The Disappearing Boy

by Sonia Tilson

  Neil and his grandfather looked at each other awkwardly in the silence.

  “You might as well sit down.” Ken pointed to a dilapidated armchair by the electric fire and banged a knife and fork down on the table.

  Neil felt he’d done enough sitting for a lifetime, but sat obediently and looked around at the cracked, imitation wood floor and white Formica table with steel chairs. There was another, bigger armchair opposite him and a greasy-looking sofa under the window.

  Ken brought his beer and sat across from him as they waited for the ping of the microwave.

  “Where’ve you come from anyway?” he asked after taking a swig. “I heard years ago that Adam was in Vancouver. Don’t tell me you’ve come all the way from there?”

  “No, we’ve just come to live in Ottawa to be near Margaret. My mother’s just had an accident. She’s still in hospital but she’s going to be all right.”

  “Big help you’re being then!” Ken frowned. “Did they know you were coming here?”

  “No,” said Neil, turning away from Ken’s glare. “I just ran away.”

  “So they have no idea where you are? What the hell were you thinking, boy? They must be going nuts with worry!” He pointed to the phone on the wall beside the fridge. “Give Margaret a call! Right now!”

  Neil saw again the torn-up album, the scraps of photographs scattered on the carpet. He felt terrible. Margaret had been nothing but nice to him, and this was how he’d repaid her. He put his head in his hands and stared at the coating of brown and white dog hairs on the smelly matted rug at his feet. If only he could just eat and go straight to bed.

  “Go on!” Ken said. “Phone!

  Neil punched the numbers with shaking fingers and heard the familiar ring.

  Margaret picked up right away. “Oh Neil! Thank God! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, going out of our minds with worry! Where on earth are you?”

  “I’m at my grandfather’s,” he said.

  “You’re what?”

  His grandfather took the plastic dish out of the microwave and put it straight on the table.

  “You’re with Ken?” Her voice was almost a squeak.

  More silence, while Neil stared at a crack in the wall.

  “But how in the world did you get there, Neil?”

  “By bus.”

  “Good grief!” There was another pause. “Well, I suppose you’d better stay there until we decide how to get you back.”

  Miserably, he twiddled the phone cord. “I’m really sorry, Margaret,” he said. “About all the mess….”

  “The mess you made is the least of it,” she said. “I understand you were terribly shocked. You weren’t supposed to see those photographs. But we’ve been horribly stressed with worry, Neil. So much so, your mom has had to delay coming out of hospital.”

  He closed his eyes. “But she’s going to be okay?”

  “I think so. No thanks to you! How could you, Neil?” she said, her voice shaking. There was another pause. “What are we going to do about you? You can’t stay with Ken! He’s totally unsuitable, and anyway he wouldn’t want you there. Put him on the phone!”

  Neil held the phone out to a reluctant Ken, who pointed silently at the dinner waiting on the table.

  In spite of everything, Neil gobbled up his surprisingly tasty dinner as his grandparents argued, until he heard Ken shout, “Well, I sure don’t want him! You’d better take him, Margaret. And you can tell that…thing, it’s no wonder the kid ran away. Who wouldn’t?” He slammed the phone down and glared at Neil before swigging his beer.

  Neil pushed the last of his dinner away. What if Sasha heard what Ken had just said? He felt sick and guilty, and ashamed of his grandfather.

  ***

  “Margaret’s pretty mad at you,” Ken said, sounding a bit less angry as they sat later by the fire. “But she blames herself for letting that happen with the photographs.” He looked away with a shrug, wiping his mouth after another go at his beer. “And, of course, the bottom line is that she blames me for deserting the sinking ship all that time ago.” He sighed and stretched out his legs, showing a hole in the toe of his thick gray work sock. “But what are you gonna do, eh? At the end of the day, when all’s said and done, I’m just a run-of-the-mill kind of guy. I don’t buy into that stuff.”

  Neil looked at the scruffy figure in front of him and screwed up his courage. He had to ask. “Is my…is Sasha really doing okay?”

