by V. L. Locey
Chapter Eight
“Before we get into this,” Layne said a little while later over plates of spaghetti. “I’d like to ask my own question about you.”
“Sure, fire away!” I smiled over the table at him as I twirled pasta onto my fork.
“Tell me why a man of your age is so into old things. Your hats, your clothes, the car that you’ve just told me about all the while the spaghetti was boiling. You even know who Mel Tormé is. I wager ninety-nine percent of your fellow classmates have no clue who Mel is.”
Pausing the twirling, I nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m one of those oddballs you hear about. I guess my infatuation with times gone by is because of the great love I had for my grandfather.”
“Frank, right?” He passed me a shaker of parmesan cheese. I hurried to sprinkle my mound of spaghetti and the loaded forkful then took my bite. He waited as I chewed.
“Mm, this is delicious.” Who cared we were eating pasta at nine o’clock, and that heartburn was probably a given? “And yes, Grandpa Frank Kennedy. He and I were like two halves of the same soul. He’d also been a journalist, and it was he who instilled my undying love of investigative journalism. I so admired him and wanted to be just like him. He was a combat journalist during the Vietnam War. Signed up to go over in the spring of 1969 at the ripe old age of eighteen to work for Stars & Stripes. He’d tell me stories about living in a tiny place in Saigon, waking up, running to the base airport, leaping on a plane and heading out to the jungle with some platoon he’d found who would let him tag along. He’d observe the fight then rush back to phone it in.”
“Wow,” Layne murmured, his spaghetti setting untouched because he was so involved with my story.
I grinned with pride. “I know, right? He had a thousand stories, some funny, most tragic, but all riveting. I knew the first time I heard him talking about reporting on that war that I wanted to one day carry on his legacy. He died the day after I’d gotten my college acceptance letter. I’d run over to his place the day my letter had arrived, waving that piece of paper around, crowing about how I was going to be the next Kennedy who helped to keep people informed. We hugged and he took me for a ride to the ice cream parlor, proud as a peacock he was. Both of me and his Riveria. I felt like my world had collapsed on me when he was found dead the next day from a massive heart attack. He lived alone…”
“I am so sorry. I was quite close to my maternal grandmother, so I do understand how painful that kind of loss is.” He slid his hand over the table to rub my forearm. I managed a shaky smile. “I think Frank must be quite proud of you, and how well you wear his hats.”
“I sure hope so. He left some huge journalistic shoes to fill.” I poked a chunk of sausage aside. Layne speared it and popped it into his mouth. “So, enough about me and my weirdness. This is supposed to be about you.” I laid my phone on the table next to my glass of whole milk, turned it on, and lifted my sight from the Samsung to Layne. “Whenever you’re ready?”
His face fell. I felt bad. Honestly, I did, but the facts had to be revealed in a clear, concise non-biased way. That was a job that I longed for because seeing the weight of all this on him was ripping my heart into tiny bits.
“There’s not much to tell. I met Katie North when we were kids, barely old enough to drive, hell, we may have just had learner’s permits.” He sounded so dismally sad. “She was a lovely girl. Pleasant, pretty, quick to laugh, drawn to athletes. I’d not yet fully realized that I was bisexual or…” He paused to wrap a few strands of spaghetti on his fork then study the tight ball. “Perhaps I suspected that I was open to more than having sex with girls but wasn’t ready to accept that part of me. Small town morals and all that. I came into myself in college, as so many of us do.”
I nodded and ate, hoping not to interrupt his flow now that he was finally letting it all out.
“So, yes, we’d been intimate a time or two. I was billeting with a guy in her neighborhood. When it was time for me to go back to New Hampshire, I kissed her goodbye, told her to write to me, and got on a plane. She never wrote, never called, never touched base in any way. It wasn’t a heartbreaking sort of split. There had been no tears or pleading. Just two people who had grown to like each other saying goodbye. I’d not even thought about her for years.”
“Not until the bachelor auction when Dillon North hit you in the face with his accusations,” I slipped in. He nodded. “Did you know that Katherine North had given birth to a child? Had you ever been notified of her claim that the child was yours?”
