The Practical Navigator (25 page)

The cell phone on his belt, turned to silent, vibrates, then vibrates again. Michael pulls it from its small plastic holster. He feels like an idiot, carrying it there—like wearing a plastic pen holder in a shirt pocket—but if he doesn't, it will be lost in an hour. He checks to see who's calling, already deciding he's not going to answer. Seeing who it is, he does.

“Hey, hello.”

“Michael,” Anita says. “Jamie's missing.”

Michael feels his heart turn over, feels a sudden pain just above his groin.

“I came to the school to pick him up and I was late and now he's not here and they can't find him, they can't find him, Michael.”

“Wait, slow down. What do you mean, can't find him?” Stupid question. Find is find, can't find is lost.

They've lost him.

Anita's voice, already shaking and strident, begins to further rise in pitch and tone. “I don't know they can't find him he's not here they're supposed to look after your kids aren't they that's what they're supposed to do, right—?”

“He probably got tired of waiting and walked home. Did you try the house?”

“Yes, I tried the house I talked to your mom he's not he's not there he would be shouldn't he?”

Michael is moving out of the office now, past Rose who's aware that something is wrong, heading for the door because beyond the door is the truck and it's one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, that's how you get places, that's how you get things done. Not by feeling sorry for yourself. Not when people—when
he
—is depending on you. Get the keys out of your pocket.

Wake the fuck up!

“Is Mrs. McKenzie there?”

“Who?”

Don't raise your voice. Keep your cool.

“His teacher, Anita.”

“Yeah, she's right here.”

“Let me talk to her.”

It's all going to be fine. Keep calm, keep focused.

“Michael, it's Karen.”

Be like Mrs. McKenzie who is a rock.

“How long has he been missing?”

“We're not sure. I know he was in class around two o'clock. No one's sure they've seen him since.”

“When did you call the house?”

“As soon as we knew. Your mother's been there all afternoon. She'll call us if he shows up. We've informed the police, Michael. They've sent out a car.”

“I'll be right there.”

He disconnects. He's driving now and it wouldn't do to get pulled over for being on a cell phone. The police have more important things to do.

*   *   *

Anita remembers the time in sixth grade when Tisha Beacham was supposed to pick her and Beth up after an after-school event. Glee club or some silly thing. Waiting. And waiting. For someone who was never late.
Never.
Other parents asking if they were okay. “Yes, my mother will be here any minute.” Only she wasn't. Beth beginning to cry. Anita quiet, silently daring her mother
not
to come, willing to stay in that one spot forever if she didn't.

Because this is your job and you're supposed to do it. You do everything right all the time. Except what you don't do.

But of course her mother finally did arrive. An hour late, Tisha Beacham pulled into the middle school parking lot, rolled down the window, and staring straight ahead simply said, “Get in.” On the way home, the ride deathly quiet, adding, “There was a mix-up.” Nothing more. Not a word. Until that night, lying in bed, Anita heard her parents going at each other. Neal Beacham, who had apparently been the one on pickup duty, out of his mind with anger—“You and your expectations!” and “I work for a living!”—making it all sound like battery acid. Her mother's voice never above a murmur, a wasp attacking a water buffalo to dreadful effect. “You can leave anytime.
Leave.
We don't need you. I don't need you. Play your golf and have your little assignations till the cows come home but you'll be doing it on your own dime.”

Even now, years later, Anita wonders if her mother's quiet fury was on her children's behalf or her own.

*   *   *

Michael pulls to a stop in front of the elementary school and gets out. There's a police car double-parked ahead of him and near the entrance he can see Karen McKenzie and the school's principal, Carol Udall, talking to two uniformed officers, one male, one female. Seeing him, Karen McKenzie excuses herself and approaches.

“They have another squad car going up and down the streets between your home and the school. They'll call in if they see him.”

“Do they know he's autistic?”

“Yes. We're also calling parents to see if there's any chance he went home with one of them.”

“He wouldn't.” Michael reaches for his wallet. “It might help if the police have some photographs of him.”

“They have them. Your wife had several.”

“Where is she?”

“Out on the playground.”

He sees Mrs. McKenzie hesitate. “What is it?”

“Michael, if I'd known she was going to be the one picking him up today…”

“Jamie was supposed to tell you.”

“He didn't.”

Michael can see tears glinting. Karen McKenzie may be a rock but she's a rock with a soft center.

*   *   *

Anita sits on the low rung of a jungle gym, a lit cigarette between her fingers. The steel bar behind her is quite literally a pain in the ass but right now pain feels good. The jungle gym is also a good distance away from the children and teachers who surround the after-school activities table. The last thing she needs right now are small voices asking questions.

“Why do they call it a jungle gym?” she once asked her mother.

“Because,” Tisha replied, “‘monkey bars' is impolite.”

“Why do they call them monkey bars?”

“Because,” her mother answered with some impatience, “children play like monkeys.” Unspoken but implied was that children playing like monkeys was unacceptable behavior at best.

The material on the ground under and surrounding the climbing bars is a heavy, soft, thick blue plastic pad, obviously there to protect a child should he or she fall. She should make a dress of it. And then climb deep into the center of the jungle gym where no one can get to her.

“There's no smoking.”

Anita opens her eyes to look at Michael. “Any news?” she asks, not dropping the cigarette.

“The cops are out looking between here and the house. They'll call in when they find him.”

“When will that be?”

“They'll find him, Anita.”

“And if they don't?”

“Let's not go there.”

“This is because of me.”

“Why, because you were late?”

“Because I insisted on picking him up. Because he doesn't even know me.” Anita pushes her lower back into the metal joist, pushes harder. “Who am I? Some sleazy stranger who shows up out of nowhere and inserts herself into his life? What was I thinking?”

