Novels by Alan A. Winter |
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"Someone Else's Son" Chapter One
The sudden afternoon storm caught nearly everyone by surprise, everyone that is, except
Frank Bellman. His bones warned him long before the angry clouds rolled in from the west, long before others had time to seek
shelter or wished they weren't mired in the late afternoon traffic jams. He didn't notice the large drops that splashed on his
windshield or the steam rising from the hood of his gray Honda Accord. It had been a particularly dry summer and the hardened
ground could not absorb the rainwater that ran off in muddied rivulets. Besides warning him of the barometric changes, his bones
also told him not to get out of the care, not to ring the doorbell, not to raise their suspicions.
Not heeding his intuition, he did ring the buzzer.
"Frank, where's your umbrella?" asked Brad Hunter.
Rain splattered off Frank's bald head. It gushed down his cheeks, gathered along his slack chin and plopped onto his
forest green suede loafers.
"I uh "
"Don't just stand there. Come in." Brad Hunter, who was a couple of years younger and taller, ushered his
brother-in-law in out of the rain. "Must've been a bitch driving here. Is Walnut Street flooded? Usually is." Brad
took Frank's rumpled tan raincoat as Frank wiped his face with a handkerchief.
"Want a drink?"
"Do I ever need one! Scotch straight up."
"Which album is that?" Brad asked, placing the drink on the polished coffee table. Frank was busy
turning the pages of a family photo album he'd casually picked from the middle shelf of the cherry wood bookcase in the living
room.
"Dunno. Guess I never saw this one before." He pointed to a boy crouched in a powder blue
Little League uniform, eyes fixed on an unseen ball. "Is that Phillip?"
"Ummmm, I can't uh speaking of Phillip, how's he doing at the lab?"
"Great! He never stops asking questions wants to know how every experiment works and why we're
doing them. Between all his chattering, though, he cleans the animal cages and keeps the lab in order. He's something
else."
Brad reached into his pocket. "Shit, I left my glasses upstairs. This middle-age business sucks.
Nothing's the same anymore."
"Look who's talking. You're still at a good fighting weight. Bet you weigh the same as when you
graduated college. Look at me," Frank grabbed a handful of his ample midsection. "And you have your hair, you
bastard. What're you complaining about?"
Frank looked like Friar Tuck while Brad resembled a trim, muscular Robin Hood. Brad's nostrils were
narrow and his lips were a bit thin. His honey-brown eyebrows were bushy and he had a slightly raised more on his left cheek
that could only be seen from the side. Though the individual features were unspectacular, even flawed, the total package
produced a man that turned heads.
Brad leaned closer.
"Lemme see," he said, "most of the time, the kid's pictures look the same to me."
He put the photo at arm's length and then slowly brought it forward, squinting.
"Nope, that's Todd. I should've realized it, Phillip's a lefty."
"With most things, Frank, but he bats right."
Brad studied his brother-in-law, noting how he lingered over the pictures, then flipped the pages only to
return to one he's already seen. Brad was about to ask if anything was wrong when Frank closed the book and downed the rest of
his drink.
"Great looking boys, Brad. You and Trish are mighty lucky."
"Hey, the boys have a great looking mother. And you're right, we are plenty proud of them."
Flakes of the white cocktail napkin trickled from Frank's meaty hand. His bloodshot eyes bulged as he
struggled to dislodge the prickly air stuck in his throat.
"Brad, sorry to barge in this way but Myrna's ready to throw the steam shower out; it's been sitting
on our bathroom floor for six months. I haven't had the time to put it in."
"Christ, when Myrna makes up her mind, nothing stops her. Is that why you're here?"
"It was today or never. I needed to see the connections. D'you mind?"
Brad grinned. "Sure thing. I bet you're sorry you got married again?"
"Not on your life. Marrying Myrna was the best thing I ever did. It was hard raising Kevin without
a mother. Christ, it was the longest eight years of my life. I never knew if I was supposed to be his disciplinarian or his
buddy. I did the best I could."
