His phone rang, and he glanced at where it lay on the passenger seat, and his heart sank. It was Dad. He knew he shouldn’t pick up, because if anyone in the world could make him reverse his course, it was David, but a lifetime of habit prevailed and he answered. “Hi, Dad,” he said.
“You’re going back? To her house?” David’s voice was so close and urgent in his ear, it was as if he could feel the breath, and Anton jerked the phone away and put it on speaker instead. “Anton? Is that what you’re doing?”
Despite his growing anger, Anton marveled at the impetuous quality in the older man’s voice. David was not someone who gave up without a fight. This was what Pappy had bred him to be—a scrappy fighter. He had tried to do the same with Anton, but what he’d produced instead was a deferential, obedient son.
Until now. And suddenly, Anton heard it, the tremor behind the arrogance, the loss of control, and the fact that David had no clue how to win back that control. His son was six hundred miles away, speeding along a freeway that would take him back to his dark past, into the shadows that David had prided himself on rescuing Anton from. There was nothing in David’s arsenal that could help him understand the choice Anton was making. In the split second before he answered, Anton understood this, and the knowledge made his voice softer when he replied, “Yes, Dad. Katherine spoke to you?”
“No.” David’s voice was curt, and again Anton heard something—a trace of hurt—and knew that Katherine had refused to speak to him. “I heard it from Brad.”
“News travels fast up north,” he said, not trying to hide the amusement in his voice.
There was a short, angry silence. “You think that’s funny? May I also remind you that ‘up north’ is where you’re running for governor? Unless . . . unless you’ve decided to throw that away along with everything else?” This time the wobble in David’s voice was so distinct that Anton felt a pang in his chest. For a moment he saw it all from David’s point of view—the horror of the past rising up, acquiring fangs and claws, and bloodying their present, and then the truest horror: Instead of beating it back, Anton was suddenly, improbably joining forces with it and blaming him, him, David Coleman, who had done everything that a biological father would do, who had given Anton a great education, unconditional love, who had shared his wealth, who, most of all, had conferred upon this ungrateful boy his illustrious family name and had rescued him from a life of poverty and mediocrity. All to have it end up in a pile of ashes, because ultimately, ultimately, the pull of blood, the tug of—say it, say it—of blackness was too compelling. When Anton had turned his car around and begun driving toward Juanita Vesper’s house, he’d been heading toward everything David scorned and feared—the rural South and its untidy poverty, disorder, and squalor.
But here was the rub. Anton couldn’t think of David as just another privileged old white guy. Because for every radiant memory David carried of him, Anton had a correspondingly sweet memory of his father. Of the man who’d been so patient when he had stumbled, but who had instilled in him the kind of confidence that had served him well in his adult life; who had cried tears of joy the day they had formally adopted him, who had been a source of guidance and advice and inspiration on every matter in his life, large and small. David had been a monumental presence in his life, a linebacker who had sheltered and protected Anton so that he could keep his eyes focused on the fifty-yard line, and only the most unforgiving of men would allow the revelation of his one terrible sin to tarnish every other golden memory.
“What am I throwing away, Dad? All I’m doing is spending some more time with her.”
“To what end? Don’t you think you owe the voters something more than your hiney?”
The question was so vintage David that Anton had to suppress a laugh. He waited until the impulse passed and then said, “Dad. This is a woman who has suffered a lot.” His voice trembled a bit. “Who . . . has had a grave injustice done to her.” He bit his lip, suppressing the urge to say more, reminding himself of David’s heart condition, reluctant to wound the older man, but also wanting to make it clear that David was not off the hook. Not by a long shot. “What you and Uncle Connor did, Dad . . . I still can barely understand it. And it’s going to take me a long time to forgive you.”
David made a sound so harsh, so bitter, that it took Anton’s breath away. “Guess I should’ve known,” he said.
“Known what?”
“Pappy used to say blood is thicker than water. It always wins, blood.”
Anton felt a slow burn creeping onto his cheeks. “What does that even mean? You think I’m siding with my—my birth mom—because of blood? How convenient that must be for you, Dad. It lets you off the hook completely, doesn’t it?”
David made that same ugly sound again, a combination of laughter and throat clearing. “And how come you don’t hold her responsible, huh? For what she did? A grown woman leaving a young child trapped alone in a room. Do you know what the goddamn temperatures were that week?” David’s voice rose. “It was ninety-five fucking degrees inside that goddamned apartment. That’s what I rescued you from, Anton. I rescued you from hell. From a—” David coughed, a loud, jagged fit that went on and on. “Water,” Anton heard him whisper, and the next moment there was a disturbance, and then Delores’s voice, cool and firm. “Anton? Sweetheart? What’s going on? Will someone please tell me?”
Her voice held such concern and bewilderment that Anton’s chest felt warm, as if she were once again applying Vicks to his chest the way she would when he was a boy with a cold. He was about to answer when a car passed him on the left, the driver leaning on the horn and glaring as he passed. Anton must’ve been weaving across lanes, he realized. On an impulse, he pulled onto the shoulder of the highway in order to focus on the call. “Hey, Mom,” he said wearily, dreading her reaction if he had to tell her something she didn’t know.
