Finding Jake (7 page)

Everything rushes over me, my entire life, Jake’s entire life, everything that has happened, it all crashes on me like a tidal wave. I am drowning.

“Mr. Connolly?”

“Can I have some water?” I ask, my voice gravelly.

The officer looks me over. My primal instincts have vanished. He dissects me with his eyes. He picks at my guilt, my fear, and my failure. He understands it all, just as I suddenly did as well when he mentioned that name.

The officer walks out of the vestry. I am alone for some period of time, I do not know how long. The initial overwhelming blast of emotion fades. I am numb, but I am also aware again. When the officer returns with a woman in a wrinkled pants suit and a long, straight black ponytail, I am all too aware of what is going on.

“You think . . .”

I stop myself. As awful as it sounds, I need to be careful. I was about to say that they think Jake is somehow involved in all this. The reason I think this is simple—Doug Martin-Klein.

“Hello, Mr. Connolly, I am Detective Anderson. I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”

“Look, I’m going to find Jake.”

I stand up. The first officer squares off, blocking me from moving toward the door.

“Please sit,” Detective Anderson says. “We want to find Jake, too.”

I am enraged now. Her tone implies our desire to find my son does not share a motive. “What does that mean?”

Detective Anderson blinks. My phone rings again. It is Rachel.

I answer without asking if that’s okay. The detective waves her hand dismissively and looks at the officer.

“Rachel.”

“They think Jake’s involved in this,” she says, her voice near hysterics.

I look at Detective Anderson but talk to Rachel. “Are you okay?”

“What the hell? Didn’t you just hear me? They think Jake shot those kids!”

“I’m coming home,” I say. My voice sounds soulless, even to me.

Rachel sobs, gasping for breath.

“I need to get home,” I say.

Detective Anderson nods to the guy in uniform.

“Officer Gunn will drive you.”

“I have a car,” I say.

“We’ll get that to you. We need to have a look inside it first. Is that okay?”

“Inside my car?”

She nods. “We just want to make sure we find Jake.”

I don’t believe what she says. At least, I don’t believe her intent. Rachel’s words buzz behind my eyes, making my thoughts pulse like lightning. They think Jake shot those kids. It does not make any sense. Except . . . Except for Doug Martin-Klein.

JAKE: AGE SEVEN

Ten seven-year-olds screamed, hanging from the chain links like little apes. I let them. Some of the parents, and all of the other coaches, thought I was, at the least, disorganized. I liked the kids’ spirit, though. No one could say my guys weren’t having fun.

“Let’s go, Jakey,” I called out.

He stood outside the batter’s box, his cleats digging at the rust-colored infield mix. His shoes appeared so small that I smiled. If he knew I thought he looked
cute
, Jake would have killed me. Shaking my head, I turned to the other boys, the members of our team, the Johnson Plumbers, or as we liked to call ourselves, the Mighty Green Machine.

“Who’s up next?” They looked at me like I’d asked for the formula for rocket fuel. “Check the lineup. Remember?”

Ritchie and the other Jake, Jake T, hustled over. I turned back to the game. My Jake tightened one of his batting gloves and took up his stance. I found it amusing that all the kids owned two batting gloves, at least one bat, their own helmet, and at least one mitt.
Almost all of them stowed their equipment in a nylon baseball bag, including my son.

When we were kids, it was a little different. I remembered showing up for my Little League practices wearing Toughskins, a striped T-shirt, and hand-me-down sneakers, often from my sister. The coach showed up with a chewed cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and four (or less) batting helmets (most missing sections of foam), two aluminum bats, and (hopefully) some catcher’s gear. One kid came to the first game sporting a single batting glove. We all looked at him in awe and ignored the fact he struck out twice. He became our idol, or at least his batting glove did.

Jake hacked at the first ball, swinging so hard that he nearly fell over. I noticed his cheeks getting red.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I whispered.

“What, Coach?” Ritchie barked out behind me.

I turned and smiled at him, noticing one of the other kids behind him.

“Carter, stop eating that,” I said, walking over.

