Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist

by Chris Whitaker

  “Did he come in?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did he get in your face?”

  Adam waved him off. “He forgets I’m the one with the gun.”

  Jim laughed. “Send him to me next time.”

  “You think you can take him, boss?” Adam said, laughing.

  Jim thought of Max and smiled. Max with his tight T-shirts and bulging muscles. It was all for show, Jim could see it when he looked into Max’s eyes. He wasn’t tough, not underneath it all. Jim was, though not many people knew it. He looked too pretty to risk getting messed up. He liked to fight though, enjoyed the simplicity of it. It felt natural, like he was built to do it. It set him apart from other, softer men. He didn’t even know it until he got into his first fight in high school. The other kid, much bigger than Jim, had misread the smile on his face, thought he was trying to make friends, to get him to go easy on him. But Jim was smiling because he was jacked, seeing all his classmates form a ring around them, cheering and hollering when Jim knocked the big kid flat onto his back and climbed on top of him like a lion at the neck of a gazelle. They soon stopped cheering though. They soon stopped hollering, instead settling into an uneasy silence as Jim beat the big kid long after the fight was over. Beat him so bad the girls turned their backs and hurried back to class.

  Adam drank the last of his coffee and stood.

  “I saw more of the posters up. There’s one right outside my place now.”

  Jim nodded.

  “You got to admire her. The way she keeps looking, must be exhausting.”

  “She calls the local newspapers and the TV station every day.”

  “It’s something,” Adam said.

  “Yeah. It’s something.”

  Henrietta was sick. She was stomach-heaving, couldn’t get out of bed or be more than five feet from the nearest toilet sick, though she forced herself to get up when she heard Roger slip out the door. She didn’t know where he went, and she didn’t much care. She sometimes heard him creeping out in the dead of night, wearing his running shorts and headband. His father had died young of a heart attack. She knew it played on his mind.

  It had been a struggle to climb the stairs, but it was worth it, as she felt slightly better now.

  She held him tightly, rocking him back and forth in the chair. She smoothed his hair down. It felt soft, wispy. He stared up at her, through her.

  He wore expensive clothes, all chosen by her. She shunned designer names, instead opting for only the finest of materials—cashmere, merino wool. As long as it was soft, she thought he’d like it.

  He felt cold. She reached for his blanket. She’d knitted it herself in preparation.

  She closed her eyes, leaned back and tried to quell the nausea.

  The blanket was an odd shape, not at all similar to the pattern. She wasn’t good at knitting. She’d never been very good at anything really. She worked incredibly hard at everything she did, despite what Roger thought, though had never achieved anything of significance. She’d found school challenging, managing only to eke mediocre grades. Of course, she had gone on to study at Cambridge, but that had more to do with who her father was than anything she could bring to the table. She’d studied theology, the most arbitrary of choices. Though her mother was as deeply pious as any you were likely to meet, she found that she herself had little time for God. She imagined he’d have even less time for her after what she had done.

  After Thomas had died, barely six hours into his life, Henrietta had turned her hand to many a failed project. There was the failed catering business, the failed party-planning business, the short-lived career as a writer of trashy romance novels, novels that turned out to be more trash than trashy. She always gave them her all, working her fingers to the bone until finally, when she was sick of swimming against the tide, she folded them and added another small notch to her post of failures. Dr. Stone said she was trying to compensate for her perceived failure at motherhood. She wasn’t sure about that, just that each notch took a little something out of her. Something that had never been put back.

  She heard the car pull into the drive. The ghastly red car that Roger had bought.

  She leaned down, closing her eyes and kissing his head. She carried him gently to his bed, set him down and covered him.

  “You smell funny,” Jerry said, wrinkling his nose as Max staggered past him and collapsed onto the leather sofa meant for the customers.

  Max brought his shirt up to his nose and sniffed it.

  “It’s probably the booze. I drank a shitload of Tequila. It really messes me up. And then I went back to some skank’s house. She had this cheap, nasty perfume on. You know, the kind you find in a drugstore marked down to five bucks. Some of it must’ve rubbed off on me.”

  Max sprawled out, his arms above his head.

  “Why are they called skanks? Because of skunks? They do smell bad, skunks. Dad ran over one once and I got out to check it. My mother wouldn’t let me in the house when we got home that night. I had to stand in the backyard while Dad hosed me down.”

  Max laughed. “Yeah, a skank is a little like a skunk, ’cept a skank is a lady. Nah, not a lady, a woman. A woman of loose morals.”

  Jerry thought of Lisa. He wondered if Max ever did.

  “Get me some water.”

  Jerry walked out to the small kitchen and poured Max a glass of water, then came back and set it down on the table beside him.

  “You all set for Saturday night? We’re meeting at my place at seven and then got a limo to take us to that strip club in Crandall. You might have to jump in a cab though. I can’t have you taking up two seats. There’s about fifteen of us to squeeze in. You know the strippers work overtime if you got a few extra bucks for them? Might finally get you laid.”

