What I wouldn’t give for an older sister like that.
“But then she got pregnant. Our church is pro-life—zero tolerance on that one. Stella was seventeen. She had plans for college and a career and though she thought she was pro-life, it turned out she wasn’t. Long story short, she had an abortion and, on my mother’s orders, was banished. It is forbidden to mention her name. Anyone caught contacting her risks the exact same punishment. My story, I guess, is about a guy who had no problem believing what people who loved him told him, until he realized what that could cost. I ache every day. I go to sleep every night wondering if Stella hates me because, after all she did for me, I turned away.”
“And to double down on the plot,” I say, before I even realize I’m talking, “if you do go to her, you lose seven other people, all family.”
Mark massages his forehead. “And Jesus,” he says finally.
“Let’s hold off on Jesus,” Layton says. “As our fearless leader has always said, To Kill a Mockingbird is a whole different story if Boo Radley tells it. See, I go to church, too, and the Jesus I know would treat your mother like a money changer, no offense to your mother.”
“No offense to money changers,” Leah says.
Up goes the hand of Seth. “So, you start your story with the abortion, tell half of it in flashbacks, and fix the ending in a way that suits you. Who’s next?”
Mark bursts out laughing.
Sharon’s face is in her hands. When it comes up you can see she had the same reaction as Mark. “As abrupt and devoid of empathy as that may have sounded,” she says, “Seth might be onto something. Almost all writers will tell you they struggle with endings. The one they think they were working toward suddenly doesn’t work because of unexpected events that snuck into the story. Sometimes those unexpected events make the author think maybe she or he doesn’t know enough to tell that story, that more research is needed, either life research or library research. In the end, the more they discover—the more they know—guides them toward a truthful ending. By that I mean an ending that could really happen.”
Oscar says, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s possible Mark doesn’t know enough yet to bring his story home. It’s possible he sees the same choices Annie sees. But it’s also possible there are outcomes he hasn’t thought of because he doesn’t know about them, and maybe this is one of those stories he puts in a folder, while he catches up.”
“And,” Layton says, “as our Divine Librarian might say, Mark is not only the author of this story, he’s the author of his life.”
Sharon gives her knowing nod.
“Which means,” I say, not without a sense of personal irony, “if he changes his life, the story could go with it.”
A tear runs down Marks cheek.
Sharon says, “And Mark can’t leave the story in the folder too long because Stella needs to read it.”
It’s after midnight when my head hits the pillow, having obsessed most of the evening on Mark. I swear, family pulls through impenetrable barriers, barriers that seem to leave us no good choices. I picture his mother banishing (God, I hate that word) his sister from the family and I’m actually grateful I have an ignorant narrow-minded mother rather than a smart narrow-minded one.
Sweet dreams, Annie Boots.
Chapter
Twelve
“Really like to thank you for meeting with me,” Walter says, extending his hand.
“Any friend of Annie’s . . .” Wiz says.
“. . . is usually a pain in the butt,” I say before he can finish. “But this is different.”
Wiz says, “That’s because most of your friends are at an age where they couldn’t possibly be bearers of good news.”
“I don’t know about good news,” Walter says. “But I do have news.”
“At this point,” Wiz says, “almost any news would be good. Swear this department is buried . . . in caseloads, in paperwork and . . . what . . . an incapacity to help kids.” He shakes his head as if to throw out cobwebs. “Sorry, Mr. . . .”
“Call me Walter.”
“You have news.”
Walter nods slowly, glances sideways at me. “I know where Frankie Boots is.”
In unison, Wiz and me: “What?”
My first thought: “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s fine,” Walter says. “And safe. Has been all along.”
I’m stupefied! “Where? When did . . .”
Wiz puts up a hand. “Annie. Let the man talk. Go ahead, Walter. Where is he?”
“I’ve got him,” Walter says.
“Where did you find him?”
“I took him.”
Wiz sits forward. “What?”
“I took him,” Walter says. “From the park.”
The two men look at each other in silence for a sec, while I try to close my mouth.
“I came to see the swim contest,” Walter says. “I was tagging behind talking to a guy wearing one of those vet’s baseball caps when the craziness broke out. I saw the boy running in circles with his fingers in his ears, hollerin’ like somebody was beating him. He saw me and ran right at me, held onto my leg like a drownin’ man. I picked him up and clear as day, he says, ‘Help me, Grampa.’ He calls me that sometimes, even though it puts his mother in a real bad state. Don’t even know where he got the word; I sure didn’t saddle him with it.”
Wiz takes a deep breath. Sits back, chin in one hand, staring, then, “Where is he?”
“He’s with somebody safe; that’s a promise.”
“Walter,” I say when I can find my voice, “you let me think. . . .”
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he says. “I know how scared you’ve been, but until I figured out what to do, I couldn’t take any chances.”
I’m so glad to know Frankie’s okay, I don’t know whether to feel relieved or betrayed. Bastard could have told me anytime; he has to know I’d have never said a word.
“Walter,” Wiz says, “this makes you . . .”
