Finally, she stopped. She wished she had thought out her words and described the situation better. Or was it just inherently ridiculous?
“What’s your name and number,” the voice said. “I’m going to have somebody from our detective unit call you back.”
Anita thanked him profusely, provided the number, then hung up and waited for the return call. Maybe a few minutes?
It was two hours.
That was when a nasal, indifferent voice called to tell her that he had spoken with someone at the Oakland Police Department and, with all due respect, ma’am, there was no longer a missing persons report and the case was closed. The boy had been declared dead.
She argued that the body was never recovered. She insisted that she had found him now. But when they pressed for a location, she could only offer a bus stop. When they asked for evidence, she could only state, “Because I know what my son looks like.”
She tried to press on, but could tell the officer had reached a point where he was no longer listening. She could hear a lot of voices and activity in the background. She knew the Chicago Police were undoubtedly busy with other matters, rapes and robberies and murders every day, all over the city.
She hung up.
She sat on the bed. She didn’t know anyone in Chicago who could help. Who could she call? Who would take her seriously?
She considered calling her parents, or Dennis, or Calcina, or one of her new friends back in Sacramento, and finally came to the conclusion that she needed more proof before she could start alarming other people.
There had been false alarms before. And what did she have to go on now, really? Three seconds of a face in a darkened bus window. A face that would have changed a great deal in the two years since she last saw it.
True, the whole thing sounded crazy and desperate.
But there was no body.
There was no body.
She was not about to give up the search. If she ignored this and went home, it would wind up haunting her forever.
It’s probably not Tim.
But…what if it is?
Anita went downstairs to the concierge and obtained maps of Chicago. She brought them to her room and found the location of the bus stop where the boy may have gotten off.
She took a pen and circled a wide area around it.
This is where I’ll begin my search, she told herself. I’ll get up early and comb the neighborhood. I’ll watch the bus stop. I’ll search the parks, playgrounds, anyplace that a four-year-old child might go on a nice summer day.
Lying in bed, she felt everything spinning out of control again. The old wounds, fear and confusion were back.
She tried to wrap herself up in the cocoon of the small room and sleep. The air conditioner hummed, drowning out all other noise, and the thick curtains were drawn, killing the outside light.
But she couldn’t let go and drift off. She remained haunted by the sad little boy’s face that stared out at her, pleading, before the bus took him away.
XI
Seven-thirty a.m. in Chicago meant 5:30 a.m. in Sacramento. Good. Her boss, Clifford, would not be in the office yet, so she could deliver scripted lies into his voicemail and avoid conversation. She was a bad liar.
“Clifford, hey,” she said, pushing the words out painfully. “I think I have food poisoning. I really feel like crap. I’m not going to be able to man the booth today. But I’ve got a lot of leads from yesterday, so it hasn’t been a total waste. It’s been productive. I’ll call you later. Bye.”
She hung up and then called the convention’s vendor manager to give her the same story. I hope I don’t run into her on my way out, Anita thought.
The booth would be safe. There was nothing worth stealing; she had the laptop and business cards in her room. If someone wanted to run off with the rest of the brochures, or the banner with the company logo, well, then they could go right ahead.
Anita had room service deliver coffee, melon slices, and a bagel. She wolfed it down, then got dressed in gym shoes, jeans, and an orange cotton shirt. She gathered her maps and put them in her purse. Then she got brave and took something out of her purse that she rarely looked at but always kept with her. She forced herself to stare at it.
A small snapshot of Tim. Standing in the backyard in Rockridge, holding his favorite truck, beaming back at her. Happy, safe, alive.
Anita took a cab to Lakeview, the residential neighborhood where she had caught up with the bus. She started at the bus stop at Belmont and West Lake Shore Drive. If he got off here, he can’t live far from here, she reasoned. She picked a direction and started to go.
The area was very pleasant and eclectic, with a mix of small brownstones, vintage courtyard buildings renovated into condominiums, and some Victorian homes. The atmosphere was busy and youthful and trendy. Heading west, she reached the shopping scene, full of clubs, designer boutiques, thrift shops, and ethnic restaurants.
Anita turned north on a busy street and walked in the direction of Wrigley Field’s light towers, which peeked from between buildings in the distance. Her eyes roamed the people on both sides of the street, stopping when she saw a child, examining faces, looking not only for Tim but any boy that may have been mistaken for Tim.
If she could find someone who even resembled him, that would do it. She could go home with a clear conscience.
Anita walked through a few diners and fast food restaurants. She dipped into toy stores, children’s clothing stores, bookstores. She even showed Tim’s photo to a few clerks who responded with great sensitivity, but could offer no clues.
True, the photo probably did not reflect Tim accurately anymore. She tried to create a firm picture in her mind of Tim’s height and build at four years old. What am I looking for?
She had to stop jumping when she saw two-year-olds. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. Tim was four now. Taller, older, not the person she pictured anymore.
He had been gone now for the same length of time that he had been a presence in her life: two years.
Anita strolled the Lakeview neighborhood for hours. There were a few heart-stopping false alarms: children seen from behind, or obscured by others, who had Tim-like characteristics, but then unmistakably were not Tim.
