Counterfeit Son (9 page)

He swallowed. "I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly.

She threw her arms around him suddenly, and he flinched in surprise. He'd been expecting blows, not this rib-crushing hug. "I couldn't bear to lose you again," she whispered into his hair. "Don't ever go off without telling me or your father or Mrs. Pierson where you're going. Promise me, Neil—promise me!"

"I promise," he said quickly.

He made himself stand passively in her embrace, wishing she'd get on with the beating. Then he realized it would be Neil's father who'd administer the punishment, not her. It was like times when Pop had been angry with him but had not been able to punish him right then. He would tie him up and go to work (he never missed a day of work, just the way he'd never let Cameron miss any school—"Nothing irregular about us," Pop would say, chuckling. "Nothing to draw attention"), and Cameron would have to endure the hours until Pop returned and had the uninterrupted time to teach him his lesson.

"I'll wait in my room," he said softly, as she released him. Then he remembered the tears in Diana's eyes, and her saying that he was always the center of attention. Cameron felt strangely sorry for her and looked up at the woman—at his mother. "It really was my fault," he told her. "Please don't punish Diana. I should take her punishment."

She looked surprised, her eyes still damp and her golden hair disheveled. "Neil—" she began.

"I mean it," he said, and swallowed. "Blame me. She only took me because I asked."

Then he turned and hurried to his room.

He shut the door quietly, unlike Diana, and looked around for Stevie. The room was empty except for the bags of new clothes piled on his desk, and Cameron felt relief wash over him. He methodically unpacked the remaining bags and put the clothes away. Then he walked unsteadily to the far side of the room, to the little hollow between his bed and the wall, and sat with his back against the wall.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, the way he used to do in the cellar. He laid his head down on his folded arms and closed his eyes. The punishment would come soon enough, he told himself, and felt an odd mixture of relief and fear. Pop had always said he was only punishing him because Cameron was so bad. Pop only did it because he loved him. Cameron knew he deserved the beatings, and part of him had wondered if this family would ever love him enough to punish him. But part of him was afraid of that love, too.

He remembered thinking in the hospital that Mr. Lacey looked like a fair man, and he wondered what a fair punishment would be for breaking a rule like not going off alone. Five strokes with a belt? Ten? It might be worse than a belt, but Cameron didn't think so. But he'd asked for Diana's punishment, too. Twenty strokes with a belt could be hard to stand, especially if the man used the buckle. He wondered why he'd spoken up. It was her own fault, for shouting back. She should have kept quiet and apologized. And she hadn't listened to him when he'd tried to tell her. Just like the boys.…

He jumped slightly at a loud knock, then the door burst open.

"Neil?"

He squeezed his knees more tightly and wished she'd go away. Hadn't she heard the order to stay in her room until her father decided on the punishment? No wonder Pop had killed Neil, he thought bitterly. If the boy was anything like his sister, he hadn't had the sense to obey.

"What are you doing hiding down there?"

Her voice sounded funny—confused and apologetic. Cameron raised his head and looked up at her.

Diana stood over him, frowning and chewing her lower lip. "Mom said I didn't have to stay in my room. She's gone in to the museum to sort the new donations after all." She paused. "I figured if I didn't have to stay, you sure didn't."

He shrugged, not bothering to explain that she didn't have to stay because he'd taken on her punishment.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Tell Mom it was all your fault."

He shrugged again. "Why didn't you shut up, or just say you were sorry?" he asked her.

"But it wasn't fair!" she cried, outraged.

"So?"

She frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"What does fair have to do with anything?" Cameron tried to explain. "Grown-ups—they do what they want. They make the rules and they set the punishments, and it's stupid to argue." He shuddered, thinking of what Pop would have done with her—not that Pop cared much about girls, but still. "You follow the rules, and if you break them you apologize and know you'll get punished, and you take the punishment and keep quiet and don't cry."

She didn't say anything for a while, then sat down cross-legged in front of him. "You've changed."

He laid his head back on his arms. "I guess."

