Only Son (27 page)

“
Well, okay
,” his father said. “
Thanks, Dr. Durkee. Sorry to bother you at home…Yes, okay. I'll call Dr. Kinsella tomorrow. Thanks again. 'Bye
.”

Sam quickly dried off, then got dressed—the same clothes he'd been wearing before. He picked up his socks and stepped out of the bathroom. His dad was in the kitchen, putting the casserole in the oven.

“Were you talking to Dr. Durkee just now?”

His father shut the oven door. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“No,” he lied. “I just heard you thank him for something.” He sat down at the breakfast table, sniffed his socks, then pulled them on. “Does he know what's wrong with me yet?”

His father sighed and sat down at the table with him. He rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Durkee isn't positive. But it looks like you might have a mild form of epilepsy, sport. Now, it's not as scary as it sounds.”

Sam frowned. “Is epilepsy that disease that makes you spaz out all of the sudden, and somebody's got to grab your tongue so you don't swallow it?”

“That hasn't happened to you yet, has it?”

“No, but the fainting…”

His dad smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “If Dr. Durkee's right, there's some medication you can take that will help prevent you from fainting.”

“Shots?” he asked, wincing.

“No, pills. Don't worry, kiddo. My father was epileptic, and I didn't even know it until I did some checking around just now. He was on the same medication we might get for you, and it didn't slow him down any. We'll know for sure after this Dr. Kinsella takes a look at you on Friday.”

Sam shifted restlessly in the kitchen chair. “He's going to do a lot of weird tests on me, isn't he?”

“I suppose he'll do some poking around. It shouldn't be too bad, Sam.”

“Will you be there?” he asked.

“Of course. You think I'm going to send you off to some strange new doctor by yourself?”

“No, I mean, are you going to be there in the examining room while he's doing all this stuff to me?”

His father shrugged. “Not if you don't want me in there.”

“But I do,” Sam insisted.

A smile came to his father's face, and he kissed Sam on the forehead. “Then I'll be there with you, Sammy.”

 

Sam stood at the far end of the hallway. The tune, “Sweet Baby James” still played inside his head—even after his father had gone inside the apartment and closed the door. He couldn't hear the whistling anymore. But from other apartments, there was a TV turned up too loud, someone coughing, and a baby crying. He wondered if the apartment itself was like the one they'd shared in Seattle. Most of their furniture had gone into storage. His father had probably picked up everything and carted it to Eugene when they'd released him from jail. Yeah, it'll look like home, Sam thought
.

He walked toward the end of the corridor, past the loud TV, and the old woman coughing. The muffled noises faded as he approached his dad's place—all except for the crying baby
.

It's not coming from his apartment, it's not, Sam told himself
.

But it was
.

“Hi, how are you tonight?” Amy asked.

“Good, thanks,” the customer replied. “How about you?”

“Oh, I'm pooped. One of my salesgirls took sick and I'm filling in. Been on my feet since eight this morning.” She always got a bit gabby with customers on slow nights. Besides, this customer was handsome; a tad too old for her, mid-forties, but his smile was youthful, and he had a full head of neatly groomed light brown hair and beguiling green eyes. He looked a little like Paul, but more handsome and fit—and, obviously, with better taste in clothes. He wore a navy blue blazer, grey pleated trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue.

“So what can I help you with?” she asked.

“I need a new shower curtain.”

“Something plain or jazzy?” she asked, leading him to the display rack. “We've got flamingos, and this one with the fish and the sea horses.”

He seemed to favor a model with a map of the world on it. “Well, this would help my son with his geography,” he said.

“Oh, is this for his bathroom?”

“His and mine. One-bathroom household. I'm a widower.” He studied the shower curtain. “I think you have a sale here.”

Amy found the boxed shower curtain in a drawer below the display rack. “Anything else I can help you find?”

“Just my son,” he said. “We split up a half hour ago, and he was supposed to meet me here. You haven't seen a twelve-year-old boy in a red jacket wandering around here, have you?”

“No. But I can have him paged if you want.”

He followed her to the register counter. “Thanks anyway. That would only embarrass him. I'll wait.” He paid in cash. As he laid the money on the counter, Amy caught him staring at her. A puzzled, half smile came to his face. “This sounds like a line. But I think we've met before. You look very familiar.”

Amy grinned. “No. I think I'd remember you.”

“Well, I know I've seen you someplace before,” he insisted.

“I've worked here three years,” she said. “You probably saw me here.” Amy counted out the change for him. Then, over his shoulder, she saw a sweet, gangly-looking boy step off the escalator with a shopping bag. He had wavy, golden-colored hair and wore a red jacket. “I think we found our missing person,” she said, pulling out a shopping bag. “Is this him?”

He turned, then waved at his son. “That's him. Thanks.”

Amy couldn't help notice the boy's beautiful eyes as he hurried toward them. He had the eyes of an adult, and she recalled seeing photographs of her mother as a child—with those same serious, grown-up eyes.