  “Yes. I gather he, er, I mean”—Ken bared his uneven teeth—“Sasha’s going to be fine. Margaret told me to tell you that; and she said you should know that Sasha—” he almost spat out the name—“was planning to tell you everything the night of the accident, but you blew up and ran off before she had a chance. Margaret says Sasha feels terrible. Feels she’s completely to blame for everything, apparently. And you know, I gotta say I would agree with that.”

  Ken scratched his stubbly cheek and looked away. “To tell you the truth, I’ve always blamed Adam for the whole mess. At the end of the day, I reckon the buck stops with him. I know Margaret has always said it wasn’t Adam’s fault, and that he couldn’t help it if that was the hand he’d been dealt. Just between you and me, I just don’t see why he had to screw up everybody else’s life instead of keeping it to himself, the way other people of his sort do.”

  To his embarrassment, Neil felt tears rising. This was so unfair. Ken was a horrible father.

  Ken jerked his head back, frowning. “I shouldn’t be talking to you like this, for Christ’s sake! You’re just a kid. How old are you anyway? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

  “Thirteen,” said Neil, quietly.

  They sat in silence for a while. Neil’s head ached and he felt dizzy. He hung his head and clasped his hands between his knees. If he hadn’t run off like that and turned off his cellphone, the accident would never have happened and he wouldn’t be sitting here with a grandfather who didn’t even want him.

  Then, with a hard pain in his chest, he remembered why he’d run away in the first place.

  Ken stood up. “You look done in. You need to hit the hay. You can stay here for tonight anyway, and we’ll decide what to do with you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 12

  Neil woke in the small, bare room to the smell of bacon frying and the sound of chatter from the radio or TV. It was broad daylight. His watch said nine-fifteen. Despite everything, he’d slept in this narrow iron bed for well over twelve hours.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up. So, that was his grandfather. Well, he’d just have to turn to Plan B: find Jessica, and see if he could live with her. Which was probably the best plan anyway.

  The bathroom was small and a bit grungy, but not too bad. In the shower stall he found, to his surprise, a bottle of purple, flower-scented body wash. He saw a woman’s deodorant on a shelf in the medicine cabinet and found a shiny red hair-dryer stashed in the cupboard under the wash basin. This stuff obviously wasn’t Ken’s. Did that mean that Cheryl normally lived here?

  He rubbed steam off the window pane with the thin grayish towel and looked out onto the back field. There were the horses! Six of them, all facing the same way, heads down, cropping the short yellow grass. He wondered as he studied them if that was enough for a stable.

  They were all different colours, and not smooth and shining in the sun like you might expect. They were fuzzy-looking, although the dark brown one with the long blond mane and tail, just like the horse in the photo, was shinier than the others. The black horse was the biggest by far. The smallest and the shaggiest was a Shetland pony, the same colour as the crabapples still hanging on the tree beside the bathroom window.

  At the other end of the paddock, the donkey watched a man in the next field over. Neil felt a rush of sympathy for the donkey. Had he been cast out from the herd because he was different, he wondered, or did he just prefer to be alone?
<
br />   He turned to get dressed but stopped, staring in dismay at the clean clothes, taken from his backpack and placed on the chair.

  “Where’s my other jeans?” he asked, striding fully dressed into the kitchen.

  “And top of the morning to you, too.” Ken moved stiffly about the kitchen, keenly watched by the dog, Keeper. He seemed to be in a much better mood. He shovelled two fried eggs, dripping with fat, onto an already loaded plate. “Here’s your breakfast. Best meal of the day, I always say.” He plonked the plate down on the table. “Your jeans are in the wash, so you’ll be clean for your journey back. Don’t worry. I checked the pockets first.”

  To his relief, Neil saw the photograph of Jessica safe and dry on the counter, and sat down to eat.

  There was bacon on his plate—four strips of it, not just a garnish—two fat, brown, glistening sausages; two eggs, crisply frilled at the edges and speckled with dark flecks; a pile of delicious little potato puff things. There were even baked beans. Sasha never made him breakfasts like this, he thought. Homemade granola was about as exciting as it got. She never gave him coffee either, but here was Ken, placing a big steaming mug of it in front of him.

