Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  Paul emptied his bowl of rich vegetable beef soup and ate two steaming, buttery rolls. Apparently Elise had been transferring her unused nanny energies to cooking. When the main course arrived—salmon, with broccoli—Paul stared at his plate, then looked up unhappily. He shifted in his chair.

  “Paul, what is it?” asked Dumond.

  “Papa, I cannot eat,” he whispered. “Je n’ai pas faim maintenant. Est-ce que je peux le garder pour plus tard?” A lone tear ran down his cheek.

  A silent, frozen moment, broken by the rasp of Dumond’s chair on the floor, and then he was at Paul’s side, turning his son toward him and cupping his face in his hands.

  “Paul, of course you can save it. There is no reason to be sad. Elise will understand that you are full,” he said, and repeated it in French. “Let’s take this to Elise in the kitchen and ask her to wrap it up for us.” He picked up the plate and led Paul toward the kitchen.

  I picked at one of the rolls on my bread plate, appetite suddenly gone.

  Dumond came back alone and sat down. “Elise is going to help him get ready for bed. I should have realized that he isn’t used to large meals. But I don’t understand why he was so upset.”

  I twisted in my seat, figuring how to explain this. “He’s been gone a long time; he wants to please you.”

  He frowned; he wasn’t getting it.

  I tried again. “Look, the kidnappers made him think you didn’t want him. They probably told him you were angry with him or didn’t like him. They do that—tell kids their parents don’t want them, or that they’re dead.” I’ve read the grim articles; it’s hard to miss them.

  Dumond shut his eyes. I imagined he was seeing Paul locked up, wondering why his father didn’t come rescue him. Because at six, you think your father can do anything.

  “Does he believe I didn’t want him, that I wasn’t looking for him? That I wouldn’t have given anything to get him back?” His voice was harsh, a mix of anguish and rage.

  I blinked back the moisture gathering in my eyes. “It’s what they told him,” I whispered. “That’s all he’s known for months. And kids always think that bad things that happen to them are their fault.”

  Dumond sat for a long moment. “You have no children.” Not quite a question.

  “No.” I wasn’t going to discuss my sisters’ children, needy kids at a shelter, other kids I’d known. Or tell him that I understood Paul a little better than he did right now, that the Paul he’d gotten back wasn’t the same child he had lost months ago and in some ways never would be again. Although maybe he knew.

  He picked up his fork. “I’ll tell Paul those men lied to him, that I never stopped looking for him. And I’ll have the pediatrician recommend a therapist, psychologist, whatever he needs.” Dumond ate a few bites before speaking again. “And you, what did you think?”

  I blinked. “What do you mean? Think about what?”

  “When you located me. You could have telephoned me, you could have asked the police to contact me. Instead, you came to Ottawa.”

  The salmon that had seemed so delicious suddenly was Styrofoam in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty. “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  “I didn’t know … if you were involved somehow.” He looked shocked, and I wished I hadn’t decided to be this honest. “It can happen,” I blurted. “It has happened. People want out of their marriage, don’t want to pay alimony, whatever. They arrange to have a spouse gotten rid of, or kids, too.”

  Dumond stared at me. “Look, I didn’t know you,” I said, my voice rising. “And my brother’s a cop; he tells me stories that would set your hair on end.”

  We finished dinner with no more conversation. The broccoli was cold, but we ate it anyway. We skipped dessert and walked to Paul’s room, Tiger padding after us.

  Paul looked well scrubbed, his damp hair combed neatly. He was wearing one of his new T-shirts with snug stretchy pajama bottoms Elise must have found among his old things. Pajamas were one thing I hadn’t thought of getting him, probably because I don’t own any—I sleep in a T-shirt and old gym shorts, or sweats if it’s cold. I gave Paul a hug.

  “Sleep tight, cowboy,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Je te verrai le matin.” He surprised me with a tiny kiss on my cheek.

  Dumond replaced me at Paul’s side, tickling him and then leaning over and whispering in his ear. Paul smiled sleepily, happily. Dumond settled himself next to Paul on the small bed and looked up.

