“No, your mother is not dead. Casey Van Meter is your biological mother. I’ve seen the proof.”
Ashley shook her head stubbornly. “Terri Spencer is my mother. I hardly knew Casey Van Meter.”
Jerry let out a puff of air. “I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Let me explain everything, okay? Then you can make up your mind. Remember I told you that my father died shortly before your father was killed?”
Ashley nodded.
“What I didn’t tell you is that he was murdered.”
“Oh, Jerry.”
“A burglar broke into his house in Boulder Creek and… He beat him to death. Now do you understand why I’ve tried so hard to help you? Both our fathers died horrible deaths within weeks of each other. I knew exactly what you were going through.”
Ashley didn’t know what to say.
“The burglar set a fire to cover up his crime. The fire destroyed all of the files that my father took to Boulder Creek with him. I thought that your father’s files burned up. That’s why I didn’t know what was in them when I started representing you.
“A few weeks ago, Henry Van Meter asked me to come to his house. He showed me documents relating to your birth and adoption that he kept in his safe. They prove that Norman Spencer adopted you when you were born.”
“Are you saying that Norman wasn’t my real father?”
“No, he’s your biological father.” Jerry paused. “Look, it’s complicated. It took Henry a while to explain everything to me.”
“How do you know that he didn’t lie to you?”
“I know that he was telling the truth because I found your father’s files. Dad must have brought them back to Portland when he met with your mother. They were in a filing cabinet but they’d been misfiled.”
“I still don’t believe this. It can’t be true.”
She sounded lost. Jerry reached out and touched her hand again.
“It is true, Ashley. You’ll believe me when I explain everything I know. Let me tell you what happened from the beginning.”
Chapter Eighteen
1
Norman Spencer’s father had worked in a lumber mill until a back injury put him on disability. His mother was a checkout clerk in a supermarket. Norman wanted to quit high school to help out, but his parents knew that education was the only way out of hard times for their only child. School was never easy, but Norm struggled to a B-plus average. Sports were easier, and earned him a wrestling scholarship to the state university, where he continued to struggle with the books and found that there were a lot of boys who were better than he was on the mats. Still, by his sophomore year, he was getting A’s and B’s and was an unspectacular, but sound, member of the varsity.
During the season Norm kept his hair short, because the coach insisted his team wear crewcuts. As soon as the wrestling season ended in his sophomore year, Norm decided to let his hair grow long. Norm’s hair was down to his shoulders by the time school ended and he started back to work at Vernon Hock’s Texaco in Portland. Even with financial aid and a scholarship for wrestling, his family could not afford to send Norm to school, so he was always working. He’d pumped gas at Uncle Vernon’s gas station for the past two summers.
Vernon Hock, who had fought in Korea and was a one hundred percent, true-blue American, gave Norm some shit about his fag hair. But his uncle was also a pretty laid-back guy, so he didn’t give him much shit. While he worked, Norm tied his hair in a ponytail and kept it tucked up under his hat so as not to upset his uncle’s customers. That helped keep the grease out of it, anyway.
“I got a tow for you,” Vernon said one Thursday night. Norm was under the hood of a Buick, working on the carburetor. He pulled his head out and wiped his hands on a rag. “Some broad’s stuck out near the turnoff to Slocum Creek Road. She’s calling from a house.” Vernon gave him the address. “You can pick her up there and she’ll take you to the car.”
Norm was glad to get out of the garage. The weather was balmy but the garage was stuffy and smelled of gasoline fumes. He took the tow truck and headed out of town with the radio blasting and the window rolled down.
Slocum Creek Road crossed Blair Road a few miles past the new mall in what was still mostly farmland. Streetlights illuminated the area around the mall, but after a mile Blair Road turned pitch-black. Norm had to put on his brights and squint hard to find the address on the mailbox. The house was at the end of a dirt driveway. Norm parked the truck and knocked. A man dressed in chinos and a work shirt opened the screen door. When he saw Norm’s grease-stained coveralls, he called out, “It’s the tow guy.” Then he asked Norm to step inside.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I’ll wait out here. Don’t want to track dirt in.”
The man nodded before turning his head to look at a tall, blond girl around Norman ’s age. The girl was wearing a green Izod shirt and white cotton pants. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was very tan.
“I’m from Hock’s Texaco. I hear you’ve got a problem.”
“My car is about a half mile down the road. It won’t start.”
The girl sounded put out, as if she found it inconceivable that something she owned would betray her.
Norm held open the passenger door of the tow truck. He threw a half-eaten bag of potato chips in the back and brushed at the seat.
“Hop in and we’ll have a look.”
The girl didn’t hesitate. Norm liked that.
They drove to the car in silence, and Norm drew some conclusions about the girl. He figured that she was athletic, smart, self-assured, and way out of his league. Her car was a red Thunderbird convertible, a classic, and it was sitting on a grass strip on the side of the road. Norm added “rich” to his guesses about his passenger. He parked in front of the car and went around to the passenger side to let the girl out. She was already slamming the door shut when he reached the front of the truck.
“Nice car,” Norm said. Then he noticed the Stanford sticker.
“You a Cardinal?” he asked.
The girl looked confused for a moment. Then she got it.
“Yes.”
“What year?”
“I’m going into my junior year.”
“Me, too. I’m at the U of O.”
The girl gave him an indulgent smile and the temperature cooled by ten degrees. Norm figured he’d better go about his business and leave the sweet talk to someone from the girl’s country club set.
“Can you crack the hood for me.”
The girl leaned into the car and sprang the hood release.
“Thanks.”
Norm got to work and surfaced a minute later.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Miss…”
“Van Meter. What’s the problem?”
“Your fan belt. It won’t take long to fix, but we’ll have to do it at the garage. That means a tow.”
“Damn.”
“Why don’t I hook her up and take her in. There’s a good chance we’ve got a belt for the car in the shop. If we do, I’ll have her running within a half hour.”
The girl waited in the cab while Norm hooked up the Thunderbird to the tow truck. After they’d been driving in silence for a while, a thought occurred to him.
“You said your name’s Van Meter, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a brother named Miles?”
She nodded.
“He wrestles for Stanford,” Norm said, smiling. “We’ve tangled a few times.”
The girl was suddenly interested. “How did you do?”
Norm laughed. “I lost both times, but I made it interesting.”
“You don’t seem to mind that you lost.”
“It’s only wrestling. You win some, you lose some.”
“That’s certainly not Miles’s philosophy.”
Norm shrugged. “It’s just a sport. Something to help you blow off steam. Not real important in the grand scheme… Say, I don’t know your first name.”