“No and no. As I said, I’d not heard a thing from her in over twenty years. So when her son showed up in Chicago…well, it was a shock, to say the least.”
I took another mouthful and chewed, pondering on what I could ask him next. “If this paternity claim turns out to be true, what will you do to try to bridge the gap between you and your son?”
He lowered his fork, those deep blue eyes growing sad. “Is that a question from an unbiased reporter or from the man who’s best friends with my possible son?” I stared down at the oversized sweatshirt Layne had let me borrow. The snarling jackal on a deep purple fleece stared back at me. When I glanced back up, his gaze held mine.
“I’m not sure.” I turned off the tape recorder then sighed. “This is much harder than I thought it would be. I keep getting pulled in several directions, all of them rife with strong emotions. Ugh, this is unprofessional.”
“It’s only natural. You care for everyone involved. How could you not be torn?”
“Maybe I should let someone else on the paper take this story.” I pushed the plate away, my appetite gone. Layne shoved my dinner back to me. I gave him a sassy glare.
“Eat.” He lifted my phone from the table, turned the recorder back on, and then laid it beside my glass of milk. “As for your question about bridging a gap if Dillon North is proven to be my son, all I can say is that I honestly do not know. I’ve never thought of having kids. It wasn’t something I’d really wanted or needed to feel like a complete adult. But if I do turn out to be his father, I’d like to try to interact with the man on some level. Given how angry he is at me, I suspect he’d not be willing to accept my offers, but I’ll make them just the same, and then he can act on them or not.”
I stared at him, lost in the sincerity I saw in his eyes, and then turned off the recorder yet again.
“I hope you two can work it out.”
“I hope you two can work it out as well,” he replied.
The rest of the meal was rather silent but our return to bed was anything but quiet. The sex was hot, sweet, and went on forever. I was barely done shuddering when sleep rolled over me like a tank. Morning came way too fast. Layne hustled me around, shoving coffee, toast, and fruit at me. I was grumpy and tender all over. He kissed me goodbye then stalked out his front door to meet with the doggedly determined news van from the local station while I made my escape out the back door. I only ran into one dog, a small one, and easily outran the puggle. It was an old puggle with a bad leg and a white eye. Which was the only reason I emerged from that yard unscathed. I really needed to start working out.
No one had soiled my car, or sliced any tires, although the owner of the store had crammed a nasty note under the windshield wiper. I tossed the note into the dumpster, started the engine, cranked up the heat, and left Morrisville and my lover behind. Today I was heading to Paramus to find Katie North and beg her to grant me an interview. She would, I was sure. She loved me. Called me cute and funny and said I had an old soul. All those observations were true. I was cute, sort of, in a gawky beanpole sort of way, and funny went without saying if you mean funny like odd and not funny ha-ha. With a new cassette in the player, I drove northward, Simon & Garfunkel, Elvis, Roy Orbison, and others accompanying me.
Rolling along the Garden State Parkway, I pulled into Paramus close to two hours after I’d left Trenton behind. The small suburb had some upper-class homes as well as more than a few middle-class ones. Several churches, tons of schools, and
a slew of grocery stores. The one I was looking for was in the next strip mall, an older store that went by the clever name of Paramus Shop ‘N Mart. It sat next to a donut shop that sold the best crullers in Jersey.
I pulled into the parking lot, parked beside a big Ford pickup, and got out of my car. Stretching out the kinks, I swept the lot for any signs of Dillon’s old beater Toyota. The tiny red ’89 Corolla would stand out if it were here. The hood had been hammered back into shape two years ago when Dillon had hit a deer coming back to campus after spring break. Thankfully, it was nowhere to be seen. I purposefully did not dwell on how unhappy it made me to realize that I was trying to avoid my best friend.
I saw Mrs. North as soon as I walked through the automatic doors. She was working the courtesy desk. Walking toward the woman, I tugged my hat down, straightened my shoulders, and braced myself for a verbal lashing. When her gaze touched on me, her lower lip began trembling. Frozen now that tears were streaming from her eyes, I gawked stupidly, hands dangling at my sides like canned hams, unable to decide how to react. Mrs. North reacted for us both. She left the courtesy desk with some tall black guy in a green vest just like hers and bolted at me.
