Finding Jake Page 13

  On occasion, I talked to someone about my lowering self-image. Once I even visited a professional for a total of three visits. She reminded me (at the last one) that I raised two children (at the time under seven) while making a living as a medical writer and without the help of a nanny or in-laws (Rachel’s parents tended to stay away from me when she was not around). I canceled my next appointment. I did not need someone to charge me $150 to regurgitate the obvious at me.

  Often I told myself that Rachel and I were at the vanguard of a new world order. We were the Rosa Parks (admitted delusion of grandeur on my part) of gender equality. But in some ways, it was true. She brought home the bacon and I fried it up in a pan (yes, I stole this from an old commercial), yet somehow I was supposed to never, never, never forget I was a man.

  To be truthful, my psyche had actually improved over time. When the kids were younger, my aggression level had skyrocketed. I used to fantasize about getting into fistfights with the mailman who looked at me askew when he saw me cutting the grass at noon on a Tuesday. I’d coach Jake’s soccer team and tear into some father who questioned me, basically daring him to take a swing. I was not proud of this. On the contrary, it made me sick, but it happened.

  By Jake’s tenth birthday, that portion of my journey had passed. I’d calmed down. Outwardly, some might say my swagger had returned. Inside, I knew there were still some lasting changes. I worried about the kids, probably too much, and men aren’t supposed to worry. I also didn’t put in enough effort with Rachel. I’d admit it, even to her, though I felt she didn’t put in the time with me, either.

  My phone rang and I knew Rachel would be on the line. I picked up, telling myself I would apologize and end this fight, a fight whose beginning I could not even remember.

  “Hi.”

  “What’s up?” I muttered back.

  For the second time, I told myself to chill, to let this all go, to start over and end it. Instead, the conversation lulled. I stood up and paced the foyer, my footsteps echoing through the empty house.

  “Did you want something?” I asked.

  She did not answer right away. It was a stupid thing to say. We had been fighting for three days, barely speaking to each other. It was not the first time, either.

  “I am just really tired of being in the doghouse,” she said.

  I snorted. “You say that all the time. It is such BS.” The floodgates opened. “It’s an excuse. You do whatever you want. I get upset about it, then you spout off about being in the doghouse.”

  “You are always mad at me, Simon. I work late sometimes. You know that.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t care how late you work. My issue is when you say you’re going to be home at one time, but you come home three hours later without bothering to let me know.”

  “I had a meeting with Frank. What was I supposed to do? Be like, ‘Hey, boss, hold on a minute, I have to call my needy husband.’”

  My face grew hot. “Nice.”

  “I just mean I can’t always get in touch with you.”

  “It takes two seconds to text me,” I said, my tone icy.

  “You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to work in an office.”

  My business had been slow for a couple of months. I had not heard from my biggest client in half a year. I took her words as an intended affront and hung up the phone. I threw it into the couch cushions and stormed upstairs, ignoring the muffled ring behind me.

  “Daddy,” Laney moaned. “When’s the game over?”

  I looked down at her. She sat in the grass just off the sideline of the flag football field, a book open but upside down on the ground before her. Her big greenish eyes blinked and I couldn’t help but think how cute she looked in pigtails and sweatpants, her normal attire. Considering her soccer shirt, I knew it was no wonder the moms (at least those with daughters) tended to tilt a head or tsk under their breaths. They all thought I ruined Laney by the way I let her dress. Although I fretted internally about this, I did nothing to change it. I liked her that way. She made me smile a lot.

  “Soon, sweetie,” I said, tousling her hair.

  I glanced out on to the field. Jake, thick for his age but not fat, a good, sturdy black Irish in my opinion, hiked the ball to Max. Jen’s son looked like a natural quarterback, dropping back, arm cocked, eyes scanning the field. The two kids running routes did not match his skill level, though. One danced with the defender, comically wiggling, flag twirling around his hips, but not getting anywhere. The other followed a pretty good pattern but refused to look back for the ball.

  Although not exclusively, I watched Jake. He blocked one of the opposing linemen well. Two others, however, got past their blockers. Max, in my opinion showing uncanny pocket awareness, broke. He sprinted down the field, Jake plodding after him.

  “Go, Max!” I called out.

  “I want to go home,” Laney said.

  A safety pulled Max’s flag at about midfield. “Nice run.” I turned back to Laney. “We have to stay. Mommy’s not home yet.”

  “Mommy’s never home,” she said.

  I reconsidered my response and realized I should not have said that. I’d teed that one up for sure. I felt like a bitter divorcé.

  “It won’t be long. The game’s almost over. Do you want to play on my phone?”

  She brightened up. “Yeah.”

  I gave her my new iPhone and she tapped away like a pro. I watched her for a moment, amazed at her generation’s deft electronics coordination.

  “Looking good out there.”

  I spun around to see Jen, all smiles. She liked nothing better than to watch Max play football. A sporty-type mom, she wore a performance jacket and leggings, with expensive running shoes.

  “Hi there,” I said. “Like Jeff Saturday and Manning, huh?”

