Heredity
joyce becker lee
Lane stared at the door. He had traveled 2,200 miles across a 26-year gulch, and now only a one-inch door stood between him and his goal—a thin wooden divide that seemed somehow the most difficult obstacle to get past. His protruding Adam's apple bobbled up and down as he gulped down the sudden rock in his gullet. The sun scorched his uncovered head, and his wool Robert Hall sport jacket, fine for Waxhaw, North Carolina, was uncomfortably warm for the Las Vegas desert. His thin hair was plastered with sweat to his forehead, and his leg ached. He wondered if the heat would pierce all the way to the metal pin that held his bones together, heating it enough to sear his muscles from the inside, and idly considered if he would feel it if it did. He'd never liked the thought of something so unnatural inside of him.
Other than that contemplation, the heat didn't bother him—he'd endured worse in the war, what with that oppressive jungle humidity. Hell, he thought, he should have worn his uniform, his medals—at least the purple heart. Even now, nine years later, it still resonated with people. As he reached up to knock, he winced at the sight of his lanky wrist extending slightly too far out of the sleeve. Karen had bought the jacket for him. There had been no extra longs, but the store was closing and the jacket was on sale. This whole trip had been her idea. She had sobbed, begging him to do it, to make the effort to save their son. Remembering the purpose for the visit, he felt suddenly devious and considered leaving, forgetting the whole thing, finding another way to get a kidney for Jamie.
He fingered the small box in his pocket. So much was riding on the cheap gift inside. It had been his father's idea, and he hoped that after all the years, the old man's memory was still accurate. Then, summoning a learned courage, he took a deep breath, jerked his knuckles to the door and rapped sharply with a forced authority. He counted four breaths before a woman opened the door, and for the first time in twenty-six years, he faced his mother.
He waited for some rush of feeling, some warmth for this woman he had so long waited for, anticipating the return that never happened. There was nothing. All he felt was the desire to get this done, to save his son.
She was not what he had expected.
Whatever phantom had floated in his mind, she was not it. All he had to go on were his hazy baby memory and some photographs as blurry as his expectations. Somehow, he had imagined her to look—not like this: a normal, middle-aged woman with fluffy brown hair streaked with silver, a body beginning to surrender to gravity, and a face reflecting time and weather. He stared at her, considering how to begin, the chill air seeping through the open door cooling his face even as the desert heat slow-stewed his body.
The woman shaded her eyes, looking up at the tall, thin man before her. Odd, there was something about him that seemed somehow familiar. He must have been near thirty, but he looked somehow younger in his poorly-fitting jacket and obvious discomfort. "Yes?" she said, with an amused half-smile. "Can I help you?"
Lane faltered. Any scenarios of the reunion he might have imagined fled from the reality.
"Young man?" Her voice was calm and low, with a musical lilt. "Are you looking for someone?" He seemed so ill at ease, she was amused and intrigued. She had always appreciated the surprises life offered and waited to see how this one played out.
He nodded, wishing that he could be glib, could swagger in and say, "Yeah, I'm looking for my mama. Seen her in the past twenty-six years?" Then she'd look at him and her eyes would suddenly glow with memory, then cloud over with tears. "Lane!" she'd cry, "My baby!" And she'd be his salvation.
Or at least possibly his son's.
But he wasn't glib, never had been. Karen declared he was every woman's dream—a man who didn't talk and really listened. She loved to tell people that she was the one who proposed, that if she'd waited for him to speak up, they'd be in an old folks' home before they got married. It was she who had insisted he make this trip to save their son.
The woman shrugged. Probably an evangelist or maybe a first-time salesman. "Well, if there's nothing—" the woman started back inside when panic forced his words and he shoved his foot between the closing door and the frame.
"Ma'am," he choked out. "You are Laurette Jackson, aren't you?"
The woman looked at him suspiciously through the narrowed opening. "Yes, I am. Do I know you?"
"My name's Lane Boudreau." Her face froze. "Your son." He mentally kicked himself for the lame addition.
"Lane." It was a breath rather than a word, and she wondered for a brief moment if this was a con. She examined his face for some familiarity, but it had been too long. "How do I know you're—him?
"I got my birth certificate here he said, and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.
She looked at the unopened paper, then up to the boy's eyes, hazel with gold flecks, like Jim's, and was overcome with a sudden disorientation, a sense of déjà vu, as though a dream had pursued her and appeared in the flesh. She opened the door wider, still staring at the young man as though he were an apparition.
