Surrogate Child

by Andrew Neiderman

  Oh, well, he thought. Maybe now some of this will get some use again. Maybe Jonathan would want to learn. He’d offer lessons. He started out and stopped when something caught his eye. It was the picture of himself and Solomon when Solomon was five and they had gone down to the Neversink Dam and caught three two-foot trout. Solomon was holding all three of them up but looking very unhappy about it. Bob Avery had taken that picture, he recalled.

  But he also recalled Solomon taking it off his wall and putting it in his closet under a pile of parlor games. That was less than a year before his suicide. He asked him about it, and Solomon said he had other things to put up. But he never put anything up; he just left the wall bare.

  Why would the new boy want something like that up on his wall? he wondered, and then he realized that picture was one of the very few pictures of him and Solomon together doing anything. Maybe this new boy longs for a good father-son relationship, Joe thought.

  That encouraged him.

  But it also, for reasons he didn’t quite understand at the time, made him somewhat uneasy, too.

  He went into the bathroom to wash up. While he was over the sink, he looked out the window that faced the front and saw Jonathan riding past the house, his body crouched over and his head down. His feet pumped the pedals with the same kind of vigor and anger that had made Solomon a champion at it. Joe used to think it was as if Solomon were attacking the highway. To him it didn’t look as though his boy were having any fun.

  This boy had the same serious expression on his face. Whenever Solomon wore it, which was most of the time, Joe would think his son had somehow skipped over the happy-go-lucky nonchalance of childhood, and he would pity him for that. There was time enough to bear down on life.

  But it was no use to tell Solomon that. In fact, he acted as though he resented that sort of advice.

  Maybe this boy would be different. Why shouldn’t he be? Just because he was riding Solomon’s bike, that didn’t mean he had to ride it as Solomon rode it, did it?

  Of course not, he responded to his own question.

  But then, why was he riding it as Solomon rode it?

  TWO

  Joe expected a certain amount of tenseness and nervousness at the first dinner. Despite the background information they were given about Jonathan and what Jonathan had learned about them before arriving, it was still, in reality for Jonathan and in reality for them, a dinner with strangers. But Joe was surprised.

  He couldn’t say “pleasantly so” because the instant familiarity between Martha and Jonathan was eerie. The boy came into the dining room and took Solomon’s seat without even waiting first for instructions. He went right to it as though he always knew where he should sit. When Martha served the salad, she put Solomon’s favorite salad dressing, herbs and spices in front of Jonathan, and he took it without even considering the other salad dressings available on the table. In fact, she seemed to know all the foods the boy favored—string beans, sweet potatoes with a mound of butter, the dark meat of the turkey rather than the white meat. He couldn’t help noting that she didn’t ask first. He assumed she had gone over the menu with him beforehand.

  He realized Jonathan was wearing one of Solomon’s short-sleeve shirts, the white one with the thin blue stripes. This is a boy who acclimates himself rather quickly, he thought. Maybe that came from being shipped from home to home. Joe felt a mixture of contradictory emotions. On the one hand, he couldn’t help resenting the new boy taking Solomon’s things so quickly, but on the other hand, he pitied him for being a hobo searching for a handout of family love.

  “So how do you like the bike?” Joe asked. He remembered the day he bought that bike for Solomon. He had gone into the den and found him glued to television coverage of the Tour de France bike race, and during one of their rare father-son discussions, they talked about biking as an exercise. He reminisced about his own youth and his J. C. Higgins Special that had a horn and a light. Solomon explained why that was unnecessary weight, and Joe could see that the boy had been doing some reading on the subject. He mentioned a few bikes, describing their assets and liabilities. The next day, Joe bought him the Nishiki International. He remembered being disappointed in Solomon’s reaction because the boy behaved almost as though he had expected it.

  “Beautiful,” Jonathan said. “Light, fast, great gear shift.”

  “You’ve done some biking?”

  “Not really. The people I was with last, the Porters, lived in the city of Middletown, and Mrs. Porter thought that riding a bike on the street by her house was too dangerous. She was a nervous wreck about everything,” he said, and Martha laughed.

  Joe looked up and smiled at her. But his smile faded when she ran her fingers slowly through Jonathan’s hair. The boy didn’t wince or seem to mind it in any way. She was always touching Solomon—pressing down his shirt, squeezing his hand, rubbing the top of his back, resting her hand on his shoulder, and kissing him, always kissing him. It used to amaze him how his son accepted the intimate contact and was never bothered, never embarrassed by it, even when it was done in front of others.

  Sometimes Joe thought Martha treated their son more like a puppy dog than a teenage boy, but Solomon didn’t resent it. If anything, he acted like an obedient dog.

  How many times did he come into the den and find them on the couch, Solomon reclining with his head on Martha’s lap, and Martha running her fingers through his hair just the way she had just run them through Jonathan’s.

  “He was telling me about Mrs. Porter,” she said. “She sounds like a bundle of nerves. Do you know she made her husband lock their bedroom door at night?”