“Honey. What’s going on? Why’s Dad walking around the house like he’s seen a ghost?”
Anton closed his eyes and then opened them. “Because he has, Mom,” he said. And proceeded to answer her question.
There was a long, stunned silence after he was done, and just as it was beginning to feel unbearable to Anton, Delores said, “You have to answer one question honestly. Will you be able to forgive him, Anton? Will you be able to forgive us?”
The question was so purely Delores—compassionate, humble, intuitive—that Anton began to cry.
“Darling. Anton, baby. Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it. What we’ve done.” And then Delores was crying, too.
“But you didn’t . . . you didn’t do anything wrong, Mom,” Anton said. “How could you have . . .”
“Oh, but yes, I did.” Though Delores’s voice was weak, Anton heard the iron in it. “That day when he told me that poor woman . . . your . . . mom . . . had asked to be relieved of her legal rights. I knew . . . I knew something wasn’t right. It was too—convenient. Too easy. And yet I didn’t push David too hard. I didn’t dare. He looked—so happy. You made him so happy, Anton.” Delores’s voice cracked. “And he had been so unhappy for so long. After James died. It was like watching a dead man come back to life, with you in the house.” Delores stopped abruptly, and it killed Anton to imagine what she looked like in that moment. He imagined her sitting on the cherry rocker beside the phone stand, hunched with grief, dabbing her eyes, trying to control her voice and her emotions in case someone—William, probably—was nearby.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“Not in the room,” she answered. “I don’t know. And at the moment, I don’t care.”
He felt a moment’s gratitude at this linking of arms, even though he knew what it cost her to go against David. “Don’t be too hard on him, Mom,” he said. “I—I know Dad meant well. I do get that.”
“Don’t. Don’t do it, Anton.”
“Do what?”
“What you always do. Don’t make excuses for him. He’s not a saint, Anton. And he’s not a superman.
Even though he’s always wanted you to believe this. He’s just a man. A good man most of the time, but just a man. It’s time you start seeing this, baby.”
“Mom, I—”
“And you’re a better man than he is. You’re . . . kinder. Softer. Maybe you get that from her. Your . . . mom. You certainly didn’t learn that warmth from us.”
He hated what she was doing, this self-flagellation, almost as much as he’d hated David’s unapologetic bravado a few minutes earlier. “You’re the warmest person I know, Mom,” he said.
Delores made a sound like she was spitting up a bitter pit. “Me? I’m six generations of Yankee, son. I think my father hugged me exactly three times in my entire life. I inherited that legendary New England reticence. We were all so obsessed with who was and who was not ‘our kind’ that we bred all the humanity out of our bloodlines.” And Delores was crying again.
“Well, you let me in,” Anton said, trying desperately to help.
Delores sighed. “We tried. We really tried. And Anton, one thing you’ve got to believe me when I tell you—we never felt that we were doing you the favor. We always knew the truth: that it was you helping us.”
“That’s not what Dad said,” Anton said quietly.
“Ignore him. He’s like an insane person right now. He doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth, Anton. The fact that you’re not out on the campaign trail is driving him nuts. You must understand.”
Why was she talking to him like he was a distant relative who had to have things explained to him? They’re both getting old, Anton thought. Dad’s illness has prematurely aged both of them. “I know, Mom,” he said. “I know. And I’ll be home soon, I promise.”
“What are you going to do?” Delores asked, and again there was this distant politeness, this formality lacing her words, as if she had already decided that Juanita had the better claim. “When you see her again, I mean?”
“I’m not sure. I honestly don’t know. I just . . . want to spend some time with her.” He wanted to add, And I never would’ve imagined how much resistance I’d run into to keep me from doing this very modest thing.
“You should bring her back,” Delores said. “With you.”
“Bring her where?”
“Home. Bring her home. With you.”
“And where would she stay, Mom?” he said carefully.
“You have a nice condo. Or. She could stay here. With us.”
The snort escaped before Anton could control it. “You want to put Dad into an early grave, Mom?”
“I see what you mean.” He could hear the smile in Delores’s voice. But then she continued, improbably, “But you said she’s been sober now for—how many years? And I bet she’s a very nice lady.”
He shook his head, smiling at the when-hell-freezes-over vision of Juanita Vesper sitting at the table in David and Delores Coleman’s well-appointed dining room. He heard the clanking of the heavy soup spoons, saw the startled, eager-to-please smile on Delores’s lips as she strove to make conversation, the quizzical look David would cast Anton’s way each time Juanita said something country or unsophisticated. He could almost picture it—the burning, acidic feeling in his stomach every time Juanita made a social gaffe, the puff of pride when she said something unexpectedly clever and David shot him an astonished look.
Anton kept his eyes closed after he hung up with Delores, promising to phone her later that night, and continued to imagine the scene around the dinner table. William would probably draw Juanita out of her shell, so that her tight, awkward smile would loosen a bit around the edges when she spoke to him. Brad would treat her with his usual egalitarian, breezy charm, and she would blossom under his teasing. But she would remain shy and quiet around Katherine, casting appraising looks from below hooded eyes when she thought Katherine wasn’t looking. And Katherine would squeeze Anton’s hand under the table every time Juanita said something that made the others respond with soft, appreciative chuckles.
