Читать книгу Spencer's Child - Joan Kilby - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

FROM THE TOP FLOOR of his rented house. Spencer gazed out over the tiled roofs of Monterey Bay. Beyond the rocky shore lay the Pacific, blue and wrinkled, darker in patches where kelp forests swayed beneath the surface. The ocean stretched northward, its currents linking this temporary home with another he’d known in Victoria, British Columbia.

In his thirty-one years Spencer had moved thirty-five times. Victoria was one place he’d sworn never to return to. He still thought about Meg. Still felt the tug on his soul across the miles, across the years. A tug he’d resisted seven years ago and finally fled.

But Doc Campbell, his honors supervisor, had just suffered a stroke. Doc, his good friend and mentor, wanted Spencer to take over his marine mammals class until he could return to work. Christmas, at the latest, Doc had promised. The plea had been followed up by a formal request from Randolph Ashton-Whyte, the head of the biology department.

Spencer paced the sparsely furnished living room. His postdoctoral fellowship at the Monterey Aquarium had wound to a close. He’d applied for another research position in Bergen, Norway, but it could be months before he got word on that.

He didn’t want to go back to Victoria and memories of Meg. But for Doc he’d do it.

Two days later Spencer roared through Victoria in his beat-up Camaro with the California plates and muffler fall of holes. He had a kayak strapped to the roof rack, and the back end was loaded down with boxes of books, electronic gear and the few personal effects he’d hung on to over the years. He’d come straight up from Monterey, driving all day and all night, stopping only for gas and coffee and microwaved burritos that tasted like the cardboard they were served in.

It was eight in the morning when Spencer turned onto the potholed ribbon of asphalt that led to his father Ray’s beach cottage in Sooke, west of Victoria. A patchwork of brightly colored wooden houses lined the beach. Across the road, towering Douglas firs spilled their resiny scent into the mid-August heat where it mingled with the salt of the ocean. Spencer rolled down the window and his fingers tapped out the bass of an old Queen song on the hot black roof of the Camaro.

He slowed as he came around the bend, an eye out for the cottage his father had bought twenty years ago with the proceeds from the sale of his first record album. Ray’s flirtation with domesticity had been brief, coinciding with the birth of Spencer’s younger sister, Janis, and lasting only until the next big gig lured him across the continent. Except for the two years Spencer had spent at the university, the cottage had been inhabited off and on by itinerant musician friends of his father’s. His mother had split long ago, taking Janis and Spencer south to her native San Clemente, where she’d eventually settled down with, of all people, an investment banker. Spencer guessed he couldn’t blame her. Some people needed stability.

Around a bend he spotted the mailbox carved from driftwood and slowed to pull into the gravel driveway beside the tiny wooden house with peeling blue paint. The yard was overgrown with weeds and a wind chime of oyster shells clattered in the breeze that drifted around the porch.

He unfolded his limbs from the car and sucked the strong salt air deep into his lungs. Across the grass-strewn sand dunes, the ocean beckoned. The seemingly limitless expanse made him breathe easier. Home. The thought made him laugh. Like the tortoise, his home was on his back. Or more precisely, in the Camaro.

Yawning from lack of sleep, he pulled his duffel bag and laptop computer from the trunk and deposited them on the porch. The house appeared to be empty, as he’d hoped. He reached into a side pocket of the duffel for his key ring. Not the one with the brass killer whale that held his car keys, but the plain steel circle that held the keys to the cottage. And the keys to Doc’s laboratory and office. He’d never returned those when he left. If he believed in fate, he might have thought it was because he was meant to return.

Spencer opened the torn screen door and put the key in the lock knowing it wasn’t fate that had made him hang on to the keys. The research vessel he’d worked on that last summer had set sail early to follow a bumper salmon run that was drawing the killer whales north of their usual habitat. He hadn’t had time to drop off the keys. Or to say goodbye to... anyone.

The screen door banged shut behind him. Inside, the cottage wore the somnolent air of endless summer that seemed to inhabit all beach houses. Before his mother’s defection to southern climes, she’d hung curtains of sand-colored handwoven cloth shot with strands of aqua. The detritus of beach-combing expeditions littered the windowsills: shells, bits of twisted and polished driftwood, colored glass fishing floats washed ashore after perhaps decades at sea.

