by Warren Adler
He parked the car in front of the school nearest to the house. He did not question his judgment, nor was he certain that this was the school Tray attended. He was not operating with any logic. All he knew was that it was school time and that Tray should be in school and that this school was closest and therefore the logical choice. He removed the wagon from the back seat and carried it through the main entrance.
Because of Molly’s long career as a teacher and his many visits, the atmosphere of schools was not new to him and he quickly found his way to the door marked Office of the Principal. He felt no anxiety, no second thoughts, not the slightest doubt of the correctness of his actions. An administrative secretary worked in the outer office, a gray-haired lady who squinted through rimless glasses and looked at him with curiosity as he entered.
“I’m Charles Wat—” he began, momentarily swallowing his words. “Graham.” He had paused, just to make sure he was fully composed and calm and that the woman would be assured that he posed no threat to her. Even the use of Peter’s last name was meant to put the woman at her ease, just in case she knew what had happened in the family. Since he had not consciously planned what he was doing, it surprised him to hear his own voice. “I’m Charles Everett Waters’s grandfather. He’s in the second grade, I think. Nothing serious. No trouble. I’m leaving town, you see, and I promised to say good-bye.” The woman’s eyes were observing the wagon and he looked down at it. “And give him this. A gift.” He put the wagon on the office floor, holding the pull rope.
“It is rather unusual,” she had said, carefully inspecting him. Despite the instinctive way in which he was operating, it did occur to him that he looked, in his factory work clothes, much different from most aging males in this exclusively white-collar neighborhood. What you see is what you get, he told himself, oddly proud of the difference. I yam what I yam, an inner voice chirped. In his mind, he heard a distant giggle.
“I know,” he responded softly. “My wife teaches over at Dundalk.”
“Oh,” the woman said, smiling, perhaps reassured by the camaraderie of employment.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Charlie insisted.
The woman hesitated, looked down at the wagon, then shrugged.
“He’ll get a kick out of it,” Charlie pressed.
“It’s very irregular.”
“I’m his old grampa,” Charlie said, offering a shy smile. “It’ll mean a lot to him.”
She stood up and grinned, then shook her head and moved into the corridor. He followed her, pulling the wagon. The squeaky wheel caused the woman to turn and look back at him.
“Needs oil,” he said, still smiling. It did not occur to him that he was outlandish then, an older man pulling a child’s wagon in a school corridor. The woman stopped in front of a classroom door, looked back and put a finger over her lips, and stepped inside. He waited, leaning against the wall. Reaching for a cigarette, he put it in his mouth, then, remembering that it was forbidden, took it out again.
“He’ll be right out,” the woman said, popping her head out the classroom door.
He nodded. But he felt his inner calm eroding. The gray-haired lady emerged holding the boy by the hand. It wasn’t the same Tray he had imagined. Two years had taken the edge off babyhood. He had grown, and he seemed aloof, a stranger. He had expected the boy to run into his arms. Instead, he hung back, confused.
“They’re doing reading,” the gray-haired lady said.
“I was next,” Tray exclaimed with an air of disappointment. “I practiced, too.”
“Your grandfather just wanted to say good-bye,” the lady said, winking at Charlie. “And to give you this.” She pointed to the wagon. The boy looked at it, continuing to be perplexed. “You really shouldn’t be too long.” If she was surprised that the boy still stood his distance, she said nothing. “I’ll leave you two alone.” She raised a finger in mock rebuke. “And remember. Not long.” Charlie lingered, afraid to confront the boy. Watching her as she walked back to her office, he realized he had begun to sweat. When he turned finally, Tray was watching him with curiosity.
“That’s a baby wagon,” he said.
“I didn’t know you got so big, kiddo.”
“I’m the third biggest.”
“Just like your old man.”
The boy shrugged, not answering. He kicked his heel into the floor.
“I’m Grampa,” Charlie said.
“I know that,” Tray said.
How long had it been? Charlie thought. Less than two years. Sweat began to ooze down from his hairline.
“Thought I’d come by to say hello,” Charlie shrugged. “And to give you that.” He pointed to the wagon. “After all, it’s yours, Tray. Remember when I painted it? Used to be your father’s.”
“I remember.”
“There’s lots of other things, too. Your old basketball.” Suddenly he couldn’t remember. “Lots of things.” His mouth was going dry.
“The lady said you came to say good-bye.”
“I told her that just in case she wouldn’t let me see you.”
The boy hesitated and frowned.
“Mommy said you went away. You and Gramma.”
“She said that?”
Tray nodded.
“She said you would be away for a long time.”
He felt as if his insides were filling up with some corrosive acid.
“We—we didn’t go away,” Charlie said haltingly. “We still live in the same house. Do you remember that house?”
“I remember.”
“And your daddy?”
“My daddy?”
“My son Chuck. Your daddy.”
The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot. The frown deepened on his brow, and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“You mean the daddy that went away?”
