Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  "What the hell do I do now?"

  The Reaper chose a lousy time to go silent.

  Several minutes later, as I tried to figure my next move, Tony walked back out and toward his car.

  "Shit! Should I follow him? He'll eventually pick up Diana."

  It would have to be another time, as the uniform he wore clearly signaled his leaving for work. I recognized it—from The Dairy Hut, a place I visited on occasion. He pulled outta the driveway and turned down the old dirt road directly across the street. It must'a been a back way to work.

  I sat and stared at the house. It drew me, stirred me, beckoned me.

  "Why is Tony so special to my angel? Maybe there are clues about her inside. I might find her in a different way, unless.... Shit! What should I do if someone is home? There's no car in the driveway. The garage is open, but it's empty. Still...."

  Again, the Reaper didn't answer.

  "I've got it!"

  In a stroke of ingenuity, not exactly a common occurrence for me, I decided to masquerade as a newspaper delivery boy attempting to scare up subscriptions. It gave me a valid reason to knock on the door, and if nobody was home, I could do my reconnaissance. Most people didn't lock their doors in Sleepy Town.

  Just one problem: at twenty-six, I might appear too old to be a newspaper delivery boy.

  I struggled with it for quite a while, working through the possibilities, trying to ease my nervousness. Hell, I doubted anyone would question it. It wasn't as if anything bad ever happened in Algonquin.

  I couldn't work up my courage. "Damn it! I'm so sick of being a fuckin' coward."

  Chapter 13 – May 20, 1978: Tony Hooper

  In a neighborhood like ours—almost suburban and almost rural, a hybrid—kids always looked for excitement and rarely found it. They settled on the next best thing, and manufactured some of their own.

  A singular row of houses occupied our side of Cary Road, considered a main thoroughfare despite its relative calm. Behind us lay a stretch of mostly open land we called "The Outland." It encompassed several square miles between Cary Road and Highway 31, in the northern part of Algonquin, high above the Fox River valley. Kids had long biked, hiked, built forts and sought adventure in the Outland. A mix of tall grass and trees of every conceivable size made it an alluring playground.

  Frank lived near the edge of The Outland, two blocks away and almost directly behind our home. At seventy-one, he'd earned the moniker of "Old Man Willow," the brainchild of some unknown local from years past—no doubt stolen from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.

  Who knew how such idiotic rumors got started, but many believed him responsible for two children who'd disappeared many years ago. Rumor had it that Frank had buried them under his roses—special fertilization for a famous garden. A child's imagination needed an outlet, with little else to do in our sleepy little neighborhood.

  I'd once told some of the younger kids that I'd seen tiny fingers, surely belonging to those missing children, protruding from the mud beneath Frank's roses. I'd scared the crap out of them!

  Frank had thought it hilarious too, though he regretted his unfortunate reputation. I visited him a couple times a week, not counting my official duties as his lawn mower and driveway shoveler, often with Alex. He always plied us with special treats, the grandfather we'd never had, and loved us as his "adopted grandsons."

  He told stories that kept us pinned to the edge of our seats, usually about the war he'd fought in or his many world travels. He'd also taught us a little something about gardening, which we enjoyed more than I would have thought possible. If there were a better gardener anywhere in the world... well, that seemed unlikely.

  I'd developed a bond with Frank similar to the one I enjoyed with Alex. I'd gladly have stepped in front of a train in order to push Alex out of the way—without hesitation. I had no doubt Frank felt precisely that way about Alex and me. He showered us with gifts, fed us, and occasionally slipped us a few dollars with instructions not to tell Dad.

  No one had ever enjoyed a better grandfather.

  I usually rode my bike over the dirt road to his place, a pocked and uneven mess. Since I had to leave for work from there, and since I'd be picking up Diana after work, I had to drive today. I kept it to a crawl to preserve Bonnie's belly.

  Grassy fields surrounded his place, with a few oddly spaced trees—huge oaks, elms, maple and birch—to guard his private sanctuary. Developers had tried to seduce him into selling off a bunch of it. No chance! The last thing he wanted was a bunch of noisy, nosy neighbors.