The plain board floor creaked beneath his feet, the sound muffled by a large oval rag rug. He crossed to the far wall, drawn by an enlarged black-and-white photo of Subpod C3: Kitasu, the matriarch; Geetla and Joker, her two grown sons; and Takush, her daughter. Takush was old enough to have a calf of her own by now. Spencer could still recognize individual killer whales by the shape and size of their dorsal fins and the scars on their sleek black-and-white hides. They seemed more like old friends than the subjects of his honors thesis.

He wondered if their dialect of calls and whistles had altered in the years he’d been gone. He planned to paddle out to see them for old time’s sake, but there was no point starting a research program when he’d be leaving again so soon. Doc had sounded robust in spite of his slurred speech when Spencer had called the hospital from Seattle. He’d surely be back by Christmas.

Dropping his duffel bag next to a low bookshelf crammed with tattered paperbacks, Spencer carried his laptop into the kitchen. His head was fuzzy with fatigue but he wanted to check his e-mail—the closest thing he had to a permanent address—before he hit the sack for a few z’s. He set the laptop on the table, plugged it in, then attached the modem to the phone jack on the wall beside the fridge. As he flicked the switch he realized belatedly there might not be any electricity or phone connection. To his surprise, numbers flashed across the screen as the system booted up. He dialed his service provider in California, waiting for the dialog box that would tell him he couldn’t connect...

Brrrinnng.

So the phone was on, too. He hit “receive messages” and got up to look around while the in-box filled.

A used coffee cup sat in the sink. An empty milk carton peeked out of the garbage bin. Damn. Someone was here, after all.

Spencer strode back to the living room and stood at the entrance to the short hall where the two bedrooms were. “Hello? Anybody home?”

Silence.

He knocked softly on the door to the main bedroom and when there was still no answer, pushed it open. The bed was a tangle of thin wool blankets and forest-green sheets. A pile of dirty clothes sat on the floor beside the open closet.

Who was staying here? And where were they now?

Then Spencer noticed the battered guitar case propped against the wall behind the door. The medley of souvenir stickers from cities across the continent spoke of decades of life on the road. He knew that guitar case. A grin spread across his face. His father was in town. He hadn’t seen Ray for a few years, not since he’d driven down to San Francisco from Seattle to catch the Brass Monkeys in concert. Ray had been riding high, a new record deal and a promotional tour in the offing.

Spencer had a flash of memory of doing schoolwork in a bus seat while music blared and his father and the guys in the band played cards or wrote songs. As a kid, he’d loved going on the road with them. Pulling out of the hotel parking lot at dawn, a new city every night, the excitement of the unknown—all were magnified in his young mind. As an adult he still got a kick out of moving on. As if maybe this time he was going to find the Holy Grail, whatever that was. Victoria was a step backward, but seeing Ray would make the trip worthwhile.

Where the hell was he? Spencer shut the door to his father’s room and went back to the kitchen. Ray would turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile, at the top of his in-box was a message from the head of the biology department at University of Victoria.

Dr. Valiella,

Did I mention that Angus Campbell has an honors student? Please give her a call ASAP. Her name is Meg McKenzie, phone number...

Spencer rocked back in his chair, his pulse thrumming. Meg. Could this be his Meg McKenzie? No way. She’d only been one year behind him. She would have finished her degree long ago and gone on to either graduate studies or a job somewhere.

Spencer got up to pace across to the window overlooking the tiny backyard. Meg’s image, tucked away in his subconscious, surged forth. Impish smile, bright eyes the blue of a robin’s egg, hair the color of sunlight. The memory of her laughter rang in his ears, the careless confident laughter of a girl possessed of talent, brains and wealth.

He shut his eyes and the blackness behind his lids pulsed with pinpricks of light. They were the stars above a campsite on Saltspring Island. Sleeping bags zipped together, bare limbs entwined. The wonder of their first time together.

And their last. For a few short hours he’d been able to give her what she wanted.

If only she hadn’t said what she’d said.

He’d known then he’d never be able to give her what she needed.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair. It was years ago. Time he forgot about her.

But he had to call.

His hand hovered over the phone. Even if it was Meg, she might not remember him. The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her busy social schedule.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.

