“I want you to call me Bucky Laspiza. I want to hear you say it right now!” I said, the anger building up in me so strong the words came blurting out.
Nate gave me a “fatherly” smile. “Come on, now, Bucky, you're crocked. Why do you let that worry you so? You know the old line about what's in a name? I think—”
“Nate, stop stalling. You're going to call me Bucky Laspiza, or I'm going to make you. I been thinking about it for weeks now. You've called me 'Son,' and 'my kid,' and 'Bucky,' but I can't ever remember you calling me Bucky Laspiza!”
“Aren't you being silly?”
“Nothing silly about it to me!”
“Bucky, suppose I did say what you want—what difference would it make?” he asked, coming around the kitchen table to face me. I'd worked out with him enough to tell from the way he had his legs apart that he was set to hit me. I wanted him to. I guess what I'd really been thinking in the back of my noggin all these months was that I hated Nate so damn much I wanted to kill him.
“Don't soft-sell me, Nate. It will make a lot of difference to me. Just call me Bucky Laspiza, Nate.”
“Want me to call you mister, too?” he said, wetting his lips nervously.
“The hell with mister. Call me by my name!”
“Certainly. Hello, Bucklin Penn.”
“Goddamn you, Nate, you're going to call me Laspiza!”
“I can't. It isn't your name.”
I started for him. He was good; even though I expected the punch, his right came so fast I couldn't block it. It was a hell of a wallop, sent me reeling-crashing against the wall, almost floored me. I knew then Nate felt the same way: All his resentment against me was in that crack on the chin.
My mouth was bleeding, my head ringing. Nate was so eager he goofed—he came at me. I got my arms around him, was too strong for him, not to mention the forty pounds of young muscle I had on him. I wrestled him to the floor, smothering his blows with my body. I sat on his gut, slugging him with both hands. I was so nuts I think I would have killed him if he hadn't gone limp and whispered, “Don't, Bucky. This... is... crazy stuff.”
“Call me Bucky Laspiza!” I gasped.
“Bucky L-Laspiza,” he said, turning his head away from me, the words coming out a tormented moan.
There was a bruise on his cheek; a trickle of blood ran out of one ear. I got off him and sat on the floor, feeling my numb chin. I was suddenly very sober and scared—I had damn near killed him. I stroked his thin hair and Nate began to cry. I kissed him on the forehead, muttered, “Oh, Dad, Dad! What's happening to us? You're right, this is crazy. Why can't you adopt me, give me your name?”
“Don't talk about that,” he said, hugging me with one hand, but still not looking at me. “I told you about the police... looking for me.”
“All this time? For what?”
“Murder. I... I... killed your father.”
I pulled away from him. “Stop snowing me, Nate. That's a lie.”
“No it isn't.” He was whispering again.
“I thought about it in camp—you're all I thought about. You've always told me how the oil company has such a careful check on their employees. All that security stuff. If you were wanted by the cops, they would have had you long ago.”
“They—the police—they... don't know I killed him.”
“Then there isn't any reason why you can't adopt me.”
He didn't answer. For several minutes neither of us spoke. Nate's eyes were shut and his face was so white I thought he had passed out. I stood up. Pulling Nate to his feet, I led him to a kitchen chair. For the first time Nate didn't look dapper, merely old. He leaned on the table, feeling of his face, staring at the blood that came off on his hands. I wet a dish towel with cold water and tossed it on the table. Nate held it to his face for a long while.
“Nate, that stuff about killing; it's a lie, isn't it?”
“Yeah. But I wanted to kill him. I used to dream how I had killed him—whoever he was. I'd dream of ways of slow... I suppose that's why Daisy never would tell me.”
“Dad, I'm sorry I hit you.”
He took the towel from his puffed face, looked at me. “I could cut off my hand for punching you, Bucky.”
“Nate, listen: I still want you to adopt me.”
“Son, in time you'll forget about it.”
“Can't you understand that I wouldn't want any other man for a father?”
“I've always been your father, Bucky.”
“Damn it, Nate, make it legal!”
He shook his head and groaned with pain. Then he said, “I just can't do it. Sometimes I wanted to but... Bucky, I've always been an also-ran—in everything I did. I never made the big leagues or had a good job. Well, a man can't be a complete blank. What I'm trying to say is that even a bad thing can still be the biggest deal in your life. That's the real reason why I never adopted you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see, if I had adopted you, or put my name down when you were born—it was that simple—why, in time it would have been forgotten. I would have forgotten it! Son, you can't ask a man to forgive and forget the biggest thing in his life.”
“What?”
“No matter if I was second best in everything else—in that I stuck to my guns.”
“You mean you wanted to hold it over Daisy all her life. Is that it?”
“No. I loved Daisy. You should know that.”
“Bull! You did the 'right thing' and wanted to make damn sure she'd never forget it—you wanted to punish her! What did it do, keep you on that righteous kick all your life?”
“That's not so. Daisy is dead and I'm still young enough to—I can't even think of marrying again.”
“My God, Nate, I used to think of you as a man, but you're sick, crawling with self-pity!”
“What if I am?” he asked loudly, staring up at me. 'You're only a kid and can't understand what I've been trying to tell you. When a man has nothing else, even self-pity can be the most important thing in his life. It's been something I've clung to all these years. I can't give it up now.”
“But clinging to what? Is this why you never had any other... any kids with Daisy? Why you made her your maid... something around the apartment like a dishrag?”
“That's an unfair lie. We tried to have children. And I always treated Daisy well, better than any—”
“I know. You did the 'right thing,' and you're stuck with it—in your own crazy mind,” I said, picking up my garrison cap, straightening my jacket and shirt. Heading for the door, I called back, “Good-by, Nate. I wish to God I'd never come back, never seen you like this.”
“Bucky!” It was a wail that made me stop at the doorway.
Fumbling for words, Nate said, “Good-by, Son. I've been thinking of moving. I may be transferred to our L.A. office. I'll send you my address.”