Chapter 12 Present Day #2
He leaned back in his seat and pressed both hands against the steering wheel.
What am I going to say? Would he chicken out?
Maybe he should just stroll in, look around, and nonchalantly walk back out.
These weren’t exactly charted waters he sailed on.
When he got back into cellular signal, he googled: “How to introduce yourself to the biological father you’ve never met.
” Surprisingly, Google populated the search with tons of headliners, probably the result of “23andMe” and other genetic testing websites that dropped the bombshell on lots of families.
He only glanced at the choices, closed the file, and googled the gallery website. The studio opened at ten. His hands shook—not from coffee, but from nerves. He could only get half a cup down before he nearly vomited. For sure, he would not attempt breakfast.
His cell phone dinged again for the sixty-sixth time.
It had to be a record of some sort. Caroline had texted and texted all through the night.
The messages went from apologies, to sadness, to reconciliation, and now teetered on the side of frustration and even anger.
He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. She would just have to wait.
Oscar lost his nerve and reached for his keys to restart the engine when a man in a green Orvis field jacket slowly strolled by. He walked with a significant limp—his right knee not fully extending.
Buki jumped up placing his front feet on the window ledge and gave an excited whine. “You think that’s him, Buk?” Buki spun an affirmative in the seat.
Oscar let go of the keys and sat back to observe.
He must have seen him last year because of his familiarity.
The man stopped at the doorway of the studio, turned, and took a long drag of a cigarette.
He blew out the smoke, spit on the sidewalk, then looked up at the morning sky as if trying to decipher the clouds.
The man thrust out his sturdy jaw to the world and took another drag, then tossed the cigarette butt into the gutter with a spark of embers. Oscar sighed; the man did not know what kind of firestorm came his way.
Is he my biological father? Oscar studied the man.
He looked of solid build, a cross between a football coach and a lumberjack.
Not exactly the picture Oscar imagined of an artist. Deeply creased frown lines and thinning gray hair highlighted the man’s strong features.
Like Oscar, the man had not shaved for a few days and a gray shadow cast his chin.
Oscar thought the man looked grumpy or slightly depressed and had not aged well.
“This may end badly,” Oscar said to Buki as they watched the man reach into his front pocket, pull out a set of keys, and unlock the door to the gallery. The man shot one more glance up and down the street, and Oscar wondered if the man’s sixth sense told him something was coming.
Oscar reached for the door handle, opened the door, and reluctantly climbed out. “If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it.”
Buki had already leaped from his seat and out the car door. “I guess you’re going with me,” Oscar said. Buki turned another circle, panting at the next quest. “Just don’t make any trouble.”
Buki understood and heeled tightly against Oscar’s leg.
Oscar forced his feet forward to the entrance of the gallery and pushed the glass door open.
A bell rang loudly. Oscar jumped. But instead of turning around to leave, he stepped into the gallery and turned to the left.
Just another tourist. He decided he would look around until he figured out what to say.
Surreptitiously, Oscar noted that the man had walked to the back of the studio, hung up his jacket, and lit another smoke.
Oscar turned his attention to bronze sculptures of various Montana wild animals that lined the gallery displayed on white platforms. Several marble benches had been placed throughout the gallery for visitors to sit and peruse the sculptures.
Oscar decided the sculptor had an affinity for moose as a life-size bull moose stood proudly in the middle of the room, its huge bronze antlers reaching for the ceiling.
The giant animal intrigued Buki and he jumped on a bench to get a better view.
“Leave it,” Oscar whispered, while his peripheral vision told him the man remained in the workspace in the back, where he skillfully slipped an apron over his head while dodging his cigarette.
A large clay grizzly bear lay on its back in the work area, illuminated by bright lights.
Buki headed for the bear’s belly, but Oscar scooped him up into his arms.
Oscar and Buki lingered at the nearest sculpture of a wolverine that had a price tag of twenty-five thousand dollars. I’ll take two please. No wonder the man did okay for himself.
Oscar set Buki down on the floor. “Stay boy. I gotta figure this out.” He couldn’t decipher his own emotions.
A mixture of nervousness, fear, anger, and a smidgen of smugness told him that he was going to ruin this man’s day.
Before he could announce himself, Oscar startled when the man hollered, “I’ll start the coffee shortly, but let me know if you have any questions.
There is a guest book by the door, if you’d like to sign your name. ”
Oscar nodded and put his hands behind his back, as he thought a great art connoisseur would do, and bent over to read the story of the wolverine.
Well, let’s see what questions I have. Why did you sleep with my mother a week before her wedding?
Why didn’t you wear protection? Anger rose from his belly.
Maybe he should just sign the guest book and leave: “Oscar Miller…your bastard son.”
Oscar’s heart skipped a beat, and he coughed. This was too much. Maybe some secrets are just meant to be buried forever. Who knew what apple cart he would upend by confronting this man?
Oscar straightened and took one step toward the door when the man tapped him from behind. “Thought your dog might want a treat. Where you from?” he said through the cigarette hanging from his lip.
Oscar turned to face the man, who held out a dog biscuit. Buki took the biscuit with glee and settled under the bench to chew on it.
Oscar stared at the man. It was like looking in the mirror at a reflection that aged him by thirty-plus years. The man’s forehead frown lines deepened.
Oscar tried to speak, but nothing came. The man seemed to be equally tongue-tied.
The man looked Oscar up and down, from his face to his feet and back to his face, where he lingered, letting a trail of ash tumble down his apron.
“Oh, shit,” his father said and sat down hard.