  “What do you know about this girl?” Ken said, picking up the photo of Jessica.

  Swallowing hard, Neil leaned back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the photo. Maybe this was his chance to find out more about Jessica and where to find her. “I know that she’s my real mother,” he said, his mouth dry. “And I’d like to have that back, please.”

  Frowning, Ken silently handed him the creased photo.

  “I’m going to find her, and maybe live with her,” said Neil, refolding the photo and putting it back in his pocket. He took a long drink of coffee and settled down to his breakfast. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “I need to talk to you before we phone the bus station,” Ken said after a moment.

  Neil mopped up the remains of his meal with a piece of buttered toast and washed it down with a last, extra-sweet gulp of coffee as Ken sat down beside him. The dog’s claws clicked on the vinyl floor as he pushed his way in to sit between them.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Neil.” Ken scratched his head and pointed his chin across the room. “I thought you would know, but this girl Jessica…well, I’m afraid she died.”

  Neil froze, feeling only the pressure of the dog against his leg.

  Ken cleared his throat. “She passed soon after she handed you over to Adam. She had, um…she had a”—he raised his eyebrows to look at Neil and then quickly away—“she had a drug problem.”

  A sudden strange and horrible noise came from outside. Neil jumped up in fright.

  “Calm down! That’s just the donkey,” Ken said. He jerked his chin up and cleared his throat. “Anyway, that was why she gave you to Adam. At least that’s what I heard.” He glanced back at Neil. “For your sake, you understand. Because she knew she wouldn’t make it.”

  As Neil sat down, Keeper licked his hand with a warm tongue.

  “I gather from Margaret that he, or I suppose I should say she,” Ken pulled a sour face, “Sasha, that is, came back into the picture after that. She’s looked after you ever since.”

  Neil’s breakfast had become a cold, heavy lump in his stomach. Scraping back his chair, he stumbled to the bathroom.

  Chapter 13

  Neil put both hands on top of the fence post and rested his forehead on them, tears of grief and anger in his eyes. Jessica, his real mother, was dead. She had been dead all along. And before she died, she had given him away. She looked so lovely in the photo. Neil was sure he could remember her. He had set his heart on finding her and looking after her. He clutched the post and cried for his lost mother, and for his lost hopes.

  Drying his tears, he thought about his situation. What could he do now? Ken sure didn’t want him, and any hope of finding Jessica had vanished. He looked across the paddock to the great silver river sliding silently by in the distance. There was no way he could go back to his so-called mother after what he’d discovered, but where could he go? He kicked the post, sending a shudder down the fence and getting an evil sideways look from the red pony.

  “Hey, Neil!” Cheryl shouted from the barn door. “Wanna give me a hand? I could use some help.”

  Neil wiped his eyes and walked over. A distraction, maybe that’s what he needed.

  The barn was warm and shadowy and sweet smelling. Cheryl looked up from brushing out a stall. “Our stable-boy, Stephane, quit a couple of days ago,” she said, “and I gotta do everything, since Ken’s all seized-up these days.” She pointed to a well worn pair of leather boots in the corner. “Those belonged to Stephane. Why don’t you throw them on and help me muck out? No point spoiling them fancy runners.”

  As they worked, Cheryl explained the art of mucking out. “The main thing,” she said, using the pitchfork to sift out lumps of manure, “is to take out as much of this stuff and wet bedding as you can without wasting any good stuff, and put in just enough fresh straw or shavings to make it comfortable.”

  Cheryl didn’t seem to mind that he didn’t feel like talking. They worked together until all the stalls were clean and ready and the hay nets were filled.

  “Good stuff!” she said as he came back from taking the last load out to the manure pile. “Thanks. Now, are you up to helping me bring in a couple of horses? There’s someone coming for a trail ride later, and a girl wanting a lesson.”

