The Beloved Son

by Jay Quinn

  As he swung onto the on-ramp for northbound I-95, a chilling thought occurred to Karl. Neither his father nor Sven had mentioned whether or not his mother’s dementia might be genetic. Karl wondered if somewhere deep in his own brain there were connections breaking down even now. Could it be possible that either he or Sven faced such a horrible decline? Was it something that might manifest in Melanie’s future? It was a sobering thought. He made a mental note to ask Sven what the chances were and tried to shake the thought from his currently perfectly normal mind.

  Suddenly, he longed to see his wife. With his view of his family’s life so thoroughly shaken in the past two days, Caro’s companionable constancy promised to right him and get him feeling stable once more. Karl found himself falling into the traffic’s rhythm with more than a sense of urgency. He pushed the uncomplaining Camry faster toward the airport with near desperation.

  For the past two days, Karl had found himself heavily taxed by emotional concerns that were not part of his fundamental nature. There were no simple, elegant answers to the problems he’d found waiting for him in southern Florida. It was true that his father’s timely decision to move into a continuing-care retirement community resolved some of the inconveniences of the years ahead, but it was no solution to what Karl was feeling. He found he simply couldn’t separate the mass of emotional complexity presented by his father, mother, and brother into individual strands at the moment. I’m not good with the feelings stuff, he recalled telling Caroline smugly in their own kitchen the previous morning.

  Karl considered Sven as he inched along in a knot of stop-and-go traffic. Sven was good with feelings. Karl marveled at how he deftly juggled caring for his mother and father along with the current situation with Rob. While Sven admitted to being fatigued by it all, he still seemed utterly in control of himself and what was going on around him. Karl recalled the curious mixture of love and hurt in the look Sven had given Rob in their store the day before. Yet Sven had never said anything unkind about Rob, nor did he discount any of the close ties that still bound them together. Karl found himself puzzled by his brother’s equanimity. His father was condescending and resentful to Sven, by his own admission. His mother seemed to take Sven’s care and devotion as her due, as she had selfishly created him for herself, by her own admission. Rob was gone yet still present in Sven’s life. Karl wondered how Sven bore all these expectations and indignities yet remained so easygoing and unperturbed by them.

  As Karl made his way into the airport, he found himself wishing Caroline alone was waiting for him. He thought she might somehow make sense of things for him. He longed for some time alone to talk with her. He wanted to hold her solidly against him, against all of the unknown inevitabilities that his parents had demonstrated would come.

  Karl scanned the mill and spill of passengers outside baggage claim. He had run later than expected because of the traffic on I-95. For an instant, his practical side gave way to a heave of panic that he might not find Caroline and Melanie in the throng. At last he saw them waiting at the far end of the terminal. He eased the car into the lane closest to the curb and was able to stop only a few feet beyond them. He put the Camry in park and awkwardly let himself out of the low-slung car. “Caro!” he called out, and waved.

  She heard him instantly and turned to him with a smile and a wave. Karl heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of his wife and daughter as they clasped their carry-on bags and began to walk toward him. He pulled the trunk release and strode to gather them in his arms. “Hey,” he said simply, at a loss for anything more articulate at that moment. “Hey,” he repeated, as he let his arm drop from Melanie’s shoulder and wrapped Caroline in a hug.

  Caroline hugged him in return, then grasped his upper arms and pushed him away gently, looking into his eyes with concern. “Hey yourself,” she said, and gave him a private smile.

  “Mom,” Melanie interrupted as she reached for her mother’s carry-on, “let me get that.” Briskly, she had her own bag and her mothers in the trunk, then pushed it closed with a satisfying whump.

  “Wow, thanks, Mel,” Karl said. “You took care of that lickety-split.”

  Melanie laughed. “We’re going to Uncle Sven’s, right? I’m ready to get this party started. Why don’t you let me drive? I know the way.”

  “It’s okay, Sven gave me directions,” Karl protested.