  She laughed, getting my reference to the Indianapolis Colts center and quarterback. “Not Manning. He could never break the pocket for a first.”

  I smiled. “True that.”

  We stood next to each other watching the game. Other parents hovered around, as intent as we were, but I rarely if ever spoke to them. I never knew what to say. Plus, I had a hard time remembering which kid was theirs. Jen and I commented through the rest of the game. She shared a pithy one about the ref who, officiating at a ten-year-olds’ flag football game, wore the full outfit, from stripes to white pants.

  “He’s hoping to get the call up to a middle school game. Big leap, you know.”

  She laughed. Despite myself, I looked at her again. The sound of her voice breaking out in real amusement warmed me from the inside. Not in a sappy way, either. I actually felt warm. She met my eyes and her smile broadened. I had to look away, suddenly uncomfortable. Not with her, with me. A thought rudely butted in line. I used to talk to Rachel like this before kids.

  “Whatcha playing?” Jen asked Laney.

  “Cut the Rope,” Laney replied without taking her eyes off the small screen.

  “Nice. Max likes that one.”

  The very official official blew his whistle, signifying the end of the game.

  “Do you even know what the score was?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Don’t they all end in a tie?”

  “That was so last year,” she drawled.

  I laughed again as Max and Jake raced over. Max hugged his mom. I thought that was nice, the star quarterback hugging his mom in public—a good kid.

  “Can Jake come over?” he asked his mom.

  Jen looked at me and shrugged.

  “Sure, if it’s okay with you?”

  Jake tugged at my arm. I bent down and he whispered in my ear, the earnest way kids do.

  “I’m supposed to go to Doug’s, remember?”

  Crap. Maybe I had remembered. Maybe I simply did not want Jake to go to Doug’s house. He’d seen a lot of the Martin-Klein kid since school had started back up. I glanced at Max and wondered if he had noticed. I probably transferred my emotions on to the kid, but it all happe
ned so fast.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I whispered. “Go have fun with Max.”

  I could see Jake considering it, fully. He took his time, his face pensive.

  “I don’t want to upset Doug.”

  “I don’t think anything was set in stone,” I said.

  This was not an outright lie. The boys talked about it, but not the parents. I assumed that it was just kid stuff, wavy gravy as they said.

  I pressed Jake. Eventually, he gave in. With a smile that I took to mean he would rather have been with Max anyway, the two boys sprinted to the car.

  “What time do you want me to get him?” I asked.

  Jen shrugged. “Five-ish.”

  “Sounds good. See you then.”

  “ ’K.”

  Jen walked away. I felt good about myself, feeling like I’d steered my son down the right path, at least in a big-picture manner; I watched her go. She looked very good in her leggings, and she walked with the grace of a feminine athlete. It had been nice talking to her.

  My mind went where most men’s go. The thought materialized, fuzzy and incomplete, yet arousing. What we did to each other, or with each other, popped from one disjointed scenario to another, all variants of some moment I shared with a female from my past. Disheveled clothing, unique combinations of undress, and daring moments of acceptable bravery, to name a few.

  A little hand grasped my finger. I looked down at Laney as she peered up at me. She looked so much like her mother that I flinched. Laney’s lip pouted and my soul flooded with pounding, burning guilt.

  “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

  CHAPTER 16

  DAY TWO

  I am a bit player on a prime-time cop drama. I drag through the steps—fingerprints, photo, search, confiscation—and wait. They impound Rachel’s car. The officer has brought me to the local city station. Eventually leading me to the holding cells, I pass a half-dressed woman sitting on a bench, picking at her nails and cursing at no one. I see a homeless man I recognize, a man who smells of urine and melted candy. He mumbles to himself. The police officer, the uniformed cop who processed me, a nondescript man I prefer to forget, cuffs me to a bench across from the smelly man. I don’t care. The officer walks away. I sit for what feels like an hour.

  My bladder burns inside my gut. The need to urinate permeates every part of me but my impetus. I do not ask to use the bathroom, as I see others do. Instead, the discomfort, near pain really, fuels me. Little by little, it awakens my senses again. I float toward the moment, inch by inch clawing closer to the agony that sent me to oblivion. I know already that I will never be the same. Something broke inside. But I am not a quitter.

  I am trapped, about to be locked up. Even though the logical part of my brain, the part that seems to chug along despite the storming emotions, devises a plan, a series of steps. First, I will get released on bail. Second, I will get one of our cars back. Third, I will find Max and talk to him. Fourth, I will go to the Martin-Kleins’ house. Maybe I will return to the school, or hire a private investigator.

  For a brief instant, my mind clears. I ask myself what I am basing this plan on. I wonder what prior knowledge I have of a situation like this. Movies? Television? Fiction? In those stories, it would be all dramatic action, life-or-death moves, stunning discoveries. That is not how it is happening, though. Instead, the situation calls the shots. We are being moved from one point to the other. What I must do is fight it, leap from the grid, call my own shots. That is the only way I can hope to find my son. I will not give in, or give up.

