The Beloved Son

by Jay Quinn

  “Wait here,” she said and stood suddenly. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Thinking she might have to go to the bathroom, Karl unfolded his legs and stood to let her pass behind him. “I’m going to heat up my coffee. Would you like another cup?”

  “No, thank you,” Annike said as she passed him and turned to go down the hall. “But please bring my ashtray back to the table,” she said over her shoulder. “This is a holiday, yes? I can spoil myself.”

  Karl chuckled to himself as he went around the counter and into the kitchen. He made himself a fresh cup of coffee and tried to sort out his feelings regarding the difference between his mother’s relationship with him and with his brother. It was unnerving to have his attention called to the very different ways she perceived each of their natures. He was surprised to find how they interlocked with his own perceptions of himself and Sven. He recalled the sudden urge he had felt the day before when Sven had picked him up at the airport. He had felt as if Sven were a child still, delightful and sunny, and he’d wanted to hug him and treat him with all the loving impulse given to an adored toddler. To Karl at twelve, Sven had been like a fascinating new toy. Karl was certain his mother didn’t see Sven as a toy, considering her maternal instincts, but he was an object of entertainment, the same by her own admission. He tried to decide if thinking of Sven as a toy was a good thing for Sven as he resumed his seat at the table.

  If Annike had tried to name them with any kind of prescience, she had done a good job. Karl did feel he was strong. He had confidently made decisions about his own life and acted on them with a great degree of success and accomplishment. What left him unsettled was the impact Sven’s name may have had on Sven’s life. In what way did being beloved mold him? To Karl, Sven had never appeared to be spoiled or self-centered. In fact, from the little interaction he’d had with him on this trip, Sven seemed to be quite the opposite of a spoiled, capricious man, which many beloved children become. His care for their parents was obvious. He was maintaining a civilized relationship with Rob, despite their problems. Then there was the whole business of the gift of the candle. It was a small gesture, but it said a great deal about Sven’s openhanded nature.

  Breaking into his reverie, Annike said, “I want to show you these.” She pushed his plate away and set a large photo album on the table before him. Unaware of his musings, Annike sat down. “Where is my ashtray?” she asked politely.

  Karl shook his head and stood quickly. “I completely forgot,” he admitted as he went to the kitchen to retrieve it. By the time he returned to the table and sat down, his mother had lit a cigarette and opened the album. He looked at the old, square, black-and-white images of himself and his parents from when he was a baby.

  The left-hand page was filled with an eight-by-ten studio portrait of Karl and his parents. Karl, at perhaps two years old, stolidly sat on a carpeted platform, dressed in a tiny suit and tie. His hair was nearly white and rather long, considering the styles of 1953. He was a grave-faced baby, looking at the camera without any fear.

  Behind him stood Frank and Annike, so young and slender, fresh-faced, and earnest. His crewcut-handsome father easily rested his arm across his mother’s shoulders and held her possessively. He, like his son, peered at the camera soberly. Karl’s mother had her hair, which was as bright as her son’s, up in a French bun, and she held Karl protectively, her hand resting on his chubby tummy. The photographer’s flash had caught her looking at her baby. Her eyes and soft smile betrayed both pride and love.

  Annike reached across the table and gently tapped on the page holding the picture. “You were beloved, too.”

  Karl gave her an embarrassed smile and looked again at the picture. “Was I always so somber?”

  Annike laughed. Forgetting she had a cigarette burning in the ashtray, she took her cigarettes and lighter out once more. After she lit another cigarette, she said, “You were very no-nonsense. Very quick and clever, but you weren’t a jolly child.”

  Karl spared her a glance and shook his head. “I was busy being strong,” he commented dryly. “Mom, are you going to smoke with both hands?” he asked and pointed to the ashtray.

