Trace

by Pat Cummings

  And although the tall, round-faced doctor looked and sounded Jamaican and had curiously muscular arms like a weight lifter and was wearing an engagement ring at their first meeting but not now, Trace knew he was not there to ask her any questions.

  “How was your week, Theo?” Dr. Proctor began.

  “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.” They did this every Saturday. He said “fine, just fine” to almost every question while she made notes or tapped a pen on her knee for an hour.

  “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you next week,” the doctor said.

  Trace had been slumped on a small leather couch next to the armchair where the doctor sat. Now he sat up straight. “I can go?”

  Dr. Proctor just smiled at him.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. Trace thought about Ty and the girls he had to meet at the library. He would be early. And here he had been worried about having to listen to Kali say something nasty if he showed up a minute late.

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  Dr. Proctor just nodded.

  Trace was up in a flash and at the door. He had his hand on the doorknob. “This is a trick, right?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “To get me to talk about it, huh?”

  Dr. Proctor said nothing. Her face was a blank.

  Would she tell Auntie Lea he had ducked out after five minutes? Would he tell? Trace held the doorknob. That wave began rolling over him again, but gently. What was the big deal about talking? Why would Auntie Lea pay real money she needed for other stuff so that he could sit here and play this game of tag every week? And now Dr. Proctor was trying to change the rules. The wave subsided but the smell of the river was there, making him feel a little light-headed.

  “Okay. Look,” Trace said quietly. He walked back to the couch and sank weakly into its soft leather cushions. “We can talk a little, okay?” He looked up at the doctor, but her expression did not change. “A little. ’Cause I really do need to leave early today.” Trace waited, but she said nothing.

  With some effort, he continued. “You keep asking how I feel every week.” The doctor nodded.

  “But I don’t.” Trace took in a slow breath and let it out. “I don’t feel.”

  “Everyone feels, Theo,” the doctor said. “Even if that feeling is emptiness or . . .” The doctor seemed to be looking for a word, but her pause went on forever.

  “Or . . . guilt?” Theo asked in a near whisper.

  “Do you feel guilty, Theo?” The doctor frowned slightly. “Accidents happen. You had no control over what happened, you know that, don’t you?” She leaned forward in her chair, her moonlike face clouded over now. Trace studied her eyes.

  At their very first meeting she had promised that whatever he told her would be private, just between them. So maybe he could tell her about being in the car, about his dad swerving to miss a deer on the road that evening. He might even tell her about his mom screaming. His mom. Screaming. She had been terrified but still trying to reassure him. Or he could tell her about his dad’s kicking. But all that kicking did not crack one car window or make one door budge as the car was sinking, so what was the point of talking about it? They were gone.

  “Theo?” Dr. Proctor said gently. “You do know that nothing that happened that night was your fault?”

  Trace looked up at her. Doctors didn’t know everything. In fact, they didn’t know much at all. Because they shouldn’t have been on that road at that time in the evening when that stupid deer ran out of the stupid trees. No wonder people shot them. If somebody had shot that deer, it wouldn’t have been there and his dad would have just kept driving. Trace felt something thick and wet and too large stuck in his throat. The lump wouldn’t go down but he tried several times to swallow. “We’ll be home before dark, kiddo.” That was the last thing his dad had said before the deer. “Home before dark.”

  “Theodore?” the doctor asked once more. Now she looked worried. “Is everything okay?”

  Trace was back on that road. Back in the car. It was all his fault that they were there at that exact time, and he would always know that. For as long as he lived. That lump of river would be there forever too, even if he somehow forgot about it for a minute, it would still be there, waiting. He looked into Dr. Proctor’s eyes.

  “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

  5

  Trace had polished off two cartons of orange juice on the train ride into Manhattan. They had successfully washed away the taste of the river, but now he needed to find a bathroom. He was not sure where to find the Rose Main Reading Room or the men’s room once he reached the library, so he was glad that he had arrived early.

