She finds him in the living room. Stretched out on the couch in his work shorts and T-shirt, unlaced sneakers on the floor, watching a John Wayne rerun on TV. As she enters she says, "Hello, sweetheart. Sorry I'm late."
"Where you been? Out with some guy? Mister Gallagher, I hope," he teases and chuckles at his stab at humor.
Grace is stunned to an unexpected stop. Her right hand grasps for the back of a dining chair in this large room, a combination living and dining room in the condo. She stands wide-eyed, feeling her bogus energy sucked from her body like a commode flushing. She senses herself going pale as chalk. She gags on her saliva as it swills down the wrong pipe. This turns into a struggling cough as she gasps for air. Before she can clear her throat and answer, Colt looks up, laughs again and says, "Gotcha. You look like . . . you were . . . you were, weren't you?"
Still beleaguered, Grace stammers, "I were . . . I mean, I was what?"
"Out with The Man!" He grins, eyes sparkling with teenage delight.
She calms herself. Takes in a deep breath while stepping more into the living room and says, "No, but I was meeting with him. Colt, you and I need to talk."
"Oh yeah, meeting. Is that what you old folks call it?"
"Colt, don't say another word. Please. Now sit up. You and I need to talk." She takes a deep breath and lets it escape slowly like a creeping freight train. "An extraordinarily serious conversation."
Colt unwinds from the thick cushioned couch like an uncoiled slinky returning to its starting position. He sits upright and his expression turns from jovial to one of concern.
Grace says, "Thank you. And please turn off the TV. I don't want any distractions. This is a serious matter."
Colt does as he's told. Gazes at his mom, says, "Did I do something wrong? You look like the world just came to an end. Are you okay? Did you wreck the car or something?"
"COLT." She gathers herself again. "No, I didn't wreck the car. Now, just be still." She clears her throat.
"Oh oh. The throat clearing. Big clue."
"Colt, stop it. I have something important to tell you, and I want you to promise to just listen. Until I'm finished. Will you?"
"Yeah, Mom. Are you sure everything is okay? I mean you're pale. You've gagged. And now you're clearing your throat. That's always serious."
"Colt, yes it is. I mean, no, everything is not okay. Please just listen. I have something of great consequence to tell you, and it isn't going to be easy for me. Or for you. Please promise to listen until I'm finished."
"Okay, Mom. Go ahead. Geez, now you've got me worried."
"Colt, this is difficult for me. I was meeting with Sean Gallagher and--"
Colt leaps up from the couch, pumps his fist and yells, "Yeah! I knew it! You even called him by his first name. Mom, you and him are . . . wow! Where did you guys go? Isn't he great?"
"COLT!" She feels herself flush. Takes in a breath. Calms herself again. He plops back down on the couch, bracing at attention. Eyes wide, mouth gaping open.
She continues, "Be still. Right now. Be quiet and just LISTEN." Again she pauses. Collecting herself. Flushes red, then quickly feels herself draining to pale apprehension, more like fright.
The boy's dark summer tan face turns winter pale. He's never seen his mother this upset. This angry with him. At least not since he took the Sneak Box out for a sail years ago without her permission.
Grace has been standing during this opening encounter. She at last sits in the chair that is considered hers. She sits here when reading or watching TV, but now unlike her normal relaxed position she sits on the edge of the cushion. As it is, she half faces the couch and Colt, who is sitting bolt upright on the edge of the middle cushion looking as if a guillotine is ready to drop. She looks directly into his eyes. She clears her throat again. "Now that I have your undivided attention I'll continue, and I don't expect to be interrupted again until I ask you for your thoughts. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Colt, I did something dreadfully foolish and exceedingly selfish many years ago." Again she takes a deep, soul searching breath. "I wasn't married when you were born." Colt starts to say something; Grace raises her hand and glares at him. He sits still, his paleness turning pasty white. Grace continues, "Now then, none of this is your fault, and you are the best thing that ever happened to me in my life." She pauses, though difficult because of her anxiety she forces a warm smile, "You are my life, and I love you dearly. However . . ." and, Grace tells him of her meeting a young man, a boy really, in California, years ago. Then unravels her story, not mentioning Sean by name just yet, but telling Colt all the details and her manufactured story about his supposed father. Then on to why she did it, and how they've come to live here. When done, at least with this portion, she says, "Colt, I'm sorry. I've lived a lie and consequently made you live it, believe it." She stares at him. Then, "You need to know now because things have changed. Events have caught up to me . . . us." She shakes her head, tears well up in her eyes as she gazes at him.
