Panopopoulis, a good-natured guy who’d retired to the Flat and still worked as a handyman to bring in extra cash. She said she and Alyosha were getting along great. They liked each other—and no, she didn’t think they’d get married or anything. They both enjoyed their independence.
He said, “You seem pretty happy, Ma.”
“I am. I made a lot of mistakes and I regret every one of them. But I don’t spend my days dwelling on them.” When she said that, he thought of Glory, the night before, telling him that mistakes were part of the bargain when you were a parent. His mom added, “What matters is, I survived. And yes, you and your brothers have had your problems. But as of now, I’d say you’re all doing just fine.”
“Wow, Ma, did you just say you think I’m doing fine?”
“Yes, I did. I’ve been suspecting as much for a good while now. I’m glad you finally came back to town so I could tell you so to your face.”
He thought about his father then, about the man he’d never known. Blake had died over a decade before. In his lifetime, he’d married any number of women—and never divorced a single one. Bowie had half siblings all over the country. Each of Blake’s wives had believed she was the “only” one. But it wasn’t his long string of wives that Blake was most famous—or rather infamous —for.
More than forty years ago, he’d kidnapped his own brother’s child. A ransom in diamonds was paid, but the child, an infant at the time of the kidnapping, was never returned. When it happened, no one knew that Blake was the culprit. The whole story had finally come out around the time of Blake’s death. And the kidnapped baby had been found, alive and well. And all grown up, with no idea of his real identity.
Bowie said, “Remember how sick you got, when you found out that my father was dead?”
His mom’s eyes grew shadowed. “I do remember. I went to bed and didn’t get up for two weeks. Worst time of my life. I finally had to face the truth then, after all those years.”
He thought he knew what truth she meant. “That he was never coming back?”
She made a snorting sound. “Bowie, I might have been a fool for a very long time over a very bad man, but even I figured out a few years after you were born that we’d seen the last of him. What was harder to accept—what I refused to admit until I learned he was dead—was that I’d loved a man I didn’t even know. I not only loved him, but I kept loving him, even though he was hardly ever home and my sons were growing up without a dad.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, and almost smiled as the words escaped his lips. It was essentially the same advice Glory had given him the night before.
His mother shook her head. “I should have done better by you and your brothers.”
“I get that. I do. Just like I should have done better by Johnny.”
“You are doing better,” she reminded him gently.
He confessed, “Johnny said he hated me that first day. I knew exactly how he felt because I’d hated my father for most of my life.”
His mother asked wryly, “Do you see a pattern here?”
“Yes, I do. And it’s a pattern I plan to change.”
“That’s the spirit.” She picked up her water glass and toasted him with it.
Bowie walked her back to the B and B at around seven and went in for a last cup of coffee and a big slice of the carrot cake she’d made fresh that afternoon. He was back in the barn behind Glory’s house by seven-twenty-five and got right to work on the train set for Johnny.
At seven-forty-three, Johnny tapped on the door.
Bowie grinned to himself. “It’s open!”
The door swung wide. Johnny came in and shut it behind him. He was wearing a pair of Toy Story pajamas, a different jacket than the one he’d worn the night before and his boots. “I came to say ’night.”
“Can you stay a few minutes?”
Johnny frowned, his small brow furrowing, as though the question required deep
He said, “You seem pretty happy, Ma.”
“I am. I made a lot of mistakes and I regret every one of them. But I don’t spend my days dwelling on them.” When she said that, he thought of Glory, the night before, telling him that mistakes were part of the bargain when you were a parent. His mom added, “What matters is, I survived. And yes, you and your brothers have had your problems. But as of now, I’d say you’re all doing just fine.”
“Wow, Ma, did you just say you think I’m doing fine?”
“Yes, I did. I’ve been suspecting as much for a good while now. I’m glad you finally came back to town so I could tell you so to your face.”
He thought about his father then, about the man he’d never known. Blake had died over a decade before. In his lifetime, he’d married any number of women—and never divorced a single one. Bowie had half siblings all over the country. Each of Blake’s wives had believed she was the “only” one. But it wasn’t his long string of wives that Blake was most famous—or rather infamous —for.
More than forty years ago, he’d kidnapped his own brother’s child. A ransom in diamonds was paid, but the child, an infant at the time of the kidnapping, was never returned. When it happened, no one knew that Blake was the culprit. The whole story had finally come out around the time of Blake’s death. And the kidnapped baby had been found, alive and well. And all grown up, with no idea of his real identity.
Bowie said, “Remember how sick you got, when you found out that my father was dead?”
His mom’s eyes grew shadowed. “I do remember. I went to bed and didn’t get up for two weeks. Worst time of my life. I finally had to face the truth then, after all those years.”
He thought he knew what truth she meant. “That he was never coming back?”
She made a snorting sound. “Bowie, I might have been a fool for a very long time over a very bad man, but even I figured out a few years after you were born that we’d seen the last of him. What was harder to accept—what I refused to admit until I learned he was dead—was that I’d loved a man I didn’t even know. I not only loved him, but I kept loving him, even though he was hardly ever home and my sons were growing up without a dad.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, and almost smiled as the words escaped his lips. It was essentially the same advice Glory had given him the night before.
His mother shook her head. “I should have done better by you and your brothers.”
“I get that. I do. Just like I should have done better by Johnny.”
“You are doing better,” she reminded him gently.
He confessed, “Johnny said he hated me that first day. I knew exactly how he felt because I’d hated my father for most of my life.”
His mother asked wryly, “Do you see a pattern here?”
“Yes, I do. And it’s a pattern I plan to change.”
“That’s the spirit.” She picked up her water glass and toasted him with it.
Bowie walked her back to the B and B at around seven and went in for a last cup of coffee and a big slice of the carrot cake she’d made fresh that afternoon. He was back in the barn behind Glory’s house by seven-twenty-five and got right to work on the train set for Johnny.
At seven-forty-three, Johnny tapped on the door.
Bowie grinned to himself. “It’s open!”
The door swung wide. Johnny came in and shut it behind him. He was wearing a pair of Toy Story pajamas, a different jacket than the one he’d worn the night before and his boots. “I came to say ’night.”
“Can you stay a few minutes?”
Johnny frowned, his small brow furrowing, as though the question required deep
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