When she found a park or playground, she stopped, found a place to sit, and stayed for anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour. There was almost always children coming and going, and these locations provided the most opportunity.
Late in the afternoon, she returned to the bus stop at Belmont and West Lake Shore Drive. She wandered the immediate block a few times but did not let the corner leave her site. Soon, it would be 6:25. The precise time that yesterday’s Bus 145 stopped here, when Tim was believed to be on board.
Soon, she was checking her watch constantly. Thirty minutes to go, then twenty, then twelve, then seven…
Her heart beat faster.
At 6:25, right on cue, Bus 145 roared into view. Anita stood about twenty yards away as the bus pulled up to the curb and started letting people out.
A couple of young professionals…a Hispanic boy and his mother…a teenage girl all dressed up in gothic black lace and heavy mascara…and finally a tubby fiftysomething man with a crew cut, carrying a Radio Shack bag.
The bus roared off.
Anita stayed for three more buses and the results were equally benign.
Finally, she started walking again, west, until she reached Broadway. She ate dinner at the Melrose Restaurant, a 24-hour sandwich joint, and watched the families, following every child’s voice to a face, and came up Timless.
When the day succumbed to dusk, she took a cab back to the hotel. Anita stumbled into her room, depressed and tired from studying crowds, people, and faces for hours. She estimated she must have looked at hundreds of children.
Am I going to scour all of Chicago? she asked herself. This is ridiculous, Anita.
She sat on the bed and drew in her knees. What was the game plan? The trade show
was now over. Her flight to leave Chicago was scheduled for 9:00 a.m. the next morning.
Maybe it would be best to go home and clear her mind of this entire mess.
She didn’t move, thinking about it for a long time. The sun sank, and the room went from golden to shadows.
Finally, Anita got off the bed. She went to the phone. She canceled her flight.
“One more day,” she said out loud to herself in the mirror. She looked awful: raccoon eyes, hair gone to hell. “One more day, and that’s it.”
The following morning, Anita dismantled and packed the Your Resources booth for shipping back to Sacramento. She endured a number of “Where were you yesterday?” inquiries from the other vendors, sticking to her food poisoning story, and even made up the name of a restaurant, “Charlie’s.” Since she looked like crap anyway, they easily believed her.
By 9:00 a.m., she was back in Lakeview. She started again at the bus stop, watching a few loads of passengers climb off and on, before heading south. She would cover the same eight-block radius, but this time in a different order.
Soon, she felt dragged down by déjà vu. It was the same streets, the same buildings, the same schoolyards, the same storefronts, alleys, and restaurants. She even recognized some of the same faces. She did her best to examine people without staring. She didn’t want to appear like a crazy lady stalking the streets, creeping everybody out.
By late morning, she was feeling more tired than ever. She had seen so many parents with happy young children that she was starting to fill with envy and depression. Her whole world was sliding back to a place she really didn’t want to go.
This is pitiful, she told herself. Why would he be alive? Why here? Why now? What sense did it make?
At noon, she bought a sack lunch and took it to Belmont Harbor. It was a beautiful day to watch the yachts and sailboats, although she didn’t see too many children. The water was turquoise and calm. She could watch it forever. The atmosphere relaxed her and gave her what she needed to regroup and begin her next walk.
She returned to the other side of Lake Shore Drive. After another uneventful hour of wandering, her feet began to scream pain. She had been ignoring the blisters up to a point, but now they really did hurt like hell. Fortunately, she knew the location of the nearest pharmacy. She had only walked past it four times since yesterday.
Anita bought a tin of Band-Aids and brought them with her to a small, crowded play area named “Little People Playground.” It was located between two large apartment complexes. She had been here twice already today. She found a bench, took off her shoes and socks, and began to cover the areas of her toes and heel where the skin had been rubbed away.
Anita scanned the crowd. Kids were climbing, running, chasing in and out of the playground equipment. Happy children’s chatter filled the air, punctuated by shrieks and laughter.
Anita examined every young face. Her eyes made the rounds twice. No Tim.
She stuck the Band-Aid tin in her purse and slipped on her socks and gym shoes. There was still a lot more ground to cover. She stood up. Her feet felt better. She would be able to make it for a few more hours, at least.
Anita started on the path to the sidewalk and gave one last glance back at the playground. She caught something out of the corner of her eye.
A familiar little boy emerged from a covered fort at the top of a slide. Skinny, with blond bangs, a squat little nose, and dirt smudged on one cheek.
Anita gasped.
Dear God, it’s Tim.
Her eyes locked on the little boy as he stood. There was no mistake about it. He was taller, thinner, stretched out. A little boy instead of a baby. Moving with fluid grace and confidence, no longer a staggering toddler.
It was as if someone had taken her memories and old photos, added two years, and turned them into flesh and blood.
The boy looked around at no one in particular and then dropped to a sitting position. He slid to the ground, landing in the bark chips.
Anita felt tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Tim…” she said. She started to walk toward him.
The boy brushed off his pants and circled to the ladder on the back of the slide.
