The Imposter

by Gary Blackwood

  Then he threw up.

  Chapter 16

  It was a shame, really, that Ollie had married into money. The world had been deprived of a truly gifted actress. If he hadn't known better, Ryan would never have guessed she harbored any doubts about him. She treated him like … well, like one of the family, laughing at his jokes, asking about his injured arm, offering him everything in the house for lunch.

  Ryan matched her, smile for smile. "I'll just have what everybody else is having."

  "I wasn't sure you'd care for avocado and alfalfa sprouts."

  "That's my favorite," he said, echoing some cereal commercial he'd once done.

  "Oh, good. Sit down, and I'll fix it for you. Ken gave the cook the afternoon off."

  Mr. Kurz shrugged. "She had to go into town. Which reminds me, Allen, we need to go get you some clothes and things."

  "Why don't you drive him in," Ollie suggested, "and the two of you can spend the whole afternoon together. I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about, man to man."

  "We certainly do." Mr. Kurz looked about as enthusiastic as Ryan felt. That was odd. You'd think he'd welcome a chance to get acquainted. What was it Kelley had said? That her father was afraid Ryan would ask about the other sister? What other sister?

  Ollie set the sandwich in front of him. "Can I get you anything else?"

  "No, thanks, I'm fine." He knew what her game was: she was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Well, it wasn't going to work. He was so keyed up, waiting for her to mention the stuff in the suitcase, that he had to force himself to bite into the sandwich. It didn't help that he despised sprouts—especially these. They seemed a lot spicier than the last sprouts he'd reluctantly tasted. In fact, they were downright hot, so hot that it made his eyes water. He swallowed hard, grabbed his glass of juice, and gulped greedily at it.

  "What's wrong?" asked Kelley.

  "Nothing. It's just that … well, I don't want to sound like a wimp, but something in this sandwich is burning my mouth."

  "Let's see." Kelley lifted up the top slice of bread and fished out a slice of something green that definitely wasn't avocado. "It looks like a jalapeno pepper! How did that get in there?"

  Ollie shook her head in exasperation. "I'm going to have to speak to the cook. She must have gotten it mixed in with the sprouts, somehow."

  "Oh, boy," said Mr. Kurz. "Those suckers burn, too. You okay, champ?"

  Ryan wiped at his eyes and waved a hand in front of his open mouth. "I think so."

  "This just isn't your day, is it?" Ollie said with a smile that appeared sympathetic. But Ryan had studied facial expressions extensively, and he saw something else in it. Secret triumph, perhaps? Could she possibly have put the hot pepper in there as a sort of message to him, a message that said, I know what you're up to, and I'm not going to say anything, but I am going to make your life miserable?

  But why be so underhanded about it? Why not just confront him and be done with it? Because she recognized a fellow actor when she saw one, and knew he'd lie his way out of it? Or because she didn't want to upset her husband?

  Ryan set the sandwich aside and picked an apple from the bowl of fruit. "There aren't any razor blades in these, are there?" he said, and everyone laughed.

  After lunch, Kelley suggested a swim. "You wouldn't have to actually use your arm. You could just sort of soak."

  Mr. Kurz furnished him with trunks that were baggy but classy. Ollie didn't join them in the pool, much to Ryan's relief; she was liable to hold him under. She sat in a lounge chair reading a copy of Vanity Fair magazine—and, Ryan suspected, covertly keeping an eye on him. Mr. Kurz spent most of his time tinkering with the filtration system, which he claimed was making "a funny noise."

  "Come on in, Daddy!" Kelley called.

  "Okay, sweetie, in a minute." It was a very long minute. Eventually, he did climb in but, before long, he remembered something else he needed to do and climbed out again. The man clearly wasn't cut out to be one of the idle rich.

  Later, when Ryan padded into the kitchen on his way to the washroom, he caught his pseudo-father raiding the refrigerator. Mr. Kurz grinned sheepishly around a mouthful of cold chicken and put a hand to his chest. "Whew! I thought you were Ollie. She'd have my scalp."

  "I promise not to tell … if you let me have a piece of that."

  "Dig in, champ. You want a beer, too?"