  I pulled into his driveway, and he already stood behind his car with bungee cords in hand. A box protruded from the open trunk.

  He offered his usual greeting. "Hey-howdy, young neighbor, and what a lovely day it is to install one of the twentieth century's most appreciated inventions."

  "Hey, I'm glad you decided to join the twentieth century. If you don't mind my saying so, it's about time."

  "Well, if this summer is the scorcher some are predicting, I want to be comfortable in my own living room. At my age, discomfort comes in many forms. The temperature in my home shouldn't be one of them."

  "What about the bedroom, and the kitchen, and the bathroom?"

  "The bathroom? Don't you think people might view an air conditioner in my bathroom window as excessive? A little strange?"

  "Haven't you heard? It's 1978, the age of disco and lime-green polyester suits. Anything goes."

  "Is that how you justify your hair?"

  "Hey! What's wrong with my hair?"

  "Ah, never mind." He waved his hand in surrender. "By the way, if you ever see me in a lime-green polyester suit, you'll find a shotgun in my bedroom closet. Kindly put me out of my misery."

  Our biggest challenge proved to be maneuvering the box through the door. I grimaced as Frank struggled with the weight of it. He was so lively I often forgot his age.

  Forty-five minutes later, he had air conditioning, and we had enough time to enjoy a glass of iced tea on his back patio before I must go to work.

  I marveled at Frank's... well, it was inappropriate to call it a mere garden. More like a damned work of art, an extraordinary feat of engineering. Never mind the flowers; those were the least of it.

  Most impressive was the manmade stream, engineered by old Gramps himself, which ran through and around his garden, entirely self-contained within his property, like something from an old Japanese palace. Frank even stocked it with fish during the warm months. The water flowed counter-clockwise at a light pace and twisted around his back yard, a liquid snake devouring its own tail.

  Three evenly spaced bridges leapt the water to the center island, each wide enough for a single walker, and each carrying its own theme. One replicated a small nineteenth century covered bridge, complete with flowerpots that hung to the left and right of each end. The second looked like a ship-loading plank from the eighteenth century, with wooden floorboards and wooden posts, between which ran a sturdy rope as hand guide. Third, a bridge of concrete and stone reminiscent of the European Gothic era was guarded by miniature stone lions at one end, and rain-spitting gargoyles at the other.

  He should have charged admission.

  The stream began where it ended, at a three-foot waterfall that emptied into a small pool. It emerged and traveled its winding loop, guided by pumps hidden in three separate, hollowed-out tree trunks. Along the way, filters aerated the water for the benefit of the fish, which tended to remain close to the pool where Frank fed them. In the event of heavy rains, floodwaters ran off through nearly invisible micro-screen barriers that held back the fish.

  The old softy had spent twenty years of his life dedicated to its creation and many improvements. Frank, the consummate grandfather who'd never had children, nonetheless doted over his baby.

  I finished my tea. "Well, Gramps, I have to head into work."

  "Thank you for your help, my boy, and for the extra visiting time."

  "Sure. I'll be around tom
orrow to mow the lawn. How does ten o'clock sound?"

  "Perfect. I'll see you then."

  ***

  I stopped at home long enough to bolt in and grab a clean shirt. Alex sat in his bedroom and sorted through his baseball card collection, to which I'd added a considerable stash.

  "Hey, Hoopster, where's Dad?"

  "He called to say he'd be home in a couple hours. He has more work than he thought."

  "Are you kidding? Who's coming over to watch you?"

  He gave me another one of his looks; I'd insulted him again. I couldn't afford to call in to work, so I considered asking Frank to drop by, but....

  Alex is mature for his age, and this is Algonquin, not Detroit, for God's sake. "What will you do for dinner?"

  He put a sly edge on his voice. "Dad's bringing home a pizza from Gerra's."

  Our favorite meal.

  I sighed and played along, laying it on a little thick. "That figures, and I have to work. Just as well, I suppose." I paused for further effect. "Since Diana and I are going out for burgers and a movie after work."