“Your mommy said that, too?”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss your daddy?
“The one that went away?”
“My God, yes.”
He felt the rising hysteria, the beginning of panic.
The gray-haired woman poked her head out of her office and watched them for a few moments.
“You must let him go back to his class,” she said.
“In a minute,” he snapped from over his shoulder.
“Now really, Mr.—er—was it Graham?”
“No, not Graham. Waters. Like his.” He did not take his eyes off the boy.
He heard her voice closer behind him.
“I resent that attitude, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“As soon as I’ve said good-bye.”
He moved toward the boy and knelt in front of him. Tray looked at him with growing confusion.
“Your grampa loves you,” he whispered. Tray said nothing.
“We didn’t go away. We live in the same house. Do you remember all the good times we used to have?” He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Do you remember?”
The boy seemed too confused to answer and, without realizing it, Charlie began to shake him.
“You remember the good times we used to have? The fishing? And we were going to get a new sailboat, and we played ball and told jokes and laughed a lot—”
“This has gone far enough,” the gray-haired lady said, running back to her office. When she came out again, it was with another, slightly younger woman.
“I’ve called the child’s mother. And this is the principal.”
Charlie ignored them both.
“I want to come and visit you, Tray. Would you like to visit me?”
The boy continued to inspect him, then nodded tentatively.
“Can you ask your mommy if you can come and visit us at our house?”
“Can Daddy come, too?”
“Daddy?”
“My daddy, the one that didn’t go away. He got me a computer.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come all by yourself? So it will be just you and
me and sometimes Gramma. We really miss you, Tray.”
He had the boy in a tight clutch now. At first Tray tried to squirm away, but then gave up.
“It’s obvious that the child wants to go back to class. Don’t you, Charles?”
“Yes, Miss Flagler,” the boy said in the rhythmic way that children address authority.
“Tell your grandfather to let you go, so that you can get back to your class.”
He turned and looked at Charlie.
“I don’t want to miss my turn, Grampa. You should hear how good I read.”
“I’m sure you’re terrific. Gramma’s got lots of books. When you come over to visit, she’ll show them to you. Maybe read some.”
He embraced the boy and drew him close to his chest, caressing his head. The boy seemed to be struggling to avoid smelling his breath.
“We miss you, son. We miss you very much. You just don’t know how much.”
The boy continued to squirm.
“You’re squeezing too hard, Grampa.”
He heard a woman’s clicking footsteps behind him, but he did not turn to see who it was.
“Mommy,” the boy screamed.
“I miss you, son. I miss you with all my heart and soul.”
“I’ve tried to get him to go, Mrs. Graham,” the principal said.
“It’s my fault,” the gray-haired lady said apologetically.
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I want you to release that child this minute,” Frances said, her voice rising. “I will not have this.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Charlie said, still not turning to face her. He felt a grip on his arm.
“Please, Charlie. This is no way to behave.”
“If you don’t mind, I want to visit with my grandson.”
“As you can see, your grandson wants to go back to his class,” the principal said.
Charlie tried to ignore the cacophony around him, to concentrate on the boy. He loosened his embrace but continued to hold the boy by his upper arms.
“I just wanted to see if you miss your old Gramps,” Charlie said. The boy, half-smiling, looked over his shoulder at his mother.
“I—I miss you, Grampa.”
“I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Graham,” the principal said.
By then, another woman, obviously Tray’s teacher, opened the door of the classroom, surprised at the drama going on outside.
“The class is waiting, Charles,” she said.
“I better get going, Grampa,” Tray whispered.
“You must let him go,” Frances said, gentler now.
“You’ll tell your mom that you want to visit with us, won’t you, Tray? Maybe we’ll get that sailboat for the summer, a real beauty. What do you say?”
“You may force me to call the authorities,” the principal warned.
“It’s all right,” Frances sighed.
“I’m going to have a lot more time now, Tray,” Charlie said. He was drenched with perspiration. “Now, Gramma and I are expecting you, right?”
The boy looked at his mother. Charlie embraced him again, then released his arms and stood up as the gray-haired woman took him by the hand and led him to his teacher. She patted him on the head and quickly closed the door behind him. Suddenly, he remembered the wagon and started after him, pulling it. The gray-haired woman barred his way.
“You can’t—”
“He forgot the wagon.”
“I’ll see that he gets it, Charlie,” Frances said. Finally, he turned to look at her. Her face recalled reality, and he felt suddenly exhausted and empty.
“I’m sorry for this,” the principal said. “We handled it badly.”
“There was nothing you could do,” Frances said.
Charlie looked toward the classroom. He felt trapped and helpless, a fool. For a moment he felt disoriented.
“Will you be all right?” the principal asked Frances, who nodded. Charlie felt her eyes burning into him. He turned his own away in embarrassment. He tried to say something, but his throat seemed to have closed on him.
When they were alone in the corridor, Frances shook her head.