“A kidnapper,” Walter says. “I know that. Knew it the minute I decided not to throw the little bugger back onto the Boots Whirligig. But I’m pushin’ seventy, and it’s not a young seventy—can barely sit on my hog more than half hour at a time. I could get three-to-five or life and there wouldn’t be a lot of difference. Like I said, the boy’s safe, where nobody will find him without me tellin’ ’em.”
“Jesus,” Wiz says, almost to himself. “What am I supposed to do here? I can’t pretend I don’t know this. I mean, we’re talking criminal action.”
Walter nods. “Your situation any more precarious than Frankie’s?”
That stops Wiz cold.
“Listen,” Walter says. “I been hearing about your outfit since way back, when I first met Annie’s momma. I’ll admit, I was never gonna get a clear picture from her, but Annie’s a fan, much as she can be, and her version is just a cleaned-up version of Nancy’s. I know you mean well, Wiz; I do. And I believe you’d do well if they’d let you. But man, you’ve got the occupation with the worst job satisfaction of any I can think of but maybe sewer taster.”
“Walter, there are rules.”
“Yes, there are, and you’re handcuffed by them. I’m not. I’m not a religious man, Wiz; don’t know God from no God from Christian God from Muslim God from Star Wars God. But I know this: there comes a time to account, if only to ourselves. If you’d seen that little boy’s face when he asked me to save him . . . well . . . I was there an’ I’m accountin’.”
“So you’d go to jail.”
“In a minute.”
Wiz nods toward me. “And leave these people wondering . . . without their child.”
“’Fraid so. I don’t know a hell of a lot, but I do know in my world, the child comes first. You’ve never seen that little guy so calm as he is right now. Annie’s going to find her way. Her mother’s going to be in about the same pain, no matter; she’s hardwired. Sheila’s had about all the chances she has com
ing, and nothing has changed. I wouldn’t be leaving anyone worse than I found them.” Walter stands. “Think about it, Wiz. A woman gets into some domestic violence situation, runs, goes back, runs, goes back. You folks send her to some domestic violence therapy group that does its absolute damnedest to convince her this guy isn’t gonna change; yet you take a kid and keep puttin’ him back and puttin’ him back and puttin’ him back. How’s that make sense?”
Wiz strokes his chin, looks back and forth between me and Walter . . . for what seems like a long time. Finally he says, “Look, why don’t the two of you go have some lunch and fight over how pissed Annie is about the fact that you didn’t tell her.” He frowns toward me. “I might have a plan, but I need to sit with it.” He rises, extends his hand to Walter. “You have my word I won’t do anything that you don’t know about first.”
I run around the table and hug Wiz.
“I just miss him,” Marvin says. “It was no fun getting ahead of his bad habits, but watching him play and engaging in these way crazy conversations . . . it felt like I was helping him. I just miss him.”
Marvin and I are out on a run. I’ve convinced him that thespian nerdiness doesn’t necessarily preclude physical fitness, and he’s agreed to give it a try. I don’t expect instant results, but winning the Olympic marathon begins with the first step.
Marvin says, “You remember that line you said you read in a book once?”
“Which one?”
“Something like . . . ‘If you want to see how something works . . .’”
I say, “. . . look at it broken.”
“That’s it. It’s what it felt like playing with Frankie . . . like I was seeing a broken kid, and some things started making sense.” He’s giving it to me three words at a time, between gasps.
“Things like what?”
“Like how things work for people. I mean, look at what all’s been said about Frankie; why he does that with his poop? Why does he engage in negative activity? It’s about control, isn’t that what you said?”
“I guess. That’s what his therapists told my sister.”
“Okay, so that’s what he does when he feels out of control, which is most of the time. So you look at that and say, that’s gotta be where control freaks come from. They’re out of control so they get it any way they can. Right?”
“Marvin, it might be that you think too much. You’re, like, too smart for your own good.”
“Yeah, yeah, but do you follow?”
“I follow.”
“Okay, so a little kid probably doesn’t choose the right thing to get control of, because, well, he’s a little kid. But take someone like my dad, who’s gotta be in control of everything. You can’t play a game without him pointing out your foolish mistakes. If he thinks I’m a little too much on the sensitive side, he has to tell me how tough I’ve gotta get. He’s always talking to Mom about how some guy or woman at the office just up and quit. Think that might just be because he’s as hard to work for as he is to live with?”
We’re about a quarter mile from home because a run to Marvin is a much slower undertaking than it is for me. “I hope this is going further than we’re going.”
“It is; I wonder if my dad is broken. I mean, you almost never see him smile. He’s like a radar machine, always scanning for what’s out of control. I’ll bet that’s why he doesn’t like Frankie very much. They’re both fighting for control, but Frankie’s more at a . . . like primitive level.”
Marvin’s right. When you’re around Pop, you’re always looking for the thing you might be doing wrong. Not really wrong, just wrong in his eyes. You’re never not vigilant around him.
I say, “I don’t know if I’d call him broken; I mean, he functions. You guys . . . we’re relatively rich. He has a successful marriage with Momma.”
“Maybe if you consider a marriage is successful because of its longevity,” Marvin says, “but do you think my mom’s happy? Can he have a successful marriage if she doesn’t?”