Anita broke out into a run. “Tim!”
The boy did not respond. He did not even turn his head.
“Tim!” she screamed. Why couldn’t he hear her? “Tim! Tim!”
An explosion of adrenaline shot through her, sending a cacophony of emotions into her brain. She dashed across the playground, past the other children.
Anita caught up with him at the ladder. “Tim, Tim, it’s mommy!” She grabbed him from behind. His hands slipped off the rungs and he became wrapped in her arms.
The boy turned to look at her.
He screamed.
The piercing, high-pitched scream seized the attention of everyone on the playground.
“Honey, don’t scream, it’s Mommy—”
The boy squirmed violently, pushing her away.
Out of nowhere, a tall, angular blonde woman ran at them. She was moving with lightning speed; her face was harsh, fierce. She had dark eyebrows. “Stay away from my child!”
The boy pulled away from Anita and grabbed the ladder for dear life. He was bawling, mouth opened wide, tears streaming. “MOMMY!”
The blonde woman swept him up in strong, bony arms. “Jeffrey, it’s OK,” she said. “Mommy’s here.”
The boy clung to the woman, still crying. His face was red and wet.
“No!” shouted Anita, on fire. Her hands shot out for the boy, but the blonde woman swung him away with daggers in her eyes. “Get away from him!” she shrieked so loudly that it echoed off the buildings.
“That’s my Tim!” screamed back Anita, her hands clawing for him, getting a hold of his ankle before the woman screamed louder: “Get away you crazy psycho!”
Anita lunged again for the boy and the blonde woman stuck out a hand, shoving hard.
The boy continued to cry with blood-curdling intensity. Then the blonde woman began shouting: “Help! Help! Help!”
The world scrambled into chaos and disorder.
Strangers came running. Anita felt hands grabbing her. Words spilled into the air from all directions.
“…crazy woman tried to steal that child…”
“…don’t let her go…”
“She’s insane…”
“I’ve seen her casing the place…”
“Someone call the police…”
“Who has a cell phone?”
Anita struggled fiercely, but her arms were taken away as a growing number of angry faces surrounded her, pulling at her. She kicked at them wildly. Everything became a blur of faces, bodies, arms, and legs filling her view, hiding Tim from sight.
Suddenly there was a hairy forearm across her neck and she felt the air pinched from her throat. She threw a fist behind her and connected with teeth. A man grunted, the grip loosened, and she squirmed free. She fell to the ground, scrambled beneath the slide, and turned around.
It was a man in a brown UPS uniform. He had a bloody lip now. There were seven or eight other adults circling her, along with some teenagers in sports jerseys. Behind them, a layer of wide-eyed children watched the commotion.
“It’s my son!” screamed Anita from the ground. In the distance, through their legs, she caught a glimpse of the bony blonde woman hurrying Tim out of the playground. They made it to the street and started to cross.
A new surge of strength pumped through her body.
On her hands and knees, Anita scrambled to the other side of the slide. The opening to her escape quickly filled with more people.
Anita managed to squeeze past and get to her feet.
The bony blonde and the boy were disappearing from sight.
Anita ran after them. But more people were entering the park in a hurry, all running in the same direction to head her off. The air was filled with shouts to stop her, stop her, stop her…
Anita tripped a
nd fell hard to the ground. Pain exploded in her knee.
The crowd caught up. A swarm of hands grabbed for her and she felt her shirt rip. She screamed at them to let her go. She screamed and screamed until her throat went raw and she sounded like some kind of horrible wounded animal.
They didn’t understand. It was her child.
The mob blocked out the sunlight. Someone very close to her ear shouted, “Crazy bitch!” And then in an instant, Anita went limp, sobbing.
In the distance, a police siren tore into the neighborhood.
XII
Anita sat in a hard wooden chair inside the Chicago Police station of the 23rd District on Halsted Street. She was filthy, covered in bruises and cuts, and felt like a dirty criminal. So far, they hadn’t locked her up. Yet.
Everything was so surreal and bizarre, that she had gone numb. It was the day Tim had been stolen all over again, except this time she was the villain. Back then, everybody was supporting her. Now the world had turned against her.
The nameplate on the desk said LT. JONATHAN FORD. The desktop was orderly with small stacks of closed files. His chair had remained empty ever since an officer brought her here, fifteen minutes ago, and removed the handcuffs.
The wall was covered in black-and-white stills of Chicago architecture, giving her something to look at. Some of the perspectives were enigmatic, a collage of rigid lines and shadows.
When Ford showed up, his expression was not encouraging. He looked annoyed. And he let out the first of many big sighs. He was in his late thirties or early forties, red haired with green eyes. And tired.
“OK,” he said, dumping his butt into a chair. “No charges will be pressed.”
She felt no emotion about this one way or the other.
“The child you assaulted…” started Ford.
Assaulted?
“…and the mother…”
Mother?
“…were gone when the police arrived. We interviewed witnesses at the playground. We have good physical descriptions, but no one was able to identify the woman or the boy. Several people recognized them as regulars at the park, and we had two people who independently recalled that the boy’s name is Jeffrey.”
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