“There was no need for this, Charlie,” she said. “You disturbed the child. It wasn’t fair to him.”
“I just wanted to . . .” When he could not go on, she nodded.
“I understand that. Truly I do.”
“No you don’t,” he stammered.
“You’re just hurting yourself. Don’t you see, it’s best for him. He’s confused by the intrusion. I don’t want that. He’s been happy. Adjusted. He doesn’t need this. Can you understand that?”
“He’s my grandson. I just wanted to see him.”
“I don’t want him to have to contend with this. He’s doing beautifully. He has a good life. His father—Peter—loves him. Leave him alone. Perhaps someday the time will come. But it isn’t now.”
Reality in full force had come hurtling back by then. The turmoil inside had been replaced by a dull ache. The stupid, blind hopefulness that had driven him here was disintegrating.
“I miss him, Frances,” he said, coughing into his fist.
“I’m sure you do. But think of him, his welfare.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do. I really do.”
He felt the walls closing in, trapping him. He had to get out. Turning, he felt his knees unlock as he began to move away.
“I won’t let this happen again, Charlie. I’ll do anything to stop it.” She caught up with him and spun him around, forcing him to look at her. “I swear it. Even if it means the police. I want my child left alone. Do you understand that?”
He could not find words to answer, hurrying away, gaining speed as he moved toward the door. Opening it, he looked back suddenly and saw only the little wagon. But he did not break down in tears until he reached the main highway back to Baltimore.
Happy birthday, he muttered to himself. As always, that memory seared him, bringing back the anger and the pain. But by then he had explained it to himself, although the disappointment lingered and festered. Of course the child would not have been enthusiastic, given the fact that he was certain Frances had tried to erase Tray’s memory of him and of his natural father. Wasn’t that part of what this fight was all about?
The rain, instead of abating, was getting worse. He rinsed out his coffee cup, then looked at the clock. The morning was disappearing rapidly and there was still no call from the lawyer. Again, he picked up the phone.
“I’ll see if he’s in,” the receptionist said.
Another match to dry tinder, Charlie thought. Why can’t they tell the truth? Of course he’s in. His finger tapped against the kitchen wall. Time ticked away like dripping molasses.
“Yes, Mr. Waters.” Forte’s voice was smoothly officious.
“I was expecting your call,” Charlie stammered.
“You were?” The lawyer sounded surprised.
“The two weeks are up. They were up yesterday.”
There was a long silence.
“Oh yes. Apparently there was no response.”
“Not to me,” Charlie said with growing hostility.
“Then I guess we have no choice but to file.”
“Whatever it is, I think it should be done quickly. She mustn’t be allowed to get away with this.”
“It won’t happen overnight,” the lawyer said. “And it’s sure to get messy.”
“I don’t care,” Charlie said.
“In that case, I’ll file the petition.”
“As fast as you can.”
“They could still throw it out on a technicality. I told you our case is weak.”
“No it’s not,” he blurted, noting the long silence that followed.
“I just want you to be prepared,” the lawyer said calmly. “I wouldn’t want to mislead you. The laws of adoption are quite tight—”
“You said all that. He’s my grandson, and one way or another, I’m
not going to lose him.”
“I understand, Mr. Waters. I’ll file today.”
“I’m not kidding around.”
“I’m very aware of that.”
His mouth had a metallic taste, and he noted that his heartbeat had accelerated. Deep in his gut he felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation and danger. The reactions seemed familiar, and he searched his mind for some thread of memory. Combat. That was it. The moment before the moment of truth. But he did not tell this to the lawyer.
7
FRANCES and Peter sat in the lawyer’s conference room on one side of the long, blond wood table waiting for Henry Peck to arrive. If there was anything to be thankful for in this absurd situation, Frances decided, it was that the lawyer’s office was in Columbia, only ten minutes from her house. From the beginning, she had had a nagging fear that they would have to go to downtown Baltimore, which would have meant more time away from Mark. Being involved in these proceedings was not exactly the most profitable way for a pregnant nursing mother with household obligations to spend her time.
She looked at her watch and expelled a noisy sigh of frustration.
“I haven’t got the time for this,” she said. “No matter what, I intend to be back for the baby’s twelve-thirty feeding.”
“But you left a bottle with the baby-sitter,” Peter said.
“He still likes mine better.”
Peter shrugged and tapped his fingers on the table.
“It’s not exactly convenient for me either.”
“I know, darling.” She patted his other hand, relenting. “It’s the nausea making me irritable.”
“Maybe it’s too much for you. I can always handle it alone.”
“I’m afraid it’s really more my problem than yours.”
“Now that’s not fair,” he said.
“What’s fair?” she asked, offering a smile to chase the sudden seriousness.
“I just don’t want you aggravated,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it.
“No one said it would be easy,” she sighed, slipping a dry cracker from her purse, nibbling it, and washing it down with coffee from the cone-shaped cup in front of her.