Learning to Swim (11 page)

In Baker’s downstairs bathroom I pulled on jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. When I came out, Dumond had changed to khakis, a button-down shirt, and soft leather lace-up shoes. Scrambling around on the hillside would probably ruin these clothes, but at least they were sturdier. And less expensive.

Baker insisted that everyone gulp mugs of coffee and eat sandwiches while she filled a thermos and gathered supplies. Then I heard the sound of Dave’s rattletrap old Pontiac, and ran to the door. The car doors opened and bodies piled out: Tiger, then Zach, Dave, and Patrick—young, muscular, full of energy, wearing sweatshirts and faded jeans, almost like a uniform. I ran to meet them and they surrounded me, a warm protective ring, not quite touching me, but close.

“Sixteen minutes, flat,” Dave said proudly, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes. Patrick balanced on the balls of his feet, bouncing up and down; Zach gave my arm a little punch.

“Hey, don’t w-w-worry,” he said. “We’ll find him.”

We walked in silence to Holly and Tom’s house, armed with flashlights. The sky was starting to dim and we could feel the incoming chill. Holly shooed all the kids inside, where her younger sister was waiting to watch them. Baker set up a base at the bottom of the hillside with a lawn chair, spare flashlights and batteries, first aid kit, thermos, blankets, and air horn. She’d rounded up these things with so little effort that I could only assume that households with three small boys keep them stashed away for emergencies. Dumond was restless, impatient to get started, but waited for Mike’s instructions.

Two neighbors Holly had called joined us. We’d sweep up the hill in rows in pairs, Mike said, and try to cover every inch of ground and every place a small boy might take shelter. Dumond teamed with me, which somehow I’d expected.

I’d had Zach bring over the clothes Paul had worn yesterday, and Tiger obligingly sniffed them. I had no idea if she knew what I wanted, but she can track an invisible squirrel across a field and find a peanut that’s rolled under a couch, so maybe she could find a lost little boy on a steep, overgrown hillside.

For the next hour we plunged through dense underbrush, Tiger scooting under thick bushes and tree branches we had to battle through. Sometimes I got down on my hands and knees and crawled, holding the flashlight in my teeth, with the light shining crazily off to the side. Sometimes I had to call to Tiger to wait. Sweat was trickling down my back despite the coolness of the evening. I was very aware
of Dumond’s presence. I was praying silently, over and over,
Please let us find him, please let me have been right about his father. Please please please
. Now Tiger was sniffing at the ground, following a scent, and I hoped we weren’t painstakingly tracking a deer or a squirrel. We seemed to be zigzagging, and occasionally I’d catch sight of a bobbing light from someone else’s flashlight. So much for Mike’s plan of careful linear searching.

Then Tiger plunged ahead, into a thick bramble, woofing. I knelt and played the flashlight ahead of me. I could see a tunnel-like opening in the brush, about the diameter a small child could crawl through, too small for either of us. Tiger dived in. I strained to hear. Was she nudging, licking, greeting a small boy? My pulse quickened. Dumond’s hand was gripping my shoulder. He didn’t speak—maybe he couldn’t. What could you say when you might see the son you thought you’d lost forever?

“Paul, Paul,” I called softly. “
C’est Troy. Tu es là?
Are you there?”

Silence. I called again, “Paul, please come out.
Il n’y a rien de dangereux ici
. You are safe. Please come out. Paul, Paul, come on, sweetie.”

Beside me, on his knees, Dumond didn’t move, but I could feel the pressure of his fingers on my shoulder. A tiny rustle, then another. The grip on my shoulder tightened. A small figure appeared, slowly, crawling through the tiny space, and then we could see Paul’s face, tear-streaked and more than a little grimy, with Tiger close behind, as if she was herding him out. I held out my arms and he scampered the rest of the way and fell into them.

“Vous êtes revenue,”
he squeaked.
“Vous êtes revenue pour moi.”
You came back for me. I could feel Dumond beside me, shaking in tiny tremors.

