“Sara used to run up to him and scream ‘Hi Mister Chance!’ when he’d come to the door. She’d say, ‘Hi Mister Chance,’ and he’d say, ‘You got ants in your pants?’ She sure loved it when he was around,” Sara’s mother said, staring off into space. “He was friends with my husband, Charles DuBeau.”
Frank Chance, I thought. Frank Chance.
Sara groaned slightly, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. I heard her starting to sob through her hand.
“Oh God,” she sobbed. “Mister Chance I have ants in my pants.”
She was remembering, and I was learning. I went to Sara and sat next to her on the bed and put my arm around her back. She leaned into me and cried quietly into my shoulder. From this position, I could see the picture frame on the nightstand across the bed. The picture in it was of a happy young couple, smiling, hugging, with a big tree behind them. I knew before I even saw the writing that it was the picture insert that came with the frame. The people in those pictures were always too good-looking, too unreal for real photos.
“I remember, Adam,” she said quietly, weakly into my shirt. “I remember that stupid ants in the pants joke.”
“It’s okay, Sara,” I said; I didn’t know anything else to say.
“The only ants in my pants were his filthy hands.”
Was Frank Chance my father? Was it possible that I had been given up by a Chance only to be taken by a Fluke?
“Why are you crying, Miss?” asked Sara’s mother. “Do you need a nurse?”
Sara pulled away from me suddenly, wiping her eyes with the sides of her index fingers, and told her mother, “No, mom, I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine, though, I could see that. She was playing fine for her sick mother, but once we were away from her mother, this was going to get worse for her before it got any better.
“It was good seeing you, mom,” Sara said, standing up. She hung her purse strap over her shoulder and urged me up by grabbing my hand. I stood.
“Thank you for visiting. They never let me have visitors here. How did you get through?”
“We snuck in, mom,” Sara said, sounding very, very tired.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said, almost offering my hand, but shoving it in my pocket instead. My discomfort had only grown since walking into the room.
She looked at me, absently, and asked, “Excuse me, but have you seen my cat?”
“Right here’s your cat, Ms. DuBeau,” I said, lifting the cat from her lap and holding it in front of her face. She took it from me without a word.
We started walking out of the room, Sara leading me by the hand, when her mother called to us, “If you see that sweet man Frank, tell him I said hello, would you?”
We just kept on walking.
****
Houston, Texas isn’t the most fun place to drive when you don’t know the place in the slightest. There are highways that go all around the city and through the city. There are patches of interconnecting one-way streets that can lead you around in circles. The city itself is large and intimidating. I tried to navigate the streets and find a hotel for us without disturbing Sara. She had been quiet since we left Glendale, and I just wanted to take care of us, get us in a hotel room where we could just enjoy a night in with nothing else to do or worry about. We were both pretty much wasted after our encounter with Sara’s mother.
“Frank used to come over and play with Sara all the time when Sara was a little girl.” Sara’s mother’s words echoed through my mind, as I rounded a corner only to see the familiar businesses of a street I had already been on. “Rockin’ Java”, “Flip-Sides: Rare Vinyls!” and “USED BOOKS” slipped into the rearview mirror for the second time, and I began to feel somewhat overburdened by the weight of everything in my mind.
“If you go straight until you hit that light, and take a left, we’ll go right by a Ramada Inn.” Sara said quietly from her seat.
I looked Sara’s way briefly, and then back down the street. The street became unfamiliar before I reached the stoplight, and I realized I must have turned off earlier the last time we were on it. I took the left as instructed and we were soon racing along, parallel to what I saw was I-45. As we crested a small rise in the road I saw the Ramada Inn on the right hand side just a few blocks away. A quick exit from the road we were on landed us right in the parking lot, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I was finally able to park the car.
“Be right back, honey.” I said to Sara as I hopped out of the car, and ran inside to square us away with a room. The clerk, an elderly man with glasses, moved very slowly. He took what felt like an eternity just to check my driver’s license against my credit card, eyeing me suspiciously all the while.
“Just the two of you?” He asked me, his eyes moving to the window, and the parking lot beyond.
“Of course,” I told him. I looked down at the receipt, signed it, and hurried from the front desk. I just wanted to get Sara settled down into our room.
As I stepped outside I could see Sara was now at the back of the car, leaning against the trunk, watching the sun begin to set. She was still beautiful, but there was something different. There was a sadness draped over her that made me hurt inside. It made me hurt, and wonder again where the future would take us. I walked over and stood beside her, and we watched until the sun finally drifted below the horizon. Then we silently gathered our things and went to our room.
We stepped into the cool darkness of the room and set our belongings on the dresser. I began to undo the knot in my tie and take it off as Sara walked over and lay down on the bed. I kissed her on the forehead, but she didn’t open her eyes…only nodded her head slightly. I continued undressing, and by the time I was down to my boxers I could hear light snoring from the bed. I was left alone with my thoughts again.