  “Good, then we can use them if I get turned around,” Mel insisted.

  “Let her drive, Karl,” Caroline urged. “You can ride shotgun; I’ll get in the back.”

  Melanie walked passed her father and headed for the driver’s door. “C’mon, the TSA guy is going to get nervous if we stand out here much longer blocking traffic.”

  Karl held up his hands in surrender and turned toward the passenger side of the car. He opened the rear door behind him for Caroline and made sure she was in before getting in the front with Melanie.

  Melanie adjusted the driver’s seat to her liking, buckled her seat belt, and moved the car into the stream of traffic leaving the airport. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, then added, “Your driving in city traffic makes me crazy.”

  Recalling his own dismay at his father’s driving earlier in the day, Karl wondered if he gave Melanie as extreme a feeling of impatience and discomfort. Having the tables turned on him by his own daughter was disconcerting. He felt Caroline reach across from the backseat and pat his shoulder comfortingly. “You’re welcome,” Karl said. “But I warn you, I-95 is a bitch. It was stop-and-go most of the way here.”

  “I can handle it,” Melanie said confidently.

  “How was your flight?” Karl asked, eager to leave the subject.

  “Easy,” Melanie commented.

  “No bumps,” Caroline offered from the back. “How are things down here?”

  Karl hesitated before he spoke. There were some things, such as the details of his mother’s episode earlier that day, that he wanted to tell Caroline privately. Melanie had all the self-assurance of a very young adult, and Karl knew she would look at the event from a too-clinical angle. The impact of his mother’s fugue state and its graphic spectacle had wounded him and left him uncertain how he felt. He wanted to share the details within the safety of Caroline’s empathy before facing Melanie’s cooler reaction and her questions. Finally, he said, “It’s been a difficult day for Mom. She’s not well and is resting.”

  “What exactly is wrong with her?” Melanie asked. “Mom said she has been having some emotional problems for the past few months.”

  “No, I didn’t tell you that,” Caroline said calmly from the backseat. “I said she was experiencing some age-related dementia.”

  “Well, a lot of seniors have severe depression,” Melanie countered. “But there are so many forms of treatment for that. I’m not convinced Grandmere is losing her mind. I’m sure it’s just a matter of finding the right combination of meds,” she concluded brightly.

  Karl sighed. It appeared that explaining was going to be more difficult than he wanted it to be. “Mel, it’s not that simple. It’s not just depression. Your grandmere has age-related dementia. She is losing her grasp on the here and now,” Karl said and remembered his mother’s analogy. “She says she feels as if she’s being erased.”

  Melanie glanced at her father. “I think I understand,” she said, her previously bright assessment obviously dulled by her father’s unsparing words. “Is it really bad?”

  Karl felt backed into a corner. Again, something said earlier came to him. “Let me put it this way, Melanie. Your grandfather told me that if there is anything special we want to say to her, now is the time to do it. Within a year, at the outside, she won’t remember any of us anymore. Do you understand?”

  “So we’ve come to say good-bye?” Melanie asked soberly.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Karl,” Caroline said from the backseat, again reaching to touch his shoulder.

  Karl felt the warmth of her touch even under the ridiculous
dress jacket his father had made him wear, which he had yet to remove since the morning’s visit to Palladian Gardens.

  “Why did they wait so long to tell us?” Melanie demanded. “I mean, it’s so unfair to have this dumped on us. If we had known, we could have visited more often. We could have done something…”

  “Mel,” Karl interrupted gently, “I don’t think they knew how swiftly she was going downhill mentally. Your grandfather and Uncle Sven have been so caught up in living it, they probably couldn’t see the obvious. In any event, there’s nothing we could have done any differently.”

  “I could have visited!” Mel insisted. “There are a thousand things I wanted to ask her about and get her to tell me. I don’t even know how to make the Swedish Christmas cookies,” she added despondently. “She was always promising to teach me. This really fucking sucks.”

  “Melanie,” Caroline said sharply from the backseat.