The boy sits stunned. Expressions changing from not understanding, to awareness, to a frown, and finally bewilderment. He stammers, "You, you mean my . . . my dad, wasn't . . . wasn't my dad." His tone becomes more angry and louder. "There is no . . . no . . . my . . . I don't have a father! He wasn't a pilot or any of that . . . that . . . crap you told me? I'm a . . . a . . . a bastard," now red-faced and screaming, "A bastard!"
Trying her keep her composure, Grace replies, voice quivering and slightly above a whisper, "Yes, I lied. No, no, you're not. You mustn't think that." She sniffles. Says, "You do have a father. A wonderful man. And--"
"Oh, great. I have another dad. Where did you come up with this one? Another lie trying to make things right? Another . . . bull story?"
"No. No, that's not it. That's not the case at all. And don't you dare use that language when speaking to me. At any time." She looks down at her tightly clasped hands in her lap. "Your real father is a fine, fine man."
"If he's so fine . . . so darn wonderful, where the devil has he been all these years? Why hasn't he taken care of us? What'd he do, take one look and take off?"
"No. Now, please listen to me again. Let me finish what I have to say without you asking any questions, just yet." Grace tells him his father didn't know of her pregnancy, much less his birth, left for the war in Korea, and just never got in contact with her again. Nor she with him. Then finishes by tying it all together. She takes in yet another deep breath, says, "Colt, your real dad, your biological dad is, Sean Gallagher."
Colt slumps back in the couch. Eyes wide, mouth gaping open. Then chokes out an audible gasp and mutters, pauses between each word, "Mister Gallagher. You've got to be kidding?" He pauses, develops a frown, then adds, "No, wait. We--"
His mother raises her hand again, quieting him. He grumbles readying to continue or argue, protest, but doesn't. Grace motions with her hand again, more vigorously, quieting him. "That's where I've been. Telling him he has a son. I never knew this was his home town and never expected to see him again. And now, all of a sudden, he's here. He's come back to his home. My life. Our life just crashed on top of us. So I had to . . . I, we, couldn't run away again, so I went to get it all straightened out. For your sake. The old man, Mister Vaccaro knows. Anna knows too." Colt grumbles again, but it trails off as his mother continues, "I had to . . . I couldn't live this lie any longer. And in my heart, I'm glad Sean's here. I've always missed him. Loved him. Your real father. Why do you think I've never been with another man?
"Who'd want you? You're nothing but a slut."
"Don't you dare say that! Or even think it. That's not true, I always loved him."
"So, great. You went over to the boat. . . and what? Slept with him again? Like a street walkin' whore." She gasps in shock, in horror of his ranting comments. This time, before she can reply, he continues to fume. "Why isn't he here now? Still can't own up to it? Just another easy piece--""
Startled and her Irish temper rising,
Grace snaps, "Don't you dare say that. Don't you dare!" She collects herself. "That's not it at all. He wanted to be here. I didn't let him come. It's my job to tell you first. Not his. Mine, your mother."
Colt leaps to his feet. The sudden movement startles his mother. Shouts, "Mother. Slut." He kicks his sneakers across the room, shouting, "It's all chicken . . . it's all bull crap," and races out of the room and up the stairs two at a time. Slams his bedroom door rattling the windows in the kitchen and living room harder than a first after-shock.
Grace remains sitting in her chair, hands clutching the arms, as if nailed there. Her Calvary. Tears flood to her eyes and overflow their banks, streaming down her cheeks. She slumps back in the chair as if taken down from the cross and begins to sob uncontrollably.