Anton was smiling to himself when the rapping at his window caused him to open his eyes. He turned his head and saw the window blocked by a uniformed state trooper. Muttering a soft “fuck” to himself, Anton rolled down the window, involuntarily running a hand through his hair. He craned his neck and looked up into a broad red face. “Hi, Officer,” he said, forcing a brightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. “I just pulled over to make a phone call.”
“Registration and driver’s license.” The voice was flat, slightly nasal.
“I need to explain something,” Anton said. His voice sounded strange, high-pitched to his ear. “The car belongs to a friend of mine. So it’s not in my name, okay? I’m visiting from up north, actually. I’m just here on—”
The gray eyes went hard. “I said, registration and driver’s license.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” To Anton’s mortification, he found himself fumbling as he reached for his wallet. The few times he had been stopped and frisked by the cops when he was a teenager, his family name had smoothed out any potential rough spots. Here, he knew exactly who he was—a lone black man with an out-of-town license in an expensive car that was not registered to him. Here, on a strip of highway in the middle of rural Georgia.
He watched his license disappear into the large beefy hand and sat staring ahead as the cop removed a flashlight and peered into the car even though it wasn’t dark. His mind was racing, anticipating what would come next—permission to conduct a search of the car—and whether he should allow it or not. He was out of his element here, a stranger in a strange land, and all his earlier affinity for the land of his forefathers had flown out of the window and was lying in the dirt at the side of the road. The small, narrowing eyes of the patrolman told him exactly who he was—he was a northerner, he was black, and he was guilty. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But he was pretty sure it didn’t matter, that on the side of a deserted highway, innocence would be only a formality.
Get a grip, he said to himself. Think. Tell him you’re the fucking attorney general back home, for fuck’s sake, if you think that will help. Although it could make matters worse. The uppity Negro and all that.
He was aware that he was inexplicably indulging in the worst racial stereotypes of the white southerner, but given the initial signs, he was not wrong. He mentally cataloged the clues: the curtness with which he had been asked for his license. The lack of pleasantries and the lack of “sir” that had followed the command. The unnecessary intimidation of the flashlight search of his car. No, he had not imagined the hostility in the patrolman’s posture, the presumption of guilt.
Anton waited with growing anger and dread as the officer went back to his patrol car to call in the license number. He had not lived the life of the average black male in so long that he had gone soft, lacking the sharpness that he would need to call upon now. He wanted to nip this incident in the bud, even if it meant accepting a traffic violation ticket, although what the cop would list as his offense, he hadn’t a clue. That was what he should’ve done, dammit, asked the man immediately what he was being questioned for. But the officer’s posture had been so curt and intimidating that Anton had meekly handed over his license.
It came to him as he sat there waiting. How often had an incident like this occurred in his mother’s life? How many such insults and humiliations had she endured? And how had she dealt with them? Had she smiled and cowered, as he had? Or had her eyes blazed with anger, the corners of her mouth turned down with scorn and hatred? As he remembered her large liquid eyes, the girl-like face, Anton’s heart pinched with regret. How had she done it, kicked her drug addiction and stayed sober in a world that seemed designed to break down women like her? A world where perhaps the sanest response was to lose yourself in a drugged stupor? What an iron will she must possess, what pools of courage must lie behind those gentle brown eyes. And the worst part was, her reward for a lifetime of self-discipline and hard work was so paltry. Pappy and David had worked hard, and so did Anton. But their efforts had
such enormous payoffs—good salaries, wealth that reproduced itself, luxury cars, beautiful homes. What had Juanita Vesper earned in exchange for kicking a drug habit, for twenty-five years of sobriety, for decades of working in a small, hot restaurant kitchen? A free lunch hurriedly eaten in between customers. A small house on the outskirts of town that had been left to her by her blind mother. A car that ran but could stop any day. A solitary, almost reclusive life. No extravagant habits, no eating out, no trips to Europe. Did she even have health care? He had no idea. Carine was right. How did he bear it? How did he bear being the thoughtless, self-absorbed prick that he was? How had he not collapsed, how had his bones not cracked under the unbearable weight of his selfishness?
He knew that such thoughts would not help his situation, that they might make him combative when the officer returned, but without knowing it, he was sitting taller in his seat. In his job, he had put away hardened police officers for corruption, had faced off against members of the Mob and powerful high rollers on Wall Street. He was not going to be intimidated by an asshole patrolman with a red face and a southern drawl. Anton tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, and then struck by an idea, he dialed Beau Branson’s phone number, careful to leave the phone sitting on the passenger seat.
“BB speaking.”
“BB, this is Anton.”
“Anton. You run away with my plane? Where the hell—?”
Anton faked a chuckle. “Yeah, man. Can’t say I blame you. I’ll explain everything when I return. And I’ll make it right financially, okay? But BB, listen. I have a problem. I’ve been pulled over by a state trooper who may be suspicious about me driving a car not registered in my name.” He heard his voice tighten and hoped that Beau would pick up on the gravity of the situation without him having to spell out the obvious.
Everybody's Son Page 29
