by Bill Moody
She comes back out carrying a small tray with two mugs of coffee, two spoons, a half pint carton of half and half, and a small bowl of sugar. She sets everything on the table and leans the tray against her chair. “So how did the recording go?”
“Fine. Look, Mom what’s going on?”
She sits down. I see weariness on her face now, although she still looks good. Her hair is grayer and the glasses, attached to a chain around her neck seem thicker, but otherwise she looks healthy.
“Evan,” she begins tentatively, “I don’t hardly know how to tell you this.” She takes a cigarette out of her pack and nervously strikes three matches before she can get it lit. Taking a deep drag, she blows the smoke out. She looks at the cigarette and smiles. “It’s so easy to start again, isn’t it?”
I wait, watching her, trying to read her expression. “Are you and dad splitting up? Is that what this is about?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “No, this isn’t about your dad and me. This is about you.” She takes a folded piece of paper out of one of the large pockets in her dress and hands it to me. “I’ve been carrying this around with me since you called, wondering how I was going to do this.” She gets up and walks to the other end of the porch.
I open it and look at it, suddenly feeling like I did when I found Cal’s note. Scanning over it quickly at first, then focusing more closely. Thicker than regular paper with some official looking seals and signatures, it’s creased from many folding.
A birth certificate. In the middle of the page is my name, only it’s not my name.
Evan Douglas Hughes Date of Birth: 9-27-58
Father: Calvin William Hughes. Mother: Susan Jean Lane.
I don’t know how long I stare trying to make sense of it. I look away then back several times. My mother is staring straight ahead, the cigarette in her hand. Then suddenly, it hits me, what I was trying to remember when I’d called her from Guerneville, when I’d told her about Cal’s death. Oh yes, your friend from Kansas City, she’d said. And that’s what had been wrong.
I’d never mentioned where Cal was from, then or ever.
I stand up and pace around the porch, the paper in my hand, looking at it again and again but still unable to digest what it means. “I don’t understand, Mom. What is this?”
She comes back, sits down and stubs out her cigarette and sighs deeply. She won’t look at me. “We, I, should have told you a long time ago, I know that, but we put it off, hid it, I don’t know. The longer we waited, the harder it was to do. Then you were gone and…” Her voice trails off and she shrugs.
I lean back against the porch railing and close my eyes, my stomach churning.
When I was about thirteen or fourteen and learning to body surf, I took a wave one hot afternoon that was way too big. Two of my buddies shouted—Danny Cooper was one I think—“No, not this one,” but it was too late. I was already shooting down the face of the wave, my arms at my sides, feeling its force and power take me. I don’t know how long the slide was, but for a second, as the wave began its curl, I was in the air for a few seconds, suspended, between the crest of the wave and the flat dark surface of the water that seemed so far below. Then, I hit the water flat, felt tons more fall and crush me, throwing me around like a toy. Under water, the whirling and churning continued, the salt water stinging my eyes. My lungs ached for air. I fought in a panic, but I was so disoriented I didn’t know where the surface was. Whirling and twisting and being thrown about, till I saw a faint light and dug for the surface. I broke through, gasping for breath, trying to keep my head above water, but I was thrown around by two more waves till I finally washed up on the beach and crawled up to the dry sand. I lay there, gasping, spitting up water, trying to get my breath back. That’s how it feels now as I look at the birth certificate again, my birth certificate.
My mother’s eyes finally meet mine. “I’m sorry, Evan, I’m so sorry.”
“But how? Who else knew?”
“Most of the family, some close friends. We had two anniversary dates to account for you. The real one when your father,” she pauses and corrects herself, “your stepfather and I got married, and another one to take in your birth. You were two when Richard and I got married.”
Richard. Dad. Yes, suddenly the man I believed to be my father is now somebody else. Somebody called Richard Horne.
“Whenever you needed your birth certificate for school or something, we always took care of it. We had adoption papers, and since I was your birth mother, well, it wasn’t that difficult and you were too young to worry about it.”
I sit down again and feel the questions swirling around in my mind. Such an elaborate scheme to cover things up, keep the truth from me. The truth that Calvin Hughes, whose ashes I had scattered in Santa Monica Bay was my father.
“But why, Mom?” I look again at the certificate. “And Lane isn’t your maiden name, or is it?”
She sighs again. “No.” Her eyes well up then. She takes a swallow of coffee and lights another cigarette. “I was married again briefly, just a few months, between…between Calvin and Richard.” She glances at me briefly then looks away. “I didn’t want you to know about that. I made such a terrible mistake, I know that. Richard wanted me to tell you so many times, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
I stare dumbly at her. “So all these years you let me think I was somebody else, that somebody else was my father. Didn’t you think I had a right to know?” I feel the anger rising up in me now as the truth starts to seep in my mind. “Jesus Christ, Mom, I had a right to know. You should have told me.”
“Oh I know. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I spent so much time trying to think how I’d tell you. I…I was trying to protect you, but I see that was wrong.”
“Protect me? From what?”
