In other words, nothing.
If Carson Mack thought I could make anything from that, he was being very hopeful.
I was stupid. Or maybe I was just restless and wanting to work, to do something besides being a mom. I’d written up the interview I’d done with Carson and emailed it to The Rocket. They were one of the few publications already set up online, ahead of the crowd; most magazines still wanted a fax or even something sent through the regular mail.
I still had two reviews to write, but that was easy. After that, no more work lined up, no paycheck on the horizon. It always left me uneasy. I’d lived on the edge and been a freelancer for too long to ever feel comfortable about money. You never knew how long until the next paycheck, so you never turned anything down. We’d survive without any problem, of course. In my head I knew that. Dustin had a pretty fair salary, although he worked hard for it, spending more time on the road than he wanted. But I’d never liked being dependent on anyone; it went against the grain. What Carson Mack wanted wasn’t any kind of detective work. It was research. There was absolutely no danger in that. It meant just looking at old phone books and digging into records. That I could do, and he was willing to pay me. So I called up and told him I’d put in a couple of days on the job for him. As soon as I put down the receiver, I wondered if I’d been stupid, but it was too late. I’d given my word.
Tomorrow, I thought. That was soon enough. It was mid-afternoon and I was already exhausted. By the time Ian woke again, it would be too late to start, anyway. Sometimes I thought I wouldn’t stop feeling weary until he began elementary school. I’d heard those tales from friends with young kids, who said they couldn’t even remember what it was like to feel alert. Now I knew they weren’t lying. Going to a gig, even a movie, wasn’t just a logistical exercise of babysitters and more; it also required staying awake. And, Jesus, most of the time any sleep seemed way more precious.
Four
“It’s a pretty common name,” Monica observed doubtfully. I’d gone downtown to the central library, taking Ian in his stroller. His head moved around urgently, trying to take in all the big, wide world as we passed. His blue eyes were wide with curiosity, and he even pushed his head way back to try and see the top of the skyscrapers. At home we built towers out of blocks, but these were the real thing.
In the information area, Monica had come straight out from behind her desk, and now she was carrying him around, thinking carefully as I explained what I needed.
“I can check all the directories, but what parameters do you want me to put on the search?” Her mind was on the task, but her eyes and her smile were focused on Ian.
“I don’t really know. James David Clark and J.D. Clark?”
“Okay.” She nodded, gently removing a small fist that was now tugging at her hair. “I can do that. What geographical area?”
I looked over at the wall, with shelves bowing under the weight of phone directories.
“How about Olympia to Everett?” I was being hopeful, expecting her to shake her head. That was why I’d brought a box of her favorite candy and already put it on the desk. Even with friends, bribery sometimes helped.
“That is going take a while,” she replied slowly.
“That’s fine. I really appreciate it.”
“I’ve got a program on the computer that might help, but I’ve never used it.” She took Ian’s hand and pointed at the monitor on her desk. “That’s the one, isn’t it, sweetie? I’ll need to figure out what it can do. It’s going to take a few hours. Maybe even till tomorrow, Laura.”
“Of course,” I agreed readily. I’d had visions of having to go through all those books myself.
“Do you want to let me have this cutie patootie? You can have my youngest. Eighteen. He can help around the house, if you can drag him from his bed.”
I laughed.
“Will you still do it if I keep Ian?”
She handed him back, kissing his nose and making him laugh. Monica seemed so competent with him that I always felt inadequate around her.
Outside, with Ian back in the stroller, I thought about taking a look around downtown. But there was nothing I wanted from the chic boutiques, not that I had the kind of money they charged. And I’d never cared for department stores like Nordstrom’s or the Bon, where the assistants looked so perfectly groomed that they scared me. In many ways, I was starting to feel priced out of my own city.
Instead we drove back to West Seattle, to the play area by Westwood Village. I figured we’d be here regularly in the next few years, moving from the swings to the slides, the climbers and teeter-totters, as he grew. It was hard to imagine that soon he’d be a little boy, then a bigger one until in time he’d be taller than me.
I looked at the other moms sitting and chatting together as their kids played, and I wondered if I had anything in common with them. I’d find out in time. Since Ian came along, I felt as if my world had slowly contracted. Just a few years before, I’d gone all over the place, whenever and wherever I liked. Now my life seemed pretty much bounded by West Seattle. Any trip outside was an adventure. The strange thing was that I didn’t mind at all.
By the time I reached home, Ian was happily worn out and sleeping. I left him to doze in the car seat. It was easier than trying to move him and deal with the squalls if he woke.
The fax arrived the next morning. Two pages, containing a list of names and phone numbers and a note at the bottom – Seventy. Not as many as I thought. Monica.
Seventy. I could live with that; I had time, so I could try them all. I didn’t expect to find Carson’s son, but at least I’d have earned my money. The numbers ranged from Centralia all the way to Snohomish: eight of them in Seattle, six in Bellevue. I’d start with the closest ones and work my way out.