  Karl allowed himself a pitiable chuckle and said, “No, Caro. Melanie’s right. This fucking sucks.”

  At that, the car fell silent. Karl pulled down the sun visor and opened the mirror to search for Caroline’s face in the backseat. He found her staring out the window, her face lit by the strong sun hastening its descent into the west. In her highlighted profile, he saw a deep sadness untouched by pity. Like he had been doing earlier, she seemed to be scanning the future for the wreckage it promised.

  As they passed downtown West Palm Beach and continued north toward Singer Island, the traffic thinned, and Karl checked the directions. “You’ll want to take the Blue Heron Boulevard exit,” he reminded Melanie carefully.

  She nodded and immediately changed lanes. “Then I just continue straight on Blue Heron, through Riviera Beach, and cross the Intracoastal Waterway, right?”

  Karl scanned the directions and agreed.

  From the driver’s seat, Melanie locked all the doors. Riviera Beach was a slum. Karl was glad they would make it through before dark. Though they probably were in no particular danger, it was not a place where he’d want to have the car break down.

  As Melanie exited onto Blue Heron Boulevard and began to pass through the warehouse wasteland on the western edge of Riviera Beach, Karl thought of something to break the spell of gloom in the car. “Did you know your Uncle Sven got a dog?” he asked Melanie brightly. Of the entire family, Melanie was the one most fond of dogs. She had begged for one as a child until Caroline and Karl had relented and gotten her a springer spaniel. Melanie had adored the creature, and for a ten-year-old she had been very good about taking care of it. Unfortunately, the dog got cancer and died before she finished middle school. Melanie had been so bereft, there had never been any talk of another dog, much to Caroline and Karl’s relief.

  “Yes, Gretchen!” Melanie replied with enthusiasm, which took Karl by surprise. “Uncle Sven emails me pictures of her every once m a while. She’s beautiful.”

  “What kind of dog?” Caroline asked from the backseat.

  “A vizsla,” Melanie answered before Karl could.

  “Are they large?” Caroline asked with some concern.

  “Well, not huge,” Melanie countered. “But bigger than a springer spaniel.”

  “Who looks after it while Rob and Sven are away on buying trips?” Caroline asked practically.

  “Johann house-sits,” Melanie told her, explaining further. “Johann is this god that works for Uncle Sven in the shop. He’s Venezuelan, straight, and gorgeous,” Melanie elaborated.

  “You seem on top of things,” Karl commented dryly. “I had no idea you and your uncle had such a thorough correspondence.”

  “Oh, we email about once a week,” Melanie answered breezily as she stopped at an intersection. The bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway to Singer Island loomed in front of them.

  Karl anxiously checked his side-view mirror, trying to discreetly look around. A young black man with a head full of dreadlocks, wearing a guinea-T and baggy shorts riding at least five inches below his hips, sauntered in front of them, swinging a twelve-pack of beer. On one corner, a group of young black women were laughing loudly and yelling across the street to a low-rider, thumping with seismic bass behind them. Though he knew his fear was probably irrational, Karl was hyperaware of his whiteness at that moment and was completely engulfed by a sense of displacement that jangled his raw nerves. “Why in the hell does Sven come this way?” he grumbled out loud. “There’s a much better bridge north of here, and in a much better neighborhood.”

  The light turned green, and Melanie proceeded calmly through the intersection onto the bridge. “Because he lives in Palm Beach Shores, and it’s just over there to the right,” she said, and pointed to the southern end of the island. “It’s a whole different world on the island.”

  Indeed it was, Karl noted as they drove onto the island itself. Sven’s neighborhood was within walking distance of the beach, in an area of what had once been solidly middle-class three-bedroom, one-car-garage homes. From the looks of it, the community was the same age as his parents’ neighborhood in Boca Raton but was a less affluent version.

