about pleasing her. Barry was a wonderful lover; and he would give her a beautiful child.

A few glowing embers were all that remained of the fire now. The soft shag rug beneath them had left little white fibers in Barry's chest hair and Amy picked them out. He kissed her and lazily stroked the curve of her hip. “Do you know how much I missed you last week?” Amy confessed. “I was so afraid I'd never see you again. After the way I acted on our last date—”

“Oh, no, no,” he murmured, brushing his fingertips against the side of her face.

She kissed his hand. “What I mean is, I thought about you a lot. I usually don't let this”—she gave him a squeeze—“well,
this
sort of thing happen so soon after I meet a guy. But you're the exception. I had a special feeling for you the first time I set eyes on you, Barry.”

For a moment, she thought she detected a darkness in Barry's eyes, a brief look of doubt and pain; Amy immediately regretted her candor. Too honest, too soon.

“I think I'm hung up on you already,” he whispered.

She laughed, then kissed his nose. “Well, the feeling's mutual, honey. So what's the problem?”

“You know my schedule. I'm in town one week and out the next. That's not very fair to you.”

“I'd be happy just to see you next time you're in town.”

“What about later?”

“We'll see,” she replied, kissing him on the chin. Amy figured he was probably thinking about his ex-fianceée. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'm not Gretchen.”

“Gretchen?”

“Yeah. Didn't you say she broke off the engagement because of all your traveling?”

“That's right. I couldn't be there for her as often as she wanted. That was her biggest gripe.”

Amy kissed him again. “Well, you don't have to worry about that with me.”

 

During the ten days Barry was gone, Amy was never so happy being miserable. At last, she'd found a man she truly loved, and he loved her back. He sent her a dozen red roses that Saturday, and called from his office in Spokane. They talked for an hour. He said that he'd have to work late every night that week. There was a pile of homework he'd neglected while in Seattle—with her. “And I wouldn't have it any other way,” he said. He phoned every night that week, usually around six. Amy always rushed home from work so she wouldn't miss his call. It was like having someone to come home to. She hadn't experienced that since her time with Eddie, when she'd been working at the Safeway. There was that same feeling of being missed, loved, and wanted by someone again. She could hardly wait for Monday, when Barry would come back. At last, she had something to look forward to.

 

The stove clock said it was 2:20. Barry was a light sleeper, and Amy didn't want to wake him—as she had during last night's bout with insomnia. Clad only in her robe, she poured a glass of wine and sat down at the kitchen table.

They'd had three wonderful nights together since his return. Tomorrow would be their last—for another ten days, and yet, she almost looked forward to his leaving. He was around all the time, and she didn't want to risk buying one of those kits for fear he'd find it. But once he went back to Spokane, she could get one, do the test, and finally know for sure.

It had been just two weeks ago since they'd first made love. Could it happen that quickly? She should have gotten her period Monday, today at the latest. She'd never been this late before.

Of course, she couldn't breathe a word to Barry, not when she'd convinced him that she was “fully insured.” What a stupid way to have put it. Yet that night, she'd wanted so much to make a child with him. She hadn't thought about his traveling schedule, or her own job. Somehow, she'd imagined getting pregnant some time further into their relationship. How could she tell him she might be carrying his child
now?

Amy sipped her wine and glanced at the beads of rain on the kitchen window. For all she knew, this was her last chance to indulge in alcohol for a while. She still wanted Barry's child and wanted it to be healthy.

She imagined herself fully blown under a maternity smock by Christmastime, decorating the tree with Barry as carols played on the stereo. But that pretty picture had them married, and him working full-time in Seattle. More likely, she'd still be single, and he'd still be spending every other week away. She couldn't really blame him if he wanted her to get an abortion—or if he dumped her completely.

But Barry wasn't like that. He'd stay on with her. She had no intention of making him feel trapped into a marriage. Having a wedding ring didn't seem all that important, so long as her child knew his father.

She'd thought she knew Barry really well, but now, she wasn't quite so sure, Amy wondered how he'd take the news.

She sipped her wine. There was no use telling him until she knew for certain.

 

“What do you think the chances are of you working full-time in Seattle?” she asked over dinner the next evening. They sat at a window table in an expensive restaurant overlooking Lake Union. They had a view of the city lights and boats parked at the dock.

“Maybe in a couple of years,” he said, cutting into his trout. “They're talking about opening an office here—just talk. Why the long look? Thinking about tomorrow?”

She nodded. “And the next ten days without you.”

“Sure you don't want to try any of this wine, honey?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I'll stick with Seven-Up tonight.”

Barry reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Don't be blue, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“Listen,” she said. “Week after next, why don't you come in on Friday night, and stay through the following weekend? That would give us eleven days together. Think of it…”

He let go of her hand, picked up his knife and fork, and started cutting into his dinner again. “I usually have to work in the Spokane office on Saturday mornings. You know that, honey. Sometimes Sundays too.”