Proportional Response
Irene
It was late when Sam finally reached home. Parking
the car in the driveway, he spotted the kitchen light
and frowned. His mother, among her other unusual
habits, liked to cook just before midnight.
"Mom?" he called softly as he entered the house and
hung his coat. "Ma?"
"In here, Samuel!" a familiar voice echoed, and he
made his way into the dizzying smell of freshly baked
bread. She was there, waiting for him as she has
waited every night for the past two years - hot dinner
on the wrap-covered plate, hands sprinkled with flower
and a smile on her lips. Nothing but the smile was
different; it was, although well disguised in fatigue,
badly drawn and quivering.
Sam caught his breath at its sight.
"Mom, are you..." he uttered and was cut off with a
casual wave of her hand. She kissed him lightly on
the forehead and pointed to the table. Sam sat down
obediently, but the mere thought of food was revolting
to him, and he pushed the plate away.
"How're you doing, honey?" his mother asked as if he
was seven again and had just scraped his knee riding a
bicycle. He looked at her in amazement.
"You should go upstairs and talk to your father," she
continued, stroking his hair. "He's been in the study
for hours and hasn't come out."
"We... uh, talked before I left work," Sam blurted
out. "Mom, are you okay?"
"Fine." She pulled a sheet with crescent rolls out of
the oven. "I think deep down I've known for a long
time, so it wasn't really that much of a shock."
"That makes one of us," he said harshly. "God, what
an idiot I've been all this time."
"What are you talking about?" his mother walked closer
and sniffed the air around him. "Samuel! Are you
drunk?"
Sam shook his head wearily.
"Nah. Couldn't possibly be. We took Josh home after
he's had his three beer quota," he laughed. "He'll
have trouble remembering things tomorrow."
"But you won't."
"No. I'll never forget."
"Sammy," she tried again, putting all her tenderness
into the name, but he jerked away.
"I can't, Mom. I can't."
***
4 hours ago
"I'll meet you there," Sam assured Josh who, after
much consideration, finally made it out of his office.
Sam sat behind his desk and picked up the phone.
"Confrontations are good," he sang nervously, tapping
his fingers lightly on the number pad.
"Confrontations are healthy. Get it over with,
Seaborn. Get on with your life."
He dialed his father cell phone number.
"Restricted - to Stuart Seaborn the third," he read
his phone's display in the same singing tones. He
picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk, making
more noise as the rings continued.
"Marie?" his father's voice suddenly roared. "Is that
you, Marie?"
The pencil broke in Sam's unsteady fingers.
"It's Lillian, dad," he said hoarsely. "Mom's name is
Lillian. It's been thirty-four years. Get it right!"
The next sound he heard was a fast busy signal. Sam
slowly replaced the handset and put his head on the
table.
***
"Is he packed?" Sam asked. The smell of food was
beginning to agree with him as the alcohol he drank
earlier had settled down. "Does he need a ride to the
airport?"
"Please don't be like this. He's miserable enough.
You know he's leaving tomorrow, so try and make his
last day here seem bearable."
"Right. Because I owe him that."
"He moved here to be close to you. This weather
hasn't been good for him, but have you ever heard him
complain? It was all he needed to have you home at
night, and he'd watch CSPAN all day long just to catch
a glimpse of you on it."
"I'm never on CSPAN."
"He was hopeful."
"Moving here must have been a huge sacrifice." Sam
poked at the pot roast with his fork and moved the
vegetables aside. "Santa Monica is a long way off."
"Stop it!" Lillian Seaborn shrieked suddenly, and Sam
dropped the fork on the table. She took hold of
herself momentarily. "I can't stand to see you like
this. Bitter, angry. This isn't what you are,
Samuel."
"What am I, mom? I wasted years wanting to be my
father's son, but look how that turned out!"
"You were never like him," his mother said soothingly.
"Every day, I wonder what we've done to deserve you.
Your kindness, your devotion, your convictions - I
never thought our problems would be transparent enough
to raise a son like you. Every day, I ask myself how
we've done it."
Sam held a hot crescent roll to his eyes, comparing it
to the new moon in the window. The shape was
perfectly identical, but he broke it in half and the
crumbs showered his plate.
"How have you done it, Mom?" he asked.
"Together, Samuel. We tried so hard. He tried so
hard."
"No." Sam hit the table with his fist. "You say that
now, because he is out the door tomorrow, but I'm
staying here and I will have to be the one watching
you spend your life in that chair by the window, alone
while he's sun-bathing in California! Tomorrow he is
gone, and we're here to pick up the damn pieces!"
"You and me, Samuel. Remember, he has no other
children, and I have you."
Sam stood up.
"I remember, mom. Believe me, I'll make sure he
remembers it too."
Before she could stop him, he walked upstairs.
His father was sitting in a deep armchair in the
library. The cellular phone lay on the coffee table
before him. When Sam swung the door open, he jolted
his head up.
"You bastard," Sam said slowly. "You sad, pitiful
bastard."
Stuart Seaborn the third stood up to meet his son. He
was much taller than Sam and his complexion was
sturdier, but Sam didn't flinch.
"She's all alone down there," he said. "All this time
you considered leaving her... Why the hell didn't you
do it while she still had a chance to meet someone
else?"
"Let me explain, Sam," his father began.
"I used to think confrontations were good," Sam
continued. "I thought, get it out in the open, cry
into each other's shoulder and patch things up, but
that's not how it works. I couldn't bring myself to
look at you for three days, dad. Come to think of it,
I never want to see you again."
"Listen to me," Stuart Seaborn tried again.
"No. You had twenty-eight years to explain. We're
done talking." Sam left as abruptly as he entered,
leaving his father standing alone in an empty room.
"Feeling good," the young man sang under his breath,
running down the stairs. "Might regret it later,
much, much later, but feeling pretty good right now."
His mother was still in the kitchen. Now the smile
was gone and tears traced tiny lines on her cheeks.
"I heard," she told him when he kneeled by her side.
"You're... changing before my very eyes, Samuel. I
can't stand it."
"Betrayal must be met with a proportional response,"
he replied. "I've learned that the hard way."
"Some day I'll need its significance explained to me,"
Lillian Seaborn said.
"You and me both, mom." Sam swallowed a piece of cold
pot roast, which was delicious, and held her close as
they both listened to the man upstairs, who was no
longer part of their family, pack his final suitcase.
HOME |
TITLE |
AUTHOR |
CATEGORY