  “I will stay until Paul falls asleep,” he said. I nodded and turned to go. He was Paul’s father; I was a pseudo-temporary-nanny. It was to be expected.

  Dumond’s voice stopped me at the door. “Troy, thank you.”

  I looked back at him, next to his son, the two dark heads close together: Paul’s eyes closed, angelically young and relaxed; Dumond looking tired, but at peace. Maybe I didn’t belong in this scene, but I had helped bring it about.

  MORNING WAS A SEMBLANCE OF NORMALCY, OR AT LEAST what I assume is normal in a household with a small child and a housekeeper. We ate steaming oatmeal and French toast and sipped fresh-ground coffee, which was astoundingly better than the stuff I made with my paper-towel-drip method. I’d always been scornful of the allure of money, but I was fast seeing the advantages.

  The dose of reality came when Paul perversely decided to wear some of his old clothes and squeezed into a snug long-sleeved polo shirt and jeans so tight he could barely fasten the top snap. Elise called me into his room and we consulted sotto voce, Paul close to sullen and looking mutinous. I knelt and put my hands on his shoulders.

  “Paul,” I said, looking into his eyes, “these are nice clothes. But I think your papa will feel bad if you don’t wear some of your new things.” I repeated it in French, as best I could.

  He looked dubious, then squirmed. The jeans had to be cutting off circulation around his small middle. His face brightened. “New pants, same shirt?” he asked, making his eyes wide.

  I nodded. “That’s a very good idea,” I said, handing him a new pair of jeans. Elise and I stepped out so we wouldn’t witness his struggle to peel off the old ones.

  Dumond blinked at the sight of the too-small shirt, Paul’s thin wrists showing, but just reached in the hall closet and pulled out a light jacket. “Get your jacket, Paul—va chercher ton veston,” he said matter-of-factly, and Paul ran back to his room for his new windbreaker. Dumond winked at me, and put his hand on Elise’s back, murmuring something near her ear.

  In the crowded waiting room I read old copies of Ottawa magazine, learning more than I wanted to know about people I hadn’t known were Ottawans: Dan Aykroyd, Mike Myers, Alanis Morissette. I flipped through battered copies of Highlights for the Goofus and Gallant cartoon. Gallant was polite and good and neat; Goofus was sloppy and rude. But he had mellowed from the naughty fellow I remembered, and was now only mildly ill-behaved.

  I was trying hard to ignore the fear churning inside me: that Paul had been sexually abused, which was why the kidnappers had kept him so long. I expected it was what we all feared. I was nearly desperate enough to pick up a copy of Marie Claire when they emerged, Dumond’s arm around his son’s shoulders, Paul sucking a lollipop. “A clean bill of health,” Dumond said. As Paul stepped into the elevator, Dumond moved closer, squeezed my shoulders lightly, and said the three magic words in my ear: No sexual abuse.

  My face must have shown how much this had been eating at me, how I had needed to know. I hadn’t expected this insight and compassion from Dumond, which shows what a reverse snob I am. Because someone is rich and attractive and successful, apparently I think they can’t be human. Which made me feel pretty small.

  As we drove to the police station my stomach was in knots. Now I’d have to explain officially why I hadn’t taken Paul straight to authorities.

  Paul looked up from the backseat when we pulled into the underground parking area. Dumond turned off the ignition and twis
ted around to face him. “Paul, we are going to talk to the police so they can catch the bad men who took you,” he said, and repeated it in French.

  Paul looked blank, a look I recognized as his hear no evil, see no evil face. When things are happening you can’t understand or don’t want to deal with, just shut down. It may not be the best way to deal with things, but it works. With a pang I realized the petulance over his clothes this morning had been the most normal six-year-old reaction I’d seen from him.

  “It’s okay, Paul,” I added. “No one will hurt you, and your papa will be right there.”

  Paul looked uneasily at me. Dumond forced a laugh. “Yes, the policemen will be very nice to you and if they are not I will bark at them, like Tiger. Arrrrf! Arrrrf!” Paul’s lips twitched. “And I will be there,” Dumond said as he swung the car door open.