  Max took a sip of water, then lay back down.

  “I don’t think I should go to your party, Max. My mother won’t like me staying out late.”

  “You’re thirty-five years old.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “I’m printing T-shirts for all the boys so don’t even worry about it. Have we got any Advil back there?”

  Jerry already had it in his hand, running his fingers over the small bumps on the side of the box.

  He handed the box to Max.

  Max swallowed the pills and rubbed his eyes. “My fucking head.”

  “Do you want me to close the blind?”

  Max nodded.

  Jerry closed the blind, then carefully climbed back onto the stools.

  “I spoke to that cop about the Hasselblad again,” Max said.

  “Oh?”

  “Still nothing. And I found out the insurance ain’t gonna pay out.”

  Jerry swallowed.

  “I’m taking the money from your paycheck.”

  Jerry looked down at his hands. They were big, the knuckles hidden beneath a wall of fat. He hated his hands.

  “The insurance guy said the alarm wasn’t armed. You close up every night.”

  Jerry could feel the heat in his cheeks, the sweat on his collar. “That’s ten thousand dollars.”

  “Eleven.”

  “I can’t afford that, Max. My mother . . . her medication.”

  “She’s got insurance.”

  “It doesn’t cover it all.”

  Max shrugged, his eyes still closed. “I’ll take half your paycheck until it’s cleared. I’m trying to run a business here, Jerry. Not a charity.”

  Jerry could feel the tears blurring his eyes. He wiped them away.

  Max glanced out the door. He sat up quickly when he saw Lisa walk out of the pharmacy across the street.

  “Fuck. That’s all I need.”

  He stood up, still rubbing his eyes. “I’m heading out the back way. Just tell her I haven’t turned up. Say I called in sick or something.”

  Max breezed past him.

  He heard the back door close just as the bell chimed.

  Lisa smiled as she walked o
ver to the counter.

  “Hey, Jerry.”

  He tried to smile back.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on the counter, afraid that he might cry.

  Lisa walked over and gave him a hug.

  Her hair fell onto his face. It smelled nice, like strawberries.

  “Is it your mother?”

  He nodded, didn’t know what else to do. In part it was true. He was finding it difficult, her difficult. He loved her, more than anything else in the world, but he needed some help. He worried about her all day, sometimes closing the store for a half hour when she didn’t answer the phone and running the quarter mile back to his house. And he wasn’t good at running: his body jiggled too much, his chest hurt and he felt dizzy. So he couldn’t do that every day. If something bad happened, he wouldn’t be able to get there in time.

  “Does the medication help?”

  “A little.”

  She took steroids, lots of them. They were supposed to ease the pressure on her brain, slow the swelling down and reduce the pain. Sometimes they seemed to help, other times they did nothing at all. She screamed. Some nights she screamed for hours on end. He’d try to calm her, to stroke her hair and rub her feet, but it was like she couldn’t see him. So he’d get back into his bed, and he’d bury his head beneath the pillow, and he’d cry. And he felt so bad when he cried, so utterly useless, that he’d wish the tumor was in his brain instead.

  Lisa held his chubby hand in hers. She stroked the back of it. It was a gesture, a gesture that made him realize how stupid he was to think that she could ever like him back. Her hand looked so small in his.

  He took his hand away. She smiled, then stepped back.

  “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here.”

  He nodded.

  She settled on to the stool.

  “Is Max here? I said I’d meet him for lunch.”

  “He’s sick.”

  “Oh. He sounded fine yesterday. Is it bad?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Hangover?”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “You don’t have to cover for him, Jerry. I’m well aware of what he’s like. I’m just hoping he’ll settle down once we get married.”

  Jerry nodded.

  “Have you thought any more about the competition?”

  “A little.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to do it. I mean, there’s all the forms,” he said.

  He wasn’t good at spelling. His handwriting was awful. He’d struggled since junior high. He’d asked his mother for help, but she’d just baked him blueberry muffins.

  “I’ll print them out, fill them in. All you have to do is sign your name. Oh, and take the winning shot.”

  He shook his head, started to protest but she cut him off.

  “I’ll print them anyway, even if you don’t use them.”

  Furat liked watching her mother make bamia. She had done since she was a little girl. She’d sit on the counter while her mother talked her through each step. She’d never remember them though.

  Her mother chopped the beef, from Berlinsky’s, into chunks and then placed it into a large pan with some onions and garlic, then seasoned with her own mix of spices before covering it in water.

  “What’s in the spices?” asked Furat.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  “Can’t you just write it down?”

  “No. You have to commit to memory, just like I did. Your grandmother used to test me.”

  Furat laughed, then reached forward and pressed the button for the extractor fan.

  Her mother turned to her and smiled. “I’m sorry. We don’t want your clothes smelling, do we?”

