Everybody's Son

by Thrity Umrigar

  Carine’s face had grown blurry, as if from behind a windshield on a rainy day. He heard her say, “Oh, sweetie, oh, baby,” and looked down to see her darker hand covering his own, and as he stared at it, confused, the first of the tears streaming down his cheeks landed. The instant he became aware of the tears, he tried to suck them back in, actually tightened his stomach muscles as if he could reverse their humiliating journey, but he remembered what Carine had said about his self-control, his amazing, superhuman, no, subhuman, monstrous self-control, and he felt his whole body go slack, and then he cried like he hadn’t cried in decades, not since—not since . . . since Pappy died? No, he had been teary but—here was that word again—controlled at the funeral, they all had been, David putting an affectionate—or was it a cautioning?—arm around Anton’s shoulder at the very moment he was about to lose it, and he had read the gesture correctly—they were Coleman men, they were in the public eye, there were reporters and photographers at the funeral, dammit—and never let the bastards see you sweat or cry or bleed in public. No matter what. So, no, he had not cried at Pappy’s funeral, no, he would have to dig deeper, go back further to find a time, and now it comes back, comes back with a swoosh, and holy God, just the memory of it makes his throat and chest feel raw, hollowed out—it was the day he had skipped school and gone searching for her. Her. His mother. His beloved, cracked mother, who, he knew even back then, despite everything that they told him (and when had he stopped knowing it?) had sinned but was not a sinner, who would’ve sacrificed her life for him. (And if he knew that, why did he ever stop believing in her love for him?) It was on that day, after the two bus rides to the housing project, after the frantic pounding on the door, after the hairy man in the red shorts who answered the door and looked at Anton blankly when he asked for her, after he swallowed his pride and went over to his neighbor Maurice’s house to ask Maurice’s mom where his own mom was, after he realized that Mam was still in jail, that she wasn’t coming back to him anytime soon, probably, after it dawned on him that there would be no easy slipping back into his old life with Mam, that he would have to return to David and FM, after dread coiled around his chest, and he ran out of Maurice’s home and flew down the three flights of stairs and into the open air. He made his way behind the thicket of bushes that grew near the left side of the building, where drug deals went down during the evening, he knew, but luckily, at this hour there was no one, and he crouched behind the bushes and cried, holding himself from the waist as he rocked and cried, making himself smaller and smaller, as if to burrow into the earth. And as he cried, he felt his tears extinguishing the flame of hope that he had tended and kept burning all this time. He had been a good son to her, faithful, loyal, he had not allowed himself to be seduced by the abundant food and the soft mattress, the piles of gifts they’d bought him for Christmas, even the pride he felt at his growing popularity in school. But it all amounted to nothing, ashes at his feet.

  Then, after a long time, he had stopped crying. The boy who rose from behind the bushes was a different boy than the one who had hid behind them. There was something a little hazy in his eyes—in fact, he himself was a little hazy, as if an invisible cartoonist had rubbed away some part of him and filled in the rest with scribbles. But he didn’t know it then. At that time, he was simply hunting for something tangible—and he found it in the silver quarter in his pocket. Enough to make a phone call to FM, to let them know where to come find him so that they could lead him—he choked a bit over the word but steadied himself—home. To their big, luxurious mansion where the memory of a face that would remind him of himself would never again haunt him. Where the wild, dangerous anguish that had seized him just a few minutes ago would not have to be faced again, replaced as it would be by a cool, controlled demeanor. Where he would never again have to take two buses to reach home because limos, taxis, and planes would be waiting for him wherever he went. Never again would he be the son of a single mom whose greatest damage to him was the fact that he felt responsible for her, as if he were the adult and she the child. Not when there was a two-parent family waiting to claim him, to enshrine him, to hand him his patrimony on a silver platter. Anton kicked savagely at a stone in the dust as he headed for the pay phone. By the time he saw David’s familiar car snake down the side street an hour later, he had already said goodbye to all of it—the rude, impudent boys who had made fun of his good clothes as he waited at the bus stop, the shabby-looking woman who had shuffled up to him wanting to know if he was “Juanita’s boy,” the brooding, dark brick buildings that he once thought of as comfort and now wished to never enter again. How wrong he had been, romanticizing this squalor, pretending that he had been in exile the whole time he had slept on clean sheets in a soft bed. Now he knew the truth—this was the true exile. He would never forget it.

  And here he was in Carine’s sunroom, remembering it all, the herculean, otherworldly effort with which he had stopped crying that day and made the phone call. How, when he went to bed that night, surrounded by the stuffed bears they’d bought for him, he still felt something was missing, and it was only hours later that he knew what it was: the dream of unification with his mam that had lulled him to sleep for over two years. Once again he had felt his chest begin to heave, but this time he had stopped himself, pulled his own body back from drowning.