ABOVE THE INCESSANT squawk of Noel, her son’s golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing telephone. She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis’s bedroom. His cry of frustration stabbed straight to the “mother” center of her brain. God, she hoped this was only a phase. But it was one phase after another.

With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms. As she passed the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the roar of the shower. At least Patrick’s noise was cheerful.

She paused in her son’s doorway. Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt. At the sight of her, his cries rose a decibel.

“Mom! It won’t do up.” Angry tears spurted from his dark green eyes. Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best. and the worst, period of her life.

“Come here, sweetie.” Meg dropped to her knees and held out her arms. From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.

A lock of straight brown hair fell over Davis’s scowling forehead, but he didn’t budge. Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.

With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through. “I did it!”

“Do you know why it was so hard?” Meg asked, her tone carefully matter-of fact. “Your shirt is inside out.”

“I know that.” He started to jam another button through its hole. His smooth olive skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.

Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out. “Now, show me again how you can do up those buttons.”

A few minutes later Davis’s buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.

Meg pulled him into a hug. Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had to be learned over and over again. He could build complex Lego structures without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who’d done three years of university biology. But he couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds at a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as soon as they were given.

He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn’t love him desperately, she’d surely have strangled him before he’d turned three. But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.

“Put your pants on,” she said, handing him a pair of navy corduroys.

Davis grasped the pants by the elasticized waist and raised a leg. He lost his balance, so he moved to lean against the bed. He got one leg in, then paused to study a fly cleaning its forelegs on the windowsill.

Meg waited. “Your pants, honey. Davis. Davis.”

“What?” His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.

“Your pants.” She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life. She, who at the best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.

Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys. Then, “Oh.” He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the waistband around his skinny hips. When he got them on, he kept on hopping. “Look at me, I’m a bunny.”

Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.

He squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous. “I don’t want to go to day care. Kids are mean to me.”

Meg’s heart sank. She’d been afraid of this even though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she’d be discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime. How much worse would it be when he went to school? “There’s nothing wrong with having to take medicine.”

“It’s not that,” he said, his small hands clenched into fists. “Tommy said...he...I couldn’t go to...to big kids’ school if I didn’t have a daddy.”

“Oh, Davis.” Meg gathered her son into her arms. Over his shoulder, she glanced at her watch. He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was going to be on time to register for classes at the university. But even though they’d been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions. Maybe it was her sensitivity. Or maybe it was guilt. She just wished she had better answers.

“You do have a daddy,” she said. “He’s just not like other dads. He’s...special.”

“Because he studies killer whales?” Davis jiggled his legs.

“That’s part of it.”

“What else?” He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.

“He’s...” A lover. A loner. A modern-day Ulysses. He’s a genius. A bastard. And my poor heart’s desire. “He can take the peel off an entire orange in just one strip.”

“Really? Wow.” Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due. “But why doesn’t he...you know?”

“What?”

“Live with us. Doesn’t he like us?” Davis dropped the car and picked up a toy sword. He began banging it on the floor.

“This isn’t his home, sweetheart, you know that—Please stop banging. I don’t think he’s ever had a real home. But if he knew about you, I know he’d love you just as much as I do.” She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she often did, if that was true.

“How come you didn’t tell him about me?” There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice. Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.

She took the sword off him. He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it, instead.

“I tried to tell him, years ago. I...couldn’t get through.”

The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore radio. But when she’d realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat. Then, when she was eight months along, she’d called him in Seattle where he was doing his masters degree. Before she could mention the baby, he’d started talking about scholarships and a Ph.D. at a prestigious university. It wasn’t the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that had been a consideration. It was the excitement in his voice when he talked about moving on. New location, new research topic, new everything. Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly. Meg had guts but apparently not enough.

It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby. Nor was it his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role model. None of it was his fault. And all of it was.

Not a day went by when she didn’t think of him. Not a trip to the university when she didn’t look for him around every corner even though she knew he’d left the country years ago. Hopeless. Futile. Pathetic. It was a good thing she was over him.

The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves. “Stop.”

“I want to learn to play baseball,” Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the bat. “Tommy’s dad plays catch with him.”