My heart did that funny twisting thing again. I clung to Paul. I could feel the breath going in and out of his body, in unison with my own. “
Chéri, chéri, chéri,
” I whispered. “
Tu es fou de te cacher
. You are silly to hide like this.” Dumond must have moved or made a sound, because Paul lifted his head and saw him. Paul’s small body tensed in my arms. I turned his face toward me. “
Paul, ton père est ici. Il était
inquiet pour toi. Tu lui as beaucoup manqué.
” Your father is here; he is worried about you; he has missed you a lot.

In the glow of the flashlight, Dumond’s face was haggard, naked with emotion so raw my stomach turned over. Now Paul was trembling a little. I gave him a nudge, and then he was in his father’s arms, and Dumond was murmuring French so fast and low I couldn’t understand a word. Paul was saying,
“Papa, Papa, Papa,”
over and over. They were both crying, the dark heads close together. I backed away and sat against a log. I was drained. I’d reunited a father and child; I’d lost a child who was never mine. I’d filled a hole in Dumond’s life, but had carved one in mine. Only now did I realize how intense had been my dream of keeping Paul, protecting him, loving him, watching him grow up.

It was a long trek down the hill, Dumond carrying Paul, me playing both flashlights in front of us. At the base, Baker was waiting, ever-patient, calm and ready. I fell into her arms wordlessly. Guess I forgot I wasn’t the hugging type. Baker held tight and patted my back once, before releasing me to give the air horn a blast. She knew what I’d found, and lost again.

She turned to Paul. “Hey, little guy,” she said. “You sure gave us a scare.” She ruffled his hair and snuggled a blanket around him, still in his father’s arms. People began to straggle off the hill, weary but ebullient. We stopped to collect the kids from Holly’s house, and trekked back to Baker’s house together. Mike called the Saranac Lake police to report we’d found Paul, and Dumond made a call, I suppose to leave a message with the Ottawa police.

It was a crazy celebration: eleven adults, most of whom hadn’t known each other before, plus eight kids, crammed into Mike and Baker’s kitchen area. We were tired, dirty, and nearly giddy. Baker kept the table filled with sandwiches, chips, cookies, beer, and soda, and I think even she was amazed at how much my housemates ate. I had to tell three times how Tiger had found Paul. Paul, ensconced in his father’s arms, piped in with bits of French and English mixed together that made everyone laugh. Mike and Zach had found the cave
and Zach had squeezed in, but found nothing other than a few drink cans and empty chip bags. Mike Jr. and Jack strutted around, proud that they may have helped find Paul by telling about the cave, never mind that their tales had probably enticed him to go cave hunting in the first place.

No one knew why Paul had hidden himself up on that hillside, that far from the house. When we’d asked if something had scared him, he’d just shrugged. Maybe he had been looking for a great hiding place. Or maybe he had been worried about seeing his father. It didn’t matter now. Dumond sat with his arms lightly around his son. He was deeply fatigued but looked years younger, a different man than the one I’d met that morning. Finally Baker took her youngest son off to bed. Holly’s two youngest had already fallen asleep on the sofa.

I stirred and looked at the wall clock: 10:15. Unbelievable that I’d just left this kitchen this morning to head for Ottawa. “I need to go home,” I said, into a momentary silence, and stood. I looked at Dumond, across the table. “You can stay at my house.” I was too tired to make it sound gracious.

Dumond nodded. Zach, Dave, and Patrick hopped up to leave, grabbing sandwiches on their way out.

We loaded our bags into the Mercedes and tucked Paul into the backseat with Tiger, where he promptly fell asleep. I directed Dumond out of town and into Lake Placid, along Main Street and into my parking space. Never had my paint-peeling, ramshackle house looked so good. Dave’s car was already there, motor pinging the way old cars do after they’ve been shut off.

Carrying his sleeping son, Dumond followed me up to my bedroom. I set down Paul’s bag and pulled down the covers so Dumond could lay Paul in the bed. “You guys can have this room,” I said. I nodded toward the outer rooms. “The bathroom’s outside there, and there’s another bathroom downstairs, off the kitchen.”

He glanced around. “This is your room. Where will you sleep?”

I tugged a sleeping bag down from the top shelf of the closet. “On my sofa, out there,” I said.

