The Good Boy

by Schwegel, Theresa

  Joel checks his watch: it’s nearly ten. In weekend hours at home, that means No More Cartoons. He wonders if his mom or Mike turned on the TV this morning; if he made the news like his dad and Butchie.

  Joel eases the dog past the restaurant where its painted wall announces shrimp, clams, ribs, and cheeseborgers. Joel hates seafood, but the other ads make him drool like Pavlov’s dog. He imagines piles of fries and pickles, hot grease and warm bread. Joel’s never eaten here, but if he had to go by the pictures in the windows he’d definitely order a borger. Then again, at this point, he’d suck down a bottle of ketchup if he could get his hands on one.

  A sound system piped out from the inside starts to play one of his dad’s favorite songs. Joel doesn’t know the name, but he knows how the chorus goes. He sings along—or tries to; his voice can’t go that low: “Yeah, runnin’ down a dream.”

  “Workin’ on a mystery.” The singer sounds wiped out, disinterested even, but the song’s beat is like energy to Joel’s heart. “Goin’ wherever it leads,” he sings, and he feels a part of something; like he isn’t the only one. Like they’re on a mission. He feels himself smile.

  “Yeah, Butch,” he sings, “we’re runnin’ down a dream.”

  The light runs long in favor of the traffic on Irving Park but Joel isn’t waiting on the walk signal, all the drivers watching as he and Butchie cross a million lanes right in front of them. Instead, they wait for the Don’t Walk and they skip between cars.

  Once across, they pass a sign welcoming them to the North Center neighborhood, which feels like a big step, except the sidewalk is blocked by a less-welcoming sign—this one reading CLOSED USE OTHER SIDE.

  But on this side, the stretch of sidewalk is brand-new, three consecutive concrete slabs a darker gray—brown, even—compared to the rest. Brand-new, but not untouched: Joel sees that CEEMORE THE GREAT has made his mark, the name inscribed right there in the last slab, proud capital letters.

  Joel knows it’s illegal to write in wet concrete—another lesson he learned by hanging around with Kink—but seeing the still-pliant slabs, clean slates just waiting—he understands the urge.

  Butchie sniffs around the freshly overturned dirt beside the walk, looks up at Joel like he’s asking permission to dig.

  “Forget it, pal,” Joel says, pulling the dog to the curb, “you’d be leaving evidence.”

  They cross the street and Joel discovers Alexander Bell Elementary, and no kidding, that’s where Molly went to school before she moved in with her grandma and started at Hayt. He wonders what her life was like when she went here, both her parents at home; he wonders what his life would be like if she hadn’t transferred and become his next-best friend, after Butchie.

  On the other side of Addison, a large-waisted woman and her baby-blue-collared French bulldog puppy turn in front of them. The woman moves like a snail, and pretty soon Joel decides the left-side-of-the-street rule doesn’t work when you aren’t getting anywhere.

  The bulldog is the first to notice them and he lunges forward, enough leeway from his extendo-leash to get him within snipping distance. The woman acts terrified as she reels the dog back and hoists him in her arms, moving off to the side so Joel and Butchie can go ahead.

  Joel says a bland “thanks” and isn’t at all worried the woman will remember him because she never takes her eyes off Butchie.

  In three more blocks, Joel stops Butchie to pretend-poop for two cars and a postal truck, though they don’t stop for a lady pushing a double stroller, or a woman blah-blahing on her phone, or a jogger plugged into his portable digital music player. That’s because distracted grown-ups are terrible witnesses. Grown-ups in general aren’t so good with details, being stuck under their imaginary ceilings and all; when they’re distracted, though, the ceilings come down around them, like bubbles, and they can’t see outside me range. Add to that a baby or an electronic device, and they won’t see past their own noses.

  Unfortunately, the type of person who is not distracted and always sees everything is right around the corner on Melrose: there’s a cop car parked in the middle of the street, facing the wrong way on a one-way. Joel pivots, to backtrack—or not, because there’s the woman and her bulldog again, the puppy happily bounding toward them on his long leash.