“Roman, I am so glad to see you.” She hugged me tightly, kissed my brow, and then pulled me out of the store into the donut shop. Somehow I ordered coffee and a blackberry crème. She got the same. Bumbling along in her wake, I sat down in a booth, removed my hat, and worked at creating dialog. She was on a roll though, and my stuttering attempts to open up a meaningful conversation were steamrolled. “I love how your hair is like a great big ball of cotton batting let loose of its bag.”
I smiled sheepishly at the soft pat she gave my hair. “Mrs. North…”
“Oh, I know. Dillon. My God, my son is such an asshole. I love him to death, but he is so impulsive,” she said while dumping extra cream into her coffee. “I’m so sorry I got you into this whole ugly mess.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I was happy to go along, although he’d not really opened up to me about his plans to publicly humiliate a famous athlete. If I would have known I would have stopped him somehow.”
“I doubt that. He’s incredibly willful when he wants to be.” That just might be the understatement of the decade. “How are your parents dealing with all the fallout?”
“They’ve not been pulled into this so far, and I’m doing my best to keep it that way. As far as they know my buddy just found out he has a famous father. Mom thought Dillon handled it inappropriately. She’s big on people being appropriate.” Which is also why she has no clue about her son doing the whoopsie-doodle with a man sixteen years his senior, but we’ll not share that with Mrs. North, okay, Roman?
She glanced around the shop then out the wide panes of glass that gave us a clear view of the parking lot. “The press has been relentless. I wish every damn reporter would just dry up!” Her blue eyes widened. “Not you of course, Roman!”
“It’s okay. I get it. I’ve been questioning some of the tactics my fellows in the field employ as well. Mrs. North, I’ve been given the okay to write a non-biased piece about this gripping personal drama for The Snapper, our campus paper. So far, I’ve spoken to Mr. Coleman and… what?”
She leaned over her donut. “Dillon told me that you and Layne were dating. Is that true?”
My whole world did a skip and a dip. “I uhm…he…yes. Yes, that is true.”
Her sigh was loud. “Well shit,” she mumbled as she watched me cast around for something intelligent to say. “That makes things incredibly more tangled up, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, yes it does. Why did he tell you about us?” I asked my words a rush of red hot worry.
“He’s mad, hurt, angry at the world, but mostly at you. I think he feels that he was going to be able to turn to you to vent and rail at Layne, but then he found out you were seeing his father and…” She shrugged then sat back in her booth, her donut looking a little flatter than it had been before.
“There’s no proof that Layne is his father. Not legally anyway,” I was quick to add because if a jury went by looking at Layne and Dillon side-by-side the daddy verdict would be unanimous. Her lips were a slash now. Great, now she was mad at me too. “Mrs. North, this whole thing is a mess. I’d like to get the facts down, lay them out, and let the truth speak instead of your son, who I love a lot but is acting like a toddler.”
The pressed look fell from her face. “I know he is. I’ve told him a hundred times that Layne is a good guy. I suppose you second that opinion?”
“I surely do. Can I ask you a few questions to help set the record straight from a new point of view? I promise not to be too personal if I can help it.” She closed her eyes then gave me a gentle nod. “Thank you.”
“I’ll talk to you about things as long as you promise you’ll go talk to Dillon when we’re done here.” I gaped and began shaking my head. Her backbone showed up then and she gave me that dark, powerful mother glare. My protests floated away. “I know you and he had words, and that he said some awful things to you.” I bit down on the inside of my mouth. “He’s cried over the strain that your friendship is under.”
“He has?”
“Yes.” She bobbed her head, her soft gold curls bouncing. “Please, go talk to him. You’re such a cool, rational influence on him. I love my son, but he does pop off before he has time to think properly.” I thought about it for a long time. I poked at my donut, gazed out the window, and then snuck a peek at Mrs. North. She was sipping her coffee, her sight on me. I nodded once. She lowered her mug and thanked me with a smile. “I appreciate it. So, we have ten minutes before my lunch break is over. Ask me your questions.”
I pulled out my phone and laid it between the glass plates holding our jelly donuts.