The door crashed suddenly back on its hinges into the wall.

"You're gonna get it, you're gonna get it!" Stevie chanted, clearly delighted.

"Shut up, creepazoid!" Diana shouted.

Stevie stuck his tongue out at her, then turned back to him. "We're
never
supposed to leave without telling someone. You're gonna get it!"

Cameron felt a jolt of fear run through him. Maybe it would be more than twenty strokes.

"Beat it, Stevie!" Diana told him. "I'm warning you—"

"It's my room," Stevie retorted. "And I didn't go anywhere. I stayed around the house like I was supposed to. I'm not in trouble like you—"

"That's it!" Diana shouted, rising up from her cross-legged position in fury. "You get away with murder going off on your own, you little jerk!"

"Stop it!" Cameron heard his voice overpower Diana's.

They both looked at him.

"Stevie's right," Cameron said more quietly. "We broke a rule, and we're in trouble. Fighting about how much trouble isn't going to make it any better."

Stevie looked startled.

Cameron sighed and laid his head back on his arms. "Just leave me alone, will you?"

Diana studied him thoughtfully. Then she took Stevie's arm and turned him toward the door, and the two of them went out of the room without another word.

Cameron sat there as the afternoon wore on, listening to the geese honking as they flew over the lake and wondering how bad the punishment would be. He'd figured out that thanks to Neil's going off alone six years ago, this was the worst rule he could have broken. He wanted the Laceys to love him the way they had loved Neil, and he knew he deserved this punishment, but—

Pop had been right, he thought in despair. Cameron could never be good enough to make up for how bad he'd been. Through all the soul-crushing nights and the aspirin-popping days, he'd survived because he'd gone on hoping. He'd promised himself that if he took his punishment, if he tried to be good, something would happen. He wasn't quite sure what, but the pain would be over at last, and he'd be glad he'd hung on.

The hum of the air-conditioning filled the room, and he felt cold in his corner. His right leg ached where Pop had broken the bone two summers ago and set it himself, cursing Cameron for the extra trouble. There were a lot of aches when he got chilled, but that one was the worst. He wished he were out on the lake in the Sunfish, with the hot sun beating down on him and the golden highlights of the water shimmering into his eyes. He had loved the sailing every bit as much as he'd dreamed he would. Even with Diana's eyes jealously following him, even knowing that her boat was only a few lengths behind his, Cameron had felt free. He'd thought his endurance had finally paid off.

Why did you do it, Neil?
He couldn't understand why a boy who had parents and a home and a sailboat had broken a rule like that and gone off alone.
And why did you go with Hank Miller?
At least Neil's father wouldn't kill him, he thought. He wasn't like Pop in that respect—or in certain others, Cameron had begun to believe. But the punishment he'd earned would still be severe. Wasn't there any other way to express a parent's love? Only if a kid could be good enough, he guessed.

He shut his eyes and remembered the breeze rushing into his face, blinding him mercifully, the flapping of the sail as he came about, the magic of running with the wind. He thought he'd found freedom at last, but it was only an illusion of escape. Cameron felt hope die slowly in his heart. He would never be done paying for how bad he'd been.

"Neil?"

He jumped, his stomach lurching. He hadn't realized how late it had gotten. He looked up fearfully and saw Neil's father standing over him. The man had on his suit from work, not the jeans he'd worn around the house over the weekend, and he looked cold and forbidding. Cameron got to his feet quickly, his legs cottony and tingling from being doubled up for so long, and the broken bone aching worse than ever.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't think, but it was still my fault, not Diana's. I should be the one who gets punished."

His father unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down on Neil's bed. He sighed and loosened his necktie, then unbuttoned his collar button before sliding the tie off. Cameron stared at the necktie, feeling a cold sweat pop out on his back. Would the man tie his hands to the post of the headboard before beating him? Perhaps he should have stayed on the floor instead of standing up before being ordered to.

"I'm sorry," he repeated dully.

