Everybody's Son

by Thrity Umrigar

  “I know,” Anton had said ruefully. “It’s the exposure part I’m worried about.”

  The truth was, he had opened up an even wider lead against Irving since the article appeared. Barring some unexpected calamity, it was hard to imagine how Irving could close the gap. Each time he challenged Irving’s extremist positions, Anton went up a couple of points in the polls. He was not taking anything for granted—and Brad was skulking around all day, warning the campaign staff not to get cocky—but it seemed as if a Coleman would once again be occupying the Governor’s Mansion.

  Being attorney general had made Anton much more aware of what was at stake, how quickly a progressive political legacy could be allowed to unravel, how the decisions that political leaders made had real-life consequences. What happened in the corridors of power could make the difference between an elderly man going to bed hungry or not, or whether a child would find his local community center open or shuttered closed, or whether a woman would be forced to carry a child she didn’t want. His first three months in the AG’s office, he’d felt battered by the sheer number of decisions he had to make on any given day, and he’d had to react to so many competitive agendas coming at him from all sides that it had been impossible to work on any long-term strategy. David had made it clear that he was always available for counsel, but Anton’s pride and his determination to keep his personal and professional worlds as far apart as possible hadn’t allowed him to ask for help. So he had turned to Brad, who had come in for a week, sitting in on meetings, taking notes, observing where Anton spent his time. Anton still consulted the seventeen-page memo that came out of those sessions and got a chuckle every time he read the title: “How to Be Street-Smart and Not Just Another Putz with a Harvard Law Degree.”

  One of Bradley’s suggestions was that Anton actually read the letters and emails his constituents wrote to him, rather than turning them over to his assistant. And that he write back to a few each week. It was a recommendation Anton immediately adopted. Even though the number of letters had increased dramatically since he had announced for governor, reading them relaxed him. He would come home after a long day at the office or on the campaign trail and go through the correspondence, because it connected him in the most unfiltered, honest way to the public. People poured out the raw contours of their lives on these pages, spoke of their dreams and aspirations in ways that sometimes made Anton cry. The biracial gay teenager who asked if Anton could pass a law banning bullying at school. The seventy-five-year-old widow looking after her ninety-seven-year-old mother who wrote to ask why assisted suicide was not legal in the state. The successful real estate broker who begged him to reopen her local library if he became governor because that was where she’d studied to get her GED and she couldn’t bear the thought of other children not having the same opportunities that she had.

  Anton got up from his desk and made his way to his liquor cabinet to refresh his Scotch. He glanced at the clock. It was past ten o’clock, and after days filled with juggling the duties of his office and the obligations of campaigning, his entire body felt sore. His throat hurt from talking to hundreds of people; his palms were raw from the hand shaking and excessive hand washing. He was sleep-deprived, and as lovely as it was to share a bed with Katherine, some nights he simply wanted to sprawl out on his king-size bed and sleep unencumbered by the rhythms and patterns of another human being, even if that human being had a sensational body and a kind, generous heart. Tonight, he was thankful that she was away on an overnight trip.

  He splashed soda water into his Scotch and padded his way back to his desk. The pile of letters would take at least another two hours to read, and there was no way he’d last that long. He flipped through the envelopes, hoping to find a letter written by a kid, because even though they could be the most heartbreaking ones in the lot, occasionally, they were just plain funny, and Lord, he could use some levity tonight.

  He struck out. Instead, he picked up a letter that caught his eye because it was addressed to him in pencil. Who the hell writes a letter in pencil? he thought. He turned the envelope over, and the return address read Georgia, which was not unusual—since the People article, he’d been getting fan mail from across the country. Intrigued, he cut it open with the ivory letter opener that he had inherited from Pappy. The letter itself was written in block letters, also in pencil. There was no date.

  Dear Baby Boy:

  I swear, I never thought I’d see your sweet face again. And then yesterday I went to the dentist because I needed the root canal. My tooth was hurting something wicked and I was so scared that I thought I was gonna pass out in the waiting room but just then a little angel came into my life because I see you looking at me. From the inside of a magazine. It says you gonna be the next Governor. Lord, Anton, you could of just blown me down. I was so excited, even that root canal didn’t hurt, I swear.

  I am so proud of you, Anton. With your smarts, I always knew you would be a big success some day. And you always were a beautiful boy and now you this big, handsome man. You’ve changed, but I would recognize you anywhere. How can a mother forget what she made? I don’t know if you ever think of your old Mam but not one day passes without me thinking of you. You did the right thing by choosing that white family over me, Anton. In those days, I had nothing and that’s what I would of given you—nothing.

  I prayed for you every day, Anton, that you grow up to be strong and smart and happy. Looks like the Good Lord has answered all my prayers. You always were the answer to my prayers. And now I’m gonna double up and pray for you to become Governor.

  I love you, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

  Your old Mam,

  Juanita Vesper

  P.S. Please forgive me for the hurt I caused you.