  Melanie steered the car to the road that ran closest to the beach and drove south. On the ocean side of the road stood high-rise condos and hotels of a recent vintage, while across the street stood the motor courts and small motels that once predominated on the island. Nearing the end of the street where it dead-ended at the inlet to the port of West Palm Beach, Melanie took a right and headed down a quiet street lined with small stucco houses set back on green lawns. She hadn’t driven far when she turned into a drive that held both Sven’s large Excursion and a new E-series black Mercedes. “Uncle Rob is here,” Melanie exclaimed as she pulled the Camry behind Sven’s SUV.

  As they got out of the car, Karl stood a moment and took in Sven’s house. It was painted white with sun-bleached turquoise trim, including vignettes of a flamingo framed by palms, set in bas-relief into the stucco, over the garage door and by the front door. It was a quintessential 1960s Florida beach house, complete with clamshell metal awnings painted to match the trim and designed to swing down over the windows during hurricanes. The sight of it took Karl back in time. Though Sven had replaced the jalousie windows with new energy-efficient ones, it was very much a period house.

  The sound of Melanie retrieving the luggage from the trunk brought Karl out of his reverie. He turned to find Caroline and Melanie pulling their carry-on bags up the drive. He grabbed his suitcase and joined his wife and daughter as Sven and Rob came out to the front porch to greet them.

  “Welcome to Singer Island!” Sven called out, and he and Rob walked down to meet them.

  Karl watched as hugs and murmurs of welcome enveloped his wife and daughter. Behind the screen door, Gretchen scratched and added her cautious welcome in a series of short, sharp barks.

  Sven reached to hug Karl as well. “At last, I got you to see my place!”

  “Yes, finally,” Karl said, and Rob walked over to hug him as well.

  “God, it’s great to have all of you here together,” Rob said as he released Karl and took in the sight of them with a genuinely happy grin. “Now, who needs a glass of wine?” he asked as he stepped back and took Caroline’s bag from her.

  “Sounds heavenly,” Caroline admitted tiredly. “But first I want to see the house!”

  “Well, c’mon!” Sven declared and led the group up the walk.

  Karl hung back with Rob, and together they followed everyone into the house. Once inside, Karl took in the large combination living-dining room, which Sven had furnished simply with only an enormous, white leather Italian sofa, its matching ottoman, and a long rectangular antique wood table flanked by slouchy leather chairs, also of contemporary Italian design. The inside was painted a bluish shade of white and gave off an air of cool simplicity. Considering the access he had to accessories from exotic sources, the room was free of clutter—even art, save for one large color photo that hung on the wall behind the huge sofa, across from a large LCD
TV mounted on the opposite wall.

  While the others continued toward the other side of the house and their chatter receded, Karl stopped to study the photo closely. His father must have taken it, but it was one he’d never seen before. On a blanket in the sand lay a young, lithe Annike. Sven, perhaps six years old, rested on his knees by her side. His mother was lying on her stomach, her bathing suit top was undone, and she leaned on an elbow to look back over her shoulder at the camera. Her other arm held her bathing suit top close, covering her breasts. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot at the back of her head and gleamed almost white against her tan.

  Skinny Sven, his towhead in a bowl cut, looked at the camera warily, as if expecting to be scolded. Like his mother, his skin gleamed like honey. He wore a pair of red swim trunks and held a large piece of battered coral. The photo’s color was faded, holding that particular day at the beach in diminished tones of recollection. That faded golden color suffused Karl’s memories of the times—of the Kennedy assassinations and the broadcasts from Vietnam on the evening news. In Sven’s contemporary decor, it brought the past into high relief. And it spoke volumes about Sven’s relationship with his mother, as well as his father behind the camera.

  “Sven had that old snapshot blown up to poster size and transferred to canvas,” Rob commented from behind Karl’s shoulder. “Your mother was very beautiful, wasn’t she?”

  Karl turned and looked at Rob. “Yes. She was almost glamorous. I was always aware of how people stared at us. She was… she was something else,” he willingly admitted.

  Rob gestured at the photo. “Sven looks like her. He was a beautiful child.”