Everybody's Son

by Thrity Umrigar

  “A small airport near Augusta.” He rose and cleared his throat. “I flew in on a private plane.”

  Her eyes widened, but she remained silent. “Well,” she said at last. “We have chocolate cake. I can pack you some for the road.”

  He nodded and watched wordlessly as she cut him a slice larger than he could eat. He used the bathroom again, and when he came out, she was waiting on the front porch, the paper bag with the cake in her hand. She was not crying, but her nose was red, and Anton felt his own eyes sting with tears. “Bye, Mam,” he said, stooping low to hug her.

  She threw her arms around him and clung to him. When she finally released him, she took his face in her hands and kissed it repeatedly. “I love you more than the moon loves the sky,” she whispered. “You remember that. Anytime you see the night sky, you remember that”—and here she let out a cackle—“that there’s a crazy fool in Georgia who loves you more than there are stars in the sky.”

  I love you, too. It would’ve been so easy to say those words, to let them slip out of where they were gathering in his mouth. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. In some dim way, he understood that if he said those words, he would break, that the ice that was encasing his body, helping him hold his shit together, would crack and shatter, leaving in its wake that dark, vulnerable place where he couldn’t go. He had already had his entire known world turned upside down. This seemingly fragile, powerless woman standing in front of him, with her teary, beautiful face, her longing and her loneliness, her guilt and her shame, her weakness and her strength, her moon and her sky, held the power to destroy him. This much he knew.

  And so he said, “I’ll see you soon,” and forced himself to pat her shoulder, turn and run down the steps, flashing her a smile and a wave as he got into his car, and then he gunned his engine and backed out of her driveway and sped down the gravel road until all that remained of him and his surreal visit was the dust cloud he left in his wake.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  By the time he passed through the small town of Ronan and slowed down when he drove by Sal’s restaurant, he was almost relieved to have left that small cottage behind. He felt his usual equilibrium, his practicality, settling back into him, and with each mile, the tearing, helpless feelings she had aroused in him were lessening.

  Of course, there would be the fallout of this visit to deal with upon his return. He’d barely had a chance to absorb the extent of David’s reckless behavior. He had no real idea how much Delores knew or suspected about what her husband had done and what he had risked. And then there was the fact that Uncle Connor had been complicit in Juanita’s imprisonment. It was as though every adult he had trusted had behaved in the most contemptible of ways. Their education, their wealth, their liberal leanings, none of that had kept them from deceiving Juanita Vesper. In fact, it was precisely the opposite—it was their very privilege that had allowed it to happen. And he had to live with that. The next time David Coleman talked about the importance of raising the minimum wage, Anton would have to ignore what he’d done to an impoverished black woman. The next time Delores came home from her Planned Parenthood meeting, Anton would have to forget the five-thousand-dollar check that lived inside a manila folder in Georgia. The next time Uncle Connor pontificated about reforms to the criminal justice system, Anton would have to forget how he had railroaded an imprisoned woman with a court-appointed lawyer.

  A slow burn started within Anton, making his skull tingle. He blinked rapidly a few times but couldn’t say whether it was to keep his tears at bay or to fight off the sudden fatigue that he felt. Let him take his stupid governorship and stuff it. The thought came into his head and was accompanied by its physical counterpart—almost immediately, the knots in his neck and upper back released, his grip on the wheel slackened, and a feeling of liberation swept through him. It would be so great to walk away from this campaign, to continue being attorney general, and later, to fade into anonymity, maybe someday run a small law firm. But before his body could even absorb what had happened, his mind betrayed him, flooding itself with notions of duty, responsibility, obligation, and honor. His grip on the wheel tightened as he looked for the signs to the freeway.

  He decided to use his phone’s GPS and remembered that he had not turned it back on since rushing out of his mother’s house. As he had expected, there were several voice messages. One from Delores, one from David, two from Katherine, three from Bradley. Anton sighed, a feeling of revulsion gripping him. He turned onto the freeway, knowing that every mile was taking him closer to them, the people who had loved him, shaped him, molded him, as if he were a block of clay they had found by the roadside. He remembered how, in the early days, friends of the Colemans used to comment on how well adjusted their new boy was, how well he conducted himself, what good manners he had, and now he wanted to scream, And didn’t any of you ever stop and wonder why? How bad of a mother could she have been, for fuck’s sake, if she produced such a son? But then his lawyerly self took over. In truth, probably none of them had known about the rape, and without that knowledge, what she’d done was inexcusable. Now it was easy to admire Juanita Vesper’s sobriety, the fact that she had beaten the odds. But back then, who could blame David Coleman for thinking he was—what was the word he’d used?—rescuing a child from a lifetime of neglect, terror, or worse? No, it wasn’t fair that Juanita’s one terrible error in judgment should result in a lifetime of punishment, but hell, that happened all the time, didn’t it? Most people never got a shot at redemption. It was the way of the world, and what was Juanita Vesper’s claim to go against this?