"No, that's okay," she said, still reeling, her voice small. "I believe you. I always wondered when—if. .." She jerked as though suddenly remembering her manners and adopted a more formal attitude. "Please, come in."
Just like that. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to open the door on your past, to invite it in for tea and cookies.
He stepped in.
The desert heat that had enveloped his body dissipated in the cool of the foyer. An air conditioner somewhere hummed, and he felt his hot breath escape, seemingly steaming from heated lungs into the cooler air.
She led him into the house, trying to collect her thoughts. She had always wondered if this moment would come, how she would handle it. In fact, she'd made up the scenario in her mind, how she'd greet him and tell him about when he was a baby. Now that the moment was here, though, she was dazed by the surreality of it, and her mouth was dry as the desert outside her door.
"You probably need a drink," she said, grasping for time and connection. "You drink bourbon like your daddy?" Lane thought, so much for the tea and cookies.He was surprised she could be so cool. The woman had no heart, that was for sure. Well, he thought grimly. All I need is her kidney. The thought made him smile. Macabre humor. Karen always scolded him for it, saying it was inappropriate, but it had gotten him through the hell of war, and he needed it right now, in this new battle.
"Sure, thanks," he said, surreptitiously looking around. The house looked normal enough, like any other desert abode: arched doorways, adobe walls painted a bright terra cotta and turquoise, tile floors, lots of big plants. Some paintings lined the wall: bold, bright desert scenes, vibrant sunsets, rundown huts.
Lane also noticed some paintings of waifs with huge eyes—the only pictures of children to be seen. There were no pictures of him or Tori anywhere, but he hadn't expected any. Why would she keep a reminder of the children she could so easily ditch? Apparently no other kids either, he noted. No surprise there, either, but he did realize a slight sense of relief he didn't quite understand.
She watched him look around as she poured out two glasses and handed one to him. Her nails were short and neatly manicured, her hands small, the tendons branching across the backs like the tines of a garden cultivator. He noticed her hand holding the glass was trembling and wondered if it was from the moment or from some medical problem. He hoped it was the former—he needed her to be healthy. She was his last chance. He needed her kidney to save his son's life, and he had to swallow any rage he might feel at seeing her. He was a good parent, even if she hadn't been. Especially since she hadn't been.
"So. Lane," she said, and he automatically snapped into his army posture. He'd often found the straightness fooled people into thinking he was more confident than he felt. She appraised him over her drink. "Why now?"
Right to the point. He shrugged, trying to sound offhand. "Isn't it about time?"
She took a big slug of the liquor. She didn't usually drink so early in the day, but at this moment she needed it. "Well, if you think so. Frankly, I'm a little surprised."
"That I could find you?"
"Lord, no. I kept no secrets. You daddy's always known where I was."
She wondered what he had expected of her. Should she hug him? He's a stranger, after all. But in an odd way, she wanted to hug him, to connect in some way, reach across the years. She'd done the right thing in leaving, of that she had never doubted. He and his sister had a better life than they would have had with her. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, hadn't haunted her. Her voice softened. "I'm just surprised that you wanted to find me. After all."
Her candor charged through him like lightning through a tree. No remorse, no shame from a mother who'd fled, leaving behind two babies. Yet he felt no anger. In fact, her attitude, her distance, would make this whole thing easier. He relaxed his posture and took a step toward her.
"Of course I'd want to find you. You're my mother." He pulled the small flat box out of his pocket. "In fact, I brought you a present." He handed her the little box.
She opened the lid and pulled out a little bracelet. "Oh, my!"
"It's made of seashells. From the coast. Daddy said you always liked the shore."
She felt a rush of memories she'd long since squelched: running along the beach with Jim, holding Lane as he squealed in delight at the ocean waves.Baby arms around her neck, soft baby breath against her cheek . . .
"I don't know what to say, Lane." She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and ran a finger over the shell ridges. "Thank you." She cleared her throat. "What about Vicki? How's she?"
"Her name's Tori."
"I always called her Vicki."
"Always? She was only a year when you—" He checked himself. He didn't want to start a fight, couldn't afford to alienate her.