  The wide stone steps in front of the New York Public Library were dotted with all types of people reading and chatting or maybe just waiting for something. After the morning’s chill, it had turned out to be a sunny October day, perfect for lingering on the steps. But Trace had only enough time to find the john before finding the Reading Room where he was to meet Ty and the girls.

  He nodded at Patience and Fortitude, the massive marble lions on either side of the steps. When he had told Auntie Lea that he planned to meet his study group at the library after seeing Dr. Proctor, she had told him the lions’ names and asked that he give them her regards. Trace wondered why people said that. What were regards? For that matter, why were twin lions outside of a library? To guard it? Who were they protecting it from . . . crazed readers? The way they stared down their noses at the crowd jostling along Fifth Avenue, Trace thought they might be better named Bored and Snooty.

  He took the steps two at a time, happy to think about anything but the doctor’s questions. The subway ride had been nice and noisy: a flute player walking through cars with a paper cup full of money tied to his waist, a tattooed couple arguing loudly about which stop was closest to their friend’s place, a fat little kid banging into passengers and refusing to sit no matter what his mother said. Any distraction was good.

  At the entrance to the library, a couple of tourists were quizzing the guard for directions, so Trace waited. He really had to go. By the time the brain-dead couple finally grasped that street numbers got higher going uptown—duh—and lower—ya think?—if they went downtown, Trace was afraid he would pop. At last, it was his turn and the guard pointed him toward a staircase that led down to the toilets. Trace ran for it.

  Ten minutes later, he was ready. He was on time, early even, and nothing Kali could say would rattle him. They had picked which events they each would cover, so today was just about research and getting an outline together. Besides, he was pretty sure everyone had to be absolutely quiet in this library. If Kali did start anything, a guard would probably toss her butt out. Trace smiled at the thought and checked himself in the bathroom mirror. His mom always said he looked very handsome in this buttery-yellow shirt. She said it made his skin look like “polished mahogany.” Or sometimes she’d say, “like sweet warm cocoa, Teddy.”

  Mom. When had he made her stop calling him Teddy Bear? When had it changed to Teddy? My Teddy Bear. Mom’s hands tucking the covers under his chin, her soft kiss on his cheek. Trace closed his eyes and tried to swallow. The lump in his throat had returned.

  No. He was not going down that road. He turned the water on full blast in the sink, let it run over his hands for a minute, then splashed his face once, twice. He would not think about it. Not now. He dried his hands and face quickly and hurried out of the men’s room.

  Hiking his book bag over his shoulder, Trace fumbled through his jacket pockets for his phone as he barreled along the hallway. He had three minutes to find the Reading Room. He saw a text message from Ty that must have just come in: dude theyre here. where r u? Trace grinned. Tiberius was surrounded and panicking. It was time to go play cavalry.

  He passed more doors on his way out than he had on his way in, but Trace wouldn’t realize that until later. Hurrying along an empty corridor, he looked up from his phone and saw a stairwell he hadn’t noticed before. But it led down. So he ret
raced his steps.

  “I only came down one level,” he whispered to himself. Trace stopped and tried to get his bearings. To his right and left, the hall was empty and as silent as a tomb. The few doors he saw were closed. The emptiness spooked him, but just for a minute. “Duh, it’s Saturday,” he said aloud, surprised as the sound of his voice was magnified by the marble floors and walls. “And why am I whispering?”

  Where was the up staircase? Trace suddenly felt annoyed. He was going to be late. And if Kali said one negative word or rolled her eyes or started any trouble at all, he was not going to take it. The hall he was in led to another corridor that looked exactly the same, so, doubling back to the stairs he had seen, he took them down, hoping to find an elevator.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Trace found he was in a vast, open, and dimly lit room filled with so many rows of bookshelves that he could not see where they ended. The walls down here were patchworks of old brick, dusty in places with plaster and scratches. It was too shadowy and cold, and Trace knew with a sudden certainty that he was not meant to see the books that filled the shelves before him. It was like peeking behind the curtain in Oz. Even in the little light available, the spines of the books on every shelf looked old and fragile. Trace felt like an intruder. As he turned to go back up the stairs he saw an exit sign just to his left. Excellent.