  "No, thanks."

  "I'm allowed to have one brew per day. Lucky me, huh?" He popped open a can with an unnecessary amount of force, and laughed a trifle bitterly. "There was a time when I could barely afford a can of beer. Now I could buy a brewery, and I'm not supposed to drink the stuff."

  "Why?"

  He patted his stomach. "Too many calories. The hell of it is, if I was putting in a full day's work, like I used to, I wouldn't have to worry. Pardon my French." Between sips of beer, he sat twanging the can's pull-tab, as if he had to be doing something with his hands. "So, you want to give the chessboard another try? You only need one good arm."

  "I don't know. What about Kelley?"

  "She'll be fine. She's used to being by herself. Come on."

  Ryan made a quick detour to his room, partly to use the washroom, partly to take a last glance through Winning Chess Strategies. He'd only studied one strategy last night before he conked out, and even that one was a little hazy.

  Mr. Kurz didn't appear to have any recognizable strategy. He never seemed to think beyond the next move. Ryan galloped a knight across the board and nabbed one of his pawns, putting his king in check and forcing him to sacrifice his rook. From then on, Mr. Kurz was constantly on the defensive.

  He took his defeat gracefully. In fact, he seemed downright cheerful about it, as if he were happy to find that his son could really play. Ryan wondered if he, too, had been having some doubts about the boy's identity. They set up another game, but Mr. Kurz's mind clearly wasn't on it. After toying aimlessly with one of his rooks for a moment, he said hesitantly, "I guess your mother has told you what happened. Why we split up, I mean."

  Ryan hesitated, uncertain how to answer. Then he thought about his real mother, and how reluctant she was to talk about his real dad. "Um … not really," he said. "I asked her a couple of times, but it didn't seem like she wanted to talk about it."

  "I'm not surprised. I don't like to, either, very much. It's like opening up an old wound. But I guess sometimes you have to open up a wound if you want it to heal." He laughed. "Listen to me. I sound like one of those self-help books Ollie's always reading. I just mean … well, maybe we ought to talk about it, you and me. Sort of clear the air, eh?"

  "You don't have to do that." Ryan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd never imagined that posing as a family member would make the family start laying all kinds of personal stuff on him.

  "I think I should. So we can put it behind us and go on from there." He cleared his throat nervously, then picked up his pipe and chewed absently on the stem. "When your mother and I got married, we were living in Montreal. I was working ten- or twelve-hour days for a company that built storage batteries for the aircraft industry. About the time you were born, they made me a foreman, and the hours got even longer. Most of the time, it was seven days a week. Maybe I could have managed to be home more, but I told myself we needed the money—which we did. But, on top of all my regular duties, I was spending a couple of hours a day on my own pet projects. You see, I was never content to do things the way they'd always been done. I was always looking for some better way. I'm not trying to make excuses, now; I'm just telling you how it was."

  "Sure. I understand."

  "Anyway, your mother was expecting again. I promised I'd take a week or two off when the baby was due, and I would have. Only the baby came early—almost a month early. When your mother went into labor, I was at the plant by myself. I heard the phone, but I was in the middle of welding something, so I let it ring." He paused and sighed heavily. "Well, when I got home, she was already at the hospita
l."

  He stopped and stared out the window a moment before he went on. "The baby was a little girl. She didn't live more than an hour, not even long enough for me to … for me to see her. Your mother was … well, for a while, she was practically out of her head. Even after she got back to normal, she never managed to forgive me."

  "Forgive you? It wasn't your fault."

  He shrugged. "I should have been there."

  "Hey, you had no way of knowing."

  "I've told myself that a thousand times. I told her that. But it just sounds like an excuse, and there is no excuse."

  "Maybe not. But you can't go on beating yourself up the rest of your life over it. Everybody makes mistakes. It's part of being human. If we didn't make mistakes, we'd be gods." He couldn't recall in what play he'd said those lines.

  Mr. Kurz was staring at him so intently that Ryan dropped his gaze to the half-played game of chess. "Are you sure you're sixteen?" Mr. Kurz said.

  Ryan looked up, startled. "What … what do you mean?"