"I wouldn't have wanted to switch places with you."
"No," he said, wagging his head, "men aren't cut out for raising kids alone." Then he
sat back and his chest swelled, reinflated by Myrna's image. "These last two years have given me a new life."
"It must've been tough when your wife died."
Frank slumped "Hey, I'd better check those fittings and get out of here. My bride's waiting, you
know."
"Want a hand?"
"No, thanks. It'll just take a minute. I know where it is." Before Brad could offer again,
Frank climbed the stairs, pulling on the wrought iron rail so he could make the top step. He waited to catch his breath,
promising himself to begin a diet that night.
He opened the linen closet that housed the steam-heating unit and knocked and clanged the connectors. He
rattled the copper pipes and then deftly slipped into the master bathroom, pulling open the vanity drawer next to the sink.
Taking what he came after, he slipped the envelope in his breast pocket and returned to the hall area. Satisfied with his
performance, Frank poked his head in the kitchen where Brad prepared dinner the one night his wife worked late.
The next morning, Phillip Hunter took a parking space well away from careless drivers who had damaged his 4.0
litre red Jeep Cherokee. The day before, he found a scratch and had vowed he would never again park in a tight space. With
long, muscular legs, the sinewy eighteen-year-old strode across the parking lot. He would be studying veterinary medicine in the
fall at Cornell and was lucky his aunt had recently married a researcher who worked with animals: Uncle Frank.
Parker Pharmaceuticals, no different from any of the other large steel and glass structures dotting Route
287 in western New Jersey, had windows like one-way mirrors: those inside could see out but no one could see in. A hundred eyes
could be staring at him and he would never know. Phillip had the same feeling when in the company of people who wore reflective
sunglasses. "Keep you distance," was their message, "no one is permitted to see what lies on the other
side." Did the research laboratory harbor any secrets?
It was Phillip's third day on his summer job. The portly security guard, with the shoulder-length hair escaping from the
sides of his cap, flashed his Cheshire-white greeting. "Buenas dias!" Phillip returned the salute. Phillip found his
locker; he had requested number 111 so he could remember it easily. Numbers still confused him. He pulled out the freshly
bleached lab coat that hung on a metal hook. He needed to pry the arms open because too much starch had been used. Stilly,
à la Frankenstein, he lurched to his uncle's lab and attacked his chores.
He cleaned each cage, arranging them on the countertop in a straight line. Spotting a plumed handle under
the sink, he feather-dusted the cage tops. If glassware was dirty, he washed it. If supplies needed to be put away, he found
their correct places. Time slipped by unnoticed until Phillip heard a commotion. Two deliverymen were trying to maneuver an
oversized crate on an undersized dolly through the lab door.
"No! No! No!" Frank pleaded. "Take the door off its hinges. That will give you enough
room, gentlemen."
"Hey, Doc, leave this to the professionals. We'll get the job done, one of them said.
"That's what I'm afraid of." Frank returned to his office muttering, "Where do they find
these jerks?" Once the laboratory director was gone, the struggle continued until the deliverymen yielded to Newton's
Unalterable law: any mass, no matter what its size, only fits through openings larger than itself. They submitted and removed
the heavy metal door from its hinges.
Phillip watched in fascination. One wore a red scarf as a bandana and a matching strip that gathered his
brown mane into a ponytail. Dark sunglasses as opaque and reflective as the building's windows, and six gold earrings through
his left ear completed the look.
His partner had a large handlebar moustache and his shaven head glistened with sweat. Arms with swollen
Popeye-like muscles bulged as he strained with the wooden container. One biceps sported a tattoo of Medusa surrounding the
American flag while the other had a ring of hearts encircling an eagle with BE WILD BE FREE written above it. The men wore
matching navy blue pants and tee shirts. A pack of cigarettes was tucked in their sleeves, which were rolled up to their
armpits. Emblazoned across their shirts was the company's motto: YOU GOT IT, WE'LL SCHLEPP IT.