  Annike only chuckled and put out her earlier cigarette, then pointed to a picture of Karl on the opposite page. Annike held him on her hip, and both were bundled in coats behind blown snow caught forever in the wind’s drift. She began a story about the photograph, which grew into more stories as she moved on to other pictures. Together they went through the pages of the album. By the time they reached its end, Karl realized that he was understanding only occasional words in Annike’s running narrative. Long familiarity with the events behind the pictures, as well as the soothing voice of his mother, had kept him from noticing that she had slipped completely into Swedish far more complex than Karl could comprehend. She stopped and looked at him expectantly. Karl felt his eyes grow moist, and he searched for the phrases Sven had coached him on the day before.

  “Ja Mama. Tala mig hur mer,’’ he replied. Yes, mama. Tell me more.

  Annike turned the page and continued with her story, happily unaware that Karl could no longer understand her, or that her cigarette had burned to a long cylindrical ash that threatened to fall as she gestured with her hand.

  Karl tried as hard as he could to be casual as he wiped his eyes free of the tears that had collected and threatened to spill. She had slipped away from him in a matter of moments, and he hadn’t even noticed. Now he felt being closed off from her even as she sat so fondly by his side. It was a fearful taste of the future in the sunny breakfast nook of the present. He wondered how long she would be gone, and if there were any gentle way he could bring her back to language they could both understand.

  As he sat watching Annike’s happily animated face, the door to the lanai opened and Frank stepped into the room with his Thermos, coffee mug, and newspaper. Karl looked up at him helplessly as his mother chattered on. Frank’s eyes communicated a deep sadness to his son before he stepped behind Annike and gently kissed the top of her head. “Are you walking Karl down memory lane, darling?” he asked casually.

  Annike turned her head and looked up at him with a radiant smile. For a moment she hesitated, and then something seemed to click behind her eyes. Karl almost heard the sound of the gears shifting in her mind. His mother’s happy expression briefly shifted to one of confusion, then she nodded and said, “Karl is being very patient with his old mother, listening to these stories again.” She looked down at the table and anxiously put her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Why don’t you tell us what is going on in the world today,” she said as she glanced up at her husband once more.

  Relief surged through Karl and he almost slumped, so tensely had his whole body been focused on his mother. “Anything good happening, Dad?”

  Frank moved from behind Annike and walked into the kitchen, setting his thermos and paper on the counter as he passed. From the coffeepot he said, “Well, my son is home and my granddaughter and her mother are on their way. That’s the best news I’ve had in a while.” He filled his cup with coffee and then strode confidently to the table and sat down. “Other than that, the world has gone crazy.”

  7

  AS THEY PASSED out of the hallway into the reception area of the main building, Karl felt as if he’d been let out of a maze. The ceiling in this part of the octagonal building was double-height and filled with sunshine streaming through the oversized Palladian windows, from which the company derived its name, that framed the entry. After the long hall of a residential wing, lined with anonymous apartment doors, Karl’s spirits lifted in the large room. Tastefully furnished with leather wingback chairs and chintz-covered settees arranged in conversation-friendly groupings, the reception area was more country club than nursing home. Karl wondered if the architect had planned this spirit-lifting space in a calculated attempt to alleviate the sense of confinement that permeated the halls branching off the cheerful space.

  “Our residents say Palladian Gar
dens is just like a cruise ship that never leaves port,” the professionally gracious woman named Roberta said as she led Karl and his father to the dining room. “Many residents say they regret not making the move here when they were younger,” she said as she stopped at the maître d’s podium and looked at Karl with a bright smile.

  Karl somehow managed to return Roberta’s smile, though after nearly two hours in her soft-sell presence he felt the urge to slap her. While her conversation had been consistently upbeat, it also relentlessly addressed the facts of his parents’ aging and eventual physical decline toward death. Searching for something innocuous to say, he looked at his father, who returned his look with an eagerness for approval that filled Karl with pity. “I am impressed,” he said to his father carefully.

  “I’m so glad Mr. Preston brought you to look us over,’’ Roberta interrupted. “Now you’re in for a real treat. We have a choice of roast beef or baked halibut today. We put a great deal of emphasis on the quality and presentation of our meals. Mealtime is something our residents really look forward to,’’ she said earnestly. “Your mother and father can choose between two-or three-meal-a-day plans. We find that most of our residents choose the two-meal plan, preferring to eat breakfast in their homes or to have the freedom of being out and about during lunch.”