  Joel half turns, the cop car behind them, but then what’s in front of them is a whole parking lot full of cop cars. A hundred of them. Just a block away.

  Pieces of the route they’ve run fit together to form a mental map that proves Joel has been just as distracted as any grown-up, because he’s led them directly to the police station known as Area Three, the whole north side’s detective’s bureau.

  What’s left of adrenaline gives it another go and Joel races Butchie past the cop car, across Belmont, and over a blur of blocks. Traffic runs with them, one car and then another coming up from behind, but Joel never looks back; he just keeps on until the street dead-ends, a fenced property and gated drive preventing them from traveling any farther south.

  A tree hangs over part of the gate, its branches drooping enough so that Joel can tuck in with Butchie there, the dog’s ears up, radars going.

  Joel watches through the branches as a car approaches, slows, and turns off before the dead end. A few minutes later, another car follows the same path. And then another. After a while, he’s mostly sure the squad won’t be coming along. He was lucky. That song still buzzes way inside his ears: Runnin’ down a dream. They are. And he can’t get cute; he can’t get them caught.

  He gets up on his knees and hugs Butchie. The dog squirms; he’s in guard mode and wants all his wits about him. Still: “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Hare.”

  On the other side of the gate, boats on wheeled frames and trucks on blocks flank a drive that runs parallel to a squat, brown-brick building. More trees border the lot to the west and south; against those, stacked-up auto-body parts and broken-down semi trailers look like they’ve been sitting a long time. A band of red, yellow, and bright blue kayaks sits along the tree line; Joel would guess the place abandoned if not for those distant surprises of color.

  And, if there are kayaks: “Water.” Joel takes up Butchie’s leash. There’s got to be a way to it.

  They round the building, which seems to house some kind of industrial operation that isn’t currently in operation. Same with the business across the street: it’s unmarked and unmanned, windows covered.

  Past there, another chain-link fence stands in front of an empty lot. A black tarp caught on a few barbs of wire blows in the wind. This fence is not well made; then again, it’s protecting a field of weeds.

  A real estate sign tacked to the fence declares the property AVAILABLE. Next to the sign a rusted, padlocked chain hangs loose at the gate. The chain offers a lot of give, so Joel only has to give a little, and in one push he and Butchie are able to slip through.

  When Butchie discovers the river it takes all Joel’s strength, heels dug into the mud, to keep the dog up on the steep bank. Mostly. He does manage to get his front paws immersed. While he laps water, Joel closes his eyes, feels the sun on his face. Wishes they could swim.

  Until he smells something foul and opens his eyes and sees a fish floating belly-up, drifting on a slow current toward the shoreline. “No, Butch!” He pulls back on the leash, loses his footing over a mess of washed-up garbage they missed on the way down, and falls backward, on smashed glass.

  “Dammit!” he cries, his brief daydream—and his pants—ruined. He sits where he landed and picks the green-bottle glass out of the heels of his hands, mad, mostly, and tired.

  On the other side of the river, an old factory stands over the water; next door, a RIVER PARK LOFTS banner stretches across the top floor of a balconied building. Between the two, Joel can see in too many windows; he hopes nobody’s looking out.

  “Let’s not get caught here, boy,” he says, and gets up, leading the dog downstream through rough patches of bush, trash, and trees.

  Soon, they reach another
fence, this one covered in weeds, natural camouflage—a good place to stop, since the tree branches hang thick, providing cover from the opposite bank. Joel picks a spot near an old muddy tire full of crushed aluminum cans and other junk. He uses his jacket for a picnic blanket and sits; it’s no picnic at all, but from here he can see the Diversey Bridge stretching over the river, the street’s sign posted below the bridge railing.

  So he knows where they are; now he has to figure out where they’re going.

  He dislodges the backpack that’s near-glued itself to his shoulders, retrieves the map, and settles in.

  After a little while Butchie gets the picture and lies down; for him, a nap is obvious when offered.

  As for Joel, he’s just about got the map figured out when sleep makes him an offer, too, and he can’t refuse.

