The Surrogate

by Henry Wall Judith

  At the top of the stairs, Gus paused and reached down to rub his aching knees, then made his way down the broad corridor with its many-paned, arched windows that looked out onto rolling green acres. Gus tapped gently on the door to Sonny’s old room then opened it and stepped inside. The two sari-clad women smiled, and the younger one, Randi, called out in her precise English, “Good morning, Mister Gus.”

  The babies were lying side by side on a pallet wearing identical blue sailor suits. Randi’s baby was brown-skinned with dark hair, and the other was fair-skinned with a bit of light fuzz on the top of his head.

  Gus grabbed hold of a nearby chair and gingerly lowered himself to his knees. Then he held out his fingers for the babies to grasp. He found them equally beautiful and equally appealing. Amita and Buck. Both were boys—fine boys who were fat and happy.

  Gus had fallen into the habit of stopping by to see the babies morning and evening. Sonny’s old suite was now a nursery. His books were still on the shelves, but most of his possessions had been removed and packed away in the attic. Gus hadn’t even bothered to ask Amanda if that was agreeable with her; he had simply ordered it done. Randi looked after the babies, and her mother, who was called Patty in lieu of her very long and unpronounceable name, came in the morning to help her and often spent the night so that Randi and her baby could be at home with her husband.

  Gus produced two musical baby rattles from his pocket and began shaking them in front of the babies’ faces. Then he placed tiny fingers around the rattles and watched the babies’ delight as they waved them around.

  “Has Amanda been by to see Buck lately?” Gus asked. He had taken to calling the baby Buck even though Amanda planned to name Sonny’s baby Jason after their father. What would happen to Buck after baby Jason arrived was beginning to weigh heavily on Gus’s mind. To acquire the child, he had given substantial amounts of money to the birth mother and her parents. And to obtain legal custody, he had filed for adoption. Of course, he had no intention of going through with the adoption. No intention at all. He would make sure that the boy went to a good home, however. And perhaps he would maintain some sort of relationship with him in the years to come.

  In response to his question, Randi shook her head, her lovely face sad. “No, Mister Gus. Miss Amanda has not seen her baby since the magazine people came last week to photograph them together. I think that Miss Amanda has the sickness in the head that some women get after their babies are born.”

  “Postpartum depression?” Gus responded.

  “Yes,” Randi said with a nod. “Miss Amanda is not a happy lady. Not happy to have a beautiful son. Not happy with her handsome husband. She is here at Victory Hill so seldom now, and when she does come to this room, Mister Toby is not with her and she does not want to hold her own baby. She just looks at him and leaves. It makes me weep to see her that way, Mister Gus. Miss Amanda, she is our guardian angel. My mother and my husband and I love her so very much. With all of our unworthy hearts, we love her.”

  Patty nodded vigorously in support of her daughter’s statement.

  “You cannot imagine the kindness that Miss Amanda has shown us,” Randi continued. “And now we are afraid for her and pray for her many times every day to the Christian God and to Uma, who is the Hindu goddess of motherhood.”

  Gus grabbed hold of the chair, pulled himself to his feet, and stood watching the babies for a time.

  How perfectly beautiful they were.

  He bid Randi and her mother good day and headed downstairs to his office, where he tried to reach Amanda on her cell phone for the fifth time in two hours. She still did not answer. Every day that went by she became angrier at him. He had promised that he would deliver Sonny’s baby to her, and he had failed to do so, which shook him to the core. How could a young woman with a small baby and no resources outwit all the muscle that he had thrown against her? Gus had developed a begrudging admiration for Jamie Long and would actually feel sad when she met her eventual fate. And her boyfriend. Gus had been furious when he learned that Joe Brammer had slipped out of Houston on a motorcycle that no one knew about. And when they finally tracked them to that place on the beach, Brammer and the girl weren’t there.

