Finding Jake (3 page)

“I met her at our closing. Didn’t she move down Route Five, closer to the high school?”

”Yeah,” Karen said. “But she’s really unhappy. Says the neighbors don’t even talk. We are so lucky.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I, for one, could go days (maybe weeks) without talking to the neighbors. Not that I disliked them. There were days I could go without talking to anyone, a new trait that expressed itself since I’d left the office. Conversations at work, whether about the job or not, had been simple. In the suburbs, though, the same exchanges left me either confused or apologetic. Rachel said it was due to the fact that I had no ability to talk about women’s issues. I figured the answer couldn’t be so simple, because talking to the men came no easier. She could still be right. The truth was that I didn’t walk either path anymore, not fully. I certainly was not a woman, yet sometimes I didn’t feel too much like a man, either.

As expected, the other women did not seem to share this condition. They prattled on about this and that, much as I had in the office, without seeming to stumble. Their conversations hung like riddles, so obvious to the tellers yet so utterly befuddling to me.

“I bet it’s nice being closer to the school, though,” I finally added, talking about Sue’s move.

Karen looked over my head, as if my words hung floating in a little comic bubble. With a shrug, she made eye contact again. “Are you all unpacked?”

Jake picked up a stick. He didn’t swing it at Bo, but Bo screamed and ran toward his mother. My son must have thought that was funny because he gave chase, again.

“Jake.”

I used my fatherly tone. Karen startled and Jake froze.

“Whoa,” she said, laughing uncomfortably, Bo clinging to her leg.

My brain hurt. I wondered if that
whoa
had been directed at Jake, at his stick, or at my fatherly tone.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “He’s a little feisty today.”

“No problem. So, are you all done decorating?”

Later on, after I went inside, I wondered if she wanted me to invite her in. I’m sure that’s what a normal mom would do. At the time, I felt oddly uneasy and just answered her.

“Rachel is moving along. The house is a little country for her, but she’s trying to modern it up.”

Karen chortled. “If you don’t like country, why’d you buy this house?”

The house was a twenty-seven-year-old colonial with light green
siding and black shutters. Rooms blocked off the layout, unlike the open areas common in newer houses. Her question, however, seemed pointless to me.

“The schools,” I said.

“Oh,” she answered, once again staring at that comic bubble over my head.

Rachel arrived home at six fifteen that night. Jake and I stood in the den, dressed and ready to go to Rachel’s sister’s for dinner.

“Getting home early, huh?”

I didn’t mean to sound snide, but her tardiness left me stressed. Really, it wasn’t that she was late. I just wanted her to call and let me know. I had used up all my ideas for how to entertain Jake. I could have put a show on but I didn’t want Rachel to come home and see him plopped in front of the tube.

“Sorry. I got caught by someone as I was walking out. I just couldn’t get them to shut up.”

I didn’t say anything.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“You could have called.”

“I said sorry, Simon. I mean it. I feel awful.”

I remembered how that kind of stuff happened all the time at the office. Unfortunately, it had been a long day and I was tired. We packed up the car and drove to her sister’s house mostly in silence. I decided I should tell her about Jake’s day. That eased the mood and by the time we arrived, everything flowed again.

Once there, Rachel slipped into the kitchen with her sister and I sat down on the couch next to Uncle Marky. His youngest, eight-year-old Connor, looked like Gulliver next to my Jake’s Lilliputian. I slipped to the edge of my seat, sure every move Connor made would
crush my son’s skull or break his arm. I thought Mark sensed my discomfort. He smiled.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“I mean, staying home. It’s tough, huh?”

I looked at him, debating. I sensed his desire to connect with me on a common ground. At the same time, I hesitated. For some reason, I felt guarded. Sometimes, I just didn’t want to admit it was tough.

“No, it’s good,” I said. “I was teaching Jake how to crossover today.”

Mark laughed. “A regular Allen Iverson.”

“You got that right.”

I could see Mark wanted more. For an instant, I actually thought about opening up. This man had endured my life already. Mark could be an invaluable resource. At that moment, I simply was not up for it.