  He gave me his gosh-you're-lucky-to-be-old-enough-to-drive look—such an old soul for a kid of ten. I did my business and, as I hustled toward the door, offered up my usual farewell.

  "See you in a short, Sport."

  Chapter 14 – May 20, 1978: Mitchell Norton

  "Shit! That was close."

  That fuckin' Tony had returned down the dirt road across the street, and turned back onto Cary Road and into his driveway, just when I'd finally worked up the courage to move forward. Just as I was about to pull across to his house.

  "What the fuck is that asshole doin'? Is he goin' to work or not?"

  My plans were completely screwed-up, and I had no idea what to do next. The Reaper didn't help me out; he'd gone silent as a dead whore. Some help!

  Maybe Tony would leave again at some point, maybe even to visit his girlfriend. Fucker! I'd show him. He could lead me right to Diana, and then we'd see who—

  "What the fuck?"

  Tony emerged from the house—couldn't have been inside for more than a couple minutes. He tucked in his shirt—his uniform shirt—as he hustled to his car. He hopped in, backed out the driveway, turned onto Cary Road, and zipped right past.

  I froze, still trying to figure out what had happened. I couldn't be sure, but maybe he'd just stopped back to change his shirt. Why would he do that? Where had he gone before?

  No matter. I'd sit here and wait a few minutes, make sure he didn't come back again.

  I turned up the radio, rested my head on the top of the seat, and pictured Diana in my mind's eye.

  ***

  I waited about thirty minutes, until pretty sure the coast was clear. "It's now or never."

  I parked in their driveway, hopped out of the van, and approached the back door. The main interior door sat open, and only the outer screen door blocked entry. The dull sounds of a TV echoed from somewhere in the background.

  Damn, someone must be home!

  If anyone had seen me, it might look suspicious if I turned around and left without knocking, so I decided to carry out my charade. A young boy appeared at the door with a puzzled look on his face, and I started my pitch.

  He interrupted me. "Sorry, but my dad's not home."

  I listened for any sounds above the TV. "That's all right. Can I talk to your mom?"

  The look on his face ran from irritation to confusion to sorrow. He lowered his head and I could barely hear him as he sighed and mumbled, "I don't have a mom."

  "Oh, sorry about that. How about an older brother or sister?"

  He raised his head and spoke louder. "No. You'll have to come back later, please, when my dad is home."

  Just like that, he spun on his heels and headed deeper into the house.

  I started to leave and—

  Hold the phone, Mitchell! This little kid is home alone. The Reaper's voice boomed like a bullhorn. It's time, my boy, to put your recent studies to work. A new life awaits you.

  "Fuck a rubber duck," I whispered. "Am I ready for this?"

  Let us find out, shall we?

  My gut rumbled, giving rise to the urge to barf right on the spot. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and returned to the door. No trace of the boy. I glanced around the neighborhood to ensure that nobody was watching. The nearest house on that side sat a good fifty yards away, and the separated garage at this house blocked much of the view.

  A wild power built inside me, and I stood suddenly taller, stronger.

  "I think I'm ready."

  You're the MAN!

  The screen door opened with a whisper. I crept toward the living room, comforted by the noise of the TV, which should cover my approach, and peeked around the corner to see where he sat. I'd have to pounce like a lion and—

  Shit! The living room was empty.

  I turned and stalked down the hallway toward the bedrooms, and leaned around the doorframe of the first room. Empty.

  In the second room, the boy lay belly down on his bed, surrounded by a bunch of baseball cards. He focused on several that lay on the far side of the bed.

  I crept up on his blind side, careful to keep each step quiet, but the fuckin' floor creaked!

  He turned. "Hey! Wha—"

  I clasped a hand over his mouth, grabbed hold and raised him off the bed. He flailed his arms and legs—like wrestling a fuckin' tornado! I released him for a second and, before he could scream, drilled a hard punch to the left side of his head. He hit the mattress, bounced back onto the floor alongside the bed, and lay still.