“Sorry I'm late, Dad,” the boy said.

“You look a little pale, sport. You all right?”

“I'm fine.”

The man took the shopping bag from Amy. “Thanks a lot.”

“Thank you. Have a nice day.” She began to straighten out the counter.

“You still look pale to me,” the man was saying. “Did you take your pill today?”

“Yeah. Don't worry. I took it. I'm fine.”

Amy looked up. It was as if she'd just heard Paul talking to her. She stared at the golden-haired boy with her mother's eyes. He had a tiny scar on his chin.

He and his father turned to walk away.

“Eddie?” she whispered.

They kept walking.

She called to him:
“Eddie?”

But only the father stopped to look over his shoulder. He stared back at her. The shopping bag fell out of his hand, and he quickly stooped down to retrieve it. His eyes were locked on her face. But it was only for a moment. He turned and hurried to catch up with the boy, taking his arm. They disappeared around the corner.

 

On the escalator, Sam pried his arm out of Carl's grasp. “Geez, Dad. You want people to think I'm retarded?”

“Sorry,” Carl muttered. “Keep moving. There's no one in front of us. Come on.”

“What's the rush?” Sam asked.

Carl just nudged him to move faster. Then he glanced back to see if she was following them. “
You look familiar
,” he'd said. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, she looked familiar. How could he fail to recognize Amy McMurray?

“They got the leather flying jacket I want on the first floor,” Sam was saying as they stepped onto the next escalator down. “But it's two hundred bucks…”

Carl was still looking over his shoulder, still wishing Sam would hurry. His heart pounded. How in God's name had she recognized Sam? Was there something in his face—or his voice? Carl told himself to relax. She would have caught up with them by now—unless she was calling store security.

“…really need a new jacket, Dad. And if we get it a size too big, I can grow into it and keep it a few years.”

“C'mon, Sammy. Pick up your feet.”

“Okay, okay. Anyway, you can just
look
at it with me.”

“Look at what?” Carl asked, glancing around for the nearest exit as they reached the ground floor.

“The jacket. Geez! What do you think I've been talking about? It's right over there—”

“Not now.” He pulled Sam toward the exit.

“Geez, what's the rush?”

“I just don't want to miss our bus,” Carl managed to say. “We'll look for a jacket at Nordstrom this weekend, I promise. For now, I just want to get out of here.”

 

“Maybe I'd have made a fool out of myself if I chased after them. But I wish I had. It was eerie.” Amy drummed her fingers on the dinner table. “He had Paul's features and my mom's eyes. Of course, the guy he was with looked a bit like Paul. But that scar on the boy's chin, it's too much of a coincidence.” She sipped her wine. “Do you think I should have run after them?”

“I'm not sure, Amy.”

“The boy was twelve. That's how old Eddie would be now.” She picked up her fork, then put it down again and shoved her plate away. “Damn, if only that guy had used a credit card, I could trace him through that.”

“Aren't you having any more dinner?”

“I'm sorry. You're a sweetheart to have it ready for me when I came in, Barry. I'm just not hungry.”

He nodded. “It's all right, honey.”

She took another swallow of her wine. “Not much of a last night together, is it?” she said, smiling sadly. “I'm sorry.”

“Quit apologizing,” Barry said. “I understand.”

“You don't think it was Eddie I saw today, do you?”

Barry took his wineglass and sat back in his chair. “I think the chances are slim. You said so yourself, the father and son looked like each other, seemed right together. Somehow, I can't picture this guy as a kidnapper, not from the way you described him. He sounds too friendly and—well,
ordinary
—to be a suspicious character.” He sipped his wine and shrugged. “But hell, that's just my opinion. If it'll make you feel better, you should phone the police and explain it to them.”

“They'd think I was crazy,” Amy sighed. “And maybe I am.”

Barry got up from the table, took his plate, and then hers. “C'mon, I'll wash. You dry.”

Amy gathered up the silverware and bowls, then followed him into the kitchen. At the sink, he tucked a dish towel around the waist of his jeans. He looked cute and Amy could almost fool herself into thinking they were married. But she wouldn't. “Do you cook and wash dishes for Gretchen, too?” she asked.

“I help with the dishes sometimes,” he replied.

“Did you call her today?” She cleared the stove of pots and pans. “It's getting late. You better.”

“I'll see her tomorrow, Amy. Besides, I called last night.”

“You ought to call her every day. I mean, maybe she thinks you don't care. Maybe that's why she has the weight problem. She's frustrated and insecure, so she eats.”

“What? Are you quoting Jenny Craig to me or something?”

Amy walked up behind him and massaged his shoulders. “I know what it's like to be married to a guy who doesn't seem to give a shit about you anymore,” she said. “I couldn't like you very much if you treated your wife like that, Barry.” She patted his butt, then bumped against him at the sink. “I'll finish here,” she said, taking the sponge out of his hand. “Go call Gretchen.”