She sits for a time until the tears run dry, feeling drained of life. In the next moment, her Irish temper begins to take hold. She fights it off. Waits until she is calm, then wearily drags herself out of the chair and up the steps to the second floor. It has four bedrooms and three baths. She and Colt each have a bedroom and bath. The other two bedrooms share a bath. One room is a guest bedroom, the other Grace's office. She knocks on Colt's bedroom door. With her ear to the door, she asks, "Colt, may I come in?" Waits a few seconds, then tries the door; however it's locked.
She hears his low, angry tone as he growls. "No. Go away. Leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you."
"Please let me in, or come out so we can talk."
"No."
"Well, you need to come out and if you won't talk to me, please talk to Sean. Your father. I'll call him."
"Why? He didn't want me then and doesn't want me now. He couldn't drag himself a few blocks to be here. To hell with him. The hell with you, too. Go away. Go to bed. Leave me alone."
Grace snaps, "Colt, don't you use that . . ." She stops. Calms herself wrestling with her Irish temper and her desperation. Grace knocks again. A light tap. "Colt, don't do this to me." She waits; taps lightly again. "Colt, open up, now, please, darling." Nothing. No response. No sounds of movement from within. Grace stands at the door, leans her forehead against it which feels cold and hard like the barrier it is. She stays in this position for what seems hours, but is only long minutes.
She finally drags herself downstairs, heartsick. The tears form again from what should be arid eyes. She goes to the phone in the kitchen and dials Sean's number. Since Sean now has an extension rigged to his boat, it rings once and she hears the anxiety in his tone when he answers. Grace starts weeping again and tells Sean what has occurred. Listens, then says, "No, don't come over. He's locked himself in his room. I'm going to bed. If he gets up, I'll hear him and talk with him again. Reason with him. He's so upset. Probably scared." She listens, nods. Then says, "No, really, besides your pick-up is here, remember? I'll just go to bed. I'll set the alarm and be up before he goes out. Talk to him then. He'll be calmer. Then I'll call you." She listens and while doing so, her tears stop flowing. Finally says, "No. We'll handle this in the morning. I'll see you then. Good night, Sean. And, Sean, I love you. I guess I always have." She hangs up before he can reply.
Grace picks up Colt's sneakers, and carries them upstairs. Stops at his door, pleads, "Colt. May I come in? Please, darling." Hears nothing. She takes in a breath, sighs, then says, "Okay, good night, sweetheart. I brought your sneakers up. I'll just leave them here by the door. I'll be in my room if you want to talk. Good night, Colt. I love you," and she steps away, whispering her love in Gaelic, "Is tu mo ghra." Goes to her room, closes the door. Then pausing, she quietly opens it and leaves it ajar. Walks to the bed, kicks off her sandals and lies down on her bed, exhausted, much too tired to undress. After a few moments she rolls over, props herself up on her elbow and sets the alarm. Then flops down on her back and sighs, "Oh, Good Lord, help me."
Sleep doesn't come easy, but fatigue and worry become an unwanted narcotic, taking her to their world of darkness and despondency.
* * *
Sean stares at the silent telephone. Then without a word he slips the instrument onto its cradle. He ambles outside onto the outer deck, leans over, hands on the railing. At first staring down at the stern and the dock for several moments, then seaward, eyeing the brewing storm which is taking its own good time to visit. He looks at his watch again. It's still the same. Late. After midnight late. I'll just do what she asks. She knows best. He takes another look at his watch, then at the sky, and goes inside securing the door behind him and mutters, "Besides, I don't have any wheels."
He goes to the coffee table fronting his couch and picks up the Apricot Brandy he'd been sipping. Finishes it, places the empty snifter on the cabinet. Pauses. The woman still loves me. Hot..oops, got to clean up my tongue. Will talk to the boy... my son, in the morning. We'll get it right.
Walks to his bed, and drops wearily on it, fully clothed. He tries sleep, but his subconscious mind takes him back to his bunker mentality. Sleeping, but not asleep. Listening for patrol reports and the listening posts checking in. Nothing more than whispers over the sound-squelched radios. Only now it was Grace's desperate voice, and now he can do nothing to help until morning.