“Dude,” he said, “I get it. When the kids were little, I never wanted to talk about it, either. People would come up to me and say,
Hey, so-and-so is a stay-at-home dad, too. You two should hang out
. I never took them up on the offer.”

“Why not?” I asked, some of my guardedness fading.

“I honestly have no idea.”

Hearing him say that was so liberating. “I get it. Sometimes, when I talk, I feel like all that comes out is the tough stuff about staying home. But it’s not all bad. It’s just really different.”

“Exactly.” With an effortless turn of the head, he called out to his son, Connor. “Don’t touch that.”

I laughed. “Eyes in the back of the head.”

He nodded.

For a moment in time, I felt totally understood.

On the ride home, I told Rachel about my exchange with Karen that morning.

“Maybe Karen was offended by that school comment.”

“Why?”

She laughed, but not in a mocking way. “We don’t all think like you. Karen did not decide to live in her house, invest in her neighbors, buy into the
village
because of a simple, logical thought. To her, it’s bigger than that, but more ethereal. It is about community, and safety, and belonging. It’s about totally loving where she has decided to raise her children. By simplifying it like you do, it makes her think that none of the stuff that is so important to her matters even one bit to you.”

“Huh?”

She laughed. “I’m just trying to help.”

When we got home, I carried Jake, fast asleep, up to his room. He stirred but did not wake when I laid him gently down among his warm blankets and plush toys. I stood there, watching him for a moment, taking in the amazing fact of his existence. Rachel appeared at my side and grabbed my hand. We stood there for so long, like we were afraid to let that perfect moment pass.

Eventually, we tore ourselves away and padded to our bedroom. Rachel snuggled under the covers, the light on and a book on her raised knees. I got ready for bed, thinking about the night, about our conversation in the car, and finally the fight we’d had when Rachel got home from work. I decided I should apologize.

“Hey, sorry about giving you the business this evening.”

“Which time?” she said, winking.

“When you got home from work.”

I climbed into my side of the bed and she turned off her light. Neither of us moved. The silence seemed strange, not unpleasant, just not that common since we’d had Jake. I enjoyed it for a moment, then inched closer to my wife.

“How was work today?” I whispered.

She sighed. “Okay.”

In a quiet tone, she told me a story about a secretary who couldn’t get along with one of the new lawyers. I listened, and responded, and
as she spoke, I put my arm around her. She nudged closer to me and I marveled at how graceful she was.

“How are you doing?” she asked after her tale ended.

“I’m okay. That is, when I’m not pissing off the neighbors.”

She ran her hands through my hair. It felt good, reminiscent really.

“You’re a great mom,” I said from out of nowhere. The comment had not been planned out. It just appeared in my mind when I pictured her carrying Jake around before dinner that evening. He smiled at her when she kissed his cheeks. It had been such a real moment, beautiful and warm.

She moved again, this time her arms enfolding me. Her head rested on my chest. The warmth spread out from her, holding me tighter than her arms ever could. We kissed. Tentatively at first, as if it had been months. She whispered my name and I pulled her tighter to me, feeling her warmth spread even farther across my body as the stresses of life vanished.

I slipped the T-shirt she wore over her head. Our bare skin touched in that wonderful way, that surging instant that settles too quickly but leaves you wanting it over and over again.

“Mommydaddy
.”

Jake’s call poured over Rachel like a cold shower. She pulled away, one becoming two again.

“Oh God,” she said, guilt behind her words.

“I’ll get him,” I said.

“No, I want to. I just . . .”

Rachel got up and grabbed her T-shirt. I could see the flush of her cheeks receding as she covered herself and hurried out of the room. I leaned back, listening to her soothing voice as she comforted our son. To be honest, I felt torn. Part of me felt warm hearing just how great a mother Rachel was. Another part of me, a part I was not proud of, had a different thought. That part wished he hadn’t woken up.

DAY ONE: TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THE SHOOTING

Cars, all facing the same direction, jam the two-lane road leading to the school’s entrance. Drivers lurch out of doors left open and run between the eerily still vehicles toward a bank of flashing lights, painting panicked faces in vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges.