Barry sighed. “All right, if it'll make you happy.” He dried his hands and lumbered out to the living room.

“I want you to make
her
happy!” Amy called. She scrubbed a pan and tried not to listen to Barry on the living room phone.

She wasn't suited to play the mistress role. But she'd fallen in love with a married man. Of course, that had happened before she knew he was married. Strange, even then, she'd been drawn to a man who spent most of his time in another city. Had she felt she didn't deserve someone entirely hers? Is that why she'd chosen Barry—of all the men who came into the store?

Then he'd told her that he was married. That would have ended it. But he'd sent her flowers and notes, and kept calling to apologize, begging to see her again. She never picked up the phone. She let the machine take his calls, and she played the tape over and over again, crying as she listened to his pleas, still wanting him—maybe even more in love with him than before. He was in town the following week, and she agreed to see him—as “friends.” They were together every night, and they didn't so much as kiss each other. She learned all about Gretchen and Amy liked her, admired her. Most of all, she envied her.

That Thursday night four months ago, before Barry left her apartment to pack for Spokane, they'd made the all-too-convenient and unavoidable mistake of kissing good-bye. The following morning in bed, they resolved that it wouldn't happen again when he came back to town.

But by the Wednesday morning during Barry's next trip to Seattle, they'd stopped making resolutions in bed, and Amy had resigned herself to becoming “the other woman.”

Barry was the one good thing in her life right now. And it was perverse that “the one good thing” she had made her feel ashamed, guilty—and bad.

 

“You got the toothpaste in there again?” Amy called past the shower curtain. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

The curtain opened on one end, and Barry poked his hand out, holding a tube of Crest. Amy took it and squeezed some onto her toothbrush. “Just heard on the radio,” she called. “Snow on the mountain passes. Be careful driving back to Spokane, okay, babe?”

“I'll be fine,” he replied from the other side of the curtain. “Get any sleep last night?”

Her mouth full of toothpaste, Amy mumbled, “A little.”

The shower went off with a surrendering squeak. Barry stepped out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and started drying himself. He kissed Amy on the back of the neck. “All the tossing and turning last night,” he said. “Still wondering about that boy you saw in the store?”

Amy rinsed out her mouth and wiped the steam off the mirror. “I've decided,” she said. “I'm reporting it to the police. Who gives a damn if they think I'm crazy?” She opened the medicine chest, put away her toothbrush, and took out a jar of Noxema. “Another thing, I'm going to hire a private investigator. If that was Ed last night, I don't want to let him slip away.”

Barry stepped into his undershorts. “I happen to know someone here in town who's good.”

“A private eye? How do you know a private eye?”

“Remember I told you about my oldest niece?”

“The one who ran away and became a Moonie or something like that for a while?”

“Yeah. That was here in Seattle—three years ago when my brother's family lived in Kirkland. They hired a guy named Sharkey, Milo Sharkey. He's the one who found her. Got her back in ten days. Didn't cost an arm and a leg either.”

Amy looked at Barry in the mirror. “Think he'll help me?”

“I'll try to set up an appointment for today—that is, if he's still in Seattle.”

Milo Sharkey was still in Seattle. Barry phoned Amy at the store to tell her they'd see him at noon. She tried to keep busy all morning, because thinking about it only got her hopes up. But think about it she did. At the first lull, she left Veronica in charge and hurried down to Young Men's Apparel.

“Sorry, Amy,” Brian said, running a hand over his moussed black hair. He'd been working in Young Men's Sportswear last night. “I don't recall any blond kid in a red jacket. But we were pretty swamped last night. I can't say for sure.”

“Well, he might have been carrying the jacket. Could have been next door in Men's, too.” Amy knew the boy had bought something in the store; he'd been carrying a Bon Marche bag. “Like I say, this was around six o'clock.”

Shrugging, Brian shook his head. “Sorry, Amy.”

“Thanks anyway,” she said. “Could you do me a favor and ask around? Somebody else might remember him.”

Amy asked around, too.

“Ted, he's the salesman in TVs,” Amy explained to Barry as they drove to the Smith Tower, where Milo Sharkey had his office. “Ted saw him looking at the big screen TVs last night. If we can only find someone who sold him something, we might get his father's name off a credit card receipt.”

“Honey, the credit card idea is a stretch. And it's still a long shot that this kid and your Eddie are one and the same. I don't want you setting yourself up for a big disappointment.”

But Amy couldn't help feeling excited. Eddie might be within her reach once again.

The ninth floor of the Smith Tower seemed stuck in a time warp from the early thirties, when the Tower had been built. Barry and Amy walked down the tall, narrow hallway, her high heels clicking loudly against the tiled floor. The doors had windows of fogged glass with names and agencies painted on them. “MILO SHARKEY—INVESTIGATIONS—903.”