  Drowning. Carine was watching him, her brow knitted with concern, and he wanted to stop this ridiculous crying, but he was as helpless as a wailing infant. What on earth did she say that resulted in this? Anton asked himself. Hell, what his political opponents had said about him was a million times worse, but nothing, no breakup with a girlfriend, no academic failure, no political setback, had resulted in this total loss of control over his emotions. Poor Carine looked like she was ready to dial 911 for help. He twisted his lips into what he hoped was a smile. “I’m okay,” he gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be,” she whispered. “Keep crying. It’s good for you.”

  This time his smile was genuine. “Only you, Carine,” he said, “would encourage someone to cry. Everybody else tries to get you to stop.”

  “Crying’s good for the soul. I do it at least once a week.”

  He turned his head to face her, the tears beginning to dry on his face. “I never do. Not since—” And he found himself telling her the story of going to find his mom.

  After he was done, she spoke at last, her voice awash with compassion. “Anton. What are you going to do? I mean, your whole life has been fractured, no? Are you just gonna, you know, soldier on? Pretend like the last few days didn’t happen? Can you?”

  He was about to nod, say yes, tell her that there was no choice, there was an election to win and too many people were counting on him and he would settle up on his personal life after November, when he thought: In whose voice am I going to say these things? Brad’s? Dad’s? Uncle Connor’s? He jumped, as if singed by the matchstick flare of his anger. He blinked at her, processing this revelation, unwilling to speak until the anger either extinguished itself, tamped down by the winds of duty, obligation, and responsibility, or blew up into a bonfire that would destroy his old life. He waited as if he were a disinterested party, curious to see which direction the wind would carry the fire, as if the decision were someone else’s to make.

  As if the decision were someone else’s to make. There it was, in a nutshell. The laziness, the timidity, the caution. He would make a lousy governor, if this was who he truly was or allowed himself to be. He would also make a lousy son. This was where the legendary Coleman self-control had brought him. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men. A fine Harvard education and this was where he had ended up, a directionless, paunchy prince with no kingdom of his own. No wonder he was mindlessly rushing his way back to David. Without the daring, impetuous, and yes, brave man who had shaped his life, who was he? He had long ago accepted that without David, he never would have had a political life. But now a more urgent existential quest
ion nagged at him—without David, would he have any kind of a life at all?

  He wanted to find out. The voice within him was small, no more than a murmur. But Anton heard it, and he heard it as the loudest sound in the world. He wanted to find out. Who he was outside the shade of the branches that grew from David’s tree. He knew—had been taught—how to be David’s son, heir to a political destiny. He had that part down pat, to the extent that he had waltzed his way up to the doorstep of the Governor’s Mansion. But did he know how to be a poor woman’s son? Did he know how to right the grievous wrong that had been visited upon her? Did he know how to be worthy of the pride she felt in him, since she was unaware of what a frightened, prissy, ineffectual man her son truly was? Was he man enough not to be ashamed of Juanita, of her country ways, her imperfect grammar, which was sweet as spring water to him but which, he knew, would register as ignorant on the ears of his people back home?

  Something moved inside Anton’s chest, and for a moment it felt physical—not painful, really, but a physical sensation, like an extra heartbeat. Then he recognized it. It was joy. Joy bubbling within him, its edges laced with fear but not the paralyzing kind of fear, not fear that made you afraid to look or move. The right kind of fear, the kind a man feels before he jumps off a cliff into startlingly blue icy-cold waters and knows that it will be all right, because mid-fall, he will learn to fly. The kind of exhilarating fear that pulls joy along in its wake. He was about to jump off a cliff. He couldn’t really see the way after that, but it didn’t matter.

  He leaned over and put his arm around Carine. “Thank you,” he said, and he knew his voice was different, more confident.

  “For what?” she said, her eyebrows raised.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll understand that I can’t stay tonight,” he said. “You’ll explain to the boys?” And he was on his feet, brushing past her.

  “Wait. Anton. Where’re you going?”

  He turned his head to look at her as he headed out of the sunroom and into the bedroom to grab his things. “Home,” he said. “I’m going home. I’m off to see my mam.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  He phoned Katherine minutes after he got on the freeway. He let her swear at him for a minute, call him irresponsible, selfish, and a few choice names, and then he interrupted her. “I have to tell you something. Actually, I have to tell you everything, Katherine. But you can’t hang up on me until I’m done. Even though you’ll want to. Can you promise?”

  She almost broke her word when he told her about the two days he’d spent with Carine and her sons, even though he emphasized the presence of the two young boys. He heard her sharp intake of breath and spoke fast, telling her about Carine’s husband and explaining that he’d lied only because it had been too difficult to say it all on the phone right then. She gasped again when he told her what David had done and about the uncashed check. “If what you’re saying is true, Anton, that’s criminal. That’s a criminal offense.”

  “It’s true,” he said simply. “It’s all true.”

  “But why?” Katherine cried. “I mean, he could’ve adopted any kid that he wanted, for God’s sake.”

  He pretended to be insulted. “Excuse me,” he said. “A great kid like me doesn’t come around every day, you know.”

  There was a stunned silence, and then Katherine said, “I can’t believe you can even joke about this. I mean, I’m in shock.”