  Though Furat smiled, it was a smile tinged with guilt. The same guilt that she’d felt when she was younger and she used to lie about where she was from. She’d always come up with somewhere less controversial. Somewhere that didn’t invoke such hostility in people—hostility and suspicion, especially in Americans. Though she had no accent, no hijab and certainly no loyalty to her place of birth, she couldn’t help but feel that people judged her when they knew where she was from. And that sullied her, made her feel unworthy or something. Not dirty, just not clean either, like she were somehow inferior, someone to be polite to but not invite round for dinner. After all, what would they cook for her? Would it need to be Halal? Then there were the boys. She was pretty enough, she knew that, but found that often the boys in her class would deem her off-limits. Perhaps destined for an arranged marriage in some faraway makeshift mosque, trying to keep her simple peasant dress free from the sand that whipped about while her fifteen uncles, all wearing scarves pulled up over their mouths, looked on, machine guns in hand. She wouldn’t mind if they just asked her, asked her what she believed in and whether she was just a regular kid like them, or bound to live a life governed by some old book that she had never even picked up. But they never did. It was far easier just to ignore her, not get too close; there were plenty of other pretty girls in class after all; girls that definitely ate normal food and had normal parents.

  In part that was why she liked Manny so much. He had taken the stereotypes, the ones that she thought about herself and her family, and rammed them down her throat with such severity that to think them anything other than ridiculous was completely ridiculous.

  “So you’ve chosen your dress now? Was it the red or the silver?” her mother asked, as she stirred in two tins of chopped tomatoes.

  “The silver. With the sparkly shoes.”

  “And Manny, will he be dressing as Al Capone?”

  Furat laughed. “No. Regular dinner suit.”

  “I imagine he’ll look quite handsome, if his head heals in time.”

  “It should do. I’ve banned him from wearing his fedora from now until prom.”

  “Will he be going off to college after summer? You’ll miss him. It’s nice to have a friend right next door.”

  Furat watched her drop a large handful of okra into the pan and stir, placing the lid on it.

  “He’s not. I don’t think they can afford it, not this year. His father took off. I think he covers the bills but he emptied their savings account when he left. Manny said that his mother calls and writes his father all the time but he never replies.”

  “It must be difficult for them.”

  “Manny says that he doesn’t want to go to college anyway. I think he worries about leaving his mother and Thalia.”

  “He’s a good boy. Terrible mouth on him though. I had the window open when he was building that fort; I looked out and saw him fire a nail through his shirt.”

  “Maybe we could invite the family round for dinner one night?”

  Her mother smiled and kissed her head. “Ask them. It will be nice to make some new friends. And it will be a good chance for your father to get to know his daughter’s suitor.”

  “I think it’s best we tell Dad that he’s just a friend.”

  “Your father’s not that bad.”

  “Tell that to Noora.”

  “I do.”

  “You speak to her?”

  Her mother smiled. “Of course. She’s my daughter too.”

  “But Dad said . . .”

  “Your father can be stubborn. He loves you though, both of you. You have to remember that we were raised very differently from you; it’s hard, adjusting to life here. I know we’ve lived here all your life but we had a very different life back in Iraq. We followed rules; rules that were instilled for generations.”

  “Yeah, but things are different here. That’s why you came to America, to escape.”

  “In part that’s true. But I still miss Iraq—it’s still home. For your father too.”

  Furat turned the gas down when the lid started to rattle. “So what will happen?”

  “You leave your father to me. He misses her too—he just doesn’t show it as much.” />
  Furat grinned. “I can’t believe you speak to Noora. I thought you were scared of Dad.”

  Her mother smiled. “I have to. She’s carrying my grandson after all.”

  “It’s going to be a boy?” Furat asked, excitedly.

  Her mother nodded, holding out her arms.

  Furat stepped into them, hugging her tightly, and smiling.

  “Hung-Fu. What’s up?” Manny said, walking into the pharmacy.

  “Oh, no. Are you here for your money?” Hung said.

  Manny laughed, then doffed his hat to Lisa.

  “So, you’ve heard then?”

  Lisa frowned. “Stan was really shaken. He came in here trying to buy Xanax.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t need to worry. I’ve already decided to give you a break, because you look after me.”

  “Thank God for that,” Hung said, his smile barely in check. He’d known the family since they’d first moved to Tall Oaks.

  “How is it?” Lisa said, glancing up at Manny’s head.

  “A little better.”

  “You should really stop wearing the hat, Manny. At least until it heals.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but this three-piece needs the hat to make it work.”

  “Otherwise you’d just look stupid?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Luli,” Manny said to Hung’s wife.

  “Hello,” Luli said.

  “How are the English lessons going?”

  “Good.”

  “What are you doing? Counting and alphabet shit?”

  “No,” she laughed. “I learned about irony last night.”

  “When you saw Hung take his pants off?”

  Hung laughed.

  Lisa reached for the pack of bandages and handed it to Manny.

  Manny took his wallet out but Hung waved him away.

  “We can’t have the other businesses seeing you pay. Imagine what that will do to your image.”

  “Good thinking,” Manny said. Then he winked at Luli and strolled back out into the sunshine.