  At the same time, I am afraid. I fear any real news, because it is impossible to fathom anything good coming from it. I fear finding my son because my mind can light on only two plausible scenarios: he is dead or he killed. Once everything is known, one of the two becomes real. At a base instinctual level, I cannot let that happen.

  My eyes reopen and I see reality. I have been arrested. Through the fogged pictures, I remember the charge—obstruction of justice. It makes little sense to me, but I do not care. When I am set before someone, I will not grovel. I will find out what they are doing to find my son. I will not give in to fear. I owe my son so much more than that.

  I do not wait for long. A detective enters the holding cell. The woman, an emaciated fifty-year-old in a red dress and tilted wig, spreads her legs. I look away.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions,” he says flatly.

  “I want to make a phone call first.”

  He leads me to what looks like half of a phone booth attached to the wall. He steps ten feet away. I call Rachel.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’ve been arrested.”

  “What?”

  I try to explain it to her but my actions seem ludicrous. When I am done, she is silent for a moment.

  “Is Jonathan there?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Is he coming?”

  “No,” I say, afraid that if I say yes, she will be even more furious with me.

  “Don’t say anything. I’m coming.”

  I hear what she tells me to do. It is not, however, what I do. I acquiesce, following the detective without a word. I am not worried about their questions. I want answers.

  He leads me to a small, square room with a table and two chairs. I chortle when I see the “mirror” on the wall. Like it fools anyone.

  “Have a seat,” the detective says. His voice sounds rehearsed, especially compared to his earlier monotone.

  “Okay.” I sit.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  I smile. “Because you charged me with obstruction of justice.”

  “Do you know why that is?” His voice inches closer to normal.

  “Why don’t you tell me,” I suggest.

  The detective reaches down to a box on the ground, one I had not noticed. His hand rises, gripping a large bag. The doll from the woods presses against the clear plastic. It ogles me with its haunted eye. Limbs bend in unnatural angles. I look at it, not away.

  “You tracked that down, huh? And what have you done to find my son?”

  The detective drops the doll onto the table. “Your son is a suspect in a mass shooting. At this time, the safety of the community is our number one concern. We also understand that you attempted to assault a reporter today.”

  I did, but I ignore his comment. “You have no idea where he is, do you? Have you talked to anyone? Have you put any thought into it?”

  My body shakes. I feel like I might lunge at the detective. Not a violent person, I had not been in a real fight since the fifth grade, yet I hunger to hit this man.

  “Believe me, sir, we’ll find your son before he hurts anyone else.”

  I smile. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  The detective blanches. This is funny to see in a man of his stature and temperament. He understands why I said that. The conversation is taped, no doubt. Any kind of bias will be brought up if there is a trial, civil or criminal. When you are married to a lawyer, you pick things up here and there.

  “How long did you know your son had plans to hurt people?” the cop asks.

  Before I can answer, the door opens. Jonathan, my father’s business partner, saunters into the room as if he is walking into his own office.

  “Nice to see you, Simon,” he says. He turns to look at the detective. “May I have a chair, please?”

  A uniformed officer appears at the door, motioning the detective out. My father’s lawyer sits in his recently vacated chair. Jonathan’s blasé demeanor changes in a blink. He turns on me.

  “How’d you get here?” I ask.

  “Car service.”

  “No, really. How’d you know I was here?”

  “Police scanner.”

  “You listen to police scanners?”

  He laughed. “I have staff who do. What did you tell the police?”

  “Nothing,” I assure him.

  “You told them so
mething. What did you say? Tell me everything.”

  I try to remember verbatim. He takes particular interest in the doll. He smiles, though, when I tell him what the detective said about Jake and my response.

  “Put him on his heels, huh.” Jonathan laughs. “There’s definitely some of your father in you, son.”

  I ignore the fact that I am over forty and being called son.

  “Did you find anything out about Jake?”

  I know Jonathan must have just gotten into town, but he is good. Very, very good.

  “My office poked around. The police removed some circumstantial evidence from your home. Violent drawings. A story Jake supposedly wrote about a fight after a football game. There’s something in there about a kid getting his skull cracked. They also found his cell phone and are searching that.”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  I don’t tell Jonathan. Immediately, I feel a blazing anger fueled by senseless shame. I picture these strangers sitting in an office, hearing the phone ring, and glancing down at my number on the display, over and over again. I imagine them listening to the messages I left for my son, the raw words that poured out of my mouth in utter anguish. I feel murderous.

  Just as quickly, however, that emotion blinks out. It is replaced by a numb hopelessness. This news, that my son never had his phone with him, shatters my hope that it had been Jake on the line when I called. I now know it was just a cop. I guess I didn’t realize how important that had been to me because I feel very empty.

  I picture Jake that morning, putting his phone on his desk, finding a pair of socks, and walking out without it.

  “He was always forgetting it,” I whisper, my eyes burning.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I ignore the question. I am tired of feeling helpless. “Look, we need to get them out there looking for him. Why are they so sure he did this?”

  “Because a kid told the police that he left school looking for Doug. And a janitor claims he saw two kids with guns coming in through the gym exit just before the shooting. There’s also something about one of the victims, Alex Raines, but the police were not too forthcoming with details.”