While the deliverymen unpacked Frank's newly prized possession, an electron microscope, Phillip walked
behind Mr. Soo into the room. Mr. Soo had been an oncologist in his native Korea. Unable to get a medical license in the
States, he became a laboratory technician. Though slight of frame, he lifted large boxes with ease, clearing the area where the
microscope would be installed. Together, they removed cartons filled with reports and computer printouts from old experiments.
Phillip put the last box down and wondered how long they would remain untouched in their new site.
By early afternoon, the frantic energy of the morning yielded to the more familiar pace of plain hectic.
Drinking glass after glass of tap water, Frank informed them that the manufacturer would be sending a technician to calibrate the
delicate instrument the next day. He breathed heavily. His cheeks, quivering masses of purple, pulsed.
"Tough morning, eh, Phillip?"
"It was okay, Uncle Frank." He grinned.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Something must be funny, you're smirking from ear-to-ear."
"The way you're sweating, it's a good thing you're in research."
"Wise ass!" Frank slapped him on his back and returned to his office. Phillip spent the rest
of the afternoon stocking the animal cages with fresh provisions and putting away the assorted supplies the lab received daily.
Finished, he walked into his uncle's office to say good-bye.
Frank peered through the ocular of a Zeiss-Nikon light microscope. When he heard someone at the door, he
reflexively shut the light illumination the glass slide.
"What're you doing?" Phillip asked.
"Nothing much. Why'd you ask?"
"Looked like you were doing the same thing we did yesterday, that's all."
"Actually, I'm checking data from an old experiment. Who knows how much longer I'll use this ‘scope
now that the new one's here?"
Well, I finished everything."
"Thanks for your help, Phillip. Have fun tonight," he called.
"I will. I'm seeing Gillian after dinner."
Frank had met Phillip's girlfriend at their high school graduation the previous week. They were both
classmates of his son, Kevin, who was not going to college as they were, but worked as an auto mechanic.
Phillip took two steps and wheeled. "Say, isn't this your tennis night?"
"It's more like comedy night. It makes Myrna happy. When we got married, I promised we'd do things
together. She took up tennis so I'm her amusement."
"Well, good luck," said Phillip.
On another evening, Frank might have chatted longer but he was disturbed by what he had just seen.
Reluctantly, he turned the light under the slide on again and adjusted the fine-tuning knob. He squinted through the small
opening. "It can't be," echoed in the empty lab. Frank reached for the reference book hidden on the top shelf and
compared what he saw to the pictures on the open page. His heart sank.
Frank left the lab to meet Myrna. Though fifteen minutes late, he made no effort to hustle. The stale
air of the men's locker room was particularly evident that evening. Mindlessly, he twirled the tennis racket. The practice
basket of yellow balls was nearly empty. Scattered yellow spheres littered the other side of the court like dandelions.
"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten. Anything wrong?" Frank didn't answer. He had
married Trish Hunter's older sister and now stared at her high cheek bones and long face. It was as if he were looking at her
for the first time. There were strong genes in that family. Myrna and Trish had the same turned-up nose, full lips and high
forehead leading to silky straight hair. The touch of Myrna's lips on his cheek jarred him back to reality.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was a thousand miles away. What'd you say, dear?" This time, he paid
attention. "Nothing's wrong. The electron microscope arrived today and we worked like dogs getting it ready for tomorrow's
installation. We couldn't have done it without Phillip." Then his mind flitted to what he had seen through the microscope.
"That's great!" She picked up the metal basket that retrieved the scattered tennis balls.
"Let's volley and get a set in before we run out of time." In seconds, Myrna had cleared the court and hit a ball to
Frank. It flew by him.
"Hey, Bellman, get with it!"
"Sorry," he said.
She hit another and he missed it.
