“I’m a chocolate guy myself,” he admitted, glancing at the clock. It was going on four o’clock. He had exactly one hour until he had to be pulling out the chair at his mother’s dining room table and sitting his butt down. Maria Wolfenstein did not suffer late arrivals at her dinners, especially her own children. “Sorry to run you off girls, but I’m up against it here.” He lifted his pencil and tapped the pages.
The girls giggled again.
“Maybe we’ll see you around,” Tara said, giving him a huge smile so white it almost glowed.
The girls disappeared back into the hall and Max focused on Betty Rogers’ answers, though he could still hear the voices and the distant pronouncement, “He’s so hot,” by who he guessed was Tara.
The visiting girls were not a rarity for Max Wolfenstein, known to the kids as Mr. Wolf, since his first day at Winterberry Middle School two years before. In part, the kids loved Max because he was young and fresh-faced. He looked more like their older brothers than their fathers.
He also drove a motorcycle, had the laid-back attitude of a surfer dude rather than an uppity English teacher, and struck a decent resemblance to Rob Lowe, who had starred in The Outsiders, which had released earlier in the year and had all the boys and girls talking. Rob Lowe, known as Sodapop in the movie, was a tough street kid.
Max shared little else in common with Sodapop. He taught English after all, and if his students could have seen him a decade before when he was walking in their shoes, they would have caught sight of a scrawny kid with a bad bowl cut who often resembled a turtle struggling down the hallway with an over-sized shell on its back. By high school he’d had a spurt, shot up to nearly six feet by his senior year, and joined the basketball team. He ended his high school years as Wolf instead of Wolfy, his boyhood nickname, and had more than a handful of admirers who, a few years earlier, had pointed and laughed when he’d walked down the hallway.
Despite time’s helpful encouragements, Max related more to the loners and oddballs in his classes than he ever would the blond cheerleaders like Tara or the square-shaped jocks who, at thirteen, already had arms the size of small gorillas.
“Speaking of,” he muttered, pulling out Sid Putnam’s paper.
Sid was a pudgy little fellow with giant glasses forever sliding down his small pointed nose. His front teeth were too big for his face, but stayed mostly hidden behind large fleshy lips. He laughed in a spasmodic hyena pitch, and though he tried to contain the sound by never laughing at all, he was rarely successful. Mostly because he sat next to Ashley Shepherd, his seeming best friend with a sharp sense of humor and a tendency to talk during class.
Ashley was whip smart with a dry, rather adult humor that often surprised Max. She was also pretty. Someday she’d be a knockout Max thought. She had long thick black hair and tanned skin, not from the sun, but a heritage he guessed came from Spain or Mexico. There was no father in Ashley’s life as far as Max knew. Her mother, when she could make it, attended conferences alone and had the distracted, frazzled look of a woman who worked too much and slept too little. Ashley was a latchkey kid who Max imagined spent most of her afternoons eating cereal and running wild in the woods.
He’d seen her several times walking alone down by the railroad tracks that ran through downtown or riding her bicycle on the country roads. Sometimes Sid was with her, but Sid’s parents kept a much closer eye on their youngest child.
Sid had answered all the questions correctly, but when Max’s eyes trailed over the last question, Sid’s answer gave him pause. What are you afraid of? the question asked. Sid had written in his tiny chicken scratch: The boy in the woods.
Max shuddered, his red pen leaving a squiggle next to Sid’s answer.
“Well, that’s creepy, isn’t it?” he asked the room, which had grown oddly quiet.
Through the windows, he saw most of the students had ambled away from the sidewalk. No cars or buses occupied the circular driveway. The American flag hung limply in the still sky.
“An imaginary boy?” Max jotted next to Sid’s answer with a smiley face that didn’t feel all that jovial.
He graded the last of the papers, pausing a final time to read Ashley’s answer to the final question.
Her response was not unexpected, ‘nothing,’ she’d written, and Max almost believed her.
* * *
Max stepped into the hallway at the sound of raised voices.