  The shadows darkened and the floor sloped as he headed toward it, but he saw that there was an opening ahead. Suddenly, he felt weirdly electrified. Even through the thickness of his jacket and shirt he could feel the hairs on his arms standing on end. It must be the chill down here, he thought. If this floor were unused on weekends, of course they would not heat it. Or maybe the weirdness came from the dead silence? Trace realized that he had been tiptoeing toward the opening, and, trying to shake off what he was feeling, he picked up speed. To his relief, there was an elevator door just beyond the exit sign, and, more importantly, there was an Up button next to it. Trace exhaled, only then aware that he had been holding his breath.

  His finger was inches from the button when he heard it: crying. He froze. If it was possible for silence to grow deeper, it did. Every nerve in Trace’s body was awake and waiting. He heard it again. A whimper. Someone was down there with him. Trace pushed the elevator button, trying to stay calm. The button lit up. He held his breath.

  There it was again. This time, he recognized that it was a child crying. A little kid was down there, lost just like he was. A long run of sobs followed, louder now and punctuated by choppy intakes of air. Oh, man. There was no time for this. Above the elevator, the letter G lit up. It was on the ground floor. The elevator was coming.

  On an impulse, Trace took a quick look around the corner. The rows of shelves disappeared into darkness. If the place gave him the creeps, he could not imagine that a child would willingly hide down here in the darkness. But all the same, there it was again: a pitiful little sob. Trace could almost see the runny nose that would come with it.

  “Hey,” he called out softly. “What’s the matter?” The crying stopped. Trace took a step toward the shelves. From behind a stack that was only feet away, he heard a trembling whimper. His own heart was beating so loudly that he almost missed it.

  “C’mon, kid,” he said gently. “Come on out, I’ll help you find your mom.” The elevator dinged loudly and Trace jumped. As the doors opened, Trace ran and put his book bag on the floor to keep them from closing. He was officially late now. Ty was probably pissed.

  Trace turned around. Standing just beyond the opening in front of the nearest bookcase was a little boy. The red light from the exit sign mixed with the darkness, turning his skin the color of raisins, but his face was in shadow. As small as he was, he could not have been more than four years old. Trace felt a flush of anger. People should keep an eye on their kids. This was ridiculous. “Come on, kid,” he said, trying not to sound impatient. “The guard upstairs will find your mommy.”

  The child stayed in the shadows. Trace frowned. The kid was a mess. Even in such dim light, it was clear that his clothes were tattered, his hair was a wild rat’s nest of tangles, and the ragged shoes he wore barely covered his feet. And, sure enough, the kid’s nose was running like a faucet.

  “C’mon, kid,” Trace said again. This was nuts. He was not going to chase the boy. If he would not come, he would just tell one of the guards where to find the kid. Stepping into the elevator, Trace slung his backpack over his shoulder again and held the door open with one hand. “Last chance,” he said. “I’ll go tell your mom and she’ll come get you, okay?”

  Kids heard the slogan “Stranger Danger” all the time, so he could not blame the little guy for not coming to him. If he tried to grab him, the kid might freak out. Crying was one thing. But dragging along somebody’s kid who was screaming bloody murder would be more drama than he had time for.

  “Okaaaay . . . ,” he said, drawing it out to give the boy another minute. He heard a soft shushing, the sound of little feet moving over concrete. The boy inched forward out of the shadow.

  Trace jerked backward, his hand flying off the elevator door. It was that boy he had seen outside the deli. The doors began to close. How was that even possible?

  He stabbed at the elevator button and the steel doors obeyed, shuddering open again. The boy’s large, dark eyes were trained on his. At least, it looked like the same boy.

