Free Only Son by Kevin O'Brien Page A

you’re not busy tomorrow night, we could have dinner together.” As he spoke, Carl felt he shouldn’t be so honest and impulsive. It was like opening a wound. “Just dinner,” he mumbled.
    â€œYou’re expected in Santa Rosa tomorrow for a memorial service,” she replied. “They’ll be calling you tonight about the arrangements. In any event, I don’t think dinner together is a good idea, not at this time. But I’m flattered.”
    Could she have sounded more impersonal? he wondered. But I’m flattered , that was a polite “get-lost” line to some schmuck trying to pick her up in a bar. Hell, he was still her husband. Maybe if she’d said it with a smile instead of that glacial expression, it might not have been so humiliating. What was he thinking anyway? He didn’t really want to be with her again. It would spoil all his plans for the baby. How could he be so stupid? “I see what you mean,” he said finally.
    She studied him in a pained and wondering way—as if staring at some juvenile delinquent in jail. “It doesn’t faze you at all, does it?” she asked quietly. “I know you and your father had problems, Carl. Maybe if you’d told me just a little more about that, I’d understand. But he’s dead. And you don’t seem a bit sorry. Isn’t there an ounce of forgiveness in you?”
    â€œNot for him,” he said. “But for you, Eve, yes. Only you don’t want my forgiveness, do you?”
    Her eyes narrowed at him. “Carl, I don’t think I did anything wrong. It’s my body, my decision. I’m sorry you got hurt, and I’m sorry you don’t understand. But I don’t need you to forgive me for what I did…”
    The little speech seemed more carefully thought out than when she’d given it before, and he imagined Eve rehearsing it in the car on her way to his place. In all the time he’d known her, in all the fights they’d had, not once had she admitted to being wrong. She’d never said to him, “I’m sorry.” Instead, it was: “I’m sorry you misunderstood,” or “I’m sorry you’re upset about it,”—always qualifying the apology so it came back to him, as if he were too thick-headed to accept something hurtful she’d said or done. He often wondered why she couldn’t ever tell him she was just plain sorry.
    â€œI haven’t done anything wrong,” she said with finality, her head held high, tilted to one side.
    He just nodded. “Well, Eve, I guess that’s where we’ll never see eye to eye.” He reached for the doorknob. “Listen, it was very nice of you to come here in person to tell me the news about my father. I appreciate it. Thanks.” He nodded again and smiled. “Take care.” Then he ducked inside and closed the door.
    Carl felt proud of himself for keeping his cool, acting so civil and friendly when she’d probably expected an argument. It was almost like a victory for him—but a small, sad one. He had no connection to anyone at all anymore, not her, not the father he’d hated. He was alone in the ugly, nearly barren apartment now. And the baby’s crib was still empty.
    Â 
    Natalie Wood danced alone on a rooftop. West Side Story lost a lot of its impact on the twelve-inch black-and-white screen. The portable TV sat on the breakfast table, while Amy slouched in the chair, trying to ignore all the noise from the living room. Nearly every tender moment in the movie was spoiled by loud cheers or groans, or Paul coming in for more beer.
    He was right, damn him. If she were on the living room sofa watching this, she’d have fallen asleep before Tony and Maria even met. She hated the heaviness dragging down her eyelids.
    A chorus of hoots and applause from the living room made her sit up. Someone must have scored a touchdown. Did they have to be so