The time by which Joshua should have been home came and went.
Not that I hadn’t expected him to pull a little rank, after this morning’s performance. Today, at last, I’d resigned myself to the problem of Joshua. There was a little photo of him, fairly recent, sitting nearby. I’d only unpacked it three months ago, but it was already forgotten among the other knick and knack. He looked so young in the photo, even though it was a year old at best.
So? He was growing up.
In a secret part of my mind, I had hoped for something more, something concrete and fixable. A bully. Trouble with a teacher. Body issues. Depression? I could learn, get him help.
But no. Thirteen. He was just thirteen, rushing headlong against every barrier I’d set up around the two of us. He had to rebel against me. I was all there was.
It was just like when he was two years old, and wanted everything in sight, raving Mine! Mine! with his fists flailing. Or when he was six and seven and did the exact opposite of what I said, just to see what I would do. Once, when I was walking him to first grade, I’d reminded him about looking both ways at crossings just as we reached one. A lesson we’d gone over and over. Before I could finish the sentence, he’d taken a big step into the road. A car rounding the corner had to squeal to a stop. Scared, Joshua played as though he hadn’t heard me. But I knew him—he was much easier to know then—and I’d seen the wayward expression in his eyes, the extra stretch he put into that last step.
He was a lot like me.
I should be comforted. It was normal. Isn’t that what I’d wanted, for him to have a normal childhood? Why I’d sacrificed so much? All I’d given up—but this refrain seemed familiar, as though I’d absorbed the common lament of mothers everywhere through sitcom television. Maybe the way we lived wasn’t that different from the way other families did. Maybe he was just thirteen. Maybe he should be craning his lanky limbs beyond me. He should be thrashing around, doing exactly what I told him not to—
Where the hell was he?
“A referendum on who I’m hanging out with,” I said to the closed front door and the silent hall beyond.
All this because I’d sat at a café with Joe Jeffries? Working, by the way. Had he not considered that? The dinner invitation was a complication. My acceptance was a complication. I wish I had Grace’s phone number, to call and ask. Was it wrong? To go out on a date with the kids’ guidance counselor?
And while I had this imaginary friend on the phone, I might have some other questions. What did you wear for a dinner date in this town? People would see us. We would be much discussed, and I wondered if that weren’t the sort of thing Joe liked, anyway. Another woman would have nodded. Exactly.
A former sports hero? I plucked at the keys on my keyboard. He wasn’t even my type. A spokesperson for manhood, for good-natured, hearty masculinity. Together, his features portioned themselves out well, but that was a trick of the eye. If you looked closely, each feature was just a bit too large for his face, his face too full of wide, white teeth. If I could have said I had a type, I would have chosen something else entirely. Someone who could keep his long limbs in check, for one thing. Someone who sat on the other side of the table at dinner and kept any accidental brushings of their knees to a minimum. When we walked side by side, his arms should not swing. I should have said no. I really should have said no.
Finally the tramping of Joshua’s feet came to the door, and his key rattled in the lock. He closed the door, locked the deadbolt, dropped his backpack hard upon the table. As though it were any day. As though the vapor of our conversation from that morning didn’t still hang in the air. “Hey,” he said, already halfway to the refrigerator.
“Hey, yourself.” My mind raced through things I didn’t want to say. Not yet.
He rummaged in the fridge and came to the table with a tough slice of old leftover pizza and a soda. It was a dare. So this was how it was going to be. Chewing, waiting, watching. A game of chicken, and I was a chicken.
In two more bites, the snack was gone. He went back to the kitchen and started opening cabinets. I listened as he systematically scanned every shelf.
“There are those crackers—”
“Found them.” He came back to the table with his hand in the open box. He sat down again and, his full attention offered, dropped cracker after cracker into his mouth.
“How was school today?” I said. “Was there school today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m worried about the boys you’re hanging out with,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“You didn’t ask me a question.”
“OK, fine,” I said. “Why are you hanging out with Steve Ransey?”
Joshua’s hand stopped midway to his mouth. “What’s wrong with Steve Ransey?”
“He’s—” Except I didn’t know what he was. I’d heard things and accepted them. All I knew for myself was that he was trouble when he thought he could get away with it, and humbled and wary when he thought he wouldn’t. What did I actually know? That his baby cousin was missing. That his home had been shattered, and that he still had to return to it each day. Where was his mother? The sheriff thought he was a spray-paint vandal, but I didn’t know that, not for sure. At last, I said, “He’s not from a good family.”
Joshua started to laugh, choking a bit. He coughed wet crumbs onto the table.
“Oh, stop it,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?” I got up and reached over the counter for a rag near the sink, threw it onto the table near his hand. “Seriously, what is so funny?”
“‘He’s not from a good family,’” Joshua repeated, twisting his voice into a scratchy posh accent. He dragged the rag over the surface in front of him once, missing the mess. “What are we, like the family of the year or something?”
“There’s nothing wrong with our family.”
“Yeah, there is.”