  Karl nodded his head approvingly and was relieved to see a tall, middle-aged African-American man dressed in a coat and tie step up to the podium at the dining room doors.

  “This is Charles Lawson, our dining services manager,” Roberta told them. “Mr. Lawson, this is Mr. Frank Preston and his son Karl. Frank and his wife, Annike, are going to become part of our family in June, and Karl is here to check us out. They’re our guests for lunch, so make sure they feel at home, okay?”

  Mr. Lawson extended his hand to Frank and Karl in turn. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said to Karl. “I recall meeting your father and mother not long ago. Welcome back, Mr. Preston.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Frank said confidently. “Now, which do you recommend, the roast or the halibut?”

  Mr. Lawson leaned in conspiratorially toward Frank’s ear and said, “I’m partial to the roast beef, myself.”

  “Good man,” Frank replied heartily.

  Roberta extended her hand to Karl and said, “I’ll say good-bye here and let you and your father enjoy lunch.”

  Karl took her hand and found her surreptitiously leaving a business card in his palm. “Thanks for your time,” he said genuinely.

  Roberta looked directly m his eyes and said, “If you have any further questions or concerns, whatsoever, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  Having been subjected to a tour of a one-bedroom apartment similar to the one his parents would be occupying, as well as a professionally produced sales presentation, Karl had no further questions except ones that had no real answers: questions about love, loss, and family that Roberta didn’t address. Her topics ranged from fiscal to physical fitness, all presented with relentless optimism. Any practical questions Karl had in that regard were well answered. Palladian Gardens appeared to be exactly what the brochure presented: a place for well-heeled Republicans to be well cared for as they waited to die. “I will if anything comes to mind,” Karl told her. “But you’ve been very informative. I think my parents have made an excellent choice,” he said, looking at his father and smiling.

  Roberta nodded, obviously pleased by his response, then said, “Mr. Preston, we’ll be in touch with you about the final paperwork and details.”

  “Thank you, Roberta,” Frank said sincerely.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Lawson interrupted, “right this way.”

  With that, Frank and Karl followed Mr. Lawson’s broad back to the buffet line. He preceded them as they collected cloth napkins and flatware and placed them on trays, which they slid along a handy shelf in front of an array of foods in large, gleaming chafing dishes presented on white, linen-draped tables. There were staff interspersed along the line who placed their selected items on their plates, and at the end of the line was a teenaged boy who took Frank’s tray for him and accompanied them to an empty table by one of the huge Palladian windows. Mr. Lawson seated Frank, then took the plates of salad, roast and vegetables, and dessert from the waiting teenager and set them on the table. The teenager waited while Karl divested his own tray of its food and took his tray when he’d finished. He then took their beverage orders and made his way back across the dining room.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Lawson said unctuously, “is there anything else we can get you?”

  Karl and Frank glanced around the table and shook their heads.

  “Please, let me remind you. We have a no-tipping policy in our dining room. Your server is Raul, and he’ll bring along your bread and drinks shortly. Do you have any questions I can answer for you?”

  “No, Mr. Lawson,” Frank said assertively. “Everything is fine. Thank you for our lunch.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Karl echoed.

  “My pleasure,” Mr. Lawson said and smiled. Once more, Karl found himself with a business card pressed into his palm. “Please remember we have facilities here for our residents’ use, for everything from small, private dinners to family reunions. If you think of any special event I can help you with in the future, or questions I can answer, please let me know.”

  Karl placed the business card with Roberta’s in his inside jacket pocket—a jacket his father had taken from his own closet and insisted he wear. Karl now understood why: Palladian Gardens was a rather formal place that tried to have both the atmosphere of a grand hotel and a family feel. Matching the formality of the place, Karl said politely, “Thank you, Mr. Lawson, I’m sure my parents will be well taken care of here.”

  Mr. Lawson responded with a dignified nod and said, “If you’ll excuse me, then. Enjoy your lunch.”

