by Kim Purcell
It’s quiet. No more cracking wood.
Maybe it’s your killer. Maybe you’re a ghost and the message was you saying don’t go down to the river and here I am. Maybe the guy is about to jump from the bushes. The good thing is if a killer ever tried to attack me down here, I have a plan. I know that won’t surprise you.
I’d dive into the river, that’s what I’d do. If he followed me, I could fight him off better there. I’ve been trained to fight off a drowning person and I could fight off a killer, too. As long as I was in the water. I’d use my feet to kick him back. If he grabbed my arm, I’d twist into the thumb. As a last resort, I’d swim to the bottom. It goes against a person’s natural instincts to be pulled under, and he’d let go. If a murder is going to be attempted, I want to be close to water, that’s all I ask.
I scan the woods, look at each large tree for a person hiding behind it. The wind rattles the leaves. The river rushes past.
I’m clearly being an idiot. You are alive and well. Probably in Seattle. Or on your way to Brooklyn. Or to the Grand Canyon, without me. But why would you leave your truck? And why aren’t you answering your phone? The only thing that seems possible is that you ran into those guys. Or you’re somewhere, pouting.
A high-pitched sound by my feet makes me jump. A baby crow is standing about six feet away, cocking its head to the side. He hops toward me and does a little flutter in the air and lands back on the ground.
He blinks his intelligent black eyes. He’s a fledgling, still in that hopping phase. If you were here, you’d name him.
“Hey, Little Man,” I whisper.
He cocks his head to the side, which I take as a yes, he likes the name, and then he turns and does a little hop toward our spot. Is he trying to tell me something?
My heart picks up. I imagine your body in the clearing, a mangled mess, crows pecking at it. Did those guys follow you here?
It’s been a while since I’ve been here alone. I always thought it was stupid that girls have to be afraid in the woods, and I stubbornly came down here anyway, even when Steph stopped coming. But now I’m scared.
A gust of wind rustles the needles on Saber. Little Man jumps into the woods and disappears. More mysterious sounds. The moss looks creepy today, climbing up the cedar trees, an ancient plant from the days of dinosaurs.
The loud bark of a turkey vulture echoes through the trees. My heart beats faster. Turkey vultures eat dead animals. Right about now I wish I didn’t develop a weird fascination with identifying bird sounds when I was a kid.
I listen. More birds. Some sparrows. Crows. No cracking wood. No footsteps. It’s just my imagination.
I crouch down under Saber’s sharp branches and dive right into a spiderweb. I scream and bat at my head and think, Baby spiders, and enter the clearing, gyrating.
I stop. You aren’t here.
It’s so disappointing.
You’d say we have to be grateful for every little thing. Life is a gift, you’d say. Every night, when we talk on the phone, you ask me what I’m grateful for. You make me say three things and I moan and complain, but you know what? I like it. I’m admitting to you right now that I actually like it. When I hang up, the world does feel like a better place. Most of all, it’s a better place because you’re in it.
For the sake of karma, here’s my list at this moment: your body isn’t being eaten by carrion, and our spot looks real pretty. Okay, that’s just two things. My third: I don’t have lice. That’s random, but I am grateful for it.
I wish you were here.
If you were, I’d run up to you and kiss you all over your face and your nose and your dimple and your small ears. At least, that’s what I hope I’d do. In reality, I’d probably look around for a burger to throw. No idea why I did that. I never threw food at anyone before. I’m so sorry.
I do a lifeguard’s scan across the area, from the shadows under the trees to the light shining in the center of the clearing. I admit it, I’m looking for a paper airplane. I missed it when I didn’t get one yesterday. I was thinking maybe you’d left one here and you were going to send me on a wild-goose chase to find you. But there’s nothing. In this whole clearing, there are no man-made objects of any kind, no garbage, no paper—just flowers, moss, and leaves.
Why haven’t you called? Couldn’t you have left me a voicemail or something? You would have left me some kind of message if you were planning to disappear. Or you would have told someone. This isn’t your plan. It can’t be. Something’s happened.