  The whole thing seemed like a bad movie in which he was the supreme villain. Which maybe he truly was. Gus knew that eventually he would prevail. He had to. Every day that went by Amanda became more and more difficult, acting out like a petulant child who no longer got her way. It wouldn’t be long before the press got wind of her behavior, and he would have a devil of a time keeping a lid on bad publicity. Fortunately, with the consolidation of the media, it was far easier to pull in chits with various CEOs than it had been in the old days, when he was forced to make good on threats to feisty managing editors who thought they had some God-given right to print “The Truth.” Nevertheless, squelching bad publicity was time consuming and still not a fail-safe process.

  Amanda had put him on notice. She would behave herself and come back home to Toby only when she had Sonny’s baby in her arms—a baby who would be genetically tested just to make sure that Gus was not trying to pull a fast one on her. Only Sonny’s actual child would do. She was even threatening to cancel her next national tour. Right now she was holed up in a hotel in Brunswick with some tattooed piece of shit who probably would infect her with a sexually transmitted disease. And her so-called husband was still living down the hall and spending his days tanning, swimming laps, pumping iron, eating nuts and sprouts, and praying to keep himself in shape for when Amanda came home. For the most part, Gus avoided Toby, but he had gone from being appalled that Amanda actually married a brainless bodybuilder to wishing she would honor her marital vows and cleave only unto him.

  But Amanda was so much like their mother that it was frightening. Of course, Gus himself had a healthy sexual appetite, but he conducted his activities with great discretion. And he did not preach one thing and do another. His sister—like their mother before her—presented herself to the world as a virtuous woman who not only believed her own sermons but also lived them when nothing could have been further from the truth. But while Mary Millicent and her old reprobate of a father had been hard-core con artists, Amanda actually seemed to believe all the godly rhetoric that flowed from her lovely mouth. Her rationalization seemed to be that God held her to a different standard, that, after all, God had made her beautiful, appealing, clever, and persuasive so that she could bring Him souls, and was therefore perfectly willing to look the other way when those same attributes attracted adoring men. Except that beauty didn’t last forever. In spite of Botox and peels and procedures, Amanda wasn’t going to be able to keep her looks forever. And then, he feared, she would become pathetic like their mother had become. But he would always love her.

  Gus called his sister’s cell-phone number once again. This time he left a message. “I miss you terribly and am greatly worried about you, Amanda. I desperately need to see you. We need to make the final plans for your crusade or cancel it. And surely you realize that it’s past time for you to conduct another one. Just popping in and out of a city here and there is not the same as a full-fledged crusade. We have worked too hard to make you one of the most beloved and powerful women in America to let it all fade away. And the president’s reelection committee is counting on both the funding and the loyal voters that only the Alliance of Christian Voters can provide. No one else can fill your shoes, Amanda. You are the greatest evangelist of our times, maybe of all times. No one has ever saved more souls to glorify God or mobilized Christian voters like you do. But all that aside, I miss my darling sister. You know that I love and adore you above all others. You are my life, Amanda. Please come home to me. I swear that you will have Sonny’s baby in your arms. Soon. It is my solemn promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  THEY NEEDED TO go to Dallas. But not yet. Not for a week.

  Jamie insisted that they spend that week outside the state of Texas. And as soon as they crossed the state line int
o Arkansas, she felt safer—for a time at least.

  North of Murfreesboro they passed up a couple of RV parks for not being scenic enough. The one they finally selected was located in a wooded grove with mountains all around and a quaint village within walking distance. They bought groceries before settling in at their campsite, which overlooked a small creek and had a picnic table and a grill. While Joe busied himself hooking up the RV to water, electrical, and sewer lines, Jamie put foil-wrapped potatoes in the oven, then told Joe to keep an ear out for Billy while she walked to the camp store to buy charcoal and ice.

  Joe grilled steaks while Jamie made iced tea and a salad. They ate at the picnic table, with Billy sitting at one end in his infant carrier studying the gently waving branches overhead. “This is wonderful,” Jamie said, reaching for Joe’s hand.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, kissing her fingertips. “A preview of things to come.”

