Noah's Rainy Day

by Sandra Brannan

  “Noah,” my mother asked. “Do you think that there are some similarities between the girl next door and the missing boy?”

  This time, I smiled and darted my eyes upward. Better that they stay alert, even if not exactly on target.

  “Do you think maybe the little girl is missing from some other home? That she doesn’t belong to our neighbor?”

  I arched my back. My limbs jerked and stiffened as I smiled. My mom had finally understood. Sort of.

  “Not good,” Dad said.

  She patted my tense leg to calm me. “We’ll take care of it, Noah. Don’t worry. But you have to stop this head banging thing, okay?”

  Gladly, I thought. I heard them slip back into the kitchen for a moment, noticing the sounds of crinkling saran wrap as it zipped across the sharp blade of the box. They were fixing a plate of cookies. They believed me! Their faith in me made me so happy, I sucked in a high-pitched screech.

  “Let me go, Frances,” Gabriel insisted.

  “Don’t be silly,” Frances reasoned. “Besides, if you go, it won’t look as convincing. Not many fathers go over to the neighbors’ to bring cookies as a gift. That would be weird.”

  “Then we’ll go together.”

  “You have to stay with Noah. Why don’t you call Boots, just to be on the safe side? She might want to know about this.”

  Yes! Yes! I screamed in my mind. I wanted to show Auntie Liv what I recorded with my football pin. If I got anything. And she’d figure out right away that the kid next door was little Max.

  “You can call Liv yourself when we get back. Noah will be fine staying here by himself for a few minutes, won’t you Noah?” Gabriel said.

  I smiled. I liked the idea that they would both have a chance to see the little girl and hopefully recognize that she wasn’t a girl at all but the boy on television. After a few seconds of the sound of coats and boots and hats being pulled on, Mom and Dad were out the front door.

  And I was left alone.

  CHAPTER 47

  BY THE TIME SHE and Gabriel arrived at their neighbor’s door, Frances’s heart pounded in her chest. Nervously, she rang the doorbell. Listening to the faint noises behind the door, Frances held Gabriel’s hand, trying not to look too nervous in case their neighbor was watching through the peephole or from behind the curtains.

  After several seconds, she rang the bell again. No one came to the door.

  “Come on, Frances,” Gabriel said. “You tried.”

  Frances pounded on the door with the heel of her fist. Eventually, the door opened, an odor wafting from inside that reminded Frances of a hospital. Or a laundromat. She couldn’t quite place the smell. Bleach maybe? The large, slovenly man on the other side of the door had a pocked face. Childhood acne, she wondered? She’d never seen her neighbor up close, only from a distance, his face always obscured. But now, here he was. His eyelids were heavy, his lips thick. His hair was black and shiny, as if it hadn’t been washed for a few days. It could have been from gel used to slick the thick hair into place, but Frances didn’t think so. Her bet was bad hygiene. Really bad. His sickly pale skin appeared translucent and made Frances think of what a mole would look like if it took a human form. He wore baggy khaki pants and a badly wrinkled flannel shirt that smelled musty. His wide feet were covered with dingy sweat socks, and a few unclipped toenails poked through holes in the left sock.

  Pushing the wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his pudgy face and wide smile greeted them. “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m Gabriel Hogarty. Your next-door neighbor?” He hooked a thumb toward their house and extended his hand. “And this is my wife, Frances.”

  The big man looked as if he had no choice but to grab her extended hand. But he didn’t. He looked past them to the street, his eyes darting about. And Frances noticed that he looked back over his shoulder, as if worried about a pot boiling over or something. He hadn’t invited them inside and the door was partially open, like the yawning mouth of a scavenger.

  “Did we interrupt something?” Frances asked, noticing a trickle of sweat dripping from his hairline near his right ear down his neck.

  “You did,” the man answered and looked at her with a puzzled expression, studying her face.

  “We … uh, we brought you cookies,” Frances said, lowering her eyes from his unwelcome gaze. She felt the burn of embarrassment on her cheeks. “For Christmas.”

  He stood staring at the plate of cookies in her hands, saying nothing.