  And so Anton rode along the dark highway, arguing with himself. The clock said 9:32. He knew he should call Brad back, if for no other reason than to make sure the pilot was available, but a wave of sleepiness assaulted him, and he pondered whether to spend the night in a motel and then make a fresh start in the morning. He began glancing at road signs to see if there was lodging nearby. He drove a short distance and then saw a sign that said, “Thomasville 12 miles ahead.” Thomasville. Why did that sound familiar? He frowned, trying to remember, but couldn’t connect the name to a news story. And then it struck him and his heart pounded. Thomasville. That’s where she lived. Carine. That’s what she’d written to him almost two years ago. He hadn’t written back, afraid that Katherine would be hurt if she knew he was communicating with an old flame.

  But now, seeing the road sign felt like divine intervention. He had traveled the same way earlier today. Why had he not noticed it on the way to his mother’s house? He knew that the prudent thing to do would be to keep driving all the way to that little private airport and get the hell out of Georgia tonight. But he was bone-tired. And in any case, what would be the harm to contact Carine again, to maybe have a late-night coffee with her and then check in to a motel?

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, tempted to stop, agitated at the thought. Drive on, he told himself. Just pretend you never saw the goddamned road sign. Who knows if she’s even in town? She could be on vacation, for God’s sake. He decided to pull off at the rest area and get a coffee. Except for the trucks parked there, it was almost deserted. He pulled up to the building and then sat in the dark, staring at his phone. After a moment, he logged on to his email. He found her email but no home phone number. He glanced at the clock—10:02. He stared at her email, chewing on his lower lip, and then, on an impulse, hit reply. “Hey, there,” he wrote. “You won’t believe this, but I’m sitting at a rest stop just outside of Thomasville. If, by some stroke of luck, you see this in the next ten minutes or so, email me. If you’re up for it, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  He hit send, set his phone on the console, and got out. He used the restroom, splashed water over his face, then got a coffee from a vending machine. He knew it was stupid, but his hands were shaking as he walked back to the car and unlocked it. He set the coffee down in the holder before he allowed himself to check his phone. There was no reply. He blew out his cheeks, disappointed b
ut relieved. Come on, Anton, he chided himself. You think she’s sitting by the damn computer at ten o’clock on a Friday night? What are the odds of that? Well, it was better this way. Less complicated. No lying to Katherine.

  He turned on the ignition and rolled out of the parking lot onto the freeway. Another road sign said he was now eight miles away from Thomasville. He’d picked up the phone to call Brad when the ping alerted him to a new email. He fumbled with the phone, almost dropped it, and died a hundred deaths in the second it took him to click on the mail. And there she was. “24 Magnolia Lane. I’ll put on a pot of coffee. Come.”

  He let out a startled laugh, unable to believe his good fortune, her exquisite timing, the brevity of her email, the presumption and self-confidence that lay beneath it. But then he was uneasy, the fact that he was going to her home instead of meeting her at an all-night diner making it a little more complicated. The next second he remembered she had kids, chiding himself for not understanding that she couldn’t exactly slip out at a moment’s notice. And really, what was the harm in seeing an old friend? It seemed like providence—the fact that he’d read the road sign to Thomasville, then remembered that it was where Carine lived, and finally, the unbelievable odds that she had checked her email and replied when he was, what, a couple of miles away from her exit.

  Seven minutes later, he was turning onto a quiet brick street with old-fashioned gas lamps. A street sign proclaimed it a historic district. The houses here were large, and almost all of them had flowering bushes and flower boxes in their windows. Anton whistled to himself. He hadn’t given any thought to what Carine’s neighborhood would look like, but he certainly wasn’t expecting her to be living on this very bourgeois street. Perhaps this was her parents’ home? Maybe, because she was a single parent, they helped support her? He would find out in a moment.

  He pulled up to her house and debated whether to park on the street or in her driveway. As he sat there hesitating, the front porch light went on and the door opened. “Pull in,” Carine yelled, though it was too dark and she was too far for Anton to get a good look at her. He turned in to her driveway, and even before he got out of the car, his chest filled with a warm happiness and he felt young again. He turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, grinning like a happy fool. But the next second, there was a pounding on the passenger window, and he looked over to see Carine’s face, looking more beautiful than he ever could have imagined it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Carine had changed a lot. She had not changed at all. She was a stranger. She was his close friend. She looked rounder, more maternal than he remembered, but she still had those sharp features that used to take his breath away.

  Anton was staring at her and he knew it, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off that face. He watched as she walked across her large white kitchen and poured two mugs of coffee. He watched her walk back to the granite island, knew he should help, but he couldn’t move. He noticed that she had served his coffee black, had remembered, hadn’t bothered to check, as if all these years had not gone by, as if his tastes couldn’t have altered, as if they were still that boy and girl who had crossed Harvard Yard together that first time, already half in love with each other. And even if his taste in coffee had changed, even if he now took it with sugar and cream, would he have dared to say so? To challenge this lovely creature who sat next to him on a bar stool, who set the mug down and then patted his hand excitedly, saying, “Anton. My God, Anton. I can’t believe this. Who would’ve thought?”