  “I hope so,” Jamie said, a surge of emotion filling her chest. “Oh, God, I hope so.”

  With Joe carrying Billy, they took an after-dinner walk following a path along the creek. The night was clear, the air crisp. With the absence of city lights, an amazing number of stars revealed themselves, which made Jamie think of the ranch. The sky had been spectacular there, too. And the high plain landscape with its lonely vastness had offered an unspoiled beauty of sorts. It was people who had made it an evil place.

  Back at their campsite, they sat at the picnic table while Jamie fed Billy and Joe drank a beer. She helped herself to a few sips and wanted more. She allowed herself to think of a time when she would no longer be nursing a baby and could enjoy a couple of cans of beer or a glass or two of wine in the evening and not have to wear unattractive nursing bras.

  She had become unaccustomed to alcohol, and the sips of beer made her a bit light-headed, which was delightful, and her mind drifted forward to lovemaking. She had found a box of candles in the kitchen cupboard and had thought all day how lovely it was going to be to make love by candlelight. And now her imaginings were becoming more graphic and brought wonderful responses to her body. She closed her eyes to savor them.

  “Hey,” Joe said, “are you thinking about what I’m thinking about?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jamie said, her eyes still closed.

  Taking turns with Billy in the sling, they spent hours each day on long hikes. Sometimes they lingered beside a small lake, watching turtles sun themselves on rocks and engaging in rock-skimming contests. Every morning they walked to the village to buy newspapers and whatever groceries were needed. In the afternoon they returned for double-decker ice-cream cones. In the evenings they made a production out of dinner, with the picnic table nicely set and a candle burning in a hurricane lamp. Fresh trout was readily available at the village grocery and tasted wonderful grilled. Sometimes they went for hours or even an entire day without talking about the threat that hung over their future, but it was their constant companion, making every moment they shared all the more intense.

  Their last afternoon at the camp, Joe caught a ride into town and used the computer at the local library to check out the mass-transit schedule for Dallas and its environs. Then he went to a site featuring Texas RV parks. He wanted a large one where they would be hidden away among a sea of vehicles.

  Early the following morning, Jamie battened down the hatches inside while Joe unhooked the RV and filled the water tank in preparation for their drive.

  They stopped in Greenville to buy clothing to wear in Dallas.

  It was dark when they drove into a huge RV park near the Six Flags Over Texas amusement park.

  Marcia Kimball picked up the receiver and identified herself.

  “There’s a guy out here asking to see you,” the receptionist’s voice announced.

  Holding the receiver to her ear with her shoulder, Marcia continued to type words into her computer. “Who is he?” she asked.

  “Won’t say. He said to ask you if you’ve ever ridden on a Harley.”

  Marcia frowned then took hold of the receiver and leaned back in her chair. “Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”

  “Well, he’s tall and he’s handsome, but his head is shaved.”

  “Ask him where he took me on the Harley.”

  Marcia listened while the receptionist inquired. The man answered, “Padre Island.”

  Marcia drew in her breath then slowly exhaled. “Give me ten minutes then send him back,” she told the receptionist, then headed for the prep room with its lighted mirror and assorted cosmetics.

  She was back at her desk, pretending to be engrossed in her work, when Joe tapped on the partition that formed the wall of her cubicle. She spun her chair around. “Well, look at you! I wouldn’t have recognized you if I’d bumped into you on the street. What’s with the bald head and facial hair?”

  Joe looked up and down the corridor, then stepped closer and said in a very soft voice, “Actually, it’s meant to be a disguise.”

  Another quip was composing itself in her head when she realized that Joe was serious. Dead serious.

  He was wearing khaki pants and a navy dress shirt. No tie. He was leaner than before. And very tan.

  She stood and motioned for him to follow her. She made her way through the maze of cubicles to one of the station’s two conference rooms. She closed the door behind her and motioned for him to sit down.