  He was immediately contrite. “I’m not. Really. I’m still processing it. Honestly, I feel like someone’s beaten me on the head with a baseball bat. I mean, my God, Katherine. This is a man whom I adored. Adore. And that’s the reason why I couldn’t rush home. I need some time—and distance—to process what I’ve found out. Do you understand?”

  There was another silence. “And did Carine help you . . . process it?” Katherine asked carefully.

  He heard the hurt in her question and shook his head impatiently. “I did talk to her,” he said. “But babe, you gotta understand—the reason I could talk to Carine was precisely because she’s not close to the situation. And that’s exactly why I couldn’t talk to you. Because I needed an objective listener, and she . . . Carine . . . well, she’s not in love with me. So she could be dispassionate. Whereas you . . .” It was sounding fake to him, like some bullshit line a cheating husband fed to his wife, and he wondered if Katherine was hearing it the same way. He sighed. This was not a conversation to be had while they were several states apart. On the other hand, he appreciated her resilience, her toughness in abiding by her promise and not hanging up. She was lovely, Katherine, and he was suddenly sure he wanted her in his life for a long time to come.

  “This is very difficult,” he said quietly. “And doing it long-distance makes it harder. I’m sorry. But I didn’t want to lie to you another minute. I know it’s asking you for a lot, Katherine. I know how this looks. But—”

  “Where’re you now?” she interrupted.

  He exhaled, knowing he was about to drop another bombshell on her. “Driving back. To her. To my mam.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Katherine said, and he slackened his grip on the steering wheel. He had been unaware that he had been gripping it that hard.

  “You were?” He felt his eyes fill with tears and was about to blink them back when he remembered what Carine had accused him of. He let them roll.

  “Of course. You need to spend time with her. Do you have any idea how long you’ll be away?”

  He mulled over her question, and even though he was still crying, he smiled. He felt his chest expand and fill with lightness. “Katherine. I have no friggin’ idea. I don’t know what I’m gonna say to her or what we’ll eat for dinner tonight or where I’ll sleep. All I know is I’m gonna fling my arms around my mam and hug her senseless.”

  He heard the smile in her voice. “That sounds like a plan.” Then her voice grew serious. “But what’re we going to do about the media, Anton? Come Monday they will be circling like vultures. Brad’s going to go crazy trying to keep them at bay.”

  His chest constricted again at this reminder of his real life. “I know,” he said miserably. “I don’t think Brad’s ever going to speak to me again. It’s just that . . . the thought of campaigning is just beyond me right now. I’m sorry I’ve left you guys a mess to clean up. I have no clue what we’ll tell the media.”

  Katherine’s voice was cool, thoughtful. “What if we tell them the truth?”

  Anton grimaced. “The truth?”

  “Not all of it, of course. Just that your long-lost mom reached out to you. And you went out to see her. And are now spending a few days catching up.”

  It was brilliant, really. The truth. Not the whole truth, naturally, but enough of it. A simple, elegant way out of their dilemma. “Brad can’t tell them where I am,” he said, warming up to the idea. “No details at all. I don’t want the press crawling around her place, messing up her life.”

  “Fair enough.” Katherine was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Anton. What is she like?”

  A feeling of pride swept over Anton. He grinned broadly. “Mam? She’s pretty cool, actually. You’d like her, Kat.” And even as he said those words, he knew it was true. Katherine would be able to see past Juanita’s lack of education and poor grammar to her quiet, heroic core. It would take some time, but the two of them would grow comfortable around each other.

  “If she’s anything like you, I’m sure I will.”

  He swallowed. “You’re the best, you know that?” he said. “If the roles were reversed, if you’d spent the last two days with an old boyfriend, I don’t know if I could’ve forgiven you as easily.”

  “Anton,” she said quietly. “Love is not love without trust.”

  He fell silent, thinking of what she’d said.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Okay, well . . .”

  “I love you, Kat,” he said. “And I really hope to spend my days with you.”


  “Honey. If this is some kind of a lame long-distance marriage proposal . . .”

  He laughed dutifully. “No. It isn’t. But we need to talk when I get home. I have so very much I need to tell you.”

  “I think I like this new Anton.”

  “From now on, this is the only Anton you’ll see. I promise.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  He drove down the same roads that he’d driven down just two days before, but this time everything was different. The sky was hazier today and his windshield dirtier, but to Anton, everything shone brighter. His body pulsed with awareness, felt prickly with sensation, as if now that he’d acknowledged his mother’s sorrow, he was finally in tune with the sway and thrum of the entire universe. But was that really what he’d done, acknowledged his mother’s pain? Or was it simply that for the first time, he had entered the dark cave that he had always been afraid to explore—his own heart? What that heart wanted, what it ached and longed for, he had never allowed himself to know, but now that he had walked through its chambers, he was flooding it with light at every step he took. If he didn’t accomplish another thing in his life, there would be this.

  What’re you gonna do when you get to Mam’s? he asked himself, but his imagination led him only as far as climbing up the porch steps and knocking on the front door. What happened after that was a canvas as blank as the sky above. And unlike on his first trip to his mother’s home, when he’d showed up bristling with purpose, he was content with not knowing.