  17

  It seems like four days have passed when Pete emerges from the hospital. The hushed, early gray has been burned off by a bright, busy morning; the sunlight feels warm, as warm as it’s been in weeks. On campus, visiting hours have begun and families arrive, the women composed and quick to smile as they unpack bouquets and relatives from backseats, all the while working mental worry beads. The men appear preoccupied. They always do.

  Pete’s phone chimes, voice mail, now that he’s got service again. He gets into the squad and starts the engine; when he opens the windows he notices an Hispanic couple out the passenger side on the small patch of grass next to the main entrance ramp. There’s an outdoor waiting area right behind them, benches and a landscaped walkway, but apparently the grass is as far as they made it. There, the young woman has broken down, her face tear streaked. The man holds her in his arms, but he is no consolation. Because there is no consolation.

  Pete fastens his seat belt and adjusts the chest strap, then finds his heart to feel it beating. It isn’t the life lost that gets him; it’s those that are left, and lost just the same. Just like that, he thinks.

  God, he hates hospitals.

  He drives a few blocks and turns north for a quick stop home to check in, see what the girls have come up with. And to see if McKenna knows anything about the boys from York. On the way he keys the voice-mail code on his phone and listens to the first message, from Sarah.

  “Where are you? It’s after eight and I thought you’d have called, at least. I tried you earlier … I didn’t want to leave this on voice mail, but … I called 911, Pete. They’re sending someone over. McKenna is asleep, and I’m going out of my mind waiting. But I called everyone I could think of and I can’t think of anything else but Joel … I don’t think he is okay.” The silence after that is long enough for Pete to wonder if she hung up without a goodbye but then she says, “I hope you’re coming home.” And then she hangs up.

  Pete turns left at Belmont; no going home now. He hopes Sarah’s call bounced from Dispatch straight to Twenty without perking any ears along the way, but he’d better borrow an empty desk at Area Three, keep his head down, and do what he can while he can. Before it circulates, becomes news—more news—and the Job becomes an obstacle instead of an advantage.

  The next message is from Finn: “Murphy. What the fuck. Call Ann Marie Byers.” Eloquent as ever.

  He plays the third voice mail: “Pete, Ann Marie Byers. It’s Saturday, nine thirty. I’m at the office this morning. Please give me a call? My extension is four six six three. Thanks.” Working on a weekend and calling him direct: that doesn’t happen when things are under control, but Pete is pretty sure he can’t help her there.

  At the next red light, he gets his FOP book from the visor and finds the number for the Board of Education’s security office.

  A woman answers on the first ring; Pete doesn’t catch her name.

  “Morning,” Pete says, “this is CPD Officer Pete Murphy. I’m calling for some information on a student who used to attend Consuella B. York School.”

  “One moment.”

  After that moment, she comes back and says, “Sorry, Officer. The class records we have are for public schools only.”

  “York is a public school.”

  “York is a special case. My supervisor says you’ll have to call the Department of Corrections.”

  “Thanks.” Pete hangs up, drives through the six-way at Ashland and Lincoln, and pulls over in front of Scooter’s Custard—a place he used to take the kids when they were little. They probably wouldn’t remember. Actually, Joel would remember. In fact, he would know what he ordered the last time, years ago. Sure, Dad, I had the chocoloreo sundae with Gummi Bears or whatever. The memory on that kid. The smarts.

  Pete’s chest gets tight as bile comes up the back of his throat and he roots through his center console, but he’s out of antacids. It’s sick. The whole thing. Because Joel’s too smart to be lost.

  He opens the window and spits once, twice.

  He flips through the directory again for the Cook County Jail’s records department. He enters the number, punches zero to bypass the automated system, and gets kicked back to the main menu. He listens for the option to talk to a live person but there isn’t one, only branches to different robots. Of course; it’s Saturday. He’s going to have to go through the main switchboard.

  He plays along with another automaton, punching through a series of menus until he gets to the Department of Corrections, and then its security office. He’s listening for which number to press next and he thinks he’s getting close when his other line interrupts—a number he doesn’t recognize. He tries to ignore the call and winds up dropping both of them.