“Stop.”

“I can't stop, I can't. If anything happens to him—”

“This is not about
you.
” Louder than Michael intended. Anita's green eyes open wide. “He was looking forward to it, Anita. Now let's just find him and then you can blame yourself all you want to later, okay?”

“Okay.” Almost inaudible.

He turns away.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm not
leaving,
if that's what you're worried about.”

*   *   *

Even though everyone is complaining of drought conditions, Penelope feels she should water her plants. If not that, she should find something else to do, perhaps clean something, well, maybe not
that,
but she should keep busy, yes, because it's no good worrying, is it. Only she's afraid to go out back because even with the front door open and the gate open, if Jamie comes home and doesn't see her, doesn't know she's here, doesn't know she's in the back working, he might leave. She should make him a peanut butter sandwich which is what he likes after school. With the crusts cut off like a tea sandwich. Has she eaten today? She's not sure. Regardless, she's not hungry. They'll call when they find him. They'll call any minute. Of course they will.

“Abbie, here. Here, sweetness.”

Petting her dog's gray muzzle, once such a rich gold, calms her. “Oh, darling, would that I had your splendid nose. I'd go searching for him myself.”

Penelope rises from her chair. She goes into the kitchen. She wants to be sure the sandwiches are ready when her boys get home.

*   *   *

Michael enters the empty classroom. He moves to what he knows to be Jamie's desk and sees that his books are still there, that his backpack is slung over the chair. He crosses the room to the rows of cube storage units that line the wall to find that Jamie's Power Rangers lunchbox is also still present and accounted for. He should call Penelope and ask if he's come home yet. Only the little holster is empty because he's left his cell phone in the truck and really what difference does it make because he knows Jamie is all right, knows someone is going to call in to the school at any second and they'll all breathe a sigh of relief and this will be over.

“I'll get in a car. I'll drive away. I'll drive!”

A dread akin to nausea surges in Michael and he bolts from the classroom.

*   *   *

Not
leaving,
if that's what you're worried about.

He has every right to blame her. The right to say anything. Anita knows this. It's no big deal.

“Words are just words,” as her mother would say. “They can't hurt us.”

Wrong, Mom.

Words are more dangerous than jungle gyms. Words are what should be surrounded by protective padding. She wishes now she'd told Michael that it was her only cigarette, one long forgotten about and found in the bottom of her bag. And she isn't even smoking it, not really. Just letting it burn to a nub in her fingers.

*   *   *

Entering the lavatory, Michael strides to the row of sinks and turns on a faucet. He cups his hands, fills them with water, drinks and spits. He splashes water onto his face. Breathe, he thinks.

Breathe.

“I need paper.”

He's hearing things. He must be. A child calling from out in the yard. Ghosts in the pipes. Michael turns to face the row of toilet stalls that line the wall behind him.

“Jamie?”

He hears the lock turn. He sees the stall door open a crack. The little face peers out at him.

“Hi, Dad.”

Michael, moving to the stall, carefully pushes the door inward and kneels on the tiles so he is face-to-face with his son …

“Hi, Dad. Hi.”

 … and scoops the boy up, half off the toilet seat, pulling him close, vaguely aware that he's babbling as he does so. “Jamie, Jamie, Jesus, Jamie, what are you doing, what the hell, are you okay?”

“I have to wipe my bottom.”

“You what?”

“My
akole,
Dad.”

Akole.
Hawaiian for asshole.

Hawaiian for me.

Sometimes you don't know whether to laugh or cry and so Michael squeezes his son tight to his chest until it draws a protest …

“Dad!”

 … and just like Anita, but without the hiccups, alternates between both.

*   *   *

Karen McKenzie is trying to describe to a newly arrived plainclothesman what the missing boy was wearing and finding it difficult. The day, the students, clothes, and her brain all keep running together. Primary colors mix and produce nothing but brown.

“—red polo, wait, no—T-shirt, I think. Jeans and sneakers. Just like every other little boy.”

“Like that one?” says the man in the suit, pointing behind her. McKenzie turns. And sags in exquisite relief. Michael is walking from the school entrance, Jamie at his side. Thank God. All is not yet quite right with the world but her heart can beat again.

*   *   *

“Mom will pick me up,” Jamie is saying. A statement and a question.

Michael looks across the quiet playground, toward the jungle gym.

No one is there.

 

41

When her mother pulls into the driveway behind her, Anita realizes she has no idea how long she's been sitting in the car. It could be minutes, it could be hours, it could be days. “If you can't solve a problem by thinking about it for fifteen minutes, just stop,” Dr. Akrepede has told her. “Research shows that your odds of solving it after that is nearly zero. Take a break. Move on.”

“Move on to
what
?” Anita replied.

Has she even called Dr. Akrepede? She thinks she did. Yes, she got a machine. Leave a message. Call 911 if it's a real emergency. What constitutes a real emergency? The feeling you'd like to run over yourself with your own car? The desire to get quickly and quietly drunk? In the rearview mirror, Anita sees that her mother, wearing the cotton skirt and drab, sleeveless polo that Beacham women associate with golf, is now out of the car and reaching for groceries and so she quickly gets out as well. Better to pretend she's just arrived so as not to raise suspicion. Suspicion means you have to answer questions and that means you have to lie.

“Here, let me help you with those.”

Meaning the groceries. Tisha glances at her in surprise. “Why, thank you.” She hands Anita a brown paper bag, then stops, staring at her.

“You look pale.”

“Not the best of days.”

“Mmm. Will you be having dinner with us?”

“Not sure.”

“Well, there's enough.”

“Food or sustenance?”

“I swear, Anita,” says Tisha Beacham, frowning. “Sometimes I don't know what you're talking about.”