* * *
Grace's alarm goes off at five-thirty sounding like a banshee. She bolts upright and struggles to wake up, not feeling rested at all. She shudders at a clap of thunder. Then, within a few seconds sees the sudden glare of lightening flash across her room. Head tilted, listens and hears the rain beating on the roof and stinging her bedroom window. She half walks, half staggers to her bathroom. Looks in the mirror, mutters, "Oh, God. I look terrible." Another clap of thunder shakes the house and another flash of lightening follows that lights the sky. She shivers, then glances in the mirror again, "What should I expect? My son thinks I'm a slut. Perhaps I am. Was. So why shouldn't I look the part." She shakes her head. I'm not. I wasn't. I'm a good mom. She straightens herself up some and puts on a little make up, takes one last look. Shudders, and groans, "Ugh."
She opens her door, cocks her head and listens. Hears only a roar of thunder as it rumbles across the sky as if the storm is hollering over its shoulder leaving Harvey Cedars behind. No flash of lightening. Still she listens. No noise in the house must mean he's still in bed is her thought. Takes the few steps to his bedroom door and starts to knock and stops abruptly, clinched hand an inch from the door. The sneakers are gone, the door is ajar. Her heart begins to pound. She slowly pushes the door open. Nothing. His bed is rumpled but not turned down. She looks around; sees nothing of note. Turns and dashes downstairs frantically shouting, "Colt. Colt." No response. Looks about the kitchen. Nothing. Scans the countertops and table. No note. She dashes barefoot to the garage and finds her car still there. The tail-end of the storm is more pronounced here. She can clearly hear the wind, blowing hard and gusting more harshly even as it is departing. She stands motionless. God is punishing me. Please, Lord, don't punish my son.
She looks inside the car hoping to see her son curled up on the rear seat, but knowing in her frenzied heart what she will find. And she does. No, Colt.
She scurries back into the house. Starts for the phone. Stops. Rushes to the front door and opens it. The wind snaps the door knob from her hand. It swings hard into the door stop on the molding, smashing it with a resounding crack. She grasps the knob again. The rain greets her with stinging drops pounding her into a stooped-over posture. She leans forward, hand shielding her eyes in visor-like fashion, looking to the street. Sean's pick-up is still parked out front. She gasps, "Oh, God. Where is he? Colt. Colt!" She turns, and battling the wind pushes the front door closed with her shoulder and runs to the phone. She hurriedly dials Sean's number with gawky fingers fighting to fit into the correct hole. Listens as it rings. Mutters, "Pick it up. Sean, pick up." Then louder, "Oh God, hurry. Please.” Then the sound of his voice. "Oh, Sean. Sean. I think he's run off."
"Run-off? Where?" Stupid question. "Never mind."
"I don't know. Your pick-up is still here."
"K
eep thinking about where he might be. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
CHAPTER 36
Sean stands staring out over the marina. He thinks out the situation for a few moments. Mutters, "First things first," and he dials Anna's cottage. When she answers, Sean asks for Pete without thinking whether he would be there or on his boat. Moments pass, then Pete answers, sounding worried since Anna probably alerted him to the sternness in Sean's voice when he spoke to her. Sean explains what has happened in a brief "SitRep" military format. Ends with, "Get over here quick. I need a ride to Grace's. Have to get her and my pick-up. I gave it to the boy yesterday to go home."
* * *
Standing in the kitchen of Anna's cottage, half dressed, Pete responds, "On my way," and slams the handset down in its cradle. He looks at Anna. His eyes already becoming misty. Says, "The boy's gone. Run off. Grace told him the story last night. He's angry and gone."
Anna clutches her face with both hands. "Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Wherea the boy gonna go? Whatsa he gonna do?" Her emotions in check she fights off the tears remaining calm as usual but surely highly concerned.
"I don't know. It's all my fault. I shouda said something. Years ago. Shoulda told Sean. On my, God, what have I done?"
"You have no done anything, Ponzio. They did. Now, go help finda the boy."
Pete hurries to the bedroom, slips on a shirt and shoes. Comes back out and gives Anna a hug and a quick kiss, then races to the door picking up a rain jacket off the coat rack. Anna shouts after him, "Calla me when you find him."
Pete waves his hand signifying he heard and runs out leaving the front door open behind him. Gets into his pick-up and heads to the dock. Pounds the steering wheel with his right hand, yelling, "God, help us find the boy. Keep him safe."
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 25