  He sat back in his chair, the letter fluttering in his shaking hand, knowing he needed to take a big gulp of the Scotch in order to calm the thudding in his chest, but being unable to reach for it. His eyes roamed over the letter again, his lawyer’s brain trying to pick it apart, to figure out if it was a fake, for any evidence that would allow him to dismiss it, to defuse the bomb that had just gone off in his life. What was that phrase she’d used? “Blown me down.” Yeah, that’s what he felt like. Blown down.

  Where to begin? There was the fact that the entire letter was written in block letters. In pencil. In poor grammar. The ridiculous declarations of eternal love. The excessive use of “always.” The reminder of his infantile name for her, Mam. The absurd declarations of prescience, as if it were a fait accompli that he would grow up to be the man he’d become were it not for his parents. The claims she was still making on him. The calling him by that old childhood nickname, the one he’d forgotten about: Baby Boy. How dare she call him that, and how patronizing it sounded, how it reduced him to being nine again, trapped in that shabby little apartment. With her. Without her.

  But then he located the locus of his anger, and the rest of it fell away. He reread the sentence: “You done the right thing by choosing that white family over me, Anton.” You did the right thing? He chose the white family? He was a child, for Pete’s sake, with no agency. For the almost three years that he lived with the Colemans before his adoption, he had held some part of himself aloof. It hadn’t been easy—David and Delores had been attentive, loving, kind, thoughtful, caring. Never once had he felt unsafe with them, never once had they disappeared for a week and left him to fend for himself. There were so many times when he almost slipped and called David Dad, so many times he saw the hopeful light leap up in David’s eyes only to be snuffed out a second later. Anton had been ashamed of himself then, had known he was being unkind, but he had never wavered. He had been saving himself for his reunion with her. His mom. Whom, in those wild days when his life was turned upside down, only he seemed to understand and love. When the police, the social workers, even David seemed to judge her, he did not. All he could think in those days was his mam had made a mistake, just like he made spelling and grammar mistakes. Together, they w
ould correct those mistakes. Of this he had no doubt.

  Until the day a grim-faced David had sat him down and told him what had transpired. How she had decided to give him up. Because she believed he would be happier with his new family. Because she was weak, and needed to get strong, and couldn’t take care of a twelve-year-old boy while she got healthy again.

  What he had felt then, he couldn’t bear to remember now. Anton shoved the feeling down, much as he had all those years ago, the sob in his throat that he had tried to swallow because it was choking him, the scream that rose from his very toes and almost escaped before he clamped down on it, the feeling of utter abandonment, so much more powerful than anything he’d felt in that hot apartment where he’d waited for his mother to return.

  Anton rested his forehead on his desk. For a second, he weighed the price that young boy had paid for the loneliness that he had spent a lifetime running away from. But then he dismissed it. There was no room for sentimentality now. This was a time for action. This woman—he could no longer think of her as his mother, he had a new mother now, thank you very much—was a threat, a cancer that had resurfaced, that had to be irradiated. This woman with her false accusations, her insinuation that he had chosen David’s wealth, his white privilege, over her poverty and blackness, had to be stopped from spouting her falsehoods. Because next thing you knew, this story was going to hit the press.

  Anton rose swiftly from his desk, crossed the hallway into the bedroom, and slipped on his sneakers. He folded the letter, shoved it into the pocket of his pants, and grabbed his car keys.

  Ten minutes later, he was knocking on Bradley’s door, and when Brad answered, he entered without being invited in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The two men stared wordlessly at each other for a minute before Brad exhaled. “I gotta tell you, man. I don’t see it,” he said.

  “Don’t see what?”

  Brad frowned. “What you’re seeing. There’s no threat here. No blackmail. Just a mom trying to reconnect . . .”

  Anton looked incredulous. “I don’t believe it. Don’t you see? How she’s trying to frame the issue? That I chose to abandon her rather than the other way around?”

  “Dude. People believe what they want to believe. Okay? Maybe this is the story she needs to believe.”

  “Yeah. Because otherwise she has to live with the truth—that she sold out her only child so she could get high.” Anton’s voice was savage, and he knew his eyes were bloodshot.

  There was another silence, and when Anton looked up, Brad was staring at him, a new understanding in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine how you feel.”

  Anton didn’t want pity. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted blood. “No, you can’t,” he said curtly. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the room, picking up a silver candleholder and setting it down, lifting a photograph frame and turning it unseeingly in his hands.

  “Anton. Sit the fuck down. You’re making me dizzy,” Brad said after a few moments.

  He couldn’t sit, but he stopped pacing, standing a few feet away from his friend. “Listen,” Brad continued. “We have a goddamn election coming up in a few months. You need to put this behind you. After you’re governor, we can . . . do something. Maybe fly her out here or something. But for now you need to ignore this. I’m telling you, there’s no threat here.”

  Anton sat back down on the couch with a thud, tapping his left foot on the hardwood floor. “I can’t. I know myself. I won’t be able to focus.” His head shot up as the thought hit him. “I’ll go see her. See what she wants. Explain to her that we can’t have this—any of this drama—before the election.” As he spoke, the feeling of agitation that had gripped him since he’d slit open the letter receded a bit.