“What’s wrong with our family?”
Joshua spun his chair around once, gesturing to the empty living room. “Where is it?”
“You are my family.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Who? We went through the family tree for your project—”
“That wasn’t a tree. It was like a stalk of corn,” he said, drawing a tall line in the air with his finger. “Where are the rest of us? Why is it just you and me?”
I stood up and brushed past his knees to get to the kitchen. I needed to start dinner, do the dishes, keep my hands busy. I couldn’t let my mind follow the trail he was seeding. I’d lose it, I really would. “What’s wrong with it being just you and me? I haven’t minded.”
“Mom, don’t get mushy.”
“Well. I’m just being honest,” I said to the sink. “This is just the way it’s worked out for you and me. We’re alone, but together.”
“But you grew up with other people, didn’t you? You haven’t always been alone but together. It’s not the same for me. It’s not the same.”
I grew up with other people, but he wouldn’t want to know them. “It’s so much better, Joshua.”
I did my own search of the cabinets, then opened the takeout-menu drawer.
“How do I know which is better?” he said. “I never had it the other way.”
“Trust me on this one. The way you grew up—”
“You always say that. Trust me, trust me. Why should I?” He stood up and met me at the door to the kitchen. “You don’t trust me.”
“Of course I trust you. What are you talking about?”
“No,” he barked. “You check up on me all the time, and you go through my backpack and you don’t trust that I can pick my own friends and make my own decisions.” Joshua’s hair hung in his eyes, but he wouldn’t swipe it away.
Standing so close to him, I noticed for the first time. He was taller than I was.
I didn’t say anything. The backpack thing was true, anyway, or at least it had been.<
br />
“You keep us here like prisoners.”
Tap, tap.
“Keep your voice down,” I said. If Margaret came up here to point out how badly I parented or ask me to take her somewhere, I might shove a handful of Chinese takeout menus into the old woman’s mouth.
“Why should I listen to you? You—are—a—liar!”
“Joshua. Stop yelling, and calm down.”
“You’re yelling. Why can’t I yell?”
Tap, tap, tap.
I took a breath and concentrated on speaking in a controlled voice. “I am not yelling—”
“Well, why the fuck not?”
“Joshua!”
“I mean it. Why aren’t you screaming mad? We have nobody, and that doesn’t piss you off?” He paused to gulp for air. I hated the gasping, desperate look on his face. I hated the rise in his voice. “Why don’t you ever talk about it? Why don’t we ever talk about anything?”
He stood up and stomped back to the kitchen to fling the box of crackers onto the counter. He hadn’t closed the box, of course—a few crackers skittered across the surface. He made a fist and gave the counter a pound. One of the crackers became a circle of buttered dust.
“Stop that. If you make a mess, you’re going to clean it up.”
“That’s fine for you to say.”
“What are you talking about? Why are you so upset?”
Another fist, another cracker pummeled. Downstairs, Margaret gave a tentative tap, tap. Her arms were probably giving out.
“Why don’t you have any friends?”
“I—” But I stopped. How about that? He was right; my first instinct was to lie. “What does it matter to you if I don’t have any friends? Which—” I remembered laughing with Grace at the Dairy Bar. But Grace wanted only jokes, not questions. And Stephanie didn’t want my help. Then: Sherry’s invitation for that weekend. “As a matter of fact, I do have a friend.”
“Mr. Jeffries? That douchebag? I suppose he comes from a good family.”
“You don’t know a thing about him.”
“I know what they say,” he said.
“Oh, they. We’re listening to them now.”
“Who else is there?”
“What do they say, then?” I said.
“They say he likes little boys, for one thing.”
I was stunned to silence but fought it. “That’s just gossip. Why would you even believe that? How do you know he’s a douchebag? I don’t even know if he’s a douchebag yet.”
“He’s one of the douchebag coaches,” he said. “Steve says—”
“Oh, Steve says. Then sure.” As I came to the kitchen door, he thumped another cracker into dust with twin fists, one, two. “You’re making a mess.”
I eased past him for the broom, laying a hand on his arm as I went, but he shrunk away from my touch.
He said, “You’ve made a huge mess of our lives.”
My hand, stretching for the broom closet, swung around and struck Joshua’s cheek.
“You don’t know,” I said, choked. I could hardly speak through my rage. “What I made of our lives. You have no idea.”
“Look around, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with Steve Ransey. Everybody likes him and the guys he hangs out with.” He used his thumb to mash a shard of cracker into fine silt. “I’m the one who’s always new. I’m the one who doesn’t come from a good family.”
I turned and put my shaking hands on the counter. I had done the one thing I’d never wanted to do. When I looked again, the red outline of my hand showed on Joshua’s cheek. “You’re having trouble—making friends—”
“Had trouble. I had trouble making friends.” He picked up the box from the counter, folded it closed, and returned it to its home in the cabinet above his head. He started brushing the crumbs into a tidy pile. “You’re too late. You weren’t paying attention.”