  "I mean, you sound more mature than either your mother or me. For fifteen years, she's been nursing a grudge over this and I've been feeling guilty. Who'd you inherit your good sense from?"

  Ryan gave a relieved laugh. "In a previous life, I was the Dalai Lama."

  Mr. Kurz laughed, too. "Well, hello, Dalai." Simultaneously, they broke into a chorus of "Hello, Dolly," and Ryan did his Louis Armstrong impression. It was a nice change from having to be Allen, but it was an impersonation, all the same. He was seriously beginning to wonder whether, when it came time to return to his old self, he'd remember how.

  They picked up the chess game where they had left off, but this time, Ryan was the one whose mind was somewhere else. He was thinking that, in ten minutes of conversation, he knew more about his pretend father than he had learned about his real one in a dozen years of asking.

  Chapter 17

  Mr. Kurz was right; having the discussion did clear the air between them. The air that hung between Ryan and Ollie, however, was still charged with dangerous electricity—though only the two of them seemed aware of it.

  Ryan was grateful when the cook returned to fix supper. All the same, he chewed each mouthful of her thick clam chowder with extreme care. After the meal, Ollie coerced Kelley into playing the piano again, and again Kelley was obviously embarrassed and reluctant. Without thinking, Ryan said, "How about if I join you?"

  Kelley gave him a surprised look. "A duet, you mean?"

  "Sure. If you can duet, I can duet."

  "Why, Allen," Ollie said. "I had no idea you played."

  Ryan was aware that music was probably not one of Allen's many talents. But for some reason, he didn't care. Maybe he was doing it for Kelley; maybe he just wanted to show off. Or maybe he was trying to force Ollie's hand. "Well," he said, "I guess you can't expect to know everything about me." He slid onto the piano bench next to Kelley. "My right arm's still kind of touchy; I'd better play bass. How about a little boogie-woogie?"

  Kelley laughed and blushed as if he'd proposed something scandalous. "Okay."

  Ryan started a toe-tapping bass line, and Kelley laid down a shaky rendition of "St. Louis Blues" over it. Mr. Kurz actually put down his paper and listened. Ollie perched on one arm of the sofa, a tolerant smile on her face.

  When they wrapped it up with a big finish, Ollie stood, clapping daintily. Certain that she was about to throw a wet blanket on things, Ryan ignored her and pounded out some rockabilly-style chords. Laughing breathlessly, Kelley launched into something approximating "Great Balls of Fire." Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Ollie stride peevishly from the room.

  By bedtime, Ryan's sprained arm was aching again; he couldn't face another night of sleeping on the floor. Carefully, he stretched out on the waterbed and lay still as death until he fell asleep. It didn't take long. Though he had no shortage of things to think about and stew over, his brain was just too worn out to bother.

  At some unknown, ungodly hour, he woke abruptly, feeling chilled to the bone and shivering so violently that the waterbed was like Surf City. Groggily, he groped for the blanket at the foot of the bed and tried to pull it up over himself. It felt like it was made of lead; so did his arms.

  At first, he figured he'd caught some nasty flu bug. But he wasn't coughing or sneezing. Food poisoning, maybe? But his stomach was no more upset than usual. The only symptom he seemed to have was that numbing cold; it was as if some energy vampire had sucked every last bit of heat from his body.

  The blanket didn't help at all; there was no warmth for it to hold in. Like an exhausted swimmer, Ryan dragged himself to the edge of the bed and rolled onto the floor with a thud that might have been painful if there had been any feeling in his body. Then he headed for the washroom. He hadn't realized it was so incredibly far away. He'd never realized, either, that it was possible to stagger when you were crawling on your hands and knees.

  He draped himself over the side of the tub and, with a shaking hand, managed to turn on the hot water tap. The porcelain felt like an iceberg pressed against his back as he struggled out of his pajamas. The underwear was too much for him; he just left it on and slithered over the edge of the tub and into the steaming water.

