Spilled Coffee Page 27

  Illumination from the lamp confirms that it’s an envelope. Closer inspection reveals one charred corner, as if someone put a match to it and changed their mind. Although I’m pretty certain neither of my parents would burn money, I pry the flap open as if a million dollars awaits me. Nope! Just a tri-folded and singed piece of paper. I open it carefully, hoping whatever it contains will remain intact. I hold it to the light. The body of the note is unmarred but for some mildew and burn marks that have encroached upon the date.

  I squint, reading aloud:

  August 23—

  Dearest Beverly,

  I’m writing this letter—rather than speaking face to face—because I don’t know of a discrete time and place to say all I need to say. In fact, I think it would be best if you read this letter and then destroy it so it will never fall into the wrong hands and cause anyone hurt.

  You know that I care for you—this has been true for many years. You also know I love my family and I know you love yours—this is why our secret flirtations must end—the notes, the stolen kisses, the secret meetings. My conscience can no longer bear it, when so much already weighs it down. I will always care deeply for you and I will always remember the love we shared—how could I ever forget? Ben is a constant reminder. I don’t regret that he came out of our weakness—that one glorious and terrible moment of weakness. I always wanted a son—a son I could be proud of—and you gave me one, even if I could not claim him in front of the entire world as I would have liked. He is a good boy and I am proud to call him MY son.

  I knew it! This confirms all my suspicions. This is the last missing detail I’ve been waiting for, and to think I nearly missed it!

  I continue reading, but not aloud—I don’t have enough breath to spare:

  Please, Beverly, don’t beat yourself up over the past and what can’t be changed. And please don’t respond to this letter. Please—let me be at peace with myself.

  Love always,

  Earl

  Wait! What?

  Earl? Earl Garver?

  I can’t catch a breath—can only exhale, Earl. Earl?

  The letter slips from my grip as I step back and drop to the mattress.

  Earl?

  After my lungs finally expand and I draw in a breath, I reach forward and snatch the letter from the floor. I must not have read it correctly. It’s the bad lighting.

  I skim the first half and reread the end and then reread the entire letter, slowly, analyzing each word as a single entity—as if misreading just one word might have altered the entire letter’s meaning. I trail off after the word “Earl.” Oh God. Earl Garver was my father.

  The muscles between my shoulder blades constrict. The lamplight fades until it extinguishes as I fall back on the mattress and close my eyes. I don’t see or smell or hear anything. I’m just the memory of a boy running down the stairs, wishing Dad were not my father. Wishing I could disown him and all the implications of being his son.

  I spring to my feet and run out of my mother’s room, heading for the stairs, for the basement, just like I did those eighteen years ago. I yank the door open, rushing headlong through years of dead and hanging filth, wiping rain and debris from my face and arms as I run toward the rickety old dock. Tripping across its loose boards, I slip, twisting my ankle. Coming to rest at the dock’s end, I sit, staring out over the cove, my breathing rapid but even. Measured. Controlled, until it slows, like the drizzling rain. Water droplets fall from the trees, their sound amplifying and then blending with peepers and bullfrogs. I lie back, gazing at the black sky. I resist closing my eyes, but I no longer have control and drift off into darkness.

  Chapter 37

  Through my eyelids, I sense the sky beginning to lighten. A few birds are already peeping. It takes a moment to remember why I spent the night on the dock. I have awakened to this heaviness of dread too many times in my life. I don’t want to open my eyes. If I lie here long enough, maybe the truth will all go away. But I know better—the truth never goes away. Truth ruins wishes—twists and distorts them into undeniable reality, and the reality is, Earl Garver is—was my father, not Doc Burns.

  What does that truth change? I open my eyes. It didn’t change the sunrise. It didn’t transport me anywhere. It doesn’t change that I’m cold and wet and that even if I don’t want to go in the house, I have to if I want to get warm and dry. And it doesn’t change the fact that I have not completed what I came here to accomplish, or that Oscar will be here by 10:00.