A breeze blows through the green grass. I look for flattened spots, signs you’ve been here, but I see nothing. Above, the sun beats down.
That Bill Withers song plays in my brain. Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…Only I change “she’s” to “he’s”…It’s sort of funny that this song plays in my head at this moment, when there’s an abundance of sunshine.
The river is rushing past, even faster than it was on that day in the fall. We’ve had a warm spring, and more snow melted from the mountains than usual.
My phone vibrates. I look down.
It’s Josh: You still down there?
Me: Yep
Josh: See anything?
Me: No
Josh: Chris has a ball tournament today at 4
I totally forgot about your game! That’s it. I’m kind of excited. Maybe you’ll show up. Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe we’ll learn something.
Me: Want to go? Maybe he’ll be there??
Josh: I doubt it
Me: We can talk to the guys who beat him up
Josh: You know who it is?
Me: He pointed one guy out. From the Heights
Josh: Let’s go
His house is pretty close to the field, so I tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes. I ride by the Pitt. It looks like someone had a fire there last night. The burned wood is dry, not wet, and it rained yesterday, so it had to have been after the rain. There are some empty beer bottles. The sofa is nasty, as usual. The wood stumps look normal. There’s no blood.
Something mechanical makes a whir noise to the right of me, by the river. A boat? I push through the woods. A bunch of guys with weed cutters on the bank are spread about thirty feet from one another, clearing the riverbank.
I stop beside one of them and wave my hands.
He turns off the motor. Pulls off his mask. “Yup?” He has a deep voice and light brown hair, longer in the back, shorter on the sides.
“I’m looking for someone?” I say. “Um, my boyfriend? He’s six foot two, and he’s wearing a blue T-shirt and black shorts.”
“I haven’t seen anyone like that.”
“He’s African American.”
“Oh,” he says, then kind of looks behind him, like he thinks someone might be listening, but all the other guys still have their helmets and motors on.
“If you see any clothing or anything strange, like blood, when you’re cutting the weeds, can you tell the police?”
“No problem.” He drops his mask down and turns the weed cutter back on.
I ride away and wonder why I said blood. He kind of flinched when I said that. I guess I would have too.
4:10 PM Saturday, Thomson’s Field
Josh and I head to Thomson’s Field on our bikes, his dog running along beside. Josh would have driven, but he said Sam needed a run. I guess the dog needs to go out even when your best friend is missing.
The parking lot is so packed we have to get off our bikes. The hamburgers are driving Sam crazy, and his massive brown mutt body keeps tugging Josh from one side to the other. I can tell Josh is getting annoyed.
Around us, people are laughing and carrying coolers and blasting country music and wearing skimpy tops, even bikinis, not a pool in sight. It’s like school is done and it’s already summer. Normally, I’d be joining right in, wearing my own half top and jean shorts. But with you missing, I feel like the whole world should be on pause, people should cover up and there should be no music. Yep, you’d hate that
. I can hear you saying, “No music?” You wouldn’t say no boobs, but you’d think it, and you’d shake your head, like, no way.
A couple passes us, pushing their bikes. The girl gives me a big smile. “Nice day for a ride.” She looks at Josh and I realize, Oh my god, she thinks we’re a couple. Josh and I glance at each other. Awkward. I’m hoping no one else gets the wrong idea.
At the hill in the center of the ball fields, I scan the crowds. “Maybe Chris will show up,” I say. “Maybe he hit his head and doesn’t know who he is, but he’ll be drawn here.”
“That would be great.”
It’s the winning-the-lottery version of a missing person. The person simply banged their head and they don’t know who they are and it’s just a matter of time before someone spots them wandering the streets asking people where they are and who they are.
“You hear about the protest in Seattle last night?” Josh says.
“Yeah, Steph said something.”
“They were protesting that police shooting last month,” he says. “Some of the streets were shut down. We almost got blocked in. It was hard to get out of town.”
“You think he went to the protest?”