  “Well,” Frances swallowed hard to regain her nerve. She had noticed that he had not opened the door wide enough for her to see beyond him. His large body filled the slightly open doorway. She hoped Gabriel had a better view.

  Gabriel said, “We thought the girl might like some cookies, might want to come over and play with our daughter.”

  “Who told you about the girl?”

  “Uh … no one. I saw her in the backyard earlier. When I was doing dishes. Who is she?”

  The man stared at Frances as if she’d dumped red ants down his pants. “My daughter. I’m divorced.”

  “Your daughter?” Frances asked, flustered by this revelation. “We don’t mean to sound nosy, it’s just I saw her playing and … well, I thought maybe you might not have had time to bake cookies so we thought … well, here.”

  She shoved the plate at him, unceremoniously.

  He took the cookies and began to shut the door without so much as a “thank you.” His antisocial behavior and nervousness were unlike those of anyone she’d ever met. She actually imagined Fletcher as one of those rare people with obsessive afflictions, like hoarders or germophobes on those reality shows who never leave their house.

  Frances panicked, blurting, “Can we see her? Your daughter?”

  “She’s busy,” Fletcher said, shutting the door.

  “Well, sorry to impose,” Gabriel said, trying to steer Frances away from the door.

  A sudden chill gripped Frances. She hadn’t much cared for the way he was brushing them off, trying to get rid of them, dripping in sweat from his twitchiness. Her maternal instincts were screaming to protect the girl inside. “Doing what?”

  Fletcher opened the door again, offering her a puzzled expression.

  “Your daughter is busy doing what?” Frances asked again.

  She drew in a breath and told herself not to jump to conclusions and not to let her imagination run wild. If Frances were honest, she’d have to admit that although odd, Fletcher seemed like a very nervous introvert, possibly a shy man. Her discussions with Noah had obviously biased her opinions of Fletcher. Gabriel was probably going to point that out to her the second they got back in their warm home. Noah’s self-destructive behavior of late had clearly increased her anxiety. Her nerves were raw. She drew in a deep breath and told herself to relax.

  Frances cleared her throat. She was about to explain her question when she noticed that Mr. Fletcher had accidentally allowed the door to open enough for them to see past him. There she was. Walking up the stairs. The little girl. She had jet-black hair, just like her dad, but it was cut long below her ears and down the back of her neck. Her bangs nearly covered her eyebrows and she wondered why the man hadn’t clipped the hair with a barrette or band, so the child wouldn’t be bothered with it. Below the long bangs were brilliantly green eyes, a dimple on her right cheek, and an endearing smile. But she was fidgety and nervous just like her dad.

  “Is that my mom?” the child asked, her presence startling Mr. Fletcher.

  “I thought I told you to stay downstairs,” Fletcher croaked, choking on the last word.

  “Sorry, Papa.” Her eyes widened before glancing nervously from the door to her dad. She was wearing thick sweatpants, a clown shirt, and a tiny derby on top of her head. Fletcher’s forehead was covered in beads of sweat and he kept glancing at his watch.

  “We were busy playing. Downstairs. It’s Christmas and we don’t get much time together.” And again, he began to shut the door.

&n
bsp; “Merry Christmas,” Gabriel said.

  The child ran to the door, the movement stirring a faint smell that reminded Frances of her own childhood and watching her dad shine his shoes.

  “Are you Santa?” the girl asked Gabriel.

  Fletcher ignored his daughter and started to close the door.

  Gabriel flattened his hands on his belly and threw his head back. “Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!”

  The little girl started to giggle. She was holding her stomach, bent over her knees by the door beside Fletcher. The child’s giggle rang out loudly and clearly. Fletcher’s face blanched. His ears turned bright red and his mouth was set in a determined line.

  Gabriel waved again and said, “Be a good little gi—”

  And Fletcher swung the door closed. Frances heard the locks turn, the girl continue to giggle, asking about Santa Claus. Frances stood staring at the closed door, listening to the girl, hearing the man saying how they had to hurry, that the child’s mother would be there soon. They stood on his front step for a beat, listening to the giggling girl until it stopped altogether. And Frances’s heart ached.