"This counts. First serve in."
Settling down, Frank managed to make contact, though balls frequently sailed over Myrna's head or were
trapped in the net. He lost 6-4, which made Myrna sense something was really wrong she had never taken six games in an evening
let alone win a set.
"Bellman! I won a set and not a word from you! Are you ill?" She looked at him suspiciously.
Frank was staring at an empty court. He squared and looked at her.
"Myrna, what's your blood type?"
"My what?" She shook the racket menacingly. "Hey, no excuses. Admit it, I beat you for
the first time so take it like a man. Don't change the subject."
"Your blood type. You know: A B O. Your blood type?"
"Is that the come-on line of the '90s? Something like, what's your astrological sign, baby? What
gives? Uh oh, you're having one of those scientific trances."
Frank was unfazed. "It occurred to me I don't know your blood type. Shouldn't I, in case of an
emergency?"
"Uh, I guess so," she faltered. "It's O."
* * *
Trish Hunter carried two plastic bags filled with last minute groceries along with a bag of Clinique products, a new bathing
suit and a shift she had bought on sale during her lunch break. Putting the food away she cringed each time the ceiling yelped
when Todd, her youngest, dropped the free weights that were part of his summer's bulk-up program. His football coach expected
twenty more pounds of muscle when he reported to football practice at the end of August. Trish put water in a pot to boil.
Then, taking the stairs by twos, she tried on her new bathing suit, which had more holes than Swiss cheese. Black with lightning
bolts of tangerine and frost mint, it was perfect for the south of Portugal where she and Brad would soon be going, along with
their friends, Rick and Susan Sturnweiss.
Out of the open window, she heard Brad yell to Ron as he pulled into the driveway. "Don't you ever give up?"
"Never, Dad. I've taken a hundred and fifteen shots from this spot alone. Maybe I'll have one more growth spurt and
switch from baseball to basketball. Maybe a scout'll drive down the street and discover me. Maybe "
Ron was never at a loss for words. Brad used to say that Ron's obstetrician vaccinated him with a phonograph needle.
"Maybe what? Maybe my aunt'll grow testicles and become my uncle," Brad shouted back. He got out of his
mustard-colored Volvo 240DL and walked toward his son. "No one will ever accuse you of being lazy. How ‘bout giving me a
shot?"
"Oh no, ladies and gentlemen! It's the old ‘how about giving the dad a shot' shot." Ron rifled the boll to
Brad. "How come fathers have to take a shot when their sons are playing basketball?"
"It's really quite simple, my dear boy. There's an unwritten rule that says fathers are never old until they stop
playing ball with their sons or, worse yet, their sons beat them in basketball. Of course " Brad twirled the ball in his
palms, " that day hasn't come yet."
With that, Brad kicked his right leg in the air, springing off his left foot. He used his left arm for balance and
extended his right arm straight from the shoulder and lofted the ball in an arc over his head. His back was partially facing the
basket. A "sky" hook. He hit what one sports announced would describe as "just string, no iron!"
"Swish! Evvvvery time! How the hell do you do it? It's such a ridiculous shot." Ron stood there, his mouth
open.
"Call it luck. I call it skill." Brad entered the garage breathing a sigh of relief and shook his head yet
another time. He believed in the Divine Right of the Hoop. That heavenly intervention that helped fathers make shorts they had
no right attempting. How much longer would the god of Larry Bird or Magic Johnson be on his side?
With one foot in the house and Ron still agape, Brad heard Phillip honk his horn and turn into the driveway. He slapped
his younger brother "five" as he drove by in the Jeep.
"Hey, Phillip. Don't get stuck playing ball with Bob Cousy, Jr. over there," Brad said. He pranced to hug
Phillip. "Phew. You better shower before your mother smells you. Dinner will be ready soon."