  “What?” Joe looked at Jonathan, but he was concentrating on his food and wearing that far-off look that Solomon used to have whenever he ate. He hated his son’s silence at meals. Often he looked as though he were in a trance and his body consumed the food automatically—his mouth working with monotonous rhythm, his hands cutting and bringing the food up to it within a pattern so tightly designed that he seemed to begin and finish each meal within seconds of the same amount of time. “She locked the bedroom door?” he repeated. “What was she afraid of?”

  Jonathan shrugged.

  “It’s so hard for them to find adequate homes for the children,” Martha said. “Thank God he got out of that place in time.”

  “You’ve been in three places, haven’t you, Jonathan?” Joe asked. He meant it to be merely a subject for conversation, but Martha spun around on him so fast, he felt as though he had cursed the boy.

  “Joe!”

  “I just meant—”

  “Yes, I have,” Jonathan said. He turned to Martha. “It’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to relive the painful past,” Martha said. “We’re only concerned with having a good present and a good future. Let’s forget about what’s been,” she added, and slapped her hands together as if the action drove every unhappy past moment into oblivion. “In fact, let’s make a pact about it,” she said.

  Joe groaned. He couldn’t help it. Making pacts had been one of Martha’s favorite games with Solomon. Whenever something bothered either one of them, she would say, “Let’s make a pact to never do it again,” or, “Never say that again.” The pact was usually sealed with a kiss.

  “Pact?” Jonathan said, and grimaced. Good for him, Joe thought. “What do you mean?”

  “An agreement, treaty, a promise,” she said, undaunted by his reaction, and took the knife out of his left hand. She placed it on the table and held his hand in hers. “I swear never to make Jonathan talk about anything he feels is an unpleasant memory.” She started to lean toward him to kiss him on the cheek.

  “What’s his part of the pact?” Joe teased. She gave him her look of reprimand—the corner of her mouth drawn up, her eyelids nearly closed from the agitation.

  “I won’t bring up any of my pleasant memories,” Jonathan said, “or make you and Martha feel you are not doing s
omething as well as some of my other foster parents have,” he added. Martha squealed with delight.

  The shrewd little bastard, Joe thought. Kids were sure a lot smarter nowadays.

  “This will really be a new beginning,” Martha said. “For everyone.” She and Jonathan turned to him expectantly. He was amazed at the similarity of expression on both their faces. The boy looked as if he could really be her child. Martha had unique eyes. Most of the time they were aqua blue, but when she got angry, the blue darkened considerably, and when she was very melancholy, her eyes looked more like a light green. Right now, both Jonathan’s and her eyes were aqua blue. He had thought Jonathan’s hair was a shade or two darker than Martha’s, but at this moment, the hue of their hair appeared identical.

  “There’s no need for you to restrict yourself so,” Joe said. “We’re not going to be jealous. At least, I’m not,” he added.

  “He’s only trying to please us, Joe,” Martha said. She kept her half smile. “And if that’s the way he wants it . . .”

  “I don’t care,” Joe said. “This turkey is really moist,” he said, determined to change the subject. “One of your best.”

  “Well, it’s a special occasion.” She squeezed Jonathan’s upper arm. He looked at Joe with what Joe thought was a very smug expression, an expression so like Solomon’s that it gave him a chill. “And, I have a homemade apple pie coming up.”

  “Great,” Joe said. “If she promises to cook like this every time we bring in a foster child, I’ll go get a dozen more.” He leaned toward Jonathan after he said it because even though he had intended it to be a joke, he recognized a tone of sarcasm in his own voice. He couldn’t prevent it. Martha was ready to jump on him for saying it, but Jonathan surprised them both.

  He laughed and laughed hard. Grateful for the rescue, Joe smiled at the boy. He looked like he expected the gratitude.

  “You’re both being very naughty. I’ve got two wise guys,” Martha said. And then she sat back and with a far-off look on her face added, “Once again, I’ve got two wise guys.”

  Joe didn’t say anything. After dinner he took Jonathan for a walk around the house. He described the boundaries of their property and told him about the small pond in the woods off to the left.

  “Can you swim in it?”

  “No, not really. It’s small and muddy. There are some fish in it, sunfish, I’ve seen catfish. You ever go fishing, Jonathan?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I do some trout fishing. Go up to the Willowemac. If you’d like to try to sometime . . .”

  “Maybe,” he said, but not with any enthusiasm. Solomon really never liked going fishing with him.

  “Anyway, as you can see, there’s plenty of room around here to stretch your legs. You can follow the path down the back of this hill, and it will take you out to the southwest end of the village eventually.”

  “What’s that in that big old tree?” Jonathan asked, pointing to some slabs of lumber secured between two thick branches.

  “Oh, that was a tree house I built for Solomon. I don’t think he used it more than twice. It’s still pretty sturdy.” He looked back at the house. “I’ve got to paint the trim soon. You want to help do that?” he asked. It was a test question. Solomon had despised working on the grounds and the house, and anything he did do, he did reluctantly.

  “Sure,” Jonathan said. This time his voice indicated interest.