After five minutes I was sick of the sound of my own voice leaving the same message on a series of answering machines. Two hours later, between giving Ian sporadic attention, I’d crossed twenty names off the list and talked to more machines than I wanted. I went through thirteen of them in a row, so when a real person answered it took me a moment to react.
“Hi,” I said, “is this James David Clark?”
“Yeah,” he said warily. “Who are you?”
“My name is Laura Benton. I know this is going to sound really bizarre, but I’m looking for a James David Clark who was born in Montana in 1950.”
“Not me, sorry.” He hung up.
Another strike.
By evening I was no further along. I’d drunk gallons of coffee, worn out my voice and had a kid who probably felt neglected. One last call, I told myself. A Seattle number where there’d been no answer before.
“Hi,” I said, “is this James David Clark?” I didn’t even wait for him to answer. “My name is Laura Benton. I know this is going to sound really bizarre, but I’m looking for a James David Clark who was born in Montana in 1950.” I felt like I’d still be reciting the words in my sleep.
The silence on the other end of the line lasted so long that I wondered if he’d hung up.
“My daddy was born in Missoula,” he said finally, and suddenly I was very alert.
“And he was James David?” I asked, feeling my skin prickle.
“Uh-huh. I’m named for him.”
“Do you know how I can get hold of him?” I held my breath.
“He died four years ago.”
Damn, I thought. If it was the same guy, Carson was never going to see his son.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is your mom still alive?”
“Yeah.” His voice turned suspicious. “Why?”
“Did your father ever tell you about his own father?”
“Not really. He said he never knew him. Why? What’s this about, anyway?” he asked.
There was only one way to say it.
“There’s a guy who might be your grandfather; he wanted to find your dad.”
“Shit.” The word hissed out. “That’s…” He stopped, not even sure how to
respond.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
“Look,” he began, “I need…damn.” He sounded as if he was in shock “My grandfather?”
“That’s right,” I said quietly.
“But it can’t be,” he insisted.
“I think it might. Really.”
“My dad always said that his father took off before he was born and never wanted anything to do with the family. Why would he come looking now?”
“That’s not quite the story he told me,” I said gently. “And he tried looking for your father once before. But he didn’t find him.”
“Shit. Damn.” He started to laugh, a manic edge to it. “This is unbelievable, you know that?”
“It’s got to be hard to take in,” I agreed.
“You call me up out nowhere to ask about my dad, and you tell me I have a grandfather? That’s just crazy.”
“I can understand that you’re freaked.” I didn’t want to spook him. I needed to keep him talking, to find out more.
“Yeah. I mean, you’ve just told me I have a grandfather. Shit.” I heard him take a deep breath. “This is just too much.”
“Wait,” I said quickly, fearful he was going to hang up on me.
“I’m here.”
“Look, I’d like to meet and talk if that’s okay. It might be easier than over the phone.”
“I don’t know,” he began. Then, “I mean…fuck, why not?”
We finally settled on Café Paradiso the following morning.
“How will I know you?” I asked.
“Me?” He thought for a moment. “I’ll be the guy who looks like he’s been hit by an eighteen-wheeler.”
Smiling, I picked up the receiver to give Carson the news, then stopped. There weren’t any details. Not even absolute proof that this was the right man. I didn’t know yet if James David wanted to meet this grandfather of his, or if he was even ready for that. I didn’t even know if he’d show in the morning. He was probably calling his mom right now - maybe his grandmother, if she was still alive. No, it was better to wait.
Dustin had scheduled the day off, to work in the garden. One of the books he was pushing for spring was about raised beds for growing food, and he’d gotten a wild hair to try it out for himself. This was pretty ambitious for a man who once told me he couldn’t keep a house plant alive. But I wasn’t complaining. He was already in the garden, digging out turf. Ian was close by in his stroller, bundled up against the late-March weather. So I was free to head on out on my own. The parking up on Capitol Hill was as bad as ever, but I finally squeezed into a spot up on Twelfth, near the strange old furniture store that had been in the same spot forever. I walked the few blocks over to where Café Paradiso stood at the apex of the Pike Street triangle, with the Comet Tavern and Moe at the base. In the last few years Seattle had become coffee heaven. All the carts had gone, replaced by funky spaces with bare walls, secondhand furniture and original art, with alternative music as a soundtrack.
Paradiso was a large, two-storey place serving good coffee and even better pastries. From July to October, when the weather was good, they’d put a few tables outside, so people could see and be seen and we could all pretend we were in Paris and cosmopolitan. I ordered a latte and a muffin, then looked around.
I found him sitting upstairs, in one of the deep chairs, scanning every new face as it appeared. He was right: he looked like he’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, his eyes wide in something between shock and horror. He was in his early twenties, with dark, curly hair that hung down onto his shoulders, the kind of skinny body that’s only the property of the young, and a face not fully formed yet. He watched, gazing at me and wondering, as I walked toward him.
“James?” I asked.
He nodded. “Most people call me Jim.”
There was the look of Carson around his eyes and mouth, but it was faint. Otherwise I’d never have picked them out as being related. Maybe they weren’t, I reminded myself: That wasn’t certain yet.