  God, we were winging this, I thought as we walked in, Paul clasping our hands. He was trusting us, but he was still scared, like a dog you’ve rescued from the animal shelter. Every time we went somewhere he was, I think, a little afraid he was going to end up back in his prison.

  At the front counter Dumond asked for the detective he’d been talking to.

  “What’s this in reference to, sir?” asked a policewoman in a crisp blue uniform, a slender black woman with precise British intonation. One of the things I like about Ottawa is the apparently seamless mix of nationalities and races. Although of course Canadians have their own biases.

  “The kidnapping of my son, last year, whom we have now found.” Dumond was holding Paul’s hand firmly.

  The woman blinked, probably wondering if a set of nutcases had just wandered in.

  “Detective Jameson should be expecting us. I told him we’d be in this morning.”

  Another polite blink, a polite smile. This woman wasn’t stupid. This was important, or at least more than she could handle. “Just a moment, please,” she said, picking up the phone and murmuring into it.

  Almost as soon as she had hung up, a man appeared. His suit was rumpled without quite being wrinkled and his hair looked as if he had a habit of running his fingers through it. He shook Dumond’s hand, murmured a greeting, nodded at Paul. Then he turned to me.

  “This is Troy Chance, of Lake Placid, New York,” Dumond said. “She found my son, Paul. Troy, this is Detective Jameson.”

  His pale eyes assessed me, impersonally, coldly. My stomach did a loop-the-loop. Now I couldn’t ignore what I hadn’t verbalized even to myself: to a policeman’s brain, this didn’t look good. Because I hadn’t gone straight to the police, I must be involved. Cherchez la femme, so to speak. Only I was the femme, and here I was, walking straight into the spider’s web. To mix a couple of metaphors.

  Jameson nodded at me, and led us down a hallway. He paused at an open door and said, “Miss Chance, if you’d wait here, please.”

  I gave Paul’s hand a little squeeze as I released it, and knelt to give him a quick hug. “I will see you in a little while,” I told him. “Je te verrai bientôt.” He clung a half beat longer and tighter than normal. Just when I was starting to think I was going to have to pry him loose, Dumond gently tugged him away and swung him onto his hip, a comforting arm loosely around him.

  “We’ll see you soon, Troy,” he said cheerily.

  The room was as institutional as you’d expect: table, metal chairs, a bookcase with thick uninviting tomes, a cabinet with a fat padlock. I sat in one of the metal chairs. I fidgeted. I inspected my fingernails. I thought about trying the door. I considered getting a dusty book from the shelves and reading about Canadian jurisprudence.

  This is the warm-up time, I figured, to get you ready to confess or so uncomfortable you’ll talk freely. But all I have to do is tell the truth, I reminded myself. I hadn’t done anything wrong—not much anyway.

  The door swung open and two neatly dressed and crisply groomed men stepped in, one Caucasian and the other dark-skinned and shorter—Pakistani, I thought.

  The basics were simple: name, age, citizenship, address, occupation. Although after I answered “freelance writer” to the job question, their pause prompted me to babble, “I write for magazines, mostly sports magazines, some airline ones, and I do some work for the local newspaper.”

  “Do you live with anyone, Miss Chance?” This was the Pakistani policeman.

  “Well, yes, I have several roommates.” Then I had to list them—and because Dave had just moved in I couldn’t remember his last name, so made something up rather than admit I didn’t know. Then their occupations, which sounded more than mildly bohemian even to me. Zach paints houses and does yard work. Ben is a waiter. Dave works at a sports shop. Patrick seems not to work at all, but has an amazing talent for scrounging free meals, free lift tickets, free concert passes. It probably didn’t help that right now all the roommates are guys. So much for sounding respectable.

  “Is one of these men your partner?” the shorter man asked. They’d told me their names, but I’d forgotten them. I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Partner, boyfriend, lover,” snapped the other, in the first show of impatience I’d seen.

  Okay, gloves off. I sat up straighter. “No. I’m dating Dr. Thomas Rouse, a professor at the University of Vermont in Burlington.”