Minutes later, Trish rang the bronze cow bell she and Brad had brought back from Switzerland. The trip was for their
fifth anniversary; she never dreamt she would use the corny memento Brad insisted on buying. Having clanged the bell, Trish
retreated before the trampling Hunter horde. Every night, in affirmation of Pavlov's famous experiment, her sons salivated at
the blast of the cow bell and let nothing stand between them and the food.
Phillip was last to take a seat. Beads of water ran down his face. He never dried his hair, tied his sneaker laces, or
fastened his belt.
Trish placed the hot dishes on trivets and everyone helped themselves. Mounds of spaghetti, stacks of sauce-drenched
meatballs, and piles of salad and homemade garlic bread vanished.
"How's it going at the lab?" Brad asked.
"Great! Soo taught me how to use a microtome today."
"What's that?" Todd asked, a string of pasta dangling over his chin. With one slurp it was gone.
"Well, it's this machine, kind of like a deli slicer."
"Yeah, and what'd you do with it?" Todd asked, now a piece of garlic bread half sticking out of his mouth.
"It makes super-thin slices of the specimen."
"What kind of specimen, Phil? Dead people?" Ron poked Todd in the ribs.
"Hey, cut it out!"
"No, dead mice, stupid."
Trish wrinkled her nose.
Phillip continued. "We place the sliced section on a slide and study it under the microscope." By the time
Phillip completed his account, everyone had licked their plates clean and he had yet to take a bite!
"May I be excused?" Ron asked.
"Me, too," said Todd. The white contoured chair screeched against the tiled floor.
"Todd, how many times do I have to tell you to the lift the chair? You know it leaves marks."
"I'll clean it."
"Like last time?"
Todd slinked across the floor.
"Not so fast." Trish pointed to the dishwasher.
"I'll do it, Mom." Then Ron turned to Todd. "Watch this, little brother, so you do it right." He
squirted lemon-scented Joy onto the plate and sponged it, knowing Trish like to hear it squeal. Ron loaded the dishwasher.
"Anything else you want me to do? I just love helping my mother."
"Ron, you can cut the crap. Go relax," she said.
While Trish brewed chamomile, the boys went about their business. Phillip left to see his girlfriend while Ron watched
television. Ron was a Yankee booster surrounded by a family of Mets fanatics. Brad insisted Ron rooted for the Yanks so he
could be different it was his way of getting attention.
Todd walked into the den without saying a word. He ignored the TV. He wouldn't have heard it anyway, his cassette
blasting Eric Clapton's "Journeyman" tape. He sat on the couch reading Frank Herbert's Heretics of the Planet
Dune. Brad stuck his head in, telling them he and Trish were taking a walk. Neither boy looked up.
Brad and Trish passed split level and colonial homes, each on a quarter of an acre of fertile soil that once belonged to a
family named Barnett. They were the last of the six farming families whose land made up Livingston, New Jersey, when it was
incorporated in 1813. Now the town was like any of the suburban bedroom communities in America, this one being eleven miles from
Newark and twenty-eight from New York City.
They walked in silence for a while.
"Doesn't seem like Philip's having any problems at the lab," Trish said.
"Nope. I spoke to Frank yesterday. He said he didn't see any."
"Do you remember the first time he wrote your name? You thought he was making fun of you. He was only six."
"How was I supposed to know reversing the Ds and Bs was normal?"
"If only it were in his case," Trish whistled, "it would've made our lives so much simpler. Give the boy
credit. He's overcome quite a handicap."
"Einstein had it."
"So did Thomas Edison and Leonardo da Vinci. We were fortunate his teachers picked up on the dyslexia early on. Do
you remember all those drills and flash cards they had us do with him?"
"I sure do. It was obviously worth it." Brad strutted. "Einstein, Edison, da Vinci, and Hunter now
that's a group!"
"Don't get carried away. Phillip Hunter's in that group, not you."
"I can dream, can't I?"
* * *
Phillip darted up the walkway, tripping on one of those free weekly newspapers that appear at odd hours wrapped in misprinted
white bread sleeves.