“He would’ve called,” Josh says.
“He could have been arrested.”
“Maybe the cops aren’t letting him call.” Josh’s blue eyes brighten up, like this is a good thing.
I think about the protest we went to in Portland. On the drive there, I sat beside you in the truck and watched the muscle in your jaw as you pried open the pistachio shells without using your fingers, which is harder than it looks, and spit them in the empty Coke bottle, all the while talking passionately about peaceful protest. I never heard you talk so much, honestly, not at one time. About Gandhi. MLK. Malcolm X. James Baldwin. About the organizer you met in Portland, the guy who invited you to come and bring friends. Josh and I just listened. When you talked about the soul fight, you were so fired up, it was inspiring. You said that Gandhi believed peaceful protest helped the soul, that we all have our own soul fight toward inner peacefulness. I never thought of things like that before. I mean, this is Pendling. Nobody talks like that. It was cool, though.
At the protest that night, I saw the way you stood up taller, clapped that organizer guy on the back, and it made me sad. I don’t know why. Maybe it was a window into your future life, away from Pendling, away from me.
I don’t blame you for wanting to leave. This town was built on racism, for god’s sake. African Americans moved here in the fifties to work in the mill, but they weren’t even allowed to live in the goddamn town. Lots of people around here don’t even know about that; they think segregation didn’t happen in the Northwest, just like they think they aren’t biased because they have one black friend.
Remember that old lady volunteer at the half marathon? When you ran through the finish line, your arms reached out toward me, like I was your prize, and I grabbed your face and gave you a big wet one. I’d normally go for the hug, but I didn’t want to get your armpit sweat on me. Your sticky running mouth was kind of gross, but it was better than armpit. (I can just hear you laughing, saying, “Better than armpit, huh?”)
That woman gave me an evil look, like I was the worst person in the world for kissing my boyfriend. Then, she turned to you, all fake, “Congratulations,” she said. You thanked her, gave her your wide smile, dimple and all. Then she added, “Do you have Kenyan blood, sweetie?” As if you were a mixed-breed dog with greyhound in it. I wanted to shove her sweetie up her butt.
Josh and I were so shocked that we looked at each other like WTF. You answered her, though. You were all like, “No, I don’t think so,” as if that was a legit question. You’re too easygoing about shit like that, or maybe you act like you are. When we were going to that protest, you were open about it for once. You said people say things like that all the time. They don’t even realize it. That made me wonder if I did too. God I hope not.
Josh nearly trips over his bike due to Sam leaping toward the hamburgers cooking by the barbecue truck. “Walk,” he says, sharply, pulling back on the leash. “All I know is he’s not on the trails, not on this side of the river anyway. I looked for at least five hours, twenty miles in both directions.”
Just think of that. He rode the trails for five hours looking for you. He’s such a good friend.
“He never goes that far,” I say.
“Yeah, and it got real smoky to the north, near the fire,” he says.
“He would’ve turned around.” It’s just a guessing game right now. Neither of us have any idea.
“His team is over there.” Josh points at the far field. They’ve got white-and-black jerseys, like yours. “I’m trying to find the Heights team, though. I think they’re green and white.”
I scan for green uniforms, and then, I look up the hill and see something that I immediately wish I could unsee. I let out one of my horror-movie gasps. Josh jerks to the side and drops Sam’s leash.
I guess he thinks I spotted you. But that’s not what I’m looking at.
It’s this guy in his mid-twenties, scraggly beard, sitting next to his girlfriend, drinking a beer, wearing jean cutoffs, his legs sprawled open, his friggin junk hanging out. It’s hairy and wrinkly and fat.
Josh sees it, says, “Oh no, that’s just wrong.” He bends down for the leash, but Sam’s too fast—he takes off, up the hill, toward the guy.
Then Sam shoves his goddamn nose right in the guy’s crotch. I’m not kidding. The guy starts laughing, but Sam’s not done. He’s rubbing around like he wants to clean the dude.