“She’s happy with you, Marvin. With us.”
“That’s motherhood,” he says, “not marriage. Geez, can we walk a minute?” He’s down to two big words per breath.
“You could run better if you’d quit talking.”
“Why would I run without talking?” he says. “How boring is that?”
We switch to a relatively fast walk.
“So all this came from you watching Frankie play?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to shut my mind off,” he says. “But yeah, ‘If you want to see how something works . . . ’”
We walk in silence for a block or so, and just as I’m about to suggest that we break into a jog . . . “I’m worried if my dad is broken, I might be, too.”
I’ve had that same thought about Nancy and me, especially when I look at Sheila. “I guess everyone with messed-up parents thinks that at one time or another.”
“I heard my dad say if they find Frankie, he’ll be banished from our home.”
I hate that word. I say, “He thinks Frankie connects you guys to my family. He told me not letting Frankie come back is for my good as well as yours.”
Marvin snorts. “My dad does nothing for somebody else’s good. If they do find Frankie and Dad won’t let him come back, I’m running away.”
I laugh. “You better run faster than this.”
“I just miss him.” He chokes on it.
“I miss him, too,” I say. We break into a slow jog, get another block, and I have to say it. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yeah, I can keep a secret.”
“I mean from everyone, but especially from your folks.”
“For sure.”
“They found Frankie.”
He stops. “What? Alive?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, God, where?”
“I don’t know for sure, but somebody does.”
“Do the cops know? Did anybody call ’em?”
“No. It’s not a cop thing; at least I hope not. But serious, Marvin, you can’t tell anyone. I told you because I know how it feels to wonder. Swear, buddy. Nobody hears this from you.”
“I promise. I promise; I swear. God damn. But a time will come, right? Like when everyone knows?”
“Yeah, there’ll be a time.”
I really hope it’s not a time when I’m visiting Walter in jail.
“Cell phones on the table,” Wiz says, and I dig mine out of my pack. Walter removes his from his leather vest.
Wiz places his beside them. “Can’t afford to see this conversation popping up on YouTube,” he says, and leans his forearms on the conference room table. Wiz is one of those guys whose body is as strong as his mind—lean and sinewy with, like, zero body fat. He inspires trust. “I may have found a way out of this that works for everyone, Frankie especially.”
Now Walter leans forward, too.
“If it doesn’t work,” Wiz says, “let’s hope you and I get a cell together, Walter.”
Walter grimaces. “I don’t want you—”
Wiz holds up his hand. “All due respect, I didn’t craft this little piece of trickery for what you want.”
Walter turns his palms up.
“I ran this past my wife about two-thirty this morning. She’s a pediatric nurse, so it was probably no fun losing the sleep, but she’s been telling me for years to get into another line of work. This is the first time she thought maybe my career choice wasn’t completely ill-thought-out.”
“Seems like a righteous way to make a living to me,” Walter says. He probably means relative to selling motorcycles, working intermittent night shifts at convenience stores, and doing odd jobs under the table.
“Yeah, well, righteous doesn’t always get the job done. They pay you lower-middle-class wages, which is no big deal—no one figures to get rich off hurt kids—but then they put you in a strait jacket. They won’t fund treatment programs they know would work because they cost too much, and the courts cater to parents’ rights
over kids’ rights every time. We’ll run a kid back and forth till they’re exhausted just because the public defenders get some brand-new fresh-out-of-college, know-nothing therapist to say the parent is ‘making progress.’ You want to know what kind of progress Nancy Boots was making while she was trying to get Annie’s sister back? She learned to sneak somebody else’s pee into the bottle. She got smarter and smarter in parenting classes because she’d taken them so many times. Even Rance—he who doesn’t leave a footprint—got infinite chances. We knew. We had the best child developmentalist in the region, gave us cutting edge information on attachment. We should have taken Nancy into foster care and the kids with her; Rance if he was willing to go. If I remember right, that was Annie’s idea. But that would be run by experts, and experts expect to be paid a decent wage. See, if Nancy messes up in that situation, the kids’ needs are still covered. And if she can’t make it, they see her not making it, instead of hearing that she can’t, and having to listen to her lies about evil caseworkers during hour-long visits, and getting confused thinking there’s something they could do; or should have done.” He looks directly at me, sweat trickling down his temple. “What the hell,” he says. “I’ll get off my soapbox.”
“But you’re headed someplace with this,” Walter says calmly. “To your idea about Frankie.”
“Yes I am.” He sits back. “Look, the only people who know Frankie’s real situation, other than whoever’s got him, are sitting here in this room. What if he reappears? Somebody brings him into social services, and I’m the one they bring him to. I get my expert to do the forensic interview, work with Officer Graham to let that interview stand for them as well as us; we provide the police a transcript. We place him, keep the placement confidential for his protection, put this bad boy to bed.”
“How’s that gonna be different,” Walter asks. “Puts him right back where he was.”
“Not if whoever’s got him now is willing to keep him. He’s got access to you there, and you’re who he ran to. He can have contact with Nancy, through you, and Sheila if and when she shows back up.”