If he had wanted to hurt me, he had struck the exact spot. Like an expert archer. “When was this?”
He opened the door below the sink and swiped the cracker dust into the trash can, then let the door bang shut. I tried to remember. In Chicago—but I only came up with Joshua watching out the window as the children from next door played basketball on the sidewalk or chased each other down the block. Pennsylvania—I wouldn’t let him have a bicycle because it was too dangerous, the hills obscuring riders until it was too late. Ohio. I remembered all the times I went to pick him up from school, finding him alone and anxious. I had enjoyed how much he wanted my company, but now I wondered why I hadn’t noticed. I was all he had.
“I’ve been here,” I said. “I’ve been focused solely on you for your entire life. See, here’s the thing you don’t understand—” I was warmed up now, ready to tell him what kind of life he might have had. He needed to hear the whole truth, because this grass-is-greener defense didn’t work and he needed to realize it. All I’d given up. I was angrier than I had ever been, and I was tired of having to explain myself. He had no idea what I’d saved us from. “You have no idea—”
“Mom,” he said, his voice strong and clear. He had a hand on the doorway to the hall, making his escape. “I’ve never had a single friend until now. All those schools. Not a single one.”
“I—never knew that.”
“That’s the problem. How come you never figured it out?”
“That you didn’t have any friends?” My heart was wrung out.
“No, I mean…” He searched the ceiling for the words.
“Figured out you and me,” I said, hesitant. “That just you and me wasn’t enough?”
He wouldn’t look at me. He didn’t say anything, but I knew that I had hit my target as well.
Why hadn’t I ever figured that out? How had my son come to the conclusion so far ahead of me? And then I remembered. “You were always enough. For me.”
But that, too, was a lie.
Maybe he could tell. Maybe he could see right through me.
Joshua swiped at his dangling hair, and turned on his heel toward his room. “Don’t bother ordering anything,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lying in bed in the dark, I saw my hand reach out again and again and slap Joshua’s face.
I finally got out of bed and went to the kitchen to pry open the cork from the wine bottle. Filled the glass, took a big gulp, topped it off. To hell with precaution, with moderation, with tiny steps and looking both ways.
Reach, slap. The image was maddening. Reach, slap. I had held that infant boy, newborn and wailing, with that same hand.
In desperation, I reached for the packet of signed forms the sheriff had sent and forced myself to read, line by line, to pay attention to dates and times, to codes I didn’t understand. I got out a pen and pad and made some notes.
After almost an hour, I had calmed down enough to understand the forms. The first line was the intake, the evidence showing up on the docket as it arrived from the arrest. The second line was the next person to have their hands on the evidence, and so on. Seizure to storage to testing and all the transportation between these stations, each step signed off by one of the members of the county’s office or by a lab tech. The forms were easy enough to follow once I had the idea, to watch each packet move from the possession of the accused through the system of testing. Presumably until the arresting officer and the evidence went to the courtroom—except that each of these forms stopped short of that step, incomplete. I could understand suddenly how important this chain was. Without assurances that the chain was unbroken, the case could never hold up, once the drugs weren’t drugs, according to the tests. Charges dropped, time wasted, tax dollars down the drain—and of course there was the problem of the drugs back out on the street once they were switched out with the white powdery substitute.
Someone was taking a lot of risk. I wrote down in my notes: How much money at stake? Then: Powder identified? Then: Who/when/how drugs discovered missing?
But that l
ast question I thought I could answer myself. Each form stopped right around the time the evidence left storage for testing. I pawed through all the forms again and came up with one that stood out. The ringer Keller had mentioned. I set it aside. All the others held true to the theory: someone was breaking the chain prior to testing. The implication might be that the drugs were never really drugs. The arrest had been made on the evidence of a white powder that turned out to be baking soda or something.
It was genius, really, to swap out the drugs so early in the process. After testing, there was proof that the drugs were actually drugs. Before testing, it was just a bad arrest. A ding to the office’s arrest record but a fattening of someone’s wallet.
The form that didn’t quite fit the mold had a long line of signatures, starting with Deputy Tara Lombardi’s logging in a piece of evidence at 9:00 a.m. on one day and a series of signatures I didn’t recognize and then to Sherry, signing the piece back in. I studied the form’s details until I realized what I had: the evidence form for the supposed ransom note found in the Ransey house. I went back over the ins and outs. What had Sherry been doing with it? Oh, right. Taking it to the copy shop for the likes of me, when the original was obviously available.
Nice one, Sheriff.
I went back over the chain: Lombardi plucks it up at the house first thing, signs it over to evidence. So early. Had Aiden even been missing that early? Then, a day in, someone whose name I didn’t recognize jumped in to claim it. Probably one of the feds, dusting it for prints. I went through it all, timing and dating it as though I was building an Aidan Watch time line. The chain was clean. The evidence hadn’t been stolen or lost, but then the street value on a badly phrased ransom note was pretty low these days.
The Day I Died Page 14