  “We can talk here,” she said.

  Joe shook his head and pointedly looked around at the corners of the room and put a finger to his lips. “What I had in mind was lunch. I’m starving.”

  Marcia frowned. What in the hell was going on with him? Was he actually afraid that the room might be bugged?

  Could it be? The thought had never occurred to her.

  She glanced at her watch. “I’m on for the noon news and have lots of loose ends to take care of first. How about dinner?”

  Joe glanced toward a credenza, then made a motion of writing something on his hand. Marcia realized that he wanted a piece of paper and something to write with. She opened a drawer in the credenza and produced a tablet and pencil.

  “You’re looking good,” he said as he wrote, but there was no flirtation in his eyes or his voice. He showed her what he had written:

  Where can we meet? Not your apartment.

  “Why don’t you just call me in a day or two,” she said as she wrote:

  I’m driving a blue Kia SUV. Be in front of the Crescent Hotel at six p.m.

  He nodded and tore off the piece of paper and stuck it in his pocket. She showed him back to the waiting room, asking about his folks and saying that hers were doing well.

  Back in her cubicle Marcia realized that she was shaking. Either Joe Brammer had gone crazy or something was terribly wrong. And she would have to wait almost seven hours to find out what the hell was going on with her old boyfriend, whom she had never quite gotten over—even though she had been the one who finally ended things between them. But only because she realized that she was beating a dead horse. She saw herself living in New York City, and Joe planned to practice law in Texas—as a public defender, of all things. They had argued endlessly about whether the Lone Star State should adopt a kinder, gentler criminal-justice system. But oh, when they finally stopped arguing, they had been damned good together. In bed, on sofas, in dark hallways, in public restrooms, and even once with her bent over the back of the Harley. The sex she had had with Joe had become her gold standard, and it had never quite measured up since, though Lord knows she had tried.

  But it definitely wasn’t sex that Joe wanted from her now. Although it was hard for her to comprehend what sort of major trouble someone as smart as Joe had gotten himself into, she knew that he had come to her for help.

  She was accustomed to people coming to her with their problems. She had handled all the consumer-watchdog stuff before she got the noon anchor job. The station had a reputation for looking out for the little guy—helping people who had been swindled or had unfortunate run-ins with city hall. No
thing cloak-and-dagger, though. Now, with her promotion, she could concentrate more on hard news, which was more compatible with her immediate goal of becoming an evening anchorperson either here in Dallas or in some other major market, which she hoped would be a stepping-stone to a network position or a cable job that provided nationwide exposure. After all, some of the big-time broadcast divas were getting a little long in the tooth, and Marcia wanted to be experienced enough and have proven herself to be aggressive enough to be next in line. It was only a matter of time, and she wanted sooner instead of later.

  But she also wanted a husband and kids. A normal side to her life. And Joe Brammer was the only man with whom she had ever imagined herself growing old.

  Don’t go there, she warned herself. Just see what he wants. And hope it leads to a good story.

  Still, she found herself wondering if he was with someone now. What if he wasn’t in trouble at all but some woman was? His lover, or his wife?

  Whatever the story was, it had better be a good one. She didn’t have time to waste on dead ends or small stuff.

  She forced herself to return to the story she had been working on before Joe’s visit.

  Somehow, she got through the rest of the afternoon. At a quarter of five, she was heading for the parking lot. She stopped by her apartment to freshen up and change into her best-fitting jeans and race around picking up clothes and shoes and tidying up a bit—just in case. Then she headed down the North Dallas Toll Road. The traffic was heavy. She was going to be late.

  When she pulled up in front of the elegant Crescent, Joe was waiting.

  As Joe got into the car, he handed her a piece of paper with the word “Denton” written on it. Once again he put his finger to his lips.

  Marcia wanted to erupt. Was the man nuts? Did he actually think that someone might have bugged her car? She rolled her eyes at him then pulled away from the curb.