  For half an hour, he lay submerged up to his neck, moving only enough to run more hot water into the tub. Finally, he mustered enough strength to climb out, wrap himself in a plush terrycloth robe, and make his way unsteadily back to the bed. The mattress felt like it was filled with ice water. He curled up on the rug, dragged the blanket—which now was only as heavy as a coat of chain mail—over him, and conked out.

  When Ryan came to, the clock radio on the end table read 9:30. Ryan muttered curses at it. He'd meant to get up early and call Burton while Ollie was still in bed. Now it might be too late. Still, he had to chance it. He couldn't hang on here indefinitely, waiting for the big man to turn up.

  He was still feeling drained from his bout with … whatever it was. Wrapping the blanket around him, he sat in the armchair and piloted the Enterprise to his ear. Sure enough, directory assistance in Toronto had a listing for Burton's office. He wasn't sure anyone would be there yet; it was only 8:30 in Toronto, after all. But when he entered the number, a woman's voice answered, "Burton Investigative Services."

  Somehow, he hadn't expected Burton to have a secretary. "Is Mr. Burton in?"

  "Who's calling, please?"

  Ryan hesitated. Good question. Who was he? Ryan or Allen? His groggy brain wasn't up to playing this game yet. He'd better play it safe, in case Ollie was listening in. "Um … Allen Kurz."

  It was the secretary's turn to hesitate. "Allen?" She sounded bewildered. "I'm sorry, it's just that I wasn't expecting—I mean, your mother just called us yesterday afternoon."

  "My mother?" Why would his mother call Burton Investigative Services? As far as she knew, Burton was a stage manager from out of town, not a private eye from Toronto.

  "Yes. I told her that Mr. Burton would be in touch as soon as he could."

  "So … what you're telling me is, he's not there."

  "That's correct."

  "Well, could you tell me where he is?"

  "I'm sorry, he's on a case and can't be reached."

  "But I've got to reach him." Too distraught to keep up the pretense, he said, "Look, this is Ryan Waite. Burton promised to get back to me, and I can't wait much longer."

  "This is Ryan?"

  "Yeah, Ryan Waite. Does that ring any bells?"

  "Of course. But why did you say you were Allen Kurz?"

  "It's a long story, okay? Could you just tell me where I can get hold of Burton?"

  "No, but—"

  "No? Why not?"

  "I was about to say that he left a message for you."

  "Why didn't you tell me that?"

  "Because you said you were Allen Kurz!"

  "Oh, yeah. Let me guess. He's sorry, and he'll be in touch, right?"

  "Yes, but he also said I should explain to you wha
t happened."

  "I'm listening. It better be good."

  "If you don't start being more civil," the secretary said icily, "you'll never know."

  Ryan took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm civil, all right?"

  "Good. Now, you understand that this is confidential."

  "I won't tell a soul. Cross my heart."

  "Mr. Burton was summoned to testify in a very nasty divorce case, and it's liable to drag on for some time."

  "Great. I don't suppose he bothered to mention what I'm supposed to do in the meantime?"

  "No, I'm sorry."

  "Not as sorry as I am." He docked the Enterprise without even saying goodbye; Ollie might pick up at any second, assuming she wasn't listening in already.

  So. What it boiled down to was, he was on his own. Well, that was nothing new. For most of his life, he'd had nobody to depend on but himself. Sure, he'd gotten help and guidance from directors. Even so, when the lights came up and hundreds of pairs of eyes were on him, it was up to him to say the right lines, to make the right moves. And it was up to him now.

  Though Ryan had been with the Kurzes only three days, it seemed like years. It was time to bail out, before Ollie got the goods on him or decided to slip rat poison into his orange juice. Ryan opened his dresser drawer and dug out the airline ticket. Mr. Kurz had promised to take him shopping in Halifax; surely he could manage to get to the airport from there.

  He'd have to leave his clothes behind, but that was no great loss. They were Allen's clothes, not Ryan's, and the kid was a loser. Not only that, he was dead. Ryan had no intention of being either one. He didn't want anything more to do with Allen, or with Allen's family.

  So, maybe Kelley would be a little disappointed when she found out he was an imposter. Mr. Kurz might be hurt a little, too. Ryan couldn't help that. There was no way he was going to go on posing as Allen forever, just to please them.