A woman’s hysterical cry rang out. “No one saw him? How could that be, Principal Hagerty? Someone must have seen him. They must have.” The woman’s voice grew shrill, and the man beside her wrapped a protective arm around her back.
Max saw the principal’s face drained of color, and his eyes big and bulging as he tried to reassure the couple before him.
“He’s a young man. He’s of the age-”
“No!” It was the man who spoke now, or bellowed might better describe it. “Simon did not wander off to sew his wild oats or whatever you’re trying to imply, Principal Hagerty. I want an announcement. I want permission to post fliers. We’ve called the police.”
Something touched Max’s elbow, and he jumped, sending his papers fluttering into the air like a dozen white butterflies. They floated down and settled on the shining floor.
“Mr. Wolfenstein, I apologize,” Brenda Cutler told him, blushing.
Miss Cutler taught Home Economics. She was a short, round woman with a mop of frizzy black hair. She was forever donning an apron splashed with cocoa powder or flour. The aroma of cookies followed her, and when she walked, she bounced as if skipping across balloons.
Max grinned and blew out a breath.
“It’s okay, Miss Cutler. You caught me eavesdropping.”
“Worrisome to be sure,” Miss Cutler said, inclining her head toward the couple.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Simon Frank,” she whispered, her eyes going wide. “He’s been missing since last week. Both his parents work. They don’t even know when he went missing. He never came out for breakfast Friday morning, but they figured he got an early start.
Sometimes he arrived to school early to play boardgames in the cafeteria with a few other boys. Both his parents worked late Friday, and his bedroom door was closed when they got home. It wasn’t until about noon on Saturday, his mother looked in on him. Bed was made, not a sign of him.”
“Simon Frank,” Max murmured. He’d had him for sixth grade English the year before. Simon was a nice kid, skinny and freckled with a loud laugh that carried from room to room. Max had heard Simon’s laugh more than once as it echoed from the art room across the hall from Max’s own English class.
“He lives by the old train depot,” Brenda added.
“No chance he’s just playing hooky? Took off with some friends?”
“Not likely,” Brenda answered. “Simon’s chummy with Jon Hastings and Benjamin Rite. Both were in school yesterday and today. In fact, both boys asked Mr. Ludgin, the social studies teacher, where Simon was. The three had plans to play dodgeball after school today. Not long after, Simon’s parents called and sounded the alarm.”
Max frowned. “They seem really upset.”
“Sure, sure. Though I’d say that’s at least partially on account of little Vern Ripley. He’s been missing for six months now. Not a trace of him found.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Vern Ripley,” Brenda repeated,” looking at him with surprise. “Oh my, I forget you don’t make the rounds with all the kids like some of us do. Vern was an eighth grader this year. A few days after the new year, he walked off with a sled and never came home.”
“Vern Ripley?” Max repeated, trying to place the boy, but he was unable to conjure an image.
3
Max thought of the two missing boys as he drove to his parents’ house for supper.
Few crimes happened in Roscommon. He occasionally heard rumors about drunk and disorderlies at the town bar, and several years before a girl had been
killed in a hit and run, but Max couldn’t remember a single murder in all his years in the little town and definitely not any missing kids.
He parked his motorcycle behind his brother’s car and hurried into the house, aware he was showing up fifteen minutes late for dinner.
His mother greeted him at the door, tapping her watch before she threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Nice to see you too, Mom,” he told her.
“Max, I wish you’d call if you’re going to be late. At five minutes passed, I started to imagine your motorcycle wrapped around that big beech tree on Kinley Road.”
Max’s mother stood fussing with his hair like he’d regressed to eight years old. She licked her fingers and patted the dark cowlick on the back of his head.
“Mom, it’s fine, please, hands off.”
She continued as if he’d said nothing.
“Mom!” He took her shoulders in his hands and gently pushed her away.
“Aww, is Maxy Waxy getting his bath?” his older brother, Jake, asked, striding into the front hall and folding his hand like a kitten as he pretended to lick his paw.