  “No bruises, no cuts or scrapes,” Gabriel said, grabbing her hand and walking her back to their house.

  “That were visible.”

  Frances could not shake the feeling that the girl seemed somehow familiar. As she walked back to her home with Gabriel, she sighed in exasperation at how sad that little girl’s life must be. She smiled at the visual image of the beautiful young girl as she came up the stairs, completely amused by Gabriel. Her smile faded when the image returned of Jason Fletcher’s expression as he stared at her when she’d challenged him about his daughter.

  She shivered involuntarily and hustled indoors ahead of Gabriel.

  CHAPTER 48

  Noah

  THE HOGARTY HOUSE WAS sure quiet for it being Christmas.

  As soon as they got back from Mr. Scaredy Cat’s house, Dad went to meet Auntie Elizabeth and Uncle Michael at the ice skating park so he could ask Emma some questions. He’s been gone for at least an hour. Mom keeps checking on me. And she keeps checking out my window. She turned the Christmas tunes up really loud to drown out her mumbling, but I can still hear her. She’s worried about the little girl next door, upset by Mr. Fletcher.

  At least she knows how I feel now.

  I’ve tried to sleep, but I can’t seem to turn the video off in my head. I keep seeing little Max at the fence, the man stomping up behind him and dragging him back inside. I don’t want to have nightmares. I can’t live with the idea that the boy is all alone over there.

  All I want is for the police to come so the boy can go home and I can get some sleep. I can’t figure out why Mom hasn’t called Auntie Liv. Or maybe she did.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see the big man take the little boy with the heartwarming giggle away from me, retreating back into that house like a rat into its hole. I want my mom to understand. I want her to try the five-finger method again, so I can explain that the little girl is little Max. But she thinks she’s already figured out what I was trying to tell her. She thinks I was concerned about the little girl’s safety and now she’s trying to figure out a way to involve the authorities that won’t further endanger the little girl. But she keeps mumbling about needing more of a reason, more evidence, or the police will have nothing to act on.

  I don’t know if I’m angrier at the big man for frightening the boy or at myself for not being able to communicate with my mom about what had happened sooner and more clearly. I can’t seem to even get her attention to listen to me when she keeps checking on me.

  I’ve tried.

  I cursed my useless limbs and mouth for not staying in step with my mind, and I’m determined to make her listen to me. My fear has slowly evolved throughout the day to an intense anger. I want to rip through my broken shell and emerge a perfectly normal kid. A kid who could talk. A kid who could dial 911. A kid who could tell the police about his proof with his secret football pin. Instead, I’d have to wait for Auntie Liv, tell her that the missing boy from New York City was living right next door to us in Wheat Ridge, Colorado. She’d figure it out.

  My mood soured. My body was spent. My seizure earlier today was serious. My parents were worried. My sister was gone until tomorrow.

  My mom came in to check on me again, just as the phone rang. It was my dad. I could hear his voice, even though my mom didn’t know it.

  “Emma said the girl told her that her name was Sammy. I assume as in Samantha, wouldn’t you?”

  Mom said, “That would make sense.”

  “She said she never saw Mr. Fletcher, but she did see Sammy talking with Noah.”

  I made myself get very serious, pursing my lips tightly. That way, if Mom looked my way, she’d think I was focused on the television.

  “Where did she come from, Gabriel?”

  I extended my bent arm toward the television set as I craned my neck in the same direction, hoping my mom would understand that I was answering her question.

  I heard Dad say, “Just a second. Let me ask her.”

  The television. They were talking about the missing boy on the television. Again. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mom. Look at the television. I know where he is. He’s right next door.

  Just when I thought my efforts to communicate with her were hopeless, Mom turned up the volume.

  I smiled.

  The news reporter was winding down his brief story, “… which was rumored to have been against the FBI’s suggestions. The Williamses are serious and they want their son back. I’m Bernard Allen with Channel Nine News. The complete story at ten o’clock.” The background switched quickly to the face of the beautiful blond boy with the captions underneath reading “Maximillian Bennett Williams III, Missing Since Christmas Eve”.