Sara grew up here, and her mother recognized Frank Chance. Could he still live here? How are we supposed to find him without real help from her mother? Unless he still lived in Houston…
After a quick glance at Sara to make sure she was still sleeping, I quietly slid her laptop out of the suitcase and sat down on the edge of the bed with it. Once it was powered up and connected to the wireless internet, I opened up a web browser and searched for Houston white pages. About a thousand links popped up, and I just went with the first link. With slightly shaky hands, I typed “CHANCE, FRANK” into the form.
The search returned 26 results, which was a bit disheartening, until I realized each entry had an age listed by it. Frank Chance had to be in his late fifties to early sixties, so that would narrow it down. I scrolled slowly, squinting at the numbers on the screen.
Second page, fifth name down from the top: Frank Chance, age 52, 5110 Huntington Drive. A shiver worked its way down my spine. I stared at the name and address. The name: Frank Chance.
I scrolled through the rest of the entries to see if there were other Frank Chances around the same age, but all the others were too old or too young. I knew that the Frank Chance at 5110 Huntington Drive was the right one.
I scribbled down the address on the hotel stationery and then went to a driving directions website. The directions from the hotel to Frank Chance’s address were fairly simple, so I jotted them down as well.
Sara stirred briefly; I jerked my head around and watched her curl her legs up into her body and adjust her head on the pillow. After a moment, she was still. I closed the web browser and quietly replaced the laptop in the suitcase.
My nerves started to get the better of me, again, as I contemplated our next move.
Or should it be my next move?
I was no longer feeling as beat down as I had when we left Sara’s mother. I had a name, an address, and directions. I could go there tonight, while Sara slept. I could knock on the door, and meet this man face to face. This man who potentially held my future with Sara in the palm of his hand. This man with the answers that we needed to move on. The answers that would fix things, and hopefully make Sara smile again. That was all I
needed. I began to silently put my clothes back on, grabbed my wallet and the keys to the car. I wrote Sara a quick note on the stationery: Sara, be back in a while. Just needed to get out. Adam.
I left the hotel to go meet Frank Chance.
14.
I was working my way down I-45 towards Pearland, and Frank Chance, occasionally glancing down at my chicken-scratch directions. They were pretty straightforward, but even the easiest directions seemed daunting when you’re in a new city. I made my way down 45, into Pearland, through some shopping areas, into the suburbs. I was close.
I squinted to read each green sign as the headlights washed over them, searching for Huntington. I slowed down as I passed each sign, feeling a surge rush through my body, a combination of adrenaline and fear. I finally caught Huntington Drive in the headlights and nervously turned onto it.
The homes in the area were nice. They weren’t extremely large, but most were brick, with neatly trimmed lawns. Others were wooden with siding. It appeared to be a pleasant lower-middle class neighborhood. As I watched the houses go by, checking the numbers on each, I wondered what I was going to encounter. I had flown a little off the handle with my quick departure from the hotel. I didn’t know if this was even the right person. My guts told me it would be him, though, and now, seeing the neighborhood he lived in, I wondered what kind of person I would find when I knocked on his door. Would I even be able to knock on his door? Everything in my life had been playtime compared to the past few weeks, and this moment.
5110 came into view, and I slowed down, studying it, making my way further down the street. It had been one of the few wooden homes I had seen, though, still nicely kept. There were plants and shrubs all along the sides of the home. It almost had a womanly touch, and now the thought hit me that maybe it was a woman’s work. What if he was married now? Children? What if, by coming here, I would disturb the world that he had crafted for himself? Did I even care?
I pulled the VW in to the driveway of a darkened home and let out a deep breath. My heart was pounding furiously. I felt like I might have some sort of panic attack. I had never had one before, but this was probably how they started, I thought, breathing deeply, trying to calm myself. I finally calmed down enough to put the car in reverse, and head back the other way. I was soon at a stop, idling in front of 5110. I killed the engine, but didn’t move.
I stared at the front door of the house. I could see a soft yellowish glow through the windows in front, and what I figured was the flicker of a television set. Were he and his family watching TV together? This image made me wonder about the monster that this person had to be. He had to be the most vile, god-awful creature imaginable for what he had done. Didn’t he?
I was getting frustrated thinking about it. I was becoming tired again, and fast. I was as exhausted as I had ever been. I placed my face in the palms of my hands, and leaned against the steering wheel. I made a silent wish for the answers to come to me. I couldn’t say how long I sat like that.
That was when the knock at the glass startled me, and I lifted my face to the window. Instantly, I knew that I was at the right house. Frank Chance, the same man from the pictures, an older version of me, was standing right outside the car.
He backed up a few steps, adjusting his spectacles he wore as I opened the door and got out of the car. “Can I help you…” he began, but trailed off when he saw me. “Oh…” he started, and once again didn’t finish.
I looked at the man. The website said he was 52, but he looked older, much older. He looked like a docile, little old man. Time had taken the exact opposite toll on this man that it had on Maggie DuBeau. My stomach did its customary rolling as we stood and looked at one another.
“Some part of me was expecting this,” he said, finally.