“I’ll teach you. When we get home tonight we’ll toss the ball around, okay?” She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet. “It’s just you and me, kid, better get used to it. Come on. Your oatmeal is almost ready.”

“First I’m going to see Charlie.”

Charlie, the lizard. Meg watched Davis race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks flapping loosely in front of his toes. Pull up your socks, she wanted to. shout, but didn’t. The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice but to pull them up, figuratively speaking. Please, God, give my boy an understanding teacher.

She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick sailed into the kitchen. His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a knife-edge. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Davis all right?”

“He’s fine. Just a minor skirmish with his buttons.”

“Good. Now, how do I look?” Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched. “I’ve got an interview with the selection committee today, and I’m that far away from promotion.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.

“You look terrific.” She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie a little straighter. “I just love a man in uniform.”

“So do I, sweetie. So do I,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Meg laughed. “You’re terrible. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably slit your little wrists.” Patrick turned as Davis came into the kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands. “I’m in the galley tonight, champ. What would you like for dinner?”

“Hot dogs!” Davis opened his hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.

Patrick planted his fists on his hips. “You simply must expand your repertoire, mister. But discipline’s your mom’s department. Hot dogs, it is. I’ll make Caesar salad for us.” he added to Meg.

“Patrick You know I’m trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all.”

Patrick turned puppy-dog eyes on her. They always made her cave. As he well knew.

“Oh, all right. Since you’re cooking, you get to choose.”

They might as well be married the way they argued over Davis’s upbringing. She had the final say of course, but she couldn’t squash all of Patrick’s many indulgences.

“Davis,” she said, turning to her son, “get Charlie out of your collar and back in his cage. Then run and wash your hands. You don’t want lizard slime in your oatmeal.”

“Lizards aren’t slimy, Mom. Sheesh!” But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion. Just to let her know he was complying under duress.

Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away. “Keep going,” she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.

Patrick clucked his tongue as he put the kettle on to boil. “Ease up on the boy,” he said, measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger. “Watching his every move like a hawk won’t teach him self-reliance.”

Meg dropped a handful of raisins into the oatmeal and turned down the heat. “Oh, Patrick, you know what he’s like.”

“Vividly. But you can’t be the earth, moon and stars to the child. You need a break before school starts. Why don’t you let me look after him for a couple of days while you pamper yourself with a weekend at the Empress Hotel?”

“You know I can’t afford that.”

Even if she could afford a weekend at the Empress, she wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Patrick’s life-style; he was just way too lenient. Davis constantly pushed the limits. He needed a firm hand. He needed stability, continuity and routine. He needed to know where he stood every moment of the day. She could just imagine how spun out her son would be after a couple of days with Patrick giving him whatever his heart desired. If only she could call on her mother.... But there was no use wishing.

The telephone began to ring again.

Meg reached for the cordless phone and, still stirring the oatmeal, tucked it under her chin while she opened the fridge to get some milk. “Hello?”

Noel hopped out of his open cage above the kitchen counter and onto her shoulder. “Hello?” he squawked in her other ear.

“Get away.” She brushed at the bird and it flew to the top of the fridge. “Sorry, not you,” she said into the receiver. Behind her she could hear Davis rummaging through the cupboard. The kettle began to hiss. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

A man cleared his throat. “May I speak to Meg McKenzie?”

Her hand froze on the wooden spoon. Spencer. She’d know his deep voice anywhere, anytime. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen seemed to swirl. The sounds around her faded away. Without warning she was snatched from the mundane activities of breakfast and dropped, like a stone through water, into the past. She was sinking, fast.

“Who is this?” she whispered hoarsely, buying time. What could he be calling for now, after all these years?

“Spencer...” He paused. “Spencer Valiella.”

A prickling chill ran from behind her ears and down her arms. Glancing up, she saw Patrick’s round hazel eyes regarding her avidly. She turned away so he couldn’t see her face, which she was sure must be pale.

“Dr. Ashton-Whyte from the university asked me to call you,” Spencer went on, as though speaking to a stranger. “I’m taking over Dr. Campbell’s position—I assume you know he had a stroke?”

His words caused a roaring in her ears. Spencer, it’s me you’re talking to. “Yes. I—I went to see him in the hospital.”