  He remembered this feeling, this lightness, this joy, this inability to not smile. It was a thing young people enjoyed, and Anton realized with a thud that he had not felt this way in a very long time. Not, as a matter of fact, since he had left Carine. For years, all he had remembered were the arguments and the fights and the disagreements. But she had also given him this giddiness, this skipping, dancing feeling. He had thought it was his, but she had bequeathed it to him. He had been a serious boy and now he was a serious man. But he missed what he had been with her for that brief while.

  “I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” he said. “It just felt—wrong, you know, to not stop.”

  “I would’ve never forgiven you,” she said. “But what brings you here? A fund-raiser or something?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a dismissive way, not answering, looking around the room instead. “So . . . you said you have kids? Are they home?”

  She nodded, still smiling. “They’re asleep. I just put them to bed a while back and then got on the computer. First time all day.”

  “And you found me.” He was aware how that sounded, a little flirty, but he didn’t care.

  “And I found you,” she said, and did he imagine that her voice was a little husky? She opened her mouth to say something, but he interrupted: “So, can I see them? Do they look like you?”

  She laughed. “A little bit.” She considered his request and then got up. “Sure. But you’ve got to be quiet. They’re light sleepers.”

  As they went up the stairs, he noticed she hadn’t mentioned a husband. He was curious but decided not to ask. Because he wanted to sleep with her tonight. The realization hit him with such force that he actually gasped. She looked back. “You okay?”

  He nodded, unable to speak. You’re just tired and confused, he told himself. Just reacting to the weird day. You don’t even know Carine anymore. And you have a girlfriend at home. Who is probably frantic with worry by now.

  But there was a stirring in his stomach as they reached the landing, and it didn’t go away when Carine took his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “This way,” she said, and led him to the nursery.

  They stood in the doorway watching the two sleeping boys. “How can you tell them apart?” he whispered, and she laughed and shrugged. “A mother knows.”

  He nodded. “I guess.” And then, “Although I can’t believe you’re a mom. You don’t look a day older . . .”

  She hit him playfully on the shoulder. “If only.”

  “No, honest. You look great.” He swallowed, allowing her to see desire that was making his eyes bright. “Really great.”

  To his chagrin, Carine burst into silent laughter. “Upon my word, Anton. I do believe you’re flirting with me. Me, an old married woman.”

  It was the gentlest of letdowns, but it stung. “You’re married?” he blurted out.

  She shot him a quizzical look and then pointed with her chin toward the bedroom. “Did you think the stork brought those two?” She laughed and then stopped, and her eyes widened. “Oh God. You thought—I get it. You thought I had kids on my own? Jeez, Anton.”

  “No, Carine. I mean, I didn’t think anything. When you wrote, you never mentioned a husband.” He knew he was blushing, and he peered down the darkened corridor. “Is he home? Your husband?”

  She laughed again. “Mike? I wish. No, he’s ten thousand miles away. In Afghanistan.”

  Anton blinked. “Wow. What’s he doing there?”

  Even in the dark, he could see her looking at him carefully. “He’s stationed there, Anton. He’s a medic in the army.”

  Suddenly, Anton longed for it to be midnight, for it to be another day, because this day held too many shocks. “You? You’re married to a military guy? You . . . my God, you were the most anti-military person I’ve ever met. A total peacenik. What happened?”

  He must’ve raised his voice, because one of the boys stirred, and Carine held up a cautionary finger to her lips. She watched her son for a second and then motioned Anton to follow her down the stairs. She led the way wordlessly, but this time they went into the living room, his earlier lust dulled by fatigue and awkwardness. Anton noticed how elegant the room was, the Oriental rug on the hardwood floor, the expensive-looking sofa where she motioned him to sit. Carine waited until he did, then turned on a floor lamp before settling in a rocking chair across from him. “So?” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’ve thrown you for a loop, huh?�
�� She ran her hand self-consciously through her short hair.

  He forced the same lightness into his voice. “I’ll say. Carine Biya, campus radical, married to a guy in the military?” He waited for her to respond, but when she didn’t, he asked, “What happened?” This time he was unable to keep the incredulity—and yes, the faintest tone of reproach—out of his voice.

  Carine shrugged. “I fell in love,” she answered simply.

  A million thoughts scampered through Anton’s mind. That’s it? he wanted to say. You, the woman I put up on a pedestal, the woman so righteous in her political beliefs, whom I defended to all my friends even while I was secretly appalled by what came out of her mouth, you, that woman, that Carine Biya, turned out to be a mere mortal who fell in love like the rest of us, who threw it all away and settled into this bourgeois suburban life? Anton leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. Apart from his father, Carine had been the person he’d admired most. Even when he’d disagreed with her, he had admired her for having the courage of her convictions, for the principles with which she seemed to live her life.

  “Whoa, Anton,” Carine was saying. He opened his eyes and saw that she was sitting forward in her chair, a worried frown on her beautiful face. “Jesus, man. What the hell? You’re acting like I told you I went and married Osama bin Laden.”

  “That would’ve surprised me less.” The words shot out of his mouth, and he thought he must have looked as shocked as she did. They stared at each other for a moment and then she giggled. “You son of a bitch,” she swore, and then they were laughing madly, and for the first time since he’d gotten there, the air between them turned easy and friendly.