  I was still. My bent fingers and hand were wavering as I attempted unsuccessfully to stretch them into a point. A moan quietly escaped my lips just before I swallowed hard.

  Mom was quiet. Still.

  I heard my dad say, “Nah, she doesn’t know.” Pause. “Frances?” What was my mom doing? She wasn’t answering my dad. “Are you there?”

  My mom’s voice sounded odd. “Noah, is it the missing Williams boy? That’s what’s been bothering you?”

  I smiled weakly. She got it! I let another moan escape my parched lips. I was tired. No, exhausted.

  My dad asked, “What? Frances?”

  The clip of the boy running and laughing and sliding was playing on the big screen. “Oh my Lord!”

  “Frances, what is it?”

  “He wasn’t wearing shoes. The smell when Sammy ran to the door. It was shoe polish.”

  I had no clue what my mom was talking about.

  “Who wasn’t wearing shoes?” my dad asked.

  “Meet me down at the police station. Denver, not Wheat Ridge. I’ll call Boots.”

  She hung up the phone and said, “That laugh. Those eyes. It’s little Max, isn’t it Noah? That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

  I smiled.

  Finally.

  CHAPTER 49

  SAMMY WAS CONFUSED.

  The surroundings were dark and scary for a moment. With his eyes barely open, he looked around the basement, trying to understand all the strange shadows around him. Oh. Now he remembered. How could he forget? He yawned deeply. Nanny Judy calls it being drowsy-wowsey-woo-woo.

  He giggled.

  Then came the odd-smelling dampness, its funny taste on his tongue. Yuck.

  He was cold and naked. Why was he naked? Where was Nanny Judy? He tried to remember why he was here. And what happened today.

  Then he remembered. Papa. And the basement game.

  It sounded like Papa was running around upstairs, banging stuff around. CLOMP! CLOMP! CLOMP! He curled up in the pile of blankets and covered his head. He didn’t want Papa. He wanted Nanny Judy.

  Papa had spent all day taking pictures of him. At first, the basement game
was fun because Papa had so many different make-believe areas set up for him to pretend. A hospital, a Western town, a circus. Make-believe was fun.

  It was fun until the silly redheaded girl’s parents from next door visited them. Then everything got all crazy.

  At first, Sammy thought Papa was very angry about the neighbors’ visit. But then he let him eat the plate of cookies. But only after he’d promised to take a vitamin. Yucky! It wasn’t like the vitamins Nanny Judy gave him. It was big and felt like sand on his tongue when he bit into it. And it tasted funny. And Papa got excited. He said it was almost time to celebrate the bestest Christmas night ever.

  Papa told Sammy that they had some work to do first. CLICK! CLICK! That Sammy had to play real hard while Papa took pictures. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! Because he was making a special Christmas calendar for Nanny Judy and his parents. CLICK! And that it was a secret. CLICK! CLICK!

  He thought Santa and his wife brought cookies about a cartoon ago, maybe two. But he wasn’t sure because he fell asleep. That’s how Nanny Judy taught him how to tell time. In cartoons. So he’d understand what it meant if they were going somewhere in an hour. Or two cartoons from now. It helped him understand how long he had to wait.

  So they’d been playing the basement game together for hours all day, only now—the past one or two cartoons—it was different. Since the redheaded girl’s parents came to visit, everything was fast, rushed. CLICK! CLICK! They’d run out of time to get the calendar done before his mom came to pick him up. CLICK!

  His favorite play area was the Western town, equipped with a big, stuffed horse, a saddle for him to ride, and lots of cowboy hats, boots, and guns to shoot. The wall looked just like where a cowboy would live, all dusty with lots of old buildings, some cowboys, and ladies in fancy dresses walking on the wooden sidewalks with horses on a dirt street. Even though this was his favorite make-believe area, Sammy wished he had friends to play with in the Western town. Without a friend, he couldn’t play Cowboys and Indians. Even without a friend, Sammy enjoyed pretending to be the sheriff, wearing the chaps, boots, cowboy hat, and silver badge and throwing the teddy-bear bad guys in prison.