I slam to a stop behind a white Ford Explorer, same year as my truck. The line of vehicles stretches for at least half a mile. Cars pile in behind mine as I jump out and race toward the school. Police have cordoned off the drive that runs up a steep hill to the entrance. A mob of parents, a vast majority being mothers, pack in, pressing against the yellow hazard tape. High-pitched questions merge, forming a shrill and frightening white noise that fills the air long before I arrive.

Without thinking, I run off the road and cut through the field that spreads toward the side of the school. Breaking into a sprint, I ignore the heated shouts telling me to stop. I have to get up there, to stop this madness. A drainage trench that leads to a storm-water retention basin runs parallel to the street. I leap over it. Before I take two more steps, a strong grip locks onto my bicep. Momentum swings
me around and I face a large man in full body armor, SWAT emblazoned across his chest. He holds what looks like an automatic rifle in his other hand. I cannot see his face through the tinted visor attached to a black helmet.

“Down,” he orders.

His voice is neither angry nor soft. I drop to the ground. An instant later, another officer, this one in a Delaware State Police uniform, appears. He lifts me off the ground and ushers me back across the gully.

“Sir, I understand you are worried about your child, but you have to be calm. We are asking all the parents to congregate inside St. Michael’s, across the street. We will brief everyone once we have news.”

A loud pop echoes down from above. The officer thrusts himself between me and the school, thinking it gunfire. I freeze, staring over his shoulder, my heart flailing against my chest. He must decide it is not, because his stance eases. From over his shoulder, I can see up to the school. A police officer comes out of the gym exit. Even from that distance I can see he is wearing surgical gloves. They are stained red with blood.

The officer pushes me and I move. A hook and ladder rolls up on the grassy shoulder and turns onto the drive. As it passes, I see the firefighters are wearing body armor over deep blue uniforms.

The noise becomes overwhelming. Hundreds of people shouting, talking, crying, and screaming. I cover one ear with a hand and stagger along beside the officer. The scene appears jagged and torn. Cruisers are parked at haphazard angles. People sway and move in jerky fits, and it’s as if I can see some awful disease spreading through the mob. I am led through a throng of mothers; one reaches out for the officer’s arm. He brushes her off, briskly, and takes me to the entrance of the church.

“Go inside. Sit down. Understand?”

I nod, but my attention focuses on a woman standing next to me.
She leans against the sign for the church. Her body language telegraphs an inappropriate calm. I feel physically uncomfortable looking at the slope of her back and the way her feet are crossed. Then I see her eyes. They are the eyes of a ghost, a shell of a human. Damp tracks run down both of her cheeks and I am left wondering,
What is she seeing that I am not
?

The church is now full. Minutes pass like hours. At first, no one speaks. We sit in the pews, shock spreading like a yawn. The woman next to me glances up at one point and quickly looks away. I do not know her. I watch as she scans the congregation (as it is). With a brisk wave, she moves, scurrying like someone bent at the waist to avoid the blades of a helicopter. She settles in beside another woman. They hug.

One other man waits. He stands in the corner by the door. I nod to him and he nods back. Minutes pass again.

After a while, the gossip starts. It is not everyone, only a few. I hear snippets of news, although I cannot fathom how any of them have heard anything.

“The science labs,” I hear.

My mind races. Jake is in AP chemistry. He has lab almost every day. My stomach rolls when I realize it is about this time. I have to remind myself that these mothers cannot know anything yet. No officer has entered the church since I arrived.

I can take it no longer. I stand, stretching my legs as a pretense, but approach the other man. His name is Steve Yants. His son played Little League with Jake. I lean against the wall beside him. Neither of us speaks. What is there to say?

“Have you heard anything?” I finally ask.

He shakes his head.

“They said something about the science labs,” I add.

He shrugs. “You know how they are.”

I understand what he is saying. He’s not talking about
moms
. He’s talking about those parents who tend toward being know-it-alls, the ones who speak first (and most often). I chose not to mention that those same parents did tend to know things long before I did.