My mind began to reel from his simple statement. I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“October seventeenth, seven-ten in the morning, right?” he asked me. I nodded. “Seven pounds, ten ounces. A healthy baby boy.”
All I could do was nod at him. My birth weight had the same numbers as the time I was born. This man, my father, knew this and recited it from memory.
My father.
No doubting it now.
Fuck.
“Would you like to go inside and talk?” he asked me. I nodded my head, still unable to speak, unable to think beyond my astonishment at the speed with which things were moving. He turned and began walking back up the concrete path to his front door, so I followed him.
This man was my father. I repeated it to myself, like a chant, as I shuffled behind him. It seemed unreal to me.
I traced his path, pushing the door shut behind me, following him to what served as his living room. A black and white movie was playing on his television set in the corner, and a tall lamp in the opposite corner bathed the room with its soft yellow light, which had been visible from the car. My mouth was dry, and when he told me to have a seat, I just nodded again, and sat.
“I really don’t know where to begin,” he told me. “It was so long ago, and I was a very messed up young man in those days,” he said, his eyes moving alternately between the floor and my general direction. My head was light, and I hoped that I wouldn’t do something silly, like faint. I felt like I might.
“My name is Frank, but I guess you already know that since you’re here,” he continued, searching for words himself. He looked up at me as if waiting on something.
Tell him your name, Adam-boy…he’s your father, but he doesn’t know your name.
“Adam,” I said, in a near-whisper. “Adam,” I told him again a little louder, having barely croaked it out the first time.
“Adam,” he said, repeating my name, seeming to mull it over in his mind for several moments. “It’s a good name.” He studied his shoes some more, but my eyes hardly left him. This was my father, and I never realized in my life…never knew I would have any inclination to know anything about him. But, as strange as our situation was, I was interested in hearing every word that came from him.
“Adam, it’s been almost 27 years, and I’ve thought about you most every part of that time.” He paused, and I noticed that his eyes looked a little watery. “Would you like something to drink or anything?” he asked me suddenly, lifting his eyes from the floor.
I just shook my head no. I saw an ashtray on the table and managed to ask, “Mind if I smoke?”
“No, not at all, Adam.”
I lit a cigarette with hands that trembled and tried to relax. A drink actually sounded very appealing at that moment, but if I had one, I didn’t think I’d be able to stop.
“Well, I don’t suppose you ever knew your real mother. We hardly knew one another, and, at the time, we thought that giving you up to a family better prepared to take care of you was in your best interest. Believe me when I say that I would have been no good to you.
Your real mother, biological mother that is, passed away just a couple of years after you were born. She lived long enough to pass word along to me that you were okay. She didn’t tell me your name, or where you lived, or who your family was. All she would tell me was a few details about your birth, which I told you outside. She knew that I was worthless as far as taking care of you. We didn’t know each other well, like I said, but we knew each other well enough to know that neither of us was any good for you.”
He stopped here, and his countenance was very sad in appearance. I looked at the floor myself and moved my feet. He began again:
“Adam. I don’t guess that I could ever apologize enough to you. You probably don’t want me to, anyway. I did clean myself up over these years, but it was much too late to ever do anything for you. You had a family, and I was very thankful for that.” He finished this, and looked at me, studying the younger version of himself that now sat in a chair in his very living room.
I didn’t say a word, just smoked and stared at the man who created me. I thought of Sara, sleeping in the hotel room. I felt torn apart inside…half of me wanted to b
urst into tears, and half of me wanted to smash the ashtray over this man’s head for what he had done to Sara. I was about to ask him about Sara when he spoke.
“How did you come to find me?” he asked, and I lowered my eyes. I didn’t know what to do, or what to tell him. I studied his face for a second trying to formulate the answer in my mind. The only way I could think to say it, however, was simply. To just lay it out there.
“Mr. Chance…” I began, struggling, fighting for the words.
“Please, call me Frank,” he said.
“Um, well, Frank…I’m here because of the woman I love. Sara DuBeau.” I couldn’t restrain the emotion in my voice as I said this, and immediately he flinched and lowered his face again. This time the tears flowed openly, and I just watched while he cried and tried to get control of himself. He moaned several times, and I could hear him faintly whisper “Oh God!” to himself when he did. After a while, he began to tell me the story of how it happened.
“I don’t know how many times I came close to killing myself because of what I did.” He said. “Charles…he was my friend. And, Sara loved me, and I loved her, I really did.” He shrank before my very eyes, shoulders hunched and sagging as he recounted to me many details of his life back then.
He told me that he and the DuBeaus were friends. He had grown up with Charles, and he had been one of the few people that remained his friend even though something different in Frank’s personality had caused most people to keep their distance. He had been, at times, violent, and had tendencies to do things that were considered crazy. Over the course of time he had begun to realize that he wasn’t, as they say, all there. The people that had made fun of him all through school saying things like “Frank’s a bottle short of a six-pack” were right. He did have something wrong in his mind. He had rebelled against everyone when he was young, but when the things with little Sara started happening he finally realized that they were all right about him.
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