Surrogate Child Read online

  Soon he would spend more time with the boy and get a more balanced view of things, he thought. It was just that he couldn’t help having the feeling that everything was moving too quickly. As strange as it seemed, Jonathan was slipping into the relationship Martha had had with Solomon as smoothly and as comfortably as he was slipping into Solomon’s clothes.

  And he was doing that more and more. There seemed to be nothing in Solomon’s wardrobe that Jonathan didn’t like. There were a few things Martha had to adjust: pants she let down, a sports jacket she had tailored.

  One night when Joe came home from work later than usual because he had had to travel to just about the boundary of his territory, he found Martha and Jonathan in the kitchen. Jonathan was wearing Solomon’s dark brown sports jacket, and Martha was marking and pinning it for the tailor. They hadn’t heard him come in; they were too involved in the clothing, and he did sort of sneak up on them. He was curious.

  “You’re growing so fast,” she said. “These sleeves have got to come out an inch. And those shoulders—they were never as broad.”

  For a moment Joe couldn’t speak. She was talking to Jonathan as if he had lived with them for a long time or as if she had known him before. What was going on? Why didn’t the boy react to that?

  “Hello,” he finally said, and they both turned around abruptly, both wearing the same look of annoyance at being so surprised.

  “Joe! For Christ sakes, why’d you sneak up like that? You nearly scared me to death.”

  “I didn’t sneak up,” he said, but their expressions of condemnation made him feel so guilty and so small, he could only laugh awkwardly. “What’s happening here, anyway?”

  “There’s a dance at the high school next weekend. I thought it would be nice if Jonathan wore this sports jacket, but it needs some work.”

  “Formal dance?” he asked. Solomon’s taste in clothing always amazed him. He could dress in the casual, nearly sloppy garb of a typical teenager, but he was also cognizant of style and liked to look sophisticated. Joe recalled a boy from his high school days, Bernard Hartman, who was usually dressed in a tie and slacks during the regular school day. Instead of coming off sophisticated, however, he was considered weird, what the kids today called a “nerd.”

  Yet from what he saw when Solomon was around other kids his age, no one considered him in that light. It was as if his friends had expected him to be more elegant and mature in his clothing. Yet Joe was sure (in fact, he knew from driving Solomon to school for dances) that most of the other kids dressed casually for these affairs. He would have thought Jonathan would want to be casual, too.

  “It’s a dance,” Jonathan said. “No one said anything about how we should dress.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to look nice,” Martha said.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’ll have your supper out in a minute, Joe.”

  “That’s all right. I want to take a shower first today. I feel like I’ve been driving for days,” he added, expecting her to ask about the jobs and the places he had been. She usually did, but right now, she not only seemed not to have heard him, she seemed totally uninterested in anything but Solomon’s sports jacket and the way it fit Jonathan. They both turned away from him. “I’ll go shower,” he repeated, and left.

  By the time he came down for dinner, Jonathan was already sequestered in his room. When he walked past the closed door, he heard the beginning of Madame Butterfly and shook his head in amazement. Downstairs, Martha had his supper ready. The sports jacket lay folded over what used to be Solomon’s seat at the table.

  Now that he saw her alone, Joe realized how radiant she was. Her complexion, which had become what he thought would be irrevocably pale after Solomon’s death, was returning to its previously rich and smooth state. He had always been fascinated with Martha’s skin. It was a thrill to simply run the tips of his fingers gently over her cheeks and press his lips to her forehead. She was one of those women who would never look their age. Wrinkles would come almost as an afterthought, probably when she was well into her seventies. And her eyes would deceive and confuse the most astute physician, who would be unable to accurately guess her age because of the youthful and vibrant look within them.

  Wasn’t that something that happened often already? People who didn’t know her couldn’t believe she was thirty-eight. Dress her in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt and she could easily pass for a college coed.

  But age seized her with the appetite of a leech after Solomon’s death. The brightness left her eyes, her hair dulled, she stooped when she walked, and her gait was slow and heavy, more like the walk of a woman carrying the burden of years of manual labor.

  Now she had drunk from the fountain of youth. There was a lightness in her laugh, a brightness in her eyes that illuminated her whole face with a smile, and a youthful vigor in her mannerisms and gestures. It was truly as if they had turned back time. This was the girl with whom he had fallen in love. His heart beat with such happiness, he could think of nothing but good days and wonderfully passionate nights. And just as it used to be when he came home from a hard day’s work and saw her, he, too, felt revived. The mere sight of her washed away the fatigue.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yes. A shower is a wonderful thing. I had a rough day,” he said, expecting she wanted him to describe it as usual. But she didn’t pick up on it. She nodded quickly, the smile frozen on her face. She was looking through him.

  “Isn’t it wonderful how he fits into Solomon’s old clothes. He fills out the shirts and can wear most all of his pants. Why, there are even some shoes he can wear.”

  “What do you mean? They don’t have the same size foot.”