Carter, a kid with bristly hair and flat eyes, sat in the dirt, crisscross-applesauce (the new PC term for Indian-style I’d learned from Jake’s preschool teacher). His pudgy hand, an inch from his open mouth, held a spilling mound of infield mix. His eyes met mine and he jammed it into his face. Most of the dirt puffed into a dust cloud surrounding his bulbous head but I could see dirt covering his tongue and teeth.

“Wow,” I said.

“Carter hit me,” Ben said.

“What?”

Ben was our power-hitting, best-catching, soon-to-be pitcher. I could not fathom Carter hitting Ben.

CRACK!

I spun around in time to see the baseball flying over the shortstop’s head.

“Runrunrun,” I called out, but Jake was already at first. He flew around the bases as the left and left-center fielders just looked at the ball rolling between them in the thick grass of the outfield.

“Get the ball!” their coach screamed.

Jake kept running. The Mighty Green Machine, sans Carter, sprang up and threw itself against the fence. The chains rattled as they cheered.

“JAKEJAKEJAKE!”

Finally, the left fielder retrieved the ball. By that time, Jake was headed to third.

“Whoa!” My hands went out in front of me, willing Jake to stop. I would have hated seeing him get thrown out after such a great hit. I forgot we were talking about seven-year-olds here. The throw from left careened past the third baseman, hitting the fence of our dugout.

Jake’s (cute little) cleat hit the bag at third and he headed home. The catcher, looking very professional, threw his helmet down and squared off in front of the plate. Jake bore down on him as the third baseman raced after the ball. He picked it up in enough time to make the throw. It flew on a rope right to the catcher, but that massive glove failed the kid. The ball struck the leather and popped up. Jake slid into home, safe.

The team (sans Carter) stormed the field as Jake ambled back to the dugout. They jumped on him and around him, patting his back and knocking on his helmet. He smiled and laughed, but did not say anything.

In that moment, I felt such amazing pride in my son. Looking back, I could say that there were countless better reasons to be proud of him. I barely went a day without stopping and looking at him, seeing how great a kid he’d turned into. The truth was, though, that there’s something about that moment watching your kid do something great, whether it’s a spelling bee, a dance recital, or a baseball game. Leaning on the fence, I watched him handle his
moment with a composed but good-natured reaction. I listened to the other kids talk to him in the dugout.

“Nice one,” Ritchie said.

“Yeah,” Ben said.

“Did you see that thing?” Ritchie said. “You killed it.”

Jake nodded and smiled. He answered a couple of questions. Me, I tried to focus on the game, not wanting to show too much. I knew that if I made a big deal of it, it would embarrass him. So I waited and continued to eavesdrop.

“That kid on third tried to trip you,” someone said.

“Nah,” Jake answered. “I don’t think so.”

I thought Carter said something behind me, but when I looked back, he had just jammed more dirt in his mouth. For only a second I considered retrieving the ball for posterity but decided that would be passé. Instead, I turned to look at the team, expecting Jake to still be in the middle of the throng, but he sat alone on the bench, stowing his gear.

After the game, Jake and I loaded up the car and headed home. He buckled himself in and I looked at him through the rearview mirror.

“Nice hit,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“You tore the cover off it. That was our first home run. I’m really proud of you, bud.”

“Ben hit one last week.”

“No, he stopped at third, remember?”

Jake looked out the window, but I could see his smile.

“Your team was happy for you.”

He nodded.

“How come you sat by yourself?”

I immediately regretted the question. Jake, however, did not miss a beat.

“I don’t love crowds.”

I laughed, amazed at such self-awareness coming out of a seven-year-old.

“Carter’s a weirdo,” he said after a while.

“What makes you say that?”

“He eats dirt. Plus, he hit Ben.”

I still couldn’t understand that. Ben was the alpha dog on the team. In my day, if a kid like Carter even looked funny at a kid like Ben, Carter would have been eating dirt in the old-school sense (not that he would have minded, I guess).

I sensed a teaching moment. Taking a deep breath, I thought about my words before I said them.

“I understand what you are saying, Jake, but it is important to be nice to everyone. I won’t make you be friends with Carter. I’ve never made you be friends with anyone. But you should be nice. Look, it’s probably hard for him being on the team. He hasn’t hit the ball yet, and he can’t catch . . .”