Josh screams out Sam’s name. The guy’s girlfriend calls Sam a perv dog. Josh’s eyes are wild with panic. The guy is petting Sam, who’s practically climbing on top of him, licking his face.
Josh runs up the hill, grabs the leash, says sorry, and drags Sam away. He stumbles back down the hill to me, his eyes wide, in shock. I can’t stop laughing; it’s so damn funny. Then Josh snorts and he’s laughing too.
We stagger around to the other side of the hill so we can’t see wrinkly-balls man, and we fall down on the grass, clutching our sides, rolling with laughter.
Sam starts licking Josh’s face, he’s so happy, and Josh lets out this little scream because he remembers where that tongue has been. You could say we’re sort of hysterical. Maybe it’s just the stress of you being missing. It’s not even funny. I want to stop, but I can’t. I can’t breathe.
“Josh? Jessie?” A screechy girl’s voice. “What are you doing?” Tamara is standing above us, hands planted on her hips. Her face is contorting into this evil witch monster mask and her head is spinning around. Just kidding. She’s glaring at us though, acting like we’re having sex in the middle of the ball field.
Becky and Tim walk slowly up behind her. We are instantly sober.
Josh climbs to his feet. “We saw this guy…”
We try to explain why we’re laughing, but it never works when you try to tell someone what’s so funny and it especially doesn’t work when your best friend/boyfriend is missing and you look like you’re having a grand old time.
“What are you guys doing here?” Josh asks Tim, changing the subject.
Tim lifts his baseball hat and scratches his head, scanning the field. “I thought I’d come out, see if anyone’s heard from Chris.”
“We’re looking for a guy,” I say. “Someone who might have information.”
“Yeah?” Tim gives me a funny look. I know I’m being kind of vague. “Who?”
“This guy from the Heights?” I glance at Josh. You’ve been gone too long to keep this to ourselves.
“He and some of his rich buddies from the Heights beat the crap out of Chris three weeks ago,” Josh says. “Remember the black eye?”
“What?” Tim’s jaw tightens. “Why didn’t he tell us?”
“He didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” Josh says.
“He said people would want to get revenge,” I add. “You know hi
m.”
Everyone knows about you and your anti-violence, love-preaching, gratitude-giving ways. Tim’s eyes flutter shut. He stays like that for a moment. “Where?”
“By the Pitt. Same place he was running last night,” Josh says.
“You know what they look like?”
“He pointed one of them out to me last weekend at the bakery,” I say. “The guy was eating a cream puff. I wanted to shove the damn thing in his face. But Chris wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t even go in. We had to go back later.”
“I guess this guy’s been giving him a hard time for a while,” Josh adds.
“He was on the travel team with him,” I say.
Tim’s shaking his head, furious, like he wants to get revenge for you right now. “I probably know him,” he grunts.
“I just want to find out what his name is,” I say, “so I can tell the cops.”
“We’ll come with you,” he says. Tamara gives Becky a look, but they come along too, walking slowly behind us, whispering about something.
We find the Heights team a few fields over. They all have their parents watching, of course. Nobody has to work on a Saturday in this crowd.
I scan the field for a blond guy. The Heights team has a ton of blond guys, which is weird, since statistically only 2 percent of the world has blond hair. I can hear you saying, “How do you remember shit like that?” I don’t know. Numbers stick in my brain.
I point. “There.” He’s got the lightest hair out there, pale blue eyes. I’d remember those eyes anywhere, how he stared at me through the bakery window, all cocky, assuming I was checking him out.
“I know that guy,” Tim says. “His dad owns the Honda dealership.”
Tamara stiffens, like she’s nervous.
“Dave Johnson,” Tim adds. “Good pitcher, but he’s an asshole.”
“Oh man, I bought my car there,” Josh says.
“That’s his dad on that billboard by the highway?” I say. “It’s the cheesiest billboard. It looks like a teeth-whitening advertisement. Buy low. Go fast. Come to Johnson’s Used Cars.”
“That’s him,” Tim says, nodding.