  Neil nodded and followed her. If he was here, he might as well be useful.

  She handed him a lead-shank. “See if you can fetch Honey, that’s the gold-coloured one nearest us. Just walk up to her, all matter-of-fact, and fasten this clip onto the halter ring under her chin. I’ll go get Dude.”

  “Dude?” He looked at her in surprise. “But isn’t he super old? My grandma said she used to ride a horse named Dude, and I saw one here this morning, just like the horse in her photo.”

  Cheryl laughed. “That was Old Dude, Ken’s favourite Rocky Mountain horse from long ago. This one is Little Dude, Old Dude’s grandson.”

  Three horses ambled up: the two they wanted, plus the big black one. “This one’s Onyx,” Cheryl said, giving the black horse a smack on his big behind to move him out of the way. “He’s checking to see if there’s any short-feed going. He’s a greedy old guy and likes to have his own way.” They watched Onyx slope off. “Now, put the lead-shank on Honey while I get Dude.”

  Small, pretty Honey stood perfectly still while Neil clipped the lead on her halter, and waited quietly beside him until Cheryl came up with Dude.

  “What are the others called?” he asked after they had brought in the two horses.

  Cheryl led him to the barn door. “That one’s Pinto,” she said, pointing to a large black and white pony in the paddock. “And that brown and white one next to him is his sidekick, Nino. They always hang out together, just like Onyx and Honey.”

  “And who’s that?” He pointed at the little red pony.

  She laughed. “That’s Mackie. The little devil. He’s an escape artist. You always have to be super careful to check the gate fastenings and keep the fences in good shape, or he’s off looking for greener pastures. He’s cute, but he’s as mean as they come, so watch out.”

  He looked over to the other end of the field where the donkey stood, staring into space. “What’s the donkey called?”

  “Olive used to call him Benjamin,” she said. “She liked him a lot, but now he’s just The Donkey.”

  “Who’s Olive?”

  “You don’t know? She was Ken’s wife. She died a couple of years ago. Cancer.”

  “Oh, I see.” He frowned, thinking of Margaret. “What was she like?”

  “Real nice. She was sick for a long time though. In and out of hospital. Stayed there in the end.” She shook herself and looked at Neil. “Wanna
see how to groom a horse?

  Did he ever. “Sure!” he said, watching eagerly as she fetched Dude and clipped him to the posts on each side of the aisle.

  “First thing to learn about handling a horse,” she said, “is how not to get kicked if you’re in back of him. You either stand close to the horse’s rump, like this,” she demonstrated, “coming up from the side and putting your hand on him first, to let him know you’re there, or you make sure to keep far enough away to escape being kicked if he’s startled—or mean like Mackie. Let’s see you come up to the back end of Dude. Remember what I said, now!”

  He approached Dude, doing as she said.

  “Good stuff! Now for the grooming. You start with cleaning out their hooves,” she said. “That’s the hardest bit, and a big strain on the back until you get used to it. Let’s put Honey behind Dude, and you can watch me and make a start with her.”

  After she’d fetched Honey, she said, “The thing is to prop the hoof up on your knee like this.” Her back to him, she slid her hand down Dude’s near-front leg and pulled the foot up to rest on her bent knee. “And get the muck out with the hoof-pick, always working away from the sensitive bulge in the middle, like this. See?” She picked a clump of dried earth and a small stone out of Dude’s hoof. “See if you can do that with Honey’s front foot.”

  It was all Neil could do to get the hoof in position, but he did manage to dislodge a chunk of hard mud before he had to stand up and let Cheryl take over. He watched, amazed at how cooperatively Dude was lifting each hoof in what seemed like the agreed-upon order, standing still on three legs while Cheryl poked and scraped. He noticed, too, how gently she set each hoof down when she’d finished.

  Next, she showed him how to pick out burs and untangle and brush the mane and tail; how to work the round curry comb in circles to loosen the mud and dried sweat on the horse’s hide before flicking out the dirt with the stiff brush, not forgetting to keep cleaning the brush with the curry comb.