  My aching body doesn’t want to cooperate. I force myself to sit—it’s time to get this over with. Inhaling courage, I stand and face the cottage at the end of the twisted dock. It’s amazing I didn’t break my neck last night. Now that would be ironic, though I’m not laughing. Balancing with each precarious step, I make my way back to shore, just like I did that early morning, eighteen years ago.

  I had to pee, bad. I would have gone right off the end of the dock, but I waited until I landed on shore and found the cover of nearby bushes. I took my time. I dreaded going into the house, of having everything I had surmised, confirmed.

  Had Mom told Dad about Penny? Oh crap! We hadn’t gone with Doc to the police station. And Dad wouldn’t be in any shape to go this morning. Doc must have thought I came from such a loser family. I was sure Amelia knew it too. No wonder she was mortified that Doc found out she had been sneaking around with me. All my fantasies were pissing away. I zipped my fly and turned toward the house. My heart raced as I trudged to the back door, the slight incline feeling like Mount Everest.

  I swiped at a dew-speckled spiderweb across the doorway and grabbed the knob. Condensation made it slick. It slipped in my hand. I gripped it tighter as I peered inside. A thin bead of light ran across the floor beneath the unfinished room’s door and up its side. Morning ambiance crept in behind me as I stepped in. Strange that the light was on—that I hadn’t noticed it the night before. I walked toward it, staring at the floor. The stillness of the house above made me hold my breath. I reached out and merely touched the door, pushing it open a fraction of an inch more—just enough to see the muddy toe of Dad’s wingtip shoe, hovering, perpendicular, a couple inches above the concrete floor. It seemed so odd. What was my father’s shoe doing in the unfinished room? I did not react until my sight traveled to his unfolded trouser cuff and up the side seam to his limp, gray hand.

  I cried out, calling Mom, but I heard no noise, not even my own voice—nothing until the upstairs floorboards thundered overhead. Then Mom was behind me, shoving me out of the way. I backed up, turning away as she pushed the door open. I rushed through the back door and ran outside ahead of her, covering my ears, trying to block out the shrieking, the continuous screams of a madwoman.

  She dashed past me down toward the water, her nightgown billowing as she ran into the lake. Wet cloth clung to her body as she splashed, flailing her arms and cackling, her voice echoing round and round the cove. Every bird, peeper and bullfrog ceased—froze like me, standing outside the basement door, watching my mother go berserk. It was the strangest sensation. I was sort of out of my body, watching myself watching my mother. Why was she screaming her head off—what was wrong with her? What had I done now?

  Next thing I knew, Doc was behind me, gripping my shoulders, planting me between the house and the shore.

  “Do not move,” he said.

  He then rushed to my insane mother, grabbing her and holding her tight as he called out into the cove, “Call the police.”

  That was it. Mom had gone insane and calling the police was the right thing to do. I nodded. Yes. That was best. Mom had finally lost it, and the men in white suits would take her away to someplace safe.

  I turned around and looked up at Penny’s window. She stared out between the parted curtains and I nodded, as if to tell her it was okay. Everything was going to be okay now.

  Chapter 38

  Shivering, I stand outside the basement, all grown up, facing the truth. I don’t know how long I’ve been stall
ing, but the sun has crested the treetops and warmed the air. I had better get a move on it.

  Pushing through the basement entrance, I step inside and move to the unfinished room without hesitation. I open the door and flip on the light switch. Shelves to my left. Washer to my right. Exposed rafters overhead. Back when I discovered Dad, I never opened the door more than a crack, or looked upon my father’s face as he hung there. Doc wouldn’t allow me back in the house through the basement. As I stand here now, I feel no otherworldly presence, nor the prolonged panic I expected. I suppose my racing heart is leftover from the anticipation of remembering—that and last night’s revelation. And now, that’s all they are—memories. Yes, my eyes twitch and I feel a pang of nausea. My chest is as tight as my neck and shoulders, and a bead of sweat runs from my hairline, but that’s the worst of it. I haven’t lost my mind, and I’m not running out of the basement screaming like my lunatic mother.