Max flipped him off behind his mother’s back.
Jake rubbed his hand over his hair and made loud purring sounds.
“You’re next, Jakey,” Marie Wolfenstein told her oldest child as she made a last grab at Max, straightening the collar of his shirt.
Max skipped away, running into the dining room where his father had already taken his seat at the head of the table.
Jake’s wife sat to his right, her pregnant belly pressing against the table’s edge.
“Get behind his ears,” Eleanor called, laughing.
“How are you feeling, Eleanor?” Max asked, sitting in his chair with a huff and pulling on his shirt to skew his mother’s straightening job.
“Well, my ankles are the size of oak limbs, and I have heartburn so bad I’m lucky to sleep for two solid hours every night, but other than that, I’m peachy!” She laughed and winced, putting her hands on either side of her belly to steady its quaking.
“I had heartburn the entire second and third trimester with Jake,” Maria announced, bustling into the dining room with a platter of sausage, Jake on her heels. “Heartburn, morning sickness, and afterward I had stretch marks six inches long.” Maria patted her wide hips and shot a disapproving look at Jake, who’d bent to kiss the top of his wife’s head.
“My little Maximilian, on the other hand,” she continued, looking adoringly at her younger son, “was like carrying a peaceful little cloud. He never kicked, let me eat anything I wanted, and slid into the world with hardly a peep.”
“I always knew I was your favorite,” Max told her, sticking his tongue out at Jake.
Jake laughed and cast his blue eyes toward his mother.
“Mom, don’t try to make him feel better. You prefer me. It’s okay. We inevitably love most what we work for, right? If it gets handed to you, who wants it?” Jake winked at Max.
“Enough out of you two,” their father announced, clinking his fork against his glass so hard Max feared it might shatter.
Their father was big, much like his sons, but where Max was muscular and wiry, their father was barrel chested with big hands and feet.
He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling with joy.
“Maria dreamed of an eagle last night! Jake and Eleanor are having a baby boy!” he announced.
Eleanor’s eyes popped wide, and she shot a questioning glance at Jake, who grinned.
“Dad,” Max started, but Maria cut him off.
“In our family, Eleanor, our children appear in dreams long before they arrive in the world. I dreamed of eagles before Max and Jake were born. My sister, who gave birth to three daughters, dreamed of butterflies during each of her pregnancies.”
“Wow, that-” Eleanor started, but Marie interrupted her.
“My mother dreamed of a beautiful black and gold butterfly before I was born. Two months before she gave birth to my brother, Sigmund, she dreamed of an eagle swooping toward the sea and plucking a fish from the water.”
“It’s all very scientific,” Max offered with a laugh.
Max’s father pointed his fork at him.
“Doubt is the opposite of faith, my son. There is more to this life than your books.”
Max nodded.
“Still, you’d think if dreams could divine the sex of babies, our German grandmothers would have made a fortune.”
“You bite your tongue,” Maria chastised, her eyes sparkling. “We don’t impart our wisdom for silver and gold. Such dreams are meant for our children.” She reached over to Eleanor and rested a hand on her daughter-in-law’s belly. “Do you hear that young man? There is eagle in your blood.”
Eleanor giggled, and Jake draped an arm around his wife, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“I’d like to tell you the weirdness will end when the baby is born, but we both know I’d be lying.”
Max, Eleanor, and Jake suppressed their laughter as Maria gave them dirty looks, and their father began heaping his plate with food, whistling a happy tune beneath his breath.
“I made sauerbraten,” Maria said, scooping a ladle of the pot roast onto Eleanor’s dish. “The vinegar will help with your heartburn.”
Eleanor smiled, but Max saw her hesitation.
“You sure it won’t make it worse,” Max asked, smelling the pungent vinegar.
Maria glowered at him.
“How many years have I cooked for you, Maximilian?”
“Twenty-seven,” he told her. “Well, maybe twenty-six considering I didn’t have teeth the first year.”
“And have you ever-” she started.