  “Great. I’ll be getting the paint this weekend.” Jonathan nodded. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, and then he looked up quickly.

  “What really happened to Solomon?” he asked. But before Joe could reply, they heard the back door open and close.

  “We’ll talk about it some other time,” Joe said quickly.

  They both turned to watch Martha come down the small flight of steps off the back deck. She was wearing a light green cardigan sweater and a pair of jeans with tennis sneakers. She had her hair down and around her shoulders the way he liked it. Joe thought she looked young and energetic. The new boy hadn’t been in their house one full day, yet already there was a remarkable change in her demeanor. Her resurrection was continuing. In fact, she was so rejuvenated, she reminded him of how she was during the first year or so of their marriage. The spring that had been in the air was now in her as well.

  She came forward, her arms folded under her breasts.

  “It’s going to continue to be a great fall,” she said. “I just know it. Look at the redness in that sky. It will be warm tomorrow, your first day in a new school.”

  “Jonathan and I are going to paint the trim,” Joe said. “Maybe we’ll start this weekend.”

  “Really?” She didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Yeah. Why, you think we’re going to mess it up?”

  “No. Jonathan might just be too busy. You know, he’s got to get himself into the flow of things . . . new teachers, new friends.”

  “Well, Jonathan will tell me if he’s too busy,” Joe said. “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll see,” Jonathan said. He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Martha smiled and threaded her arm through his. The boy didn’t pull away, but he looked up at Joe to see his reaction.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you where the blueberry bushes are. Solomon used to pick the berries in July, and I would make pies and muffins and put them into his pancakes.” She started away with the new boy, leaving Joe behind. He watched them for a few moments and then went back into the house to watch the evening news.

  It was a good half hour before they returned. He wondered what they could be doing out there all that time, and how Martha was able to think of so much conversation. It had been the same way with Solomon. Things to say just came naturally to her. He always felt as though he were contriving to build a discussion. Maybe it was mostly his fault; maybe he had been working with computers too long and didn’t have enough contact with people.

  “You can turn the television to whatever you like,” Joe said when Jonathan came to the den doorway. “The news is over, and I’m going to do some reading. Gotta catch up on some new technology.”

  “I’m going up to my room,” he said. “See you later.

  “Oh?”

  He left, and Martha came in. She curled up beside him on the couch and leaned against his shoulder.

  “Your cheeks are rosy. Got a little chilly out there?”

  “A little. Maybe I’m just flushed from excitement.”

  “He seems to be taking to us rather nicely,” Joe said. “But you can never tell about these things.”

  “What do you mean?” She sat up. “He is taking to us.”

  “I just meant . . . I don’t know. I hate to build up something and then have a disappointment.”

  “There won’t be any disappointment,” she said. He could see she was so determined, she wouldn’t tolerate any discussion.

  “Good.”

  She didn’t lean against him again. She sat up straight and stared absently at the television set. Joe tried to go back to his reading but found he couldn’t concentrate. After a while he put the magazine down.

  “I don’t think I’ll enroll in that presummer course in real estate at the community college after all,” Martha said.

  After they had determined that Jonathan would be the boy to take in, Martha had revived her talk about getting her realtor’s license. A friend of hers, Judy Isaacs, had done so and was now working with the Sandburg Realty Corporation. Judy’s children were all teenagers, and she had decided to pursue an independent career. For a long time, even before Solomon’s death, Joe had tried to get Martha to do the same sort of thing. He believed she needed outside interests and that her lack of them was the primary reason why she doted on her son.

  “Why not? You were so interested in it.”

  “I think, for the time being, Jonathan’s going to need my full attention.”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense. He’s obviously a very independent kid. He doesn
’t need you looking over him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  “You’re going to try too hard and ruin things,” he said.

  “Let’s not argue about it, Joe,” she said, smiling. He felt he was being handled, and understood she thought it was beyond him. In her mind he just didn’t understand the needs of a child.

  “We’re going to make the same mistakes,” he muttered. He regretted it immediately, but it was too late. The smile evaporated from her face, and the pain came into her eyes.

  “What mistakes, Joe? What did I do?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. You blame me, don’t you?”

  “Of course not. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me.”

  “You always blamed me.”

  “Will you stop it,” he said, assuming an angry demeanor in hopes that would abort the error. It didn’t. The tears escaped from her eyes, and she got up quickly. “Martha!”

  “I’m tired. I’m going up to lie down.”

  “Dammit,” he said, and slapped the magazine against his leg. She left the den.

  There was nothing he could do. He realized it would haunt them forever; forever the screaming would echo in his memory; forever those legs would swing back and forth, ticking away the end of three lives, not just the end of one. The shadow of Solomon’s dangling corpse, magnified ten times, fell indelibly over the house and darkened the windows. There was no escape from the cloud.

  Or was there? Could it be that there was promise and hope in the coming of the new boy? Could it be that Martha was right in her search and in her determination? Perhaps if they did devote themselves to Jonathan, they would be able to push back the darkness and bring back the sunlight.