  Suddenly Trace felt a deep sadness wash over him, like his whole body was crying. He knew he should be freaking out, but all he felt was . . . sorry. Even if this was the same kid . . . and no way could it be . . . how could anyone be so careless with such a little guy or bring him to the library looking so shabby?

  “Stay right here, little man,” Trace said softly, trying to sound reassuring. “Your mom will come for you, okay?” He punched the G button and the doors began to close. The little boy began backing away toward the shelves. His eyes were huge and they never left Trace’s. The crack of space between the doors was shrinking.

  In the glow of the red light, Trace saw that the boy’s dark eyes were shiny with tears. But, as the doors closed, what he also saw . . . what he could not have really seen . . . were the books on the shelf behind the boy. The little boy was looking right at him. And Trace could see right through him.

  6

  “Okay, tell me one more time, Mr. Goody-Good Samaritan. Yer aunt’s on her way but we got plenny a time.”

  The badge stuck to the guard’s chest read Lemuel T. Spitz. That name was bad enough. But from where Trace sat, looking up over the ridge of Lemuel’s mountainous gut, that didn’t seem to be the worst of it. The man’s face looked like cold pizza after it had been picked clean of pepperoni: very waxy, very cratered, and punctuated with unhealthy-looking patches of pink. Unfortunately, Trace also had an excellent view up into Lemuel’s cavernous nostrils, a sight he would not easily forget.

  There seemed to be no point in going over it again. Trace had grabbed the first guard he saw, told him about the kid, and now here he sat, forty-five minutes and three guards later, in the security office. The guard had accompanied him back downstairs, but the elevator door had only opened once the guard inserted his key into a panel of buttons. Problem number one: the guard did not believe Trace had merely walked downstairs into the area.

  Problem two: when Trace showed the guard where he had last seen the boy, the kid was nowhere to be found. Trace called out, the guard called out. And then the guard unclipped a little two-way radio from his belt and barked a code into it. Two more guards appeared and lights were switched on, the rows of shelves bathing the whole floor in even deeper shadows. They had marched Trace around a city block’s worth of dusty shelves and dark corridors, but there was no child to be found.

  “Maybe the kid took the same stairs I did and has already found his mom,” Trace had offered.

  “The public’s not allowed down here,” one guard said firmly, scowling at Trace in the harsh overhead light. “You did not just walk down the stair
s to this floor.” But he had. Hadn’t he?

  “Well . . . maybe his mom came and . . . and she found him,” Trace added weakly. He did not believe it himself. He was not at all sure now how he had found his way down there if it was a locked area. The air was musty and cold still, but different now. The electricity he had felt before was missing. The boy was gone.

  But that didn’t matter because the guards were not listening to him anyway. They seemed to have reached some agreement, or maybe they had a rule for what to do when someone reports a missing kid who then goes missing. Fine, Trace thought. Don’t believe me. Suddenly, he remembered his dad saying, “No good deed goes unpunished.” That had never made sense to him before, but now Trace got it. Forget he had said anything. He just wanted to go find his friends, if they were even still there.

  But the guards had encircled him on the elevator ride back upstairs, then walked him like a prisoner through the lobby and across to the security office without another word. It was a small, ugly office too, considering all the carved marble and polished brass that lay beyond its door in the library. The few chairs and desks it held looked battered and grimy. Gray metal file cabinets stood on either side of the door, their sagging drawers sporting plastic-covered labels too cloudy to read. Lemuel T. Spitz had been waiting for him.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Trace protested. “I have to go meet my friends.” He glared at the three guards, but they were already halfway out the door, leaving Trace to tell his story to Spitz . . . repeatedly. It was ridiculous.

  Lemuel T. Spitz had taken Trace’s name and address, and then his cell phone . . . like he was under arrest or might call for a getaway car. Then the man had called Auntie Lea and asked her to come in because they were holding him for “questioning.” Trace couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking. He knew she had a photo shoot today for a music magazine and he was pretty sure that dropping everything to come retrieve him would be a huge pain. The way Spitz had snarled on the phone, she probably thought he had been caught stealing something.