  Before Karl could say anything to his father, Raul returned with their drinks and a basket of assorted breads and butter. He checked with Karl and Frank with only a look and a nod, and having suitably ascertained that they had no further need of him, he left them to their lunch.

  “So, what do you think?” Frank asked his son as he eagerly attacked his slice of well-done roast.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Karl admitted honestly. “It’s a lot to take in.” Karl looked around the dining room, which was only about half full. While there were a few solitary diners, most tables were occupied by sociable small groups of six or eight. To Karl, it reminded him of a posh country club. The sun shone through the large windows, but the air-conditioning held out any excessive warmth. The room itself was thickly carpeted, and expensive drapes hung at the mammoth windows. There were small vases of fresh-cut daisies and mums on each table. But for the presence of a few wheelchairs and portable oxygen tanks identifying some of the diners as particularly elderly, he might have been having lunch at the haunt of a bunch of bankers and lawyers.

  Frank chewed on his roast, gesturing in small circles with his knife and fork as they hovered over his plate. “It’s definitely not a nursing home,” he said confidently.

  “What does Mom think about all this?” Karl said as he cut into his own lunch.

  “Oh, she thinks it’s all rather grand,” Frank said. “All I care about is that she’ll be treated like a queen as long as she’s aware of what’s going on. Living here will be like being on permanent vacation.”

  “The apartment is kind of small, isn’t it?” Karl asked honestly. Despite the grandeur of its public spaces, the actual living units were Spartan. Though each apartment boasted a balcony just large enough for a couple of chairs and a small table, the interior was less than generous, with a tiny kitchen, dining area, living room, bedroom, and bath. On the whole, they were rather like the apartments many of these people had begun their adult lives in.

  “Karl, your mother and I don’t need a lot of space. We live in the kitchen and breakfast nook now, except when we’re asleep,” Frank told him bluntly.

>   “Won’t you miss your yard?” Karl asked.

  “Not one bit,” Frank said. “The grounds here are lovely, and the Olympic-sized pool is indoors and heated.”

  “Well, that’s certainly something,” Karl admitted.

  “Once your mother goes into the full-time-care wing, I’ll probably downgrade to a studio apartment,” Frank added as he finished off his plate. For Frank, eating had always been a matter of utility, and evidently, now so had his requirements for living. While Karl thought the accommodations and the food rather bland, Frank seemed to appreciate all of it without any apparent concern. “I’m going to buy one of those big LCD televisions and have it installed on the wall as soon as we move in,” his father said. “They have satellite TV here.”

  “Sounds nice,” Karl said quietly. “What are you going to do with all of your furniture and things?”

  Frank replaced his lunch plate with his dessert plate and took a bite of peach pie. “Tomorrow we’re going to let you kids decide what pieces you want, and which of the china and knickknacks you’ll want to keep for sentimental reasons. What you don’t want, I’m giving to Saint Vincent de Paul for the tax deduction.”

  Karl was impressed by his father’s equanimity. He seemed to have it all planned out thoughtfully. “Caro wants Mom’s desk,” he admitted.

  Frank looked up from what was left of his pie and nodded. “Excellent. That desk means a lot to your mother. She’ll be pleased Caro wants it.”

  “Where did that desk come from, anyway?” Karl asked suddenly. It was a remarkable piece of furniture, very efficient in its nooks and crannies, but also very elegant and obviously well designed. He couldn’t remember it from his childhood, yet he associated it with his mother very strongly. Even now he could imagine her sitting at it, writing a letter in her beautiful cursive.

  “We got it after you left home. Your mother found that desk in a very expensive shop in Stockholm and wanted it badly. It’s by some famous designer. Don’t ask me which one, just one of the modern Scandinavians. Anyway, she had the money, so I told her to go on and buy it. We had it shipped over.” Frank thought for a moment before he continued. “When your grandmother died, she left her bank account in your mother’s name in Stockholm. It was easier for us to convert everything to cash and just leave it in the bank in Kroners. We used the account whenever we went over to visit.”