  I inhale the must and mildew and turn the light off. In the utility room, I shut everything down and make my way to the stairs, through the aftermath. The events that followed—after the police arrived—all happened so quickly. There were the ambulances—one that took my father’s body away and one that took my mother. Penny and I had about twenty minutes to pack our things. I packed Frankie’s too, and then the cruiser drove us to the station. I wondered if we would see Ricky there, but Doc, who followed, must have seen to all that, to spare us. He and I never did have that talk.

  After a blur-of-a-week, the three of us kids ended up at Aunt Wanda’s farm in Missouri. Dad ended up in a cemetery in New York, buried without pomp by his brother. We did not attend.

  A psychiatric evaluation landed Mom in Pleasant Meadows, a peaceful institution near Aunt Wanda’s, where Mom could recover. But she didn’t recover. We visited every Sunday afternoon—that is, Aunt Wanda and I did. Mom babbled incoherently when she wasn’t completely non-responsive. At times, she recognized me, seemed to want to tell me something important but couldn’t get the words out. Whenever I visited, I hoped she would have a lucid moment and would confess to me that Doc was my father; but her coherent moments were few and far between. The last intelligible statement she spoke to me was on a spring afternoon just before I graduated from high school.

  On my own, I drove to Pleasant Meadows to tell Mom I had been accepted at MIT and would be going away to college. I would be leaving in a couple weeks, moving into an apartment with Christopher—that he and I would be attending MIT together. Whether she could comprehend it or not, I needed to let her know I would no longer be coming to visit every week.

  I hoped to make my visit a special occasion and first stopped at the florist. Her face lit with appreciation. Hugging her bouquet with one arm, she looped the other in mine as I led her outside. We sat on a bench under the leafy canopy of an ancient oak. Something in the warmth of the breezy, flower-scented air, in the way Mom’s smile disarmed me, sparked my hopes, made me feel as if she might provide some motherly bit of advice or reassurance. I took her hand and returned her smile. She was still beautiful. She was my mother. My Mom.

  I opened my mouth to speak, to tell her I loved her, as if I had forgotten all the ugliness—in that moment, I had—but before I could utter a word, she became agitated, rocking back and forth, digging her fingers into my arm. She threw the flowers to the ground. Her tormented eyes begged for something I could not understand.

  “What, Mom? What is it?”

  Her face contorted and she blurted, “It’s your fault—it’s all your fault!”

  I don’t know who was crazier—my mother, or me for believing a crazy woman. For months, her words rung loud in my ears, day after day, night after night, until they faded to a drone of background noise that I took for granted and came to ignore.

  From that afternoon on, I visited Mom twice a year, every year—until I moved to Denver. Then, I couldn’t make myself go at all. Gretchen never understood how I could abandon my mother in a nursing home, or why I needed to see to Mom’s cremation and burial arrangements without her. “Mother was private and we weren’t close,” I told Gretchen. “This is the way she would have wanted it.”

  Under the bleak November sky, Aunt Wanda, Penny, and I interred Mom. Our frosted breath formed no words, yet hovered and dispersed over her grave like a prayer. We stood there for all of a minute as Penny shook her head, her nose red from the chill air, not from crying. Only Aunt Wanda dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. I grabbed Penny’s hand and led her back to Christopher who waited in his wheelchair at the cemetery drive.

  And Frankie? We made an attempt to notify him, without success. Truth was, neither Penny nor I wanted him there. Besides, Frankie was never a person to form attachments or to need closure. When we moved in with Aunt Wanda, he had no trouble adjusting, aside from another bout of bed-wetting. It was as if Mom’s being taken away and Dad’s suicide were mere inconvenient blips. In fact, he turned them into misfortunes that elicited sympathies he could manipulate to his advantage.

  Creeps me right out, how Frankie used people, how he had always been all about the money—even as a little kid. I didn’t know he was pilfering my meager savings until years later. Last I saw him, he still owed me $3000. Owed, because I’ve accepted the fact that he’ll never pay it back. I’ve learned to let it go, but I feel so sorry for all the other people he swindled. It’s sad when someone that dishonest turns out to be an overachiever in his profession. I suppose it’s a badge of honor for him to be wanted in three states. I have no idea where he lives, and I’ll be happier if I never see him again. In Frankie’s case, it is like father, like son.