"Hi, Mrs. Davis, Gillian home?"
"Yes, she is, Phillip. Please come in and I'll tell her you're here." As she spoke, Phillip heard Gillian
scurrying from the bathroom. There was no doubt she had been combing her long blond hair one last time.
The sun had not set but the Davis house was dark. His eyes followed Gillian's mother as she walked up the stairs. She
wore a print dress with large flowers embroidered on it, mid-calf in length. It hung loosely and her trim figure was lost in it.
Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, held in place by a tortoise shell comb.
The living room was sparsely furnished. A thin blue rug, faded from use, occupied its center. A maple-stained console
rested in front of a short couch and served as a coffee table. Rarely lit frosted hurricane lamps, with white hobnailed glass
shades, sat on matching end tables, providing the only light. The Spartan surroundings were reflections of how Mrs. Davis viewed
life before and after her husband died.
Phillip's thoughts were interrupted by Gillian loping down the stairs. She was wearing a hot pink shirt knotted at the
waist with a picture of Madonna on it. Her mother trailed and didn't see the wink Gillian gave him.
"Mom, we'll be in the basement," she said and took Phillip's hand, missing a disapproving stare.
They walked down the narrow stairs. Phillip tilted his head so as not to bump into the low ceiling that Gillian's father
had installed many years earlier. Reaching the bottom, Phillip instinctively ducked, though the acoustic tiles were deceptively
three inches above his head.
Once out of sight, he spun Gillian and kissed her.
"Hey, what was that for?"
"I missed you."
"What if she comes down?"
"Relax, Gilly. The last time she tried that we weren't doing anything."
"It makes me nervous knowing she could barge in at any minute." Gillian scratched her arms. "I'm getting
hives thinking about it."
"Get real. She's not coming down here." He tried to be reassuring but had his doubts about Mrs. Davis, too.
Sitting on the couch with the radio playing softly, they kept an attentive ear. With his arm around her shoulder, Phillip
pulled her toward him. Her head automatically tilted toward his, her lips parted. He looked to see if her eyes were open, but
they were closed. He noticed she had used robin's egg eye-shadow for the first time.
They kissed and kissed. Phillip's hands moved over her back and arms. Without breaking for air he untied the knot and
reached under her shirt, almost grabbing her breast, when the predictable Mrs. Davis could be heard pacing above. Gillian
scrambled away from him. Frantic fingers tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear before fixing her shirt.
She cleared her throat. "So how was work today? Do you still like it?"
On cue, he raised his voice: "I like it a lot. You should have seen these two characters that delivered an electron
microscope today. They insisted on forcing a large crate through a door that was obviously too small."
"So how did they finally do it?" she asked, staring into his eyes, smiling.
"Well, they made like they knew what they were doing and disregarded Frank's suggestion of taking the lab door off
its hinges. When he left, that's exactly what they did."
"Did you see it work?"
"Not yet. A special technician's calibrating it tomorrow. Soo told me he'd let me try it sometime. You know the
guy never stops working."
"Who?"
"Frank. Tonight I was ready to leave and he was still at it, looking through the light microscope."
"You have to respect that kind of dedication, Phillip. My father always told me the world was filled with doers and
people waiting to have it done for them. It's the doers that get ahead in life."
"Look where it got your father. Do you miss him?"
A discarded rag doll, she sat contorted, her legs and arms limply about the couch.
"I think of him every day, some days more than others. When it gets real bad or I get scared, I sneak into her room
and open this one drawer. It's filled with his shirts and sweaters. I bury my head in it, close my eyes and I take the deepest
breath." Gillian's eyes fluttered shut. "And then I smell him, like he's still here. I press the clothes to my face
and for a moment, I forget he's gone."
She wormed her way under his arm, her open hand inching into his chest.
"God, it must be rough losing a parent."
"You don't know how lucky you are."
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