He nodded, grimacing an apology at taking my bed. I was so tired that standing upright was a huge effort, and I was almost swaying on my feet. I turned to leave just as Dumond moved toward me. He put his right hand out and grasped mine, his skin warm against mine. “Thank you,” he said.

The contact of his skin on mine felt like a conduit, an opening into my soul. Suddenly I wanted to cry, long and hard. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me while I cried until I couldn’t cry any longer. I wanted to cry for Paul and for all the things I’d ever lost or never had. If I had looked at him I would have lost control. I muttered something, broke his grip, and left, pulling the bedroom door closed behind me.

By the time he came out to go into the bathroom, I’d brushed my teeth, washed my face, kicked off my sneakers, zipped myself into my sleeping bag, and wiggled my bra off from under my clothes. I closed my eyes to pretend I was asleep, and when I opened them it was morning.

I
LOOKED AT THE WINDOW WITHOUT RECOGNIZING IT, AND
squinted to see if the curtains had the cartoon character pattern of my childhood curtains.

Sometimes I think that when you’re in a deep sleep you regress into your past, and wake up with your psyche in an entirely different place and time, before you’ve made it back to the present. This morning I’d made it to about age eight, a relatively uncomplicated time.

Sounds came from downstairs: a shrill boy’s laugh, a man’s deeper tones, and a slightly higher voice punctuated by a stutter. My brain slowly identified them: Paul, Dumond, Zach. The window came into focus: chipped paint, the curtain I’d made from a sheet, the old glass that looks grungy even after just being washed.

Across the room my bedroom door stood open. I was alone. Even Tiger had deserted me.

I lay there a moment, and when I stirred, it hurt in a way I’d never hurt before. Deep-water swim one day, sit in a car six hours, and then crawl around in underbrush. My body wasn’t taking well to this new regimen. I regretted not having taken a hot bath last night.

I wriggled out of the sleeping bag and padded into my bedroom for clean clothes. The bed was neatly made, Dumond’s bag nowhere in sight. I stumbled back to the bathroom. I pulled the plastic shower curtain closed and stood under the spray with my eyes shut, for once not caring if I drained the hot water tank.

I’d found Paul’s father; I’d delivered Paul safely. My adventure
was over, and I had to reset. I had to block this mix of tumultuous emotions and move back into my safe, sane existence.

I had no idea how.

The anemic spray of the shower was beginning to run cool. I stepped out and toweled dry, moving slowly. Combing out my hair seemed impossible, even with my wide-toothed comb, and I gave up. My hair is so thick and curly that snarls just look like more curls, so it doesn’t much matter. I pulled on jeans and polo shirt, and headed downstairs barefoot, carefully holding the railing.

As I stepped out of the stairwell, faces looked up from the picnic table. Paul was almost bouncing, eyes shining, his face alive and bright in a way I couldn’t have imagined.

“Troy, Troy, Troy!” he chirped, as he untangled his legs from the bench. “Goot morning!” He ran toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist, and I automatically hugged him.

“Hey, hey!” Zach said, teeth flashing in a grin. “We’re all t-t-talking English today.”

“Good,” I said, almost dourly. My vocal cords felt as if they hadn’t been used for a year. “I don’t think I remember any French.”

Dumond sat at the table, hair damp, wearing a T-shirt and warm-up suit I recognized as Zach’s. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Zach was kind enough to lend me some clothing, and keep Paul company while I showered.”

“So I see.” Somehow he seemed right at home here, not out of place as I’d felt in his fancy office, his stately house, his expensive car. This annoyed me.

“Troy, Troy, come zee my things,” Paul begged, pulling at my leg. “
J’ai beaucoup de choses, beaucoup de jouets
. They are from
Papa
, from my
maison.
” He looked up at me, face bright and happy. Overnight he seemed to have turned into a normal kid, nothing like the thin pale wraith I’d held on my lap on the shore of Lake Champlain. Kidnapped, mother murdered, tossed off a ferry to drown, lost searching for a cave—apparently all that was behind him. He had toys to show me, a whole bagful, and that was what was important.