"She likes being called Tori better. She's fine. Married and living in Roanoke." He thought a moment and took another drink, giving a surreptitious glance over the rim of his glass. She was admiring the bracelet and seeing her unearned happiness, he couldn't resist saying, "I asked her to come with me but she didn't want to." She flinched slightly, and he immediately regretted the dig, not because he was sorry to be mean, but because he needed to keep her sympathetic.
"Oh." She swirled her drink a moment, absorbed in the way the liquid sheeted down the side of the glass. "Can't say I blame her. It's a long trip."
He put down his glass. "All right, so tell me about yourself."
She took a sip. "What do you want to know?"
He considered. What could he say that would sound like he was sincerely interested? He wasn't above buttering her up to get her to give up her kidney, but he frankly wished he could get it done faster. He finally settled on the obvious. "So what do you do?"
"I'm a singer." Her lips twitched into a little smile. "Sort of. They call me a chanteuse. I sing at a nice little lounge down on the Strip. I do all right." A silence fell, and she nervously swirled her drink. She hated silence. After a moment, she had an idea, not maternal, but convenient. "You must be hungry. Let me make you a sandwich." She jumped up and went into the kitchen. Making him a sandwich would give her time to think. He seemed to be more polite than interested, so why would he come find her after all this time?
Lane stood and walked around the room, relieved at the respite. He was surprised by the pleasant, normal surroundings. He had expected her to be living in misery, just recompense for her unspeakable crime. Or maybe someplace decorated like a brothel, maybe even a brothel itself, but not this average-looking room, clean, tastefully furnished. The landscapes on the walls appeared to be original artworks. He examined one closely and noted the artist's name scribbled in the corner.
"Verne did those," the woman said, entering with a plate holding a lopsided turkey sandwich, which she offered to Lane. "He's my—hell, I'm too old to say ‘boyfriend.'" We've lived together twelve years."
Lane nodded. No commitment there, either. "I don't know anything about art," He said around a mouthful of turkey.
"They're good," she said. "Verne's well-known around here. He owns a gallery just off the strip and does very well."
Lane nodded and sat to finish eating. He was a little disappointed to see what a nice little life she had. For some reason, he had hoped to find her wallowing in filth and guilt, her life destroyed by the dirt she'd dealt him and Tori and their father—although their father had never complained or even said anything negative about the woman who left him. And their lives had really not been bad at all. They'd grown up in a warm, loving home, eventually welcoming in the stepmother who had dried their tears, cheered their successes, sobbed with agony when he went to war and sobbed with relief when he came back home.
She refilled her glass and observed him, pondering the ache she felt, a feeling that had popped up intermittently, unexpectedly through the years. It would come at silly times, like during a TV show or commercial where a family was laughing and enjoying each other, and she'd feel a sudden swelling in her chest or a sting in her eyes. No, the years had not been without self-recrimination. And now that reproof had appeared on her doorstep, was sitting on her couch.
Lane finally swallowed the last of the sandwich. "Thanks. That was real good." She reached out to take his plate and he held her wrist, not tight, but enough to prevent her pulling away. It was time to pull out the big guns, get that kidney and get away.
"Are you happy?"
She looked away. "Can't answer that without bringing up the past," she said, and he released her wrist. "I guess you really want to know how I could do it, huh? How I could up and leave two little babies."
"We managed." He looked straight at her. "At first we were just confused. At least I was. Tori was too little to understand. I just couldn't figure why Mama didn't come home."
He realized how nasty that sounded, and quickly tried to cover it. "I mean, I was just a little kid, how could I understand what you were going through?"
"Listen, Lane, I was confused, too. I married your daddy when I was just 17, and you were born a year later. I was no mother, I didn't know what to do with you. And then Vic—Tori came along. I'd always been kind of a wild child—I ran away with Jim against my daddy's wishes. But marriage wasn't what I thought it would be. Oh, your daddy was good to me, but I felt—I wanted to sing, to go to Nashville, get on the Grand Ole Opry. I just wanted to try. When your daddy let me go, I think he realized I wouldn't be back. I guess I realized it too, but I knew he'd take care of you." She turned away from him. "I heard he remarried."
Lane nodded. "He did. Donna. She was a good stepmama."
The woman nodded.
He needed to move this forward. "So, you didn't answer. Are you happy?"
"Who knows what happiness is? I get to sing and people applaud, and Verne and me, we have laughs. I guess I'm content."
"Do you regret—" he broke off. He hadn't meant to ask.