"Your mother was very worried," his father said in the neutral tone of voice that Cameron recognized from the hospital. "She came into the kitchen and found you missing again, and it was a great shock for her. Can you understand that?"

Cameron nodded, watching the strong hands smooth and fold the tie. "Yes, sir."

The man frowned, and Cameron wondered if calling him "sir" had been a mistake. Sometimes Pop had liked it, but other times he'd thought it was back talk.

"Look, Neil—you've been through a lot, but we have, too. I wanted you to settle in and feel comfortable being back home before starting therapy, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe we need some family therapy to start working together again." He sighed. "Try to think what it's been like for us—worrying about you, thinking you were gone for good, then finding you again. Can you imagine that at all?"

Cameron nodded again. "Yes," he whispered. Why couldn't the man just get on with it? Where was the belt, anyway? Surely he wasn't going to use that thin suit belt he was wearing. Then Cameron remembered fearing that it might be worse than a belt. He knew there were wooden clothes hangers in Stevie's closet, and he felt the room close in around him until he could barely breathe.

The hazel eyes looked squarely at him. "Yes, I think you can imagine it. I think you've grown up a lot." The eyes looked away suddenly, darkening painfully. "I'm sorry that growing up cost you so much." The man swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. "But I want you to make something out of the suffering. I want you to think more about what effect your actions are going to have on the people around you. Can you understand that?"

Cameron nodded, unable to speak because of the fear pulsing through him. His back throbbed as though the wooden dowel of the hanger had already slammed over it. Neil's father stood up, and Cameron's heart turned over as the tie slid through the man's fingers.

"Okay," his father said. "That means telling Mrs. Pierson or your mother or me if you go somewhere, and being back by the time you promise. Now come on down to supper."

Cameron stared stupidly, a sense of loss flooding over him. His father must have realized that he wasn't following, because he turned back to look at him quizzically.

"What?"

Cameron swallowed. "What about my punishment?" he made himself ask, his voice cracking.

His father smiled at him. "What—you think I should ground you? I think you've punished yourself enough worrying about it, haven't you? It's all right, Neil. I know you didn't mean to frighten us. In the future, just
think,
okay?"

Cameron felt light-headed. He didn't know whether to believe the man, or to wait for punishment to come in the dark. But the man had only stood there the other nights—surely he wouldn't—with Stevie there—Cameron shook his head, trying to think straight. These past nights he'd seen that there was nothing to fear in the dark. No one did anything in this house at night except sleep and watch over one another. He didn't have to fear a worse punishment after everyone had gone to bed.

He followed the man out of the room shakily, his legs trembling. The part of him that felt relief was soaring, but a deeper part of him felt lost. Didn't they care enough about him to punish him? Suddenly, fervently, he wished Pop were there, to shake his head and raise the belt, and offer hope that someday, if Cameron took his punishment, he would learn how to be good.

He saw Neil's father head into his bedroom and toss his tie on the bedspread, followed by his suit jacket.
He only took the tie off because he was finally home and he'd had it on all day,
Cameron realized. Neil's father wasn't anything like Pop at all. The man sat on the bed and looked up at him through those eerily familiar hazel eyes as he untied his shoelaces.

"Go on, tell your mother you won't give her a scare like that again," he said, grinning. Then the grin faded. "Are you all right, Neil?"

He swallowed and tried to say, "Yes."

His father frowned at him and dropped the shoe he was holding. "What is it?"

Cameron shook his head helplessly. He had been prepared to deal with the beating, but he had no idea how to take the reprieve. "I thought—I thought you'd…" He didn't want to say
beat me,
because he didn't think that was what ordinary people in nice homes like this did to their kids. What could he say? "…spank me," he finished lamely.

"'Spank you'?" his father repeated, disbelieving.

Cameron nodded. "He—Hank—he would have," he tried to explain. "With a belt," he went on when his father said nothing. "Or a strap. Or something." He swallowed and stared at the lone shoe lying on its side on the beige carpet, trying not to think about wooden hangers. "To teach me how to be good," he said, groping for words, "because he—loved me. He said."