Only Son by Kevin O'Brien Read Free Book Online

window. “I think it was much easier back when I was a young mother. Nowadays, these working moms have it the worst. Their mothers were always there for them, and they feel badly that they can’t do the same for their own children. I know my Amy feels that way.”
    â€œIsn’t your son-in-law helping out?” Carl asked.
    â€œWell, it’s not that Paul isn’t trying. I mean, there’s the rub. He can diaper or feed the baby a couple of times a week and rightly feel he’s doing more than his father ever did, but it still isn’t enough.”
    â€œWell, my wife never had to worry about that with me,” Carl said. “I wanted to spend as much time with my baby as I possibly could, even with my full-time job…”
    She smiled. “I’d say you were an exception. I don’t know if it’s due to the economy or women’s liberation or what. I just know I don’t envy my daughter’s position right now.”
    â€œPersonally, I’m in favor of men’s liberation,” Carl said. “That’s all you hear about now, women saying they want to ‘choose for themselves.’ When have men had that luxury? Married or not, they’ve always had to get a job. When a war comes along, we get drafted. Talk about never having a choice! And if a man wants to have a child…” He laughed bitterly. “Nowadays, an unmarried woman can have a baby without becoming a social outcast. It’s even fashionable in some circles. She doesn’t have to ‘commit’ to the child’s father. But a man who wants a baby needs some woman to cooperate—not just for one night, but for nine months, and usually a helluva lot longer than that.”
    Mrs. Sheehan started to laugh.
    â€œI’m serious,” Carl said. “When parents split up, who gets the kid? Nine times out of ten, it’s her.”
    â€œThat’s because nine times out of ten, the father doesn’t want the child—”
    â€œSome fathers, yeah. But not this one. That’s another thing, a woman doesn’t want her baby, hell, she can take care of that before it’s even born. She doesn’t need the father’s consent to go off and have an—operation…”
    Mrs. Sheehan stared at him.
    Carl suddenly realized how crazy he was sounding; the fervency in his own voice was almost embarrassing. He chuckled uneasily. “Sometimes, I take the—the idea of single parenthood too seriously,” he said.
    Mrs. Sheehan smiled tightly. “You certainly sound like someone who”—she paused—“who wanted very much to be a father. I’m sure you’re a good one to your own little boy.”
    Glancing away, Carl nodded. “I hope to be,” he said.
    Â 
    When they landed at O’Hare, he helped Mrs. Sheehan with her bag from the overhead compartment. They shook hands and said good-bye in the terminal. Carl watched her walk away, then he went to the ticket line for the next flight to Portland.
    For the trip back, two hours later, Carl sat beside another old lady. She was peppy and talkative, with breath that smelled like an old people’s home. Carl got a whiff of it when she asked him what he thought the weather would be like in Portland.
    â€œOh, a lot milder than Chicago, I imagine,” he replied.
    She wore a kelly green pantsuit, with a button on the collar of her polyester jacket: ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDCHILD.
    Carl didn’t ask. Shortly before takeoff, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. But he didn’t doze. The kid behind him kept kicking his seat back; and the grandmother loudly chatted with a young woman in the aisle seat; now and then she’d lean over him to look out the window, and she’d comment to the girl.
    He kept thinking about the coincidence: his father and Paul McMurray, both salesmen. Although Carl’s father would have outweighed McMurray by about fifty pounds, the