  Leaving all that behind, I head toward the kitchen. As I step onto the first stair tread, I think of Earl Garver. He was a good and kind man. Aside from the illegitimacy of it all, I feel no shame about having his genes.

  I step again, wishing I had known him better.

  It takes three steps before it dawns on me that Dora is my half-sister.

  On the forth—that means Penny is my half-sister, also.

  Step five. Does Mrs. Garver know? Has she ever suspected? How could she not?

  Six. So, that’s why Earl was always so nice to me.

  Seven—and why every time Mom showed up, Mrs. Garver always took over the register.

  Eight. I’m back to the letdown of Doc not being my father.

  But by the ninth step, it occurs to me that Doc took an interest in and supported me because he liked me—because he believed in me, not out of guilt or pride, but because he saw something special in me!

  I revel in that notion for the next couple of steps and not until I reach the top does it hit me—Amelia and I have no genetic connection whatsoever!

  As I round the top stair into the kitchen, I step into the muted colors of a new day. Exhausted as I am, I can’t begin to think of catching a few minutes of shut-eye. I glance at the clock, 8:00. Time is running out, but I’m not going to hurry these last moments.

  With Penny and Christopher’s wedding portrait in hand, I’m grateful. Yes, I feel a wave of something like optimism. If Penny could pull her life together, even obtain her nursing degree and stay clean, I can deal with my disappointments. And Christopher—he had other opportunities with some stunning blonds, but he held out for Penny. I couldn’t be happier for both of them. Of course, I did feel compelled to give them the conversion van—my customized Transformer—as a wedding gift; after all, I did customize it for Christopher and his Hot Wheels.

  Time to turn my attention to the clock. 8:35. I open its back, stop the pendulum and lift it off the hooked wire. With a glance at the drawing pad, I carry the clock and pendulum to the table, ready to wrap and carefully lay them in the box, all set for transport. But first, I fish out one last memento—my last connection to Amelia—to Doc.

  Sure, it’s just the small box in which she sent Doc’s watch, but inside, neatly folded, is the brown paper she wrapped it in. I guess I am a sentimental sap after all. I open the box and smooth the paper. It’s just a
scrap with my name and address sprawled across it—her looped letters, full and feathery. Artistic handwriting. I imagine her penning my name—Benjamin Hughes—and what memory it might have conjured. I hope it evoked something pleasant, though likely it was as bittersweet as my own memories.

  Over the years, I’ve thought about and analyzed just why Amelia made such a profound impression upon my tender psyche. Was it simply the newness of all those hormonal feelings? Did we actually share a bond, an understanding? I’ve heard the term ‘soul mate’ as if there exists just one person who completes us. My pragmatism argues against the concept, but my inability to let go of the notion of Amelia causes me to wonder. Perhaps she and I were soul mates. Or perhaps our lives converged at a terrible moment in time, leaving a shared scar—a constant reminder of that awful night—of what we each saw, of how we each participated. Is that injury our bond?

  I pass my thumb over the ink as if the letters might rise like a scar. Again, I wonder where she is right now. If only she had provided her return address, but she simply wrote Amelia Burns above Doc’s post office box.

  Wait—Amelia Burns?

  I can’t believe it’s only now occurring to me that she kept her maiden name. Or could it mean she’s now single? Huh. I shake my head. Just like me to jump to conclusions. Of course, lots of women keep their own name. Just the same, that might be something worth looking into.

  For now, I need to keep packing. I place the clock, the portrait, the small box, then Sunshine’s card, the paperwork, the radio, and then the Polaroid snapshot in the cardboard carton and close it up, leaving the carnival ticket on the table. The $50 drawing pad on the counter—I can’t take the time for it right now, that will have to wait until later. I place it atop the box. Next, I need to retrieve my shaving kit.

  As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, I scrutinize my facial features and stance, looking for traces of Earl Garver. I always thought I had my mother’s nose, but it could just as easily be his. My loosely curling hair now make sense, and so does my jawline—funny, but I never paid attention to my dimpled chin, even before I grew the beard. Even my hands appear different, not as meaty as Doc’s, but more elongated like those I had watched at the cash register, making change so many times.