She sighs again, her voice is quieter. “Calvin, your father, wasn’t always a nice man. There were other women and I didn’t want…” She doesn’t finish for a moment. “When you first told me you’d met him, were studying with him, I knew then this day would come. He never said anything, hinted at it?”
I think back, trying to remember, but no, there was never anything. Just my surprise that Calvin agreed to take me on as a student, and later, a friend and mentor.
“No, there was nothing.” I reach for my bag, unzip it and pull out the file folder with Cal’s papers, the music sheets and the photo. I hand the photo to her and point. “That’s me isn’t it, in the carriage,” I say, hearing my voice tremble.
She takes the photo and looks at it, puts her hand to her mouth as tears slide down her face. “Yes.” Her voice is almost a whisper. “Where did you get this?” She wipes away the tears and looks at me.
“I found it with Cal’s things.” I tell her about the note and the photo, how Cal had left it.
She nods, studying the photo. “And he kept it all these years.” She shakes her head again and looks up at me. “You’re right, Evan, you did have a right to know and for that I’m so sorry. I just…I just hope you can find some way to forgive me.”
I can see her steeling herself as she lights another cigarette. I hope I can too. I fish the lighter out of my pocket. I’d been carrying it around. “This is yours too.”
She curls her fingers around it, her head bows slightly. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
***
“I was working in Kansas City,” she begins, “my first time away from home, going a little wild I guess if you can imagine that. I shared an apartment with two other girls. There were parties, going out to clubs and dances, everything I’d never been able to do. One night we went to hear this band. Calvin, your father, was the piano player. I don’t know why I was so drawn to him. I just stood in front of the band listening to the music, watching him play.
“He caught me looking at him a couple of times, smiled at me. We talked during the intermissions and later, we went out for so
mething to eat. He was so ambitious, so dedicated to music, I was just…mesmerized. I’d never known anybody so passionate about something. Music, playing the piano was important to me, but nothing like that, and I never had any idea of a career in music.”
I sit very still just listening to her, hearing for the first time about another life altogether.
“I met him again the next night and nearly every night for the two weeks they played. Then, well, things happened. I fell in love but the band was going on the road. They’d be gone for a month he said, but they were coming back to Kansas City. It was one of those territory bands. They traveled on a bus. It was a hard life but Calvin loved it. He called a lot, wrote me notes, cards, and I could hardly wait till he got back.
“The band he was with got another long term job in Kansas City, but he wanted to leave the band, go to New York. He said he’d missed his chance once and it wasn’t going to happen again. I never knew what he was talking about and he never explained what he meant.”
“We spent nearly two months together and finally, on his day off, we got married. Just the two of us and a couple of friends from the band as witnesses. Then he was gone again, another road trip, leaving me alone in a small studio apartment we’d found.”
I glance over at her then, watch her sigh deeply.
“When he came back again, I was pregnant with you. He wanted to go to New York. That’s all he talked about and he wanted me to go with him, but I was scared. I didn’t want to be stuck in New York while he traveled, not knowing anybody, so I stayed in Kansas City. At least I had a few friends there. Then he called, said he had a chance to go to Europe on a tour and couldn’t turn it down.”
She stops then, sighs and lights another cigarette, takes a drink of coffee. “I knew it was a big chance for him, he was so determined to make good, but it was months before he came back. I waited, working as long as I could, until just before you were born. He didn’t even call me at first, but I found out where he was playing, where he was staying.” She points to the photo. “That’s when that photo was taken, right outside his hotel. I don’t know what happened while he was in Europe, maybe another woman, but he was different somehow. I realized then how foolish I’d been, but it wasn’t just me now. I had a child.”
“We spent a week talking about things, what we were going to do and finally I made him choose. You and me. His baby, or the road. It wasn’t going to be any life I wanted. He’d be gone all the time and it was too lonely for me. Well, you can imagine what his choice was. He went back out on the road again and that was the last time I saw Calvin Hughes. He wrote occasionally, sent me money but I never responded. I was working, trying to raise you, trying to forget how silly I’d been. It was just too much. I couldn’t cope with it all.”
My mother slumps back in her chair and rubs her eyes. “Then, this man in the office I was working in, Jim Lane was his name, started asking me out. By then I’d filed for divorce and of course Calvin never appeared when I went to court. I was lonely, feeling abandoned so it was easy to fall into things with Jim, but it was a mistake from the start even though we got married.”
“It lasted about six months and one day I simply took you on a Greyhound bus and went to California. One of the girls I’d roomed with was out there and she got me a job where she worked. I wrote Jim that it was over, saying I would agree to a divorce, that he could file anything he wanted. He tried to talk me out of it but finally gave up.”
She pauses again, such a faraway look in her eyes then turns to look at me. “So there I was, strictly raised small town girl, married and divorced twice with a baby. Who would have thought. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself.”
She seems calmer now, having finally unburdened herself as she continues. “Then your dad, Richard, came along.” She stands up then, leans against the porch railing, her hands in her pockets, staring out over the tree lined street.