  Brad looked aghast. “And how do you propose to leave town without the entire press corps knowing? Have you lost your mind, Anton?”

  He caught himself shaking his leg and stopped. “Get me a private plane,” he said quietly. “I’ll pay out of pocket. I’ll be back in town before anyone will notice. If anyone asks, you can tell them I’m felled by a cold. Anything.” He pulled out his phone to check his calendar. “I can take Friday off. And I should be back the same night. Or Saturday at the latest. Depending on how it goes with her.”

  Brad shook his head. “Anton. You know better. It’s too risky. Lying to the press? If they catch on, they’ll think you’re doing a Mark Sanford.”

  Anton focused on Brad. “I’m asking you to help me, Brad. Don’t fucking make me beg.”

  Brad jutted out his lower lip. “I can’t. As your campaign manager, I can’t let you do this. Your dad will kill me if he finds out the unnecessary risk to the campaign. Hell, my dad will kill me. You know how much this election means to both of them.” Brad scowled suddenly. “And for what? All you have to do is pretend you never read the letter. After November eighth, you can do whatever you want. But not now.”

  “And what if my hunch is right? What if the letter is something more than a guilt-stricken woman writing to her long-lost son? What if she’s after something? Blackmail, maybe?”

  “Then I’ll handle it. I’ll go.” Brad looked at him wryly. “Though I think you’ve been watching too many episodes of House of Cards.”

  “Bradley.” Anton rose to his feet and pulled himself to full height. “I’m going. With or without your help. So the question is whether you will get me a plane or whether”—and here he played his card, knowing Brad would never let him take so heedless a risk—“I call one of our donors and ask for a political favor.”

  As he’d guessed, Brad took the bait. “You’re being reckless,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if he’d smelled something foul. “You keep this up and Joe Irving will be the next governor of this state.” But his voice was mild, and he pulled on his lower lip, a sure sign that he was already plotting how to make Anton’s getaway possible. “What’re you gonna tell your dad? And Katherine? That you’re just skipping town?”

  “I’ll tell Kat,” Anton said. “She’ll understand. But I’m not saying a word to Dad.” He grinned suddenly. “Actually, we’re gonna tell Dad and Uncle Connor that you and I are going out of town for some R and R.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about when—”

  “They won’t see you around town during the weekend, Bradley, because you’re going to stay in your beautiful house all day Friday and maybe Saturday, too. Just make sure you have enough groceries.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Yup.”

  “You arrogant son of a bitch.”

  “Yup.”

  “It means that much to you to go see her? That you’d jeopardize . . .”

  “Yup.”

  Bradley sighed heavily, searching his friend’s face. “Okay, then. Let me make a few calls. And now get your ass out of my house and get some sleep. Okay?”

  “Okay. And Bradley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Get out of here, you fucker.”

  “I’m going.”

  “You crazy, obsessive, maniacal son of a bitch.”

  Anton nodded. “Yup. I love you, too.”

  “Go get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Georgia was beautiful. Wildflowers everywhere. Bloodred earth, which felt as familiar as his bones, even though he had no recollection of having seen it before. Big white clouds in a flawlessly blue sky. Every few minutes Anton felt his heart soaring as the sheer beauty around him blew away thoughts of why he was here. And then he would remember, and something in his chest would tighten. And so he drove, his heart soaring and pinching, forgetting and remembering his reasons for being on this road, in this borrowed car, making his way from the private airport in Augusta where he had landed to 322 Cherry Lane in Ronan, Georgia.

  As he drove, he rehearsed what he would say to his mother—but he wouldn’t call her that, would
n’t even think of her in that way, because that was a trap. Then what would he call her? What demeanor would he present? He thought it through, how he would conduct himself, and finally arrived at matter-of-fact. Not threatening but stern. Firm. To the point. He had to convince her that there was nothing to be gained from going to the press with her falsehoods. That nobody would believe her. And that running for governor or not, he wasn’t the kind of man who could be blackmailed by a junkie who had sold her only child down the river. Convince her of this and then get the hell out of Dodge.

  But here, his determination broke. The truth was, it was hard to know, really, what he’d do when he saw her face-to-face. What sort of condition he would find her in. Fallen down drunk or spaced out? Or had she gotten her shit together? Married or living alone? Other kids? Good God, half brothers or sisters? And his grandma. Where was she? Dead or alive? Well, he would know the answers to all these questions in just a while longer. Without meaning to, he stepped on the gas.

  To his great chagrin, Katherine had sided with Brad. “I don’t know why this can’t wait until after the election,” she’d argued. “In any case, there’s nothing in this letter that sounds like blackmail. It—she—actually sounds sweet.” He had been unable to meet her eye. “I have to,” he’d mumbled, and then he’d hated the way she’d cocked her head and given him that quizzical look, as if she could see right through him, as if she knew some truth that eluded him.