  I’d been incredibly naïve not to have realized I’d be considered a suspect. I’d expected to get reprimanded for not reporting the near-drowning right away—and figured the New York police could charge me with something—but none of this. Never mind that I’d thought of several horrible ways Dumond could have been involved; it was a shock that anyone could imagine equally grim scenarios for me. Me, whose worse crime is a tendency to jaywalk and reuse unpostmarked postage stamps.

  The detectives were far more polite than, say, NYPD Blue detectives—no Andy Sipowicz screaming, threatening, or table-banging—but they were thorough. And tedious. Apparently if you ask a question enough times, ad infinitum, people eventually tire and tell the truth: Did you rob the bank? No. Did you rob the bank? No. Did you rob the bank? Oh, okay, I did. They kept asking the same questions over and over, particularly about the leap off the ferry.

  You jumped off the ferry?

  Yes, I jumped off the ferry.

  Why did you jump off the ferry?

  Because I saw Paul go in the water.

  How did Paul go into the water?

  Apparently someone threw him in.

  You jumped off the ferry?

  And of course they wanted to know why I hadn’t immediately gone to the police. There was no easy answer to this, and I wasn’t going to trot out sad stories of abused children I’d known or bad foster homes I’d heard about. No point in sounding like an Oprah show. So I stuck to the basics.

  I was tired. We were cold, we were wet. I wanted to get home.

  I wanted to let Paul get comfortable before we went to the police.

  I thought it’d be better to find his father first.

  As soon as I located his father, I went to see him.

  I didn’t call his father because I was afraid he’d think it was a hoax.

  I told my story, over and over. The policemen wrote down ferry schedules and names and phone numbers. They asked if I swam competitively, and I nearly laughed aloud, thinking of the Monday night triathlons. They were polite, but seemed to think it impossible to survive the chill waters of Lake Champlain as long as we had. They were probably right, but here we were, alive and well.

  By now Elise’s hearty breakfast seemed a long way away. I was beginning to feel dizzy. “Could I have some coffee?” I asked.

  They glanced at each other. “In a little while,” Tall Cop said.

  Suddenly I’d had enough. I scooted my chair back from the table, and the skittering noise on the floor made them jump. “No,” I said, surprising even myself. “I would like it now. Coffee, double cream. And something to eat, please.”

  They seemed taken aback by my defiance, but brought me coffee and a doughnut that tasted like a stale K
rispy Kreme, a particularly greasy kind I thought you could get only in the South. I ate it, and drank the coffee with its awful fake creamer—this was Canada; they should be getting their coffee and doughnuts from Tim Hortons. Maybe they did, but kept the good stuff for themselves.

  Then they started again, more insistently.

  They asked more about how I made a living. What was my monthly income? No pension and retirement plan? Finally they went off, presumably to call Baker, consult Jameson or whoever was interviewing Paul, and check my bank account for fat deposits. Then back they came, to ask me the questions all over again, with various permutations. When had I met Philippe Dumond? Why had I disliked Madeleine? How much was I paid? I answered steadfastly and calmly, but I was beginning to understand how false confessions happen. Yes, yes, I did it all, just shut up and leave me alone!

  For extra credit in university I’d taken a psychological test called the MMPI, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. Among the hundreds of questions were occasional bizarre ones, like Do you ever feel you have a band of intense pain around your head? or Have you ever had a desire to kill someone? Occasionally a question was repeated, to make sure you weren’t answering randomly, the examiner told me later. This felt like that test, but longer and more intense, and I couldn’t quit and go home whenever I wanted.

  Suddenly something in me said, This has gone on long enough. Perhaps I hadn’t used the best judgment, but I had, after all, risked my own stupid life to save Paul. I straightened up. “Gentlemen,” I said, “I’ve answered all your questions, several times. Now I would either like to leave, or make a phone call.”

  I refused to speak again. Perhaps, I thought as they left the room, I should have asked for a lawyer from the start. But it seems that only guilty people demand a lawyer right away. On Law & Order, anyway. I never once realized I could have called the U.S. embassy—it’s easy to forget Canada is a foreign country.