  I dragged him by an arm to the back door, and checked once more to ensure that no curious neighbors were watching the house. I lifted him over my right shoulder and kicked the screen door open.

  He bounced on my shoulder and I almost lost him while jogging to my van. I slid the rear door open and dumped him behind the front seat, then pulled the door shut.

  Fifteen seconds later, after backing out of the driveway as unobtrusively as possible, I shook my throbbing right hand in the air.

  "Shit, kid, you got a hard fuckin' head, you little bastard."

  He was out cold.

  Chapter 15 – June 7, 1995: Tony Hooper

  "What you really value is what you miss, not what you have." – Jorge Luis Borges

  ~~~~~

  See you in a short, Sport.

  Those words haunt me.

  Long before the embers of the dawn burn, I awake to a world cloaked in darkness, mired in a storm that mirrors my essence. My dream of Alex, reduced to a puff of smoke in a gale-force wind, still cuts me to the bone. I struggle to regain my composure, but my emotions remain on edge, as though the smallest catalyst will tumble me into the abyss, the black chasm of my mind.

  I've long stood upon the precipice, waiting—almost hoping—for the ledge to collapse beneath me.

  I often think of Alex these days. I still remember pulling out of the driveway seventeen years ago, leaving him with his baseball cards, assured that he'd be fine until Dad arrived home from work.

  Times were different then. Our neighborhood promised innocence and security, a relaxed lifestyle. Few monsters stalked our world in those days.

  I departed for work without giving it another thought.

  ***

  May 20, 1978

  My supervisor tapped me on the shoulder as I took an order at the counter, and relieved me so I could take an important phone call. What was so important that someone would interrupt me at work? Then I remembered that Alex was home alone. Perhaps Dad was running later than expected and Alex was getting antsy. I picked up the phone.

  "Tony, it's Dad. Do you know where Alex is?"

  "Alex? You mean he's not home?"

  "No. I've called a few of his friends but I can't locate him."

  "That's weird. I know he was looking forward to the pizza you were bringing home for dinner." I considered the possibilities for a second. "Have you tried Frank's place?"

 
"Frank!" The relief almost whistled out of his mouth. "I can't believe I didn't think of that. Go on back to work and don't worry about it."

  I shared his relief. The Hoopster didn't think to leave a note, but with pizza on the way he'd probably run through the door at any moment. I drudged back to work, got busy, and finished my shift without thinking any more of it. Afterward, I did a quick change in the men's room at the restaurant before I called Diana, her voice instantly recognizable by her simple, "Hullo."

  "Hey, good lookin', whatsya got cookin'?"

  "Hey!"

  The excitement and enthusiasm in that single word provided a rush no drug could match.

  "Are you coming to get me?"

  "Yep, I just have to call my dad to let him know where we'll be and when I'll be home. I should be there in ten minutes. Will you be ready?"

  She assured me in that try-not-to-be-a-smartass way that she'd be ready and I needed to get my butt in gear. She then added her customary sign-off, "Smooch-smooch."

  Geez, give me a break. I looked around to ensure that nobody could hear. "Smooch-smooch."

  When I phoned home to inform Dad of my plans for the night, an unexpected voice offered a simple, monotonous reply. I hesitated and waited for it to register.

  "Frank, is that you?"

  "Hi Tony."

  "You decided to join the gang for some pizza, huh?"

  Silence ensued for a few seconds. "Are you still at work?"

  "Yeah, but I'm about to leave. I need to update Dad first."

  "Actually, he intended to call you as soon as he got out of the bathroom. It's been rather.... Maybe you'd better cancel your plans and come on home."

  What in hell is that supposed to mean? "Frank, what's going on? Where's my dad? Where's Alex?"

  "Please come home right away."

  He hung up.

  I stared at the phone for about a half-second before I ran to my car, jumped in and sped off as though engaged in the most important race of my life. What in hell had happened? I had no idea, yet somehow my mind returned to Alex, who'd been missing earlier in the day. Might something have happened to him? Why hadn't Frank said more? Why did he sound so worried?