I knew immediately I should not have said that. Sometimes I spoke to Jake as if he was older than his actual age. When I glanced back, though, he didn’t seem to react.

“All I’m saying is, just be nice to him.”

“But he shouldn’t have hit Ben,” Jake said.

“That’s true.” I nodded thoughtfully. “But still. You should be nice.”

What I wanted to add was that considering Carter appeared to be a total loon, you didn’t want to be on his
list
when he went bat crazy. I knew enough to leave that part out.

Maybe a week after the game, I waited at the bus stop, surrounded by a dozen adults chattering in three distinct pods. I lingered on the fringe, watching Laney. She ran across the yard (Tairyn’s), chasing Becca (Tairyn’s daughter) and her little sister Jewel. The girls, all below school age, shrieked and giggled.

“Hi, Simon.”

I turned my attention away from the girls and found that Tairyn had slipped in beside me.

“Hey there,” I said.

“How’s Rachel? I saw on Facebook that she’s in London.”

My wife’s job had recently expanded to international business law. This sent her across the pond and back quite often.

“I think so,” I said.

“You
think
she’s in London?” Tairyn laughed.

From a purely impartial perspective, Tairyn happened to be beautiful. Her long, naturally blond hair looked like it belonged on a model. In fact, most of her looked that way, from her large blue eyes, her pouty mouth, her (as my college buddy would say) banging body. She dressed as if walking the streets of SoHo, in high Italian leather boots and perfectly disheveled layers of clothing that somehow flattered her figure. I wondered what might have led her to the same banal existence I’d blundered into.

“No, she is. She gets back . . .” I did not have to think about it. I knew the exact moment she would return, because the second she did, I would run screaming from the house, desperately needing some time away from the kids. Tairyn’s arrival simply erased my memory.

“Friday,” she finished for me. “You’re a mess, Mr. Connolly.”

I shook my head, attempting sheepishness. “I am.”

“Anywho, Becca asked if Laney could come over tomorrow. Figure it might give you some time to yourself.”

I froze, as asinine as that sounds. Rachel had coached me for this moment. Playdates had transformed as Laney aged. Like her mother, my daughter engaged everyone and always looked for the party. She made friends with every kid in the neighborhood, including those Jake had written off as mean or weird.

I had not adjusted well. I still preferred having the kids at home with me. Laney went to preschool until twelve thirty, so the two of
us usually ran errands or stopped by the bookstore in the afternoon. Laney met Jake off the bus like a puppy left home alone all day. Jake tended to pick her up and hug her. The two got along great and spent most afternoons fighting imaginary, medieval armies in the basement, Jake the strong, silent knight and Laney (to my delight) the brilliant, effervescent, ax-wielding dwarf.

In the past, Tairyn, along with others, asked to have her over after school. I almost always said no. If Rachel happened to be traveling, then I always said no. In simple, easily understood words, Rachel explained that I had to change my ways. She said the next time someone requested our daughter, pause, breathe, and say yes.

I paused and took a breath, glancing over at Laney. She danced and carried on, totally immersed in the group, a bag of true happy.

“So different,” I thought I said to myself.

“What?” Tairyn asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

She looked at me, utterly confused. I just found it amazing how different my Laney was from Jake—yin and yang. I didn’t really want to go into all that with Tairyn, though.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes what?” A surprised laugh punctuated her question.

“She can play tomorrow.”

Tairyn appeared shocked, as if she expected me to decline. “Okay, then. Do you want to drop her off after you pick her up from school?”

My head cocked to the right. How did she know when I picked her up, or that she even went to preschool? Rachel said our neighborhood was a village. At times, I worried the townspeople might brandish pitchforks and chase me out.

“Excellent.”

The bus rumbled into view. I smiled, fidgeted, and Tairyn eased up to Karen and complimented her Uggs. I stood, alone again, staring at the yellow behemoth as it inched closer. Laney grabbed my leg
and did her little excited dance. She pushed ahead of the adults, anxiously waiting as the bus came to a stop. The doors opened and her dance intensified.