  “Solomon had a nine, and he wears an eight, but some of Solomon’s shoes were a little too snug, especially the older ones. Solomon kept all his clothes so well, Jonathan thinks everything is brand-new. Do you know what he asked me?” she offered, following her question with a short laugh.

  “What?”

  “He wanted to know if we had continued to buy Solomon clothes even after . . . can you imagine?”

  “How could he ask such a thing?” Joe sat back, unable to prevent an expression of disgust.

  “It was just a matter of speaking. Like a joke,” she said.

  He stared at her.

  “Like a joke?”

  “He just couldn’t believe the clothes were that old, Joe. Don’t forget what he’s been through.”

  “How could I?” he said, and immediately regretted how sarcastic it sounded.

  “I thought you would enjoy his reactions to things,” she said. “It’s part of the pleasure of having a child.”

  He nodded and continued to eat.

  “I supposed I’m just very tired,” he said finally. She accepted the statement as an apology and patted his hand.

  “Just relax after dinner. I see the Knicks are on television tonight.”

  “You noticed the Knicks were on television, and you want me to watch?” He sat back with a smile so wide it could fit well on a clown.

  “Well, to be honest . . .”

  “Yes? Come on,” he said, expecting she would be asking for some favor.

  “I wasn’t the one who noticed. Jonathan pointed it out.”

  “What?” He sat forward.

  “He overheard you talking about the Knicks, and he spotted the game in the television guide and told me to remind you about it.”

  “He never mentioned that he likes watching basketball.”

  “I don’t know that he does, Joe. He was thinking of you.”

  “Really?” He thought for a moment. Solomon never did that, he thought, and then he chastised himself. Why was he always comparing the boy to Solomon? This was something he was afraid Martha would be doing and here, he was the one who was doing it. “Well, that’s nice of him.”

  “I know. He’s a nice boy, Joe. Give him a chance. Try.”

  “I am. I will,” he said defens
ively.

  “That’s all I ask,” she said. “That’s all he’ll ask either,” she added with the authority of someone who knew she could speak for someone else. He nodded without speaking and went back to his meal.

  After dinner, he did go in to watch the Knicks game. Martha decided to do her supermarket shopping because she said it was less crowded and easier in the evening. She was going to meet Judy Issacs for coffee right before going to the market, and then they would both go. He was glad about that. He liked Judy because she was a strong and independent woman, almost always optimistic and up about herself. He thought that Judy, of all Martha’s friends, was the best influence on her. He hoped Judy would get her to reconsider taking the realtor’s course at the community college.

  Just before the halftime break, Jonathan came down. He stood watching the game for a while. Joe invited him to sit, but he said he had to study for a test.

  “You keep up with professional basketball?” Joe asked him.

  Jonathan hesitated as if telling the truth might be painful. He shook his head.

  “Not really,” he said, but Joe sensed otherwise. He wondered why he wanted to hide his interest in such things.

  “Well, if you want, I can get us tickets to a game at the Garden next month. One of my clients has good connections for that sort of thing. We could get a box seat. How’s that sound?” Jonathan’s eyes widened and then, as if someone turned down the lights, his face darkened, and the heat that had been in his eyes cooled.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe,” he added, but without any enthusiasm. Joe turned back to the game, and Jonathan went to the kitchen to get himself a glass of milk. He stopped on the way back.

  “The Knicks are ahead by six,” Joe said, thinking that might be what he wanted to know.

  He barely acknowledged the information.

  “Oh,” he said. “I was wondering about something maybe you could fix.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This watch,” he said, and held his wrist out. Joe stared, the smile fading quickly from his face. It was Solomon’s gold quartz, the watch he had bought him for his thirteenth birthday. After his death, the watch along with his gold chain and the clothes he wore that day were put in a plastic bag, and the bag was buried deep in the corner of his and Martha’s walk-in bedroom closet. Joe knew for a fact that she hadn’t touched it since the day he put it in the closet.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Martha gave it to me to use. She saw I didn’t have a watch, but it’s not working right. I think the battery’s dead. I think you need a special tool to replace it, right?” He dangled his wrist in front of Joe, but Joe didn’t respond. Finally, he nodded.

  “I’ll get a battery tomorrow,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’ll just keep wearing it anyway. It looks good on me,” he added, and smiled.

  Joe said nothing. He turned to the television set, and Jonathan walked out of the room and back upstairs. The way Joe looked at the remainder of the game, it would have made no difference if the television picture tube had blown out. In fact, when Martha returned and asked him who won, he couldn’t tell her.

  He was going to ask her about the watch before they went to sleep, but every time he phrased the question in his mind, it sounded so critical, he was afraid he would start an unnecessary argument, the result of which would be to turn back all the progress she had apparently made. In the end, he would feel small and stupid for making something out of giving Jonathan Solomon’s watch. After all, they were giving Jonathan Solomon’s room. He was wearing Solomon’s clothes, riding Solomon’s bike, and especially using Solomon’s computer. What was so special about the watch?