There was a pause, then he said slowly, “I used to know a Meg McKenzie—about seven years ago. She did the best biological illustrations I’ve ever seen.”

He did remember. If she shut her eyes she could almost imagine she was hearing his voice in the dark—

“Mom! Can I have my oatmeal? I’m starving.”

Davis. Meg felt her spine go cold. Spinning around, she held a finger against her lips to shush him, then hurried over to spoon oatmeal into his bowl.

With her free hand pressed to her other ear, she walked back into the kitchen and said quietly into the receiver, “Thank you. Spencer.”

Silence while she listened to the sound of her thudding heart and shallow breath.

“Meg,” he said at last, “so it is you. I couldn’t believe it at first. How are you?”

“Fine. Just fine.” Unexpectedly anger coursed through her, bringing the blood back to her cheeks. She was not fine. He’d made love to her, then left town without even saying goodbye.

“I had no idea you would be taking over Dr. Campbell’s position,” she said, covering her anger with an artificially bright voice, taking refuge from hurt by reverting to her preppy self of seven years ago. Before Davis. Before poverty. Before the falling out with her mother.

“I’ve kept in touch with Doc over the years,” Spencer said. “He knew I was available and suggested to Ashton-Whyte I’d be suitable for the job. I’ll be an assistant professor, not a full professor like Doc, but I can live with that.”

He’d kept in touch with Dr. Campbell. But not with her. Meg gripped the telephone, trying not to weep with anger and frustration and hurt. When she thought of all the nights she’d lain awake and fantasized about an emotional reunion. Idiot.

“Well, you certainly know your cetaceans,” she replied, still in that overbright tone reminiscent of her mother’s garden-club voice.

“Have you decided on a topic?”

“Topic? Oh, you’re talking about my thesis.” She didn’t mean anything to him. Never had. “I’ve got some ideas I was going to discuss with Dr. Campbell.”

“I guess you’ll be discussing them with me, instead.”

It hit her then. She was not only talking to Spencer, she would soon see him. And not only see him, but work with him on a daily basis. Meg groped for a chair and lowered herself into it. Davis spooned oatmeal into his mouth and watched her, wide-eyed. Patrick set a cup of coffee in front of her.

“So you’ll be my honors supervisor?”

“If you have no objection.”

“Do I have a choice?” She laughed to show she was joking, but it sounded thin.

“Not if you want to work with killer whales.”

Nothing was going to stop her from working with killer whales. Not even Spencer Valiella. Then she thought about why he’d said that, the reason he was there at all. Dr. Campbell had been the only-marine mammalogist in the department. “Won’t Dr. Campbell be coming back to work?”

“The doctors don’t know yet how permanent the damage is. Right now, he’s got some paralysis down his right side, but he’s recovering well. I only expect to be here until Christmas.”

“Oh.” Dear God. Did she feel hope or disappointment? Where Spencer was concerned she’d known too much of both.

“Meg, why are you doing your honors now? Seven years later?”

The answer was sitting there at the kitchen table,. licking milky droplets from the side of his mouth. She was going to have to tell him about Davis. But it wasn’t something she could blurt over the phone. After all this time of wishing he could know his son, and vice versa, she was suddenly terrified of them meeting.

“I guess we’d better make a time to discuss my thesis,” she said, evading his question. “I’ll be up at the university today to register.”

“I just got into town. I need some sleep before I can think coherently. How about this afternoon in Doc’s office? Say, three o’clock?”

“Two o’clock would be better. I’ve, uh, got something I have to pick up around three.”

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

The phone slipped from her cold fingers into its cradle. She wiped a hand across her forehead and felt the perspiration. She was not disappointed he hadn’t declared his long-lost love.

Over at the sink, Patrick was rinsing his bowl. “What was that all about?” he said. “And don’t you tell me ‘nothing’ sweetcheeks, because I know it’s something. Something big.”

She frowned and tilted her head toward Davis. “Later.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Say no more. But I’ll be home early tonight and I’ll expect a full report.”

Meg rose shakily. “Time to wash up, Davis. We’re late.”

To her relief, her son complied without argument for once and went roaring down the hall doing his White Rabbit impression. “I’m late. I’m late. For a very important date. I’m late....”