“Tell me about Layne Coleman and the relationship that you had with him,” I began with, and she softened a bit as she talked. She described Layne as a gentle boy, kind and handsome, good-natured, never pushy or grabby.
“We never really fell madly in love, you know?” She ripped off a small chunk of her donut and ate it. I inclined my head but kept quiet. “There was never that hot, insane need to be with each other all the time. He was adorable, and a nice kisser. The sex was okay.”
Okay?! Just okay?? What the hell, woman?! You were obviously doing it wrong.
I cleared my mind and refocused on her. “Of course, we were young and inexperienced. I’m sure he’s much better now.” Had she said that for me? Damn. I needed to school my features better. “Anyway, a month after he left, my period was late. I took a few tests at home, all positive, and then I told my mother. We went to the doctor, got the official confirmation, and eight months later Dillon was born.”
“Did you contact Mr. Coleman at any time about the pregnancy?” I dunked my donut into my coffee. Neither were the freshest so the combo helped them both.
“I did yes. I called him at the number he’d left me and spoke to his mother. She wasn’t overly warm or upset when I called. If Dillon had knocked up a girl at that age I would have lost my mind. Yelling, crying, breaking things. But Mrs. Coleman was cool as a cucumber. Thanked me for phoning and told me she would inform her son. Then she hung up. When I called back a few weeks later, the number had been changed.” Her jaw firmed up then. Pride coming to the fore I saw. “There was no way I was chasing him down. If he had no interest in supporting his child, fuck him. Dillon and I made our way just fine. Sure, we had hard times, but we managed.”
“What spurred you to tell Dillon about Mr. Coleman possibly being his father?” Fingers coated with confectioners’ sugar and coffee, I grabbed some napkins from the table and wiped at the sticky goo.
“He’d volunteered to help clean out our closets for a Goodwill run. He found some old pictures that I’d thought were stashed away in my mom’s attic but were hidden away in a box in my bedroom closet. Pictures of me and Layne.” I wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, Mrs. North had known all along that the pictures were in her close
t and not in a dusty attic. Sometimes people claim to be ignorant of the workings of fate but in reality, are giving destiny a hand. “He asked who the man was as it was pretty obvious we were closer than mere friends in the pictures. Some shots at a lake when we’d been dating, kissing, and silliness, young teenager stuff. I’d never told him about his father. I’d always just said vague things, never giving the boy anything to really run with. When he pressed me, I asked him why it mattered, who cared? We’d done just fine for twenty-two years. Dillon, of course, wanted to know his father, and who he was. He kept badgering me, and I told him.”
I crossed my arms, nestled back into the booth, and gave things a long think. “And so Dillon did the rest. Tracking Layne down in Chicago?”
“Yeah, he did.” She frowned at the last bite of her donut. “I begged him to let sleeping dogs lie but he refused. He gets a headful of steam at times, you know that, but usually, once he toots a few times, he feels better. And that was not a flatulence joke.”
We shared a wobbly smile. “And then when he began packing for the trip to Chicago that’s when you called me and asked me to go along?”
“Of course. You’ve kept him on a steady keel since you and he became roommates. I knew if anyone could keep a lid on things, it was you.”
My donut was sitting heavily in my stomach. “I didn’t do a good job though. I got caught up in loving Layne and didn’t spend enough time trying to talk Dillon down. So much of this rides on me.”’
“Oh bullshit, none of this is on you. It’s all on us, me, Layne, but mostly Dillon,” she countered with some vinegar in her tone. Someone rapped on the glass to our left, scaring me right out of my Fedora. The older man glared at Mrs. North and tapped his wrist. “Ugh, that’s the store manager. He’s a real jerk. Listen, go talk to Dillon while you’re here. I know he misses you. And for what it’s worth, I’m really not after Layne for anything. Truly. Maybe it would be nice for him to get to know his son, maybe spend some time with him or something? I don’t know but do let Layne know that money was never a motivator. I just…I guess after being asked who his daddy was ten thousand times I felt like the ten-thousandth and one request was the one that broke me?” She rolled a shoulder, patted my cheek, and left me sitting there with a cup of cold coffee, half a soggy donut, and a head packed full of warring thoughts.