“Richard was everything I thought I wanted at the time. Solid, hard working, and he accepted you like you were his own child. My life before with Calvin and Jim Lane seemed like a bad dream, and now I was waking up. We got married, moved into that house in Santa Monica and his business flourished. He was ambitious in his own way, but well, you know he had no affinity for music, that kind of life, although he never pressed me about Calvin. He thought I should tell you early on that he was not your real father, but like I said, I kept putting it off.”
She sighs and turns back toward me. “Evan, I knew this day would come sometime, but can you understand I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. Please don’t think badly of me for not telling you. I’m not making excuses but it’s just something I can’t undo now.”
I don’t trust myself to speak for awhile. My mind is churning, questions rising to the surface, so many I can’t sort them out. Finally, I get up and put my hands on the railing and lean on it. “No, I don’t think badly of you mom. I wasn’t there, but to learn now that Calvin was my father, that Richard…. Do you have any idea what this feels like? I just wish you’d told me sooner.”
I look into my mother’s eyes and see the pain, the regret. “I just have to get used to the idea, Mom. It’s not easy.” I hug her to me for a moment. “Do you have any other photos of him, anything?”
“Yes, I’ve been looking for them since you called.”
“I want to see them, Mom, anything you have.”
She nods. “I think I know where they are.”
“I need to get away for awhile, okay? I think I’m going to take a walk, kind of digest all this.”
“Sure, honey. You go ahead. I’ll fix us some lunch when you come back.” She hugs me close and is still watching when I look back as I start down the street.
***
It’s not every day you find out you’re not who you think you are, the people you thought you knew are not who you thought they were. It’s all different now and nothing can be changed. Nothing, I realize suddenly, will be the same again. I feel cheated, betrayed, lied to, and the feeling won’t go away.
I walk for almost an hour, through the streets of Medford, trying to process everything, sort out my feelings. Memories flood my mind; little incidents come into focus, snatches of conversations that puzzled me at the time but now suddenly make sense, understanding now why I’d never connected with my dad, why he’d never understood my obsession with music. How could he? He was a businessman who owned a chain of photo copy instant printing stores. His life was the bottom line, facts and figures, hiring, firing, employee benefits. Mine was music, the piano.
As I walk, not really aware of direction, things come back to me in a rush. The many arguments, the threats, my mother trying to keep the peace with Richard while encouraging me to practice. It was all from her. The envy I’d felt with friends whose fathers seemed to have such good relationships with them, not knowing that at that very moment, my real father, Calvin Hughes was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.
I look around, getting my bearings when it starts to rain suddenly and hard. I turn toward the house and when I get back, I’m drenched. I find my mother seated at the dining room table, looking through a shoe box of photos and a scrap book. She looks up at me. “Oh, you’re soaked,” she says, getting up. “Get out of those clothes. I put your bag in the back room.”
I dry off, and change and come back and sit down with her, seeing photos of Cal, newspaper clippings she’d saved spread over the table.
“I want you to have these, Evan. You should have had them long ago.”
I nod and smile at her. “Well, I’ve at least found Jean Lane.”
“You’ve found more than that.”
While my mother makes sandwiches, I look through the photos, seeing Cal, my mother as a young woman, and Cal gradually changing and aging, knowing I’ll always wonder how I would view these if they’d told me earlier. How would my mother have explained things then?
I also have to accept that he never tried to see me or con
tact me. It wasn’t until I began taking lessons with him that we began to form a bond. Why didn’t he tell me then? I drifted in and out of his life for a few brief years, a student, friend, and never knew, never once guessed he was my father.
“Here we are,” my mother says. She sets down plates with sandwiches and potato salad. “You must be hungry.”
I take a bite of the sandwich but it’s tasteless. “Did he know you moved to California?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure, probably.” She looks at me again. “But no, he never contacted me, never asked to see you. The only person I ever heard from was his friend.” She looks up. “I’m sorry, Evan, but that’s the truth. I think it would have been too hard for him by then, and he probably worried about what it would do to you, and I like to think, me. He wouldn’t have known if I’d told you or not, but I suspect he knew where we were. He must have followed your playing career.”
“What friend?”
My mother frowns. “Oh what was his name. He was a bass player, in the band with Cal when I first met him. Al…Beck, Becker, Beckwood. Al Beckwood.”
I stop and look up at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Every once in awhile he’d call or send me a card. I think Cal put him up to it.”
“Do you know where he is, how I could contact him?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s been years now. I have no idea.”
We finish lunch as I continue to look through things, but my mind is on Al Beckwood. Maybe he’d have some answers. Finally, my mother gets up and clears the table. “I’ve made some fresh coffee and there’s beer in the fridge,” she says. “I’m going to lie down for awhile.”
“Sure, Mom, go ahead.”
She leans over and kisses me on the forehead and squeezes my shoulder. “Take whatever you want, Evan. They’re yours now.”
***
I’m still sitting on the porch when my dad’s, Richard’s, van pulls into the driveway. He gets out, joins me on the porch and drops into a chair. “So. Now you know, huh?”