  What was special about it, he thought, was the same thing that was special about the gold chain and the clothes he wore that day. They were on his body when he died and that fact made them sacred. It was why he understood putting all of it in the bag and keeping it in their room. It was why they had never touched any of it up until now.

  This was what surprised him about Martha’s actions—her sudden ability to do and say things that had been forbidden for the last year and a half. It just seemed that she not only accepted Solomon’s death now, she diminished it. If he was dead, why let anything of his go unused? The stoicism inherent in such actions was uncharacteristic of her. He wasn’t sure he liked it, even though he was happy with her escape from depression and sorrow.

  His similarly contradictory feelings about the new boy continued that first week. He wanted to like him; he wanted to give him a chance, just as Martha had requested, but he couldn’t help resenting the way he ingratiated himself with Martha and assumed Solomon’s things as if they belonged to him all the while. It was hard, if not impossible, for Joe to point to anything specific and complain about it. What he felt was subtle, and just as he couldn’t ask about the watch, he couldn’t ask about other things without seeming stingy or cruel.

  And then again, the boy had many qualities that recommended him. Joe liked the way he continually asked him about his work and the way he offered to help with things around the house. He wasn’t smarter than Solomon, and he probably wasn’t any more dexterous, but he was willing to do things Solomon never thought about doing.

  On Thursday night, for example, when Joe returned home from work, he found that Jonathan had repaired the garage door. Occasionally, it would come out of its track and the door would get stuck half up or half down. The garage wasn’t heated and the changes in the weather played havoc with the runners, but like a shoemaker without any shoes, Joe didn’t repair it as well as he should have or as well as he repaired other people’s machinery. On the way out that morning, it had gotten stuck. He told Martha he would fix it when he got home that night.

  But when he pulled into the driveway, he saw the door was down properly. Puzzled, he pressed the button on the transmitter that raised and lowered the door and found it going up smoothly. He drove in, suspecting that Martha had gotten tired of the constant breakdown and hired a repairman.

  “Who fixed the garage door?” he asked as soon as he entered the house. He was annoyed with himself for not repairing it right once and for all because he imagined what it must have cost to do it. He stood in the living room doorway. Martha was watching a late-afternoon soap opera and was so entrenched in the story, she didn’t even hear him enter, much less ask a question. He laughed to himself and went upstairs to change his clothes.

  When he came down, she was in the kitchen getting the supper out. She had the radio on at low volume and was moving to the music. For a moment he stood there quietly and watched her as though he had walked in on a magic moment and was afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell. Finally, she caught sight of him.

  “Oh, hi. You know, I didn’t even hear you come in.”

  “I know. Thanks to ‘Passions Forever’ or whatever program you watch.” She laughed, and he went to the table. “I even spoke to you, but you didn’t hear me.”

  “Really? What did you say?”

  “I asked who fixed the garage door?” he said. “Don’t tell me you called Billups Construction.” He put his hands over his ears as though to block out the ugly truth. Billups had built the house, and Joe was finding more and more fault with their workmanship as the years went on and things happened to the structure and foundation. She laughed at him. The magic moments continued.

  “No, I didn’t call Billups. I didn’t have to call anyone. Jonathan fixed it,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement and pleasure.

  “Huh? The kid fixed the door?”

  “He went to it when he came home from school. I didn’t ask him to do it, either. He went upstairs, changed into his own clothes, and went out to the garage. Next thing I knew, the door was working fine.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . . where is he?”

  “Some of the kids in school wanted to go to Pizza Hut tonight, and I thought he earned it. Gary Issacs got his driver’s license. Judy’s already pulling
her hair out with worry.”

  “Can’t stop them from growing up,” he said. Actually, he was happy that he and Martha would dine alone. He thought it would give him a chance to talk about other things, things they hadn’t talked about since Jonathan’s arrival.

  He wanted to see if she had reconsidered her decision not to take the realtor’s course; he wanted to talk about his work. He was considering a winter vacation on one of the Caribbean islands. He had gossip about some of the people in his office. He felt stuffed and choked with information and ideas he had been unable to express all week.

  And indeed, when he began to talk while they ate, he spoke like someone who had just been released from a month’s solitary confinement. He babbled and barely acknowledged her response to things he said. About halfway through their dinner, he realized he had been conducting a monologue. She had served the dinner and been eating throughout it, but she hadn’t said much or even looked at him much. He stopped because he wondered if she had heard anything. The answer came when he saw that she wasn’t aware he was no longer talking.

  “Martha? Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I can’t help that, Joe. We don’t just have each other to worry about anymore. Things come to mind, things that have to be done.”

  “What things? What are you talking about? You weren’t like this when Solomon was alive.”

  “Of course I was, Joe. You just never took note,” she said, smiling.

  Was she? he wondered. Maybe she was right; maybe he wasn’t as observant. Maybe that was a major part of the problem—he was in his own world, not she.

  “Well, what’s so important that you can’t stop long enough for us to have dinner and talk?”