I sat down and we made small talk as I ate the muffin. He seemed to relax a little as the minutes passed. That was what I wanted, so all those years of interviewing had paid off. Then it was time for business.
“I’m very sorry your father died,” I told him. He shrugged, trying to look tough, as if it hadn’t affected him. He’d clearly never be the type to lie well.
“My parents divorced when I was five,” he said. “I didn’t see him too much after that. He kind of moved around.”
“You grew up here?”
“Bellevue. My mom married again.” The city was just the other side of Lake Washington from Seattle, but in so many ways it could have been a world away: suburban, smug and squeaking with money.
“Did you call her after we talked yesterday?”
“Yeah.” He reddened. “She didn’t believe it. She never even heard my grandma talk about my dad’s father.”
“Is your grandmother still alive?”
James David – Jim – shook his head. “She died a while back. She was kind of wild, I guess. Never slowed down and it caught up with her.”
The word ‘wild’ made me perk. Carson said the girl he made pregnant had been wild.
“What was her name?”
“Darlene Clark,” he said, surprised at the question. That put it beyond doubt. It was the right name and she’d been in the right place. It had to be. Coincidences didn’t stretch that far.
“Do you know much about music?” I asked.
“What?” he asked, astonished by my change of tack. “Um…some, I guess. I play in a band. Why?”
“Your grandfather’s a musician.”
“What?” He almost dropped his mug. “You’re joking, right? You’re sure he’s my grandfather?”
“Yes,” I told him. “From what you just told me, I’m certain.” I gave him a few moments to absorb that, although I knew it would take a lot longer to sink in properly. “Have you ever heard of someone called Carson Mack?”
He looked at me as if I’d just made up the name.
“Are you serious? Who has a name like that?”
“Serious as a heart attack. That’s your grandfather. He was a minor country star. Probably about the time you were born.”
“Wow.” He looked at me again to be certain this wasn’t all a hoax, then shook his head, still trying to absorb the information. “Shit.”
“What do you play?”
“Guitar. Our own stuff. Kind of grunge, I guess.” I tried not to wince at that word.
“Were you born in Bellevue?”
“Spokane,” he said and pulled a pack of Drum from his pocket, making a production of rolling a cigarette and lighting it. “My mom took me to Bellevue after she and my dad split. That’s where she met my stepdad.”
I let him draw down the smoke. So far he’d taken it all pretty well, I thought. It was time for the next step.
“Do you think you’d be interested in meeting your grandfather?” I asked, and I was glad that he paused before answering.
“Yeah,” he said finally, but the word came out with caution.
“I can go call him if you like, set it up.”
He hesitated again, gulped down more coffee, then answered, “Okay.”
There was a payphone in the entrance to the coffee shop. I put in my quarter and Carson answered on the first ring.
“It’s Laura.”
“You’ve found him?” he asked.
“No.” There was going to be no easy well to tell him. “Listen, Carson, I’m sorry. I’m afraid your son’s dead.”
There was a long silence, then he took a breath and said, “Thank you for finding out.” His voice was as bleak as Alaska. “Do you know how it happened?”
“I haven’t asked yet. But I’m with someone who’d know. Your grandson.”
“Grandson?” He said the word quizzically. The idea of a grandson had probably never occurred to him.
“I’m sitting with him on Capitol Hill. James David
Clark the Second. And he’d like to meet you, if you want.”
“Hell, yeah.” He didn’t try to hide his eagerness. “When? Where?”
“That’s up to him. If you’re going to be around, I could see if he wants to come over now. Or arrange some way for you guys to meet.”
“Bring him over, please,” he replied quickly. “I’d like to see him.”
The young man followed me from Capitol Hill. He was driving a big old Newport, the fenders dented and the paintwork half primer grey. Once we hit West Seattle, he stuck close all the way to Beach Drive. I waited at the top of the path to the house as he smoked a cigarette, his hands shaking a little.
“Ready?” I asked as he stubbed it out, and he nodded.
The door was open, Carson standing behind the screen.
“Carson, this is James David Clark, your grandson. People call him Jim. Jim, meet Carson Mack.” I turned away and walked back to the road. They didn’t need me around now.
Five
That was it. I drove home with a smile on my face, feeling like I’d done a good deed. And, even better, I’d be paid for it. The house was quiet; Dustin had taken Ian out somewhere. I made coffee, the silence of the house strange, then stood out on the deck.
My husband had obviously made a start on the raised beds. He’d dug out the turf, down about six inches, and he’d measured and cut the boards: They were lying in a pile on the grass, surrounded by a pale lake of sawdust and some tools. A few minutes later I was wearing my hiking boots and sorting out the drill and some screws. With luck, and some hard work, we’d have homegrown tomatoes this summer.
It was well after dark when the phone rang. I was passing through the kitchen and picked it up without thinking.
“It’s Carson Mack,” the voice declared. He sounded gravelly, as if he’d spent too long talking and become hoarse.
West Seattle Blues Page 4
