My son, he thought. Are you my son?
The patient chart was at the foot of the bed where the morning examining physician had left it. Dennis picked it up and looked for the secret.
It was there. They had typed him. B.
Dennis was type O. Evan's mother had been type A.
He didn't know Sid's type. And he decided he didn't want to know.
Dennis set down the chart, sat back, and looked at his son again. For, despite the evidence of letters, he knew Evan was his son. Family was not blood. Family was feelings and emotions and bonds, even bonds that were stretched from time to time, even bonds that had been broken.
When Evan awoke, he saw his father's face.
~* ~
Fine fiddle-fuckin' thing, thought Abe Kipp, walking down the street in front of the Venetian Theatre. Get the bags, shut things down, put the whole damn building in mothballs until further notice. He sighed as he rounded the corner. Damned if he wasn't going to miss the place, even after all the bad shit that happened there. But orders were orders and he would be paid just the same as if he were inside dusting and cleaning and goofing off. Still, the place had been his lavish home away from home for so many years that he didn't really know what to do with himself. Sit around the bars all day? He didn't feel like drinking the way he used to, and there was nobody around he wanted to tease…
No, that wasn't it, was it? He just didn't want to tease anymore. He didn't want to tease anyone, not like the way he had teased Harry Ruhl. He would sit around his apartment and watch television, maybe go to some movies, maybe spend some time in the library, even buy a VCR and rent things he had always wanted to see. They'd call him back when they were ready to start again, or when somebody was ready to do something with the building. You didn't just desert a piece of real estate like that.
The thought crossed his mind of just going in to the building every day anyway, and puttering around the way he'd always done before, but he dismissed the thought quickly. He didn't mind it when there were other people there, but now that the place was empty, he wasn't sure. It had never bothered him before, but now as he slipped his key into the lock of the stage door, opened it, and stepped into the darkness, he felt funny, as though for the first time in years there was something bad, really bad, in the place, something a lot worse than the ghosts he had scared poor Harry Ruhl with.
He put his hand unerringly on the switch on the wall that turned on the work lights, and pushed it up. The lights flickered on, illuminating the stage, bare except for what looked to Abe like a pile of rags lying near the footlight panels. "What the hell," he muttered as he walked toward it. It was not until he was a few yards away that he saw that it was not a pile of rags, but rather the corpse of Cristina the cat, her neck twisted, her open eyes filmed over. Wastes had come out of her to stain the wood of the stage.
"Aw," Abe said softly as he knelt next to his pet. "Aw, hell.. .” He gently stroked her fur, then pressed his fingers into it to feel the accustomed warmth, but the small body was stiff and cold. "Who'da done this," he asked himself. "Who'da done this to a little cat…” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and cradled the cat, carrying it to the back of the stage wall, where he placed it in a cardboard box. Then he took his mop and bucket and cleaned up the urine and feces, snuffling as he worked. When he was finished, he went upstairs, got the suitcases from the four suites, wheeled them down to the stage door on a trolley, and set them outside, softly crying all the while. Then he picked up the box, walked to the edge of the stage, and looked up and out at the auditorium.
"Whoever did this," he said loudly, "is a motherfucker!" He paused, then went on, louder than before. "Whoever did this…” He thought for a moment. “… is a son of a bitch!"
He looked out over the empty seats, waiting for an answer, a challenge, a voice, but none came.
"Now you know," he said, softer but with no less venom. "You know what you are. Now you goddam well know."
He turned, took his cat out of the theatre, and began to wait for Curt, who would come for the luggage.
That afternoon, Curt and Steinberg went back to New York, Abe Kipp buried Cristina in a wooded area outside of Kirkland, and Dennis Hamilton, after having lunch with Evan and spending the early afternoon by his bedside, did some banking.
He went back and had dinner with his son, and they watched the news and Jeopardy! together, answering questions along with the contestants. Dennis was impressed with the large amount of information the boy had picked up, despite the lack of a college education. When the show was over, Dennis knew the time had come to talk to Evan about what would happen next, but could not bring himself to begin. He was relieved by a doctor who came in, examined Evan, and told them that he would be permitted to leave tomorrow.
When the boy opened his eyes the next morning, Dennis was sitting there next to him. "Good morning," Dennis said.
"Hi."
"Feeling okay?" Evan nodded. "No dreams?"
"None I can remember."
"How's the breathing?"
Evan took in a draught of air, expelled it. "Good."
"Ready to go?" Evan nodded again. "I have something for you then." Dennis reached into his coat pocket and took out a thick envelope. "There's five hundred dollars in cash here. And a checkbook. I opened an account in your name. There will be three thousand dollars a month put in it, which gives you a decent annual income until you decide where you want to go, what you want to do." Evan began to speak, but Dennis held up a hand. "Please, let me finish. Let me say what I need to say, and then you can talk. You can yell if you want to." He looked down at the dull orange carpet of the hospital room floor. "I tried to run your life, Evan, and I'm sorry, I really am. What I'm sorry for the most is that I never got to know you well enough to know what your life should – could – have been, to learn what you wanted out of it, and not what I wanted for you."
Dennis sighed, and rubbed his temple with his fingertips. "This isn't a payoff. This isn't given out of guilt, but out of love. I want to help you be what you want to be, do what you want to do, what's right for you."
Evan was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "You said that you wanted to take me to New York with you."
"I was wrong. I was being selfish again. I want you to go where you want. You talked about California…” He trailed off.
"Do you want me to go there?"
"It doesn't matter what I want. It's what you want." When he looked up, Evan was staring at him hard.
"Someone's after you, aren't they?" Dennis didn't, couldn't answer. "What you said… I remember now, when I woke up. You asked me if I saw someone like you. Someone who looks like you? Is that it? Is that what all this is about?"
"I… don't know, I -"
The boy's speech was fragmented, as though he was trying to assemble sentences of great semantic complexity. "When I saw you – did you – when you were up – on the catwalk – was that you?"
"Slow down, slow down. When?"
"Weeks ago. I had… gotten mad at you. About Ann. You grabbed me on the catwalk…"
"I didn't."
"… almost threw me over…"
"Evan, I didn't. I would never do that."
"But you did."
"Have I ever done anything to you like that before? Did I ever even spank you?”
“But my God, my God, Dad. Who was it?"
Dennis took a deep breath. "It's going to be hard to believe. But it's the truth. It's the Emperor."