But he cut her off. “And I’ve never gone to bed hungry.” He laughed. “I’m just trying to look out for my brother’s lovely wife.”
He winked at Eleanor, who offered him a thankful smile, though they both knew she’d eat the sauerbraten. Maria had a way of convincing you she’d prepared the perfect antidote for what ailed you. For most of his young life, Max had believed schnitzel cured the common cold.
“How’s school going?” Jake asked, taking a sloppy bite of sauerbraten.
“The usual. Last two weeks of school insanity. The kids are practically eating the wallpaper, and I suddenly have six months’ worth of papers to grade.”
Jake laughed.
“And that’s why,” he started, tilting his glass of wine toward his younger brother, “I’m in the insurance business.”
“And a fine insurance man you are!” Herman beamed, leaning forward and slapping his son on the back. “I’m proud of both my sons.”
“Don’t we know it,” Max murmured. “Oh, Mom,” Max laughed as he saw Maria’s eyes well with tears.
“Such good boys you are,” she agreed, exchanging delighted faces with her husband across the table.
Max grinned and shook his head. Since he and his brother had moved out of the house, their parents had become increasingly sentimental. Every week during Wednesday night dinner, they lavished their sons with praise, and one of them often cried.
They were not typical German parents. Max had met his mother and father’s siblings and their children, his cousins. A cool detachment seemed to reside in the houses of their extended family.
The Wolfenstein residence had no such separation. Max could not recall a time in his life when his parents weren’t hugging and praising him. Their joy at the loss of his first tooth was as dramatic as his high school graduation.
* * *
“Sidney Mitchel Putnam, what have you gotten on your brand new polo shirt?”
Sid looked up to find his mother waiting for him on the front porch, hands on her narrow hips, brow so creased it looked like waves of sand on a windblown beach.
He peered at the splotch of chocolate goo on his shirt from the fudge pop he’d eaten with Ashley. A strictly off-limits fudge pop as far as his mother was concerned, who allowed Sid one treat a day, a
lways after dinner and always some healthy version of the popular treats - sugar free cookies for instance.
“Um, uh, in art class we-”
“Save it,” she snapped, marching down the porch and prodding him inside the house. “Into the tub.”
She pulled the shirt over his head and held it to her nose, her mouth pinching into a little angry bud.
“Art class,” she huffed, shaking her head. “Do you want pimples like Zach? That’s where chocolate gets you.”
Sid’s older brother, Zach, suffered from such terrible acne; their mother had started putting makeup on his face every morning before school. Their father had scoffed at this, but then shut his mouth after a look from his wife that could have melted the polar ice caps.
“Okay, Mom,” Sid said, annoyed. “I can take it from here.”
He stood naked except for his underwear in the little bathroom as the bathtub filled with water.
His mother shook her head, already rubbing at the blotted stain as she walked out the door.
“Believe you me, Sidney Mitchell, I’ve seen it all before.”
Sid rolled his eyes and locked the door behind his mother. He settled into the bath, preferring not to imagine what exactly his mother, a nurse at Frankfurt Emergency had seen. He’d overheard her on more than one occasion telling his father about wounds leaking puss and a guy who nearly chopped his arm off trying to chainsaw a tree branch while standing on his roof.
Sid’s father would moan and beg his wife to spare him the gory details. His dad loved horror novels, but when it came to real life, he preferred the sugarcoated version. Which was why Sid couldn’t understand his dad’s choice to become a volunteer firefighter.
“Parents,” he grumbled. They were more like aliens than real people.
Sid loved creepy tales, but recently had discovered he had more in common with his dad than he’d originally believed.
The realization had come the week before, on the night when Sid nearly died.
It had been an ordinary night.
He’d left Ashley’s house to walk home just before dusk. If he didn’t step foot across the threshold of his front door before nightfall, he’d get a lecture from both his parents. Five blocks from his house, he’d broken into a sloppy run. He wasn’t a runner. The extra pounds combined with an overlong torso and too short legs made running a chore more loathsome than scrubbing toilets.
Rag Doll Bones: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 2