Free Kramer vs. Kramer by Avery Corman Page B

walks—Mrs. Willewska did that.
    To people in business he offered as information that “My wife copped out on the marriage and the kid,” and usually said, “But we’ve got it straightened out with this fabulous housekeeper,” saying this part so quickly he cut off their specific questions.
    After several days of normal performance at work and the beginning of a regular routine for everyone at home, he decided to call Joanna’s parents, since he had not heard from them. Maybe they knew where Joanna was. They did not. She had left it to Ted to tell them.
    “You don’t know anything?”
    “Know what?”
    “Joanna has left us, Harriet. She’s gone. She left Billy and me to go off and find herself.” You’re some cutie-pie. You really left this for me? There was a long pause on the other end. “I sort of hoped she’d have told you herself.”
    “She left her son? Her own baby?”
    “And her husband. She left me, too.”
    “What did you do to her?”
    “Nothing, Harriet. I didn’t ask her to leave.”
    “I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”
    “Take it easy now, Harriet. Where’s Sam?”
    “In the back.”
    “Go get him. I’ll hold on.”
    “I’m going to have a heart attack.”
    “Don’t have a heart attack. Get Sam.”
    He guessed that a person who could announce she was having a heart attack was not going to have one.
    “Hello?”
    “Sam, is Harriet all right?”
    “She’s sitting down.”
    “Did she tell you?”
    “How dare you call with such a thing?”
    “Well, maybe I should have written.”
    “Joanna left her child?”
    “Yes, she—”
    “Her own beautiful little child?”
    “She said she needed to do this for herself.”
    “I’m going to have a heart attack—”
    “Wait, Sam—”
    “I’m going to have a heart attack. Harriet, you talk to him. I’m having a heart attack.”
    “Sam, you don’t have a heart attack if you can say it.” He knew this from his last case.
    “Ted, it’s me—Harriet. Sam is sitting down.”
    “Is he okay?”
    “We can’t talk to you now. You’ve upset us dreadfully with this news. You have a lot of nerve.” And she hung up on him.
    D URING THE WEEK, TED was usually home near six; he and Billy would have dinner together, he would give him a bath, they would play for a while, Ted would read him a story, and somewhere around seven-thirty Billy went to bed. It was a fast hour and a half. The weekends, Etta’s days off, represented long, unbroken periods of time, and anxious about filling the time and keeping Billy happy and occupied, Ted was booking up the weekends with what amounted to package tours of New York City. This particular morning he planned to take him to the Museum of Natural History. The doorbell rang, and standing there were Joanna’s parents. They entered quickly, scattering through the apartment like the bomb squad on a tip. Throwing doors open, they discovered one small child watching television and startled him with a cascade of hugs and kisses and coloring books. They moved through the rest of the house, and having determined the evidence firsthand, Harriet announced, “She’s not here.”
    Sam prowled through the house again, as though he might find some important clue, looked in at Billy, who had not moved— The Electric Company had arrived with Spider-Man, which took precedence over grandparents, even from Boston. Sam clicked his tongue, “Tsk, tsk,” over the boy and sat heavily on the couch.
    They were an attractive couple. She was petite, a young fifty, dark eyes, her hair naturally graying. He had a handsome, craggy face, a physical-looking man with distinctive white hair. Ted had forgotten how striking they were. Clearly, Joanna was their daughter, Billy was of their blood. He would have been mistaken to think they would not care about the boy.
    “What have you got to say in explanation?” Joanna’s father demanded in a stilted voice. He seemed to have been rehearsing the line all the way down