He hadn't meant to care.
"Regret leaving you?" She shook her head. "Look at you, so tall and strong. You've done all right, haven't you?"
"You haven't asked anything about me," he said.
"I guess I figured you'd tell me anything you wanted me to know." She worried about getting into this, afraid it was some place she couldn't escape. But it was open now, and she couldn't just ignore it. She forced a bright smile. "So tell me all about Lane Boudreau."
He fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, rifling through it for a photo. "I'm married," he said. "Eight years, to Karen." He held out the picture and she looked, not taking it.
"Pretty girl," she said. "Doesn't mind your limp?"
The words startled him—people usually didn't mention that.
"She knows how I got it," he said, waiting for her to ask. When she didn't, he continued. "In the war," he couldn't help a tone of superiority. "I'm decorated."
"Oh," she said, surprised. "I didn't know. You must have been very brave. You know, your daddy fought in World War II. He must be so proud of you."
She wanted to say she was proud, too, but felt she had no right. Damn, she didn't want to think about what else she had missed.
He pulled out another photo. "This is our son, James Rodney. He's seven."
She reached out this time and took the picture. "Named after his granddaddy," she said,
examining the photo.
Lane nodded. "He's a good granddaddy." He couldn't resist adding, "He was s a good father."
She flinched slightly.
"I knew he would be,” she said softly, then looked directly at Lane. "That's how come I
could leave.”
Her admission surprised him and he struggled to maintain his purpose in coming.
He indicated the photograph again.
"I think he has your eyes," he said, adding, "now I see you."
She held the photo up a moment longer. "You think so? Maybe . . ."
"Oh, yes," Lane said, his head bobbing up and down. "Definitely."
"Well, what do you know? James Rodney, huh?" She seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lane took aim.
"He's sick."
She looked up from the photo. "What do you mean? Got a cold or something?"
"No, really sick. He could die."
"My God, what's wrong with him?"
"He was born early, and he's had all kinds of troubles, but now he's really bad. His kidneys don't work anymore. Every few days they hook him up to a machine that washes his blood. It's awful—he's so small, and he's such a good little soldier, just lying there, never crying." Lane gulped down hard. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier on us all if he did cry."
"Awful. Isn't there anything they can do?"
"Well, sure, they can give him a new kidney, but they're pretty dear." Me'n Karen, we were tested right away. Daddy and Tori, too, but none of ours'll work." He looked down, hoping he looked pitiful. "Even Donna got tested." She flinched. Direct hit. Then: "Kin works best."
He stole a sideways glance at her to see how she was digesting the news. Her eyes were wide and wet, her mouth shaped like a little "O."
He played his Ace. "Mama?"
A shock shot through her.
The bastard.
"I see," she said, her voice a thin steel rod. "Yes, indeed, I do see."
"You're the only one left."
"You think I owe you, so you came to collect your pound of flesh." Her laugh was brittle.
"Shakespeare, you know. I'm not so dumb."
"Please. To save his life. Look, at least get tested to see if you're a match."
She shook her head. "For what? As you've hinted, I was no kind of mother, what made you think I'd be a better grandmother?"
"Please, Mama—"
She turned away. He had appeared from the mists and unearthed all those feelings she'd successfully tamped down, and now he was twisting her around, trying to wring the last bit out of her heart. He didn't want her, just her kidney. An ache of disappointment became the scorching pain of betrayal and she lashed out.
"Stop calling me that. I haven't been your mama your whole life. No sense starting now. You come here all sweet with your bracelet and your ‘Mama' and your pretending to care, and all you want is what you want."
Hope shriveled, replaced with ire. "I'll do anything to save my son. That's what a parent does."
She looked at him steadily. "Something I wouldn't know, would I?" She stood up. "You'd better go."
"What kind of woman are you? You don't give a damn about anyone else, as long as you get what you want."
She looked down at her wrist, then slipped the bracelet off and handed it to him.
"Like mother, like son, I guess."
His mouth worked, but no words came out. Then, facing a defeat worse than war, a loss beyond physical, he turned and walked out into the blazing Nevada sun as she watched him go, two people once united only by blood, now also sharing the searing agony of the loss of a child, one probable, one certain.
Joyce Becker Lee lives and writes in the Chicago suburbs where she chairs the local Arts Commission. When not writing, singing or doing theater, she spends as much time as possible with her three grandchildren.