  “Son of a.” He hangs up and gets back on the street toward Three.

  As he approaches Oakley, a couple blocks away, his voice mail chimes.

  It’s McHugh. “Murphy, I just got a call from Mr. Northcutt. What, the fuck, are you doing working this case? I’m not sure if this is some kind of personal crusade for you, or if you’re as unhinged as they say, but I do know that I want you nowhere near this. Maybe I didn’t say that before. Maybe I assumed you knew that. Jesus. I never should have called you in the first place. Your daughter would be home and hung over and you’d be none the wiser. Can we pretend that’s what happened? Can you just stay the fuck out of it? Stay out of it. You got me?” Click.

  So much for a desk at Area Three.

  He follows Oakley through the Lathrop Homes, another of the CHA’s holdouts, with no route, no destination, no case, and no idea where his son or his dog could be.

  But he does have one thing: the York lead.

  He cuts back to Damen Avenue, drives through Bucktown. In traffic south of Armitage, he calls the jail again and goes through the automated rigmarole. He’s still selecting menu options when he arrives in front of Rima’s apartment building, and he hangs up, figuring he’s got two things: the York lead and Ri, who might be able to follow it.

  “Come on up,” she says through the call box, without asking who’s there. The front door buzzes and Pete hikes it up four steep flights. Of course the building doesn’t have an elevator; even if it did, Ri would use the stairs.

  Her studio door is cracked open and when Pete sticks his head in, Ri’s at the kitchen counter, her hands immersed in a bowl of batter. Pete smells something chocolate baking, maybe burning.

  “Hey, Petey,” she says, like she’s been expecting him. She’s wearing yoga pants—lotus flowers around the ankles and white flour on the thighs—a matching camisole, and a dirty white-knit cap with earflaps. The cap’s ties are knotted behind her neck, hanging like a tail. In keeping with the theme, which Pete hasn’t figured out, she’s covered her furniture and carpet with today’s Sun-Times, so the place looks like a giant birdcage. She’s listening to banda music, and her lips are painted mailbox blue.

  “Going … crazy?” Pete asks. He means to keep it light—has to—so Rima’s good voodoo won’t break him before he gets through the door.

  “I lost my manatee,” she says. “He got pinched stealing a game console. What’s your excuse?”

  “I c
an’t find my son.”

  Ri’s hands go to dough in the bowl. “Oh my god,” she says, “Joel.”

  “And Butch.”

  She wipes her hands on her pants as she comes toward him and then she gets up on her tiptoes and gives him a hug.

  She is warm skinned and she smells like vanilla extract and Downy and her hat is itchy against his cheek. She says, “Tell me,” but Pete just stands there and hugs her back, feeling like his guts are in his throat.

  The smoke alarm cuts the hug short.

  “Ding,” Rima says on her way to the oven. She opens the door, takes out the smoking aluminum pan, lets it smoke some more on the stovetop.

  “Will you open a window?” she asks, waving the mitts.

  There are only two windows in the place, so Pete picks the one closest to the disaster, unhinges the frame’s painted-over lock, and hoists open the window.

  Rima kills the banda music, clears the newspaper from her old tuxedo sofa, and climbs up on the seat cushions to reach the ceiling fan. She pulls the chain and then sits and motions Pete to join her.

  “Tell me,” she says again, like the cookies came out just fine. Her lipstick is the same color as the upholstery.

  “Last night,” he starts, and stops, because he hasn’t yet gone over it from the beginning. He sits down, only now noticing how much his back hurts, all the time spent in the squad.

  Ri says, “You left to pick up McKenna. You said she was in deep shit.”

  “She was at a party. A kid shot another kid, the cops showed up, they called me. I got her out of there.”

  Rima’s dough-battered hand has gone from her heart to her mouth and back again. “I thought you said Joel—”

  “I think he followed his sister there, to the party. With Butch. When I got McKenna home, Butch wasn’t in his cage. Joel wasn’t in his room.”

  “How do you know they followed her?”