To Love and to Perish (13 page)

Nineteen

Sunday I stood on
the sidelines of Danny's first football game, surrounded by a group of parents who were even more excited than their kids. The fathers analyzed every play and call, yelling out advice to their sons. Mothers shrieked words of encouragement and triumph every time a play went off successfully and groaned each time the opposite was true. For the most part, the players ignored them, undoubtedly playing their best and hoping not to be the one who messed up during the game. They all wanted to be the one to make the winning touchdown and be carried away on the shoulders of their peers. I knew Danny did.

He'd chattered nonstop on the drive over. Every topic started with, “You know what, Jolene?” Then he'd proceed to tell me about his team or the coach or the professional football games he watched with Ray and how his team tried to emulate some of the plays. He talked about the different football positions and why he was a running back. He repeated dozens of things Ray had told him, making me feel all the more guilty to be the one with him at the game instead of Ray, stuck on patrol because of me.

Although I'd done my best to make everything up to Ray last night, he'd left for work this morning with a dejected look on his face. It wasn't even the patrol duty so much as missing this very important game. So far, though, he hadn't missed much.

Danny spent the first quarter on the bench. Apparently his team had a lot of players and the coach was making sure every player got in the game. But Danny cheered on his teammates, whooping when plays went well and screaming, “Shake it off” when they didn't.

The opposing team's players never changed, although they had plenty of benchwarmers. It was clear all their superstars were in the game. They scored two touchdowns, including one following a fumble by one of Danny's teammates. His failure turned out to be good luck for Danny. The coach sent him in to replace the other boy, who sat on the bench and hung his head. His shame was almost palpable.

The next couple of plays, the ball was carried by or thrown to other players, not Danny. He still bounded up to the huddle and listened intently to the quarterback each time, nodding with enthusiasm as they broke and hustling to his position on the line.

On the final snap before the end of the first half, Danny got the ball. He froze for a moment, seeming shocked that he'd caught it, then turned and headed for the goal line. His legs pumped, ball tucked tight to his chest, his other arm outstretched to ward off a tackle. With a final burst of speed, he crossed the line.

Touchdown.

My eyes filled with tears. I clapped until my hands stung.

Danny danced, his knees knocking and arms whirling. His teammates jumped on top of him.

“Yeah, Danny, way to make the play! Wooo!”

I turned to find Ray behind me, screaming, his arm raised in triumph.

“Aren't you on duty?”

Ray's gaze never left the field. “Yep. Think of this as community relations.”

I rolled my eyes.

Danny jogged off the field with his team.

Ray high fived him. “Great play. You look good out there.”

Danny's eyes lit up. “Thanks. Can we get the snacks out now?”

“Sure.” I walked over to the cooler and lifted the lid. The kids crowded in, grabbing sports drinks and energy bars from the box Danny offered. I backed away to give them room, ending up next to Ray.

“Danny's got good hands. He's got speed. He reminds me of Sean.”

Sean, Ray's brother, had played football in high school, a running back no less. Ray and I attended every game. Sean was a star player, never on the bench, always in the game. He dreamed of being a professional athlete, and the scouts encouraged him. But in his senior year, he got injured. His knee was shot. He lost his drive for everything. Until he discovered drugs, that is. I hoped Danny wouldn't turn out to be another Sean. “He definitely looks good out there. I think he's having fun.”

As they ate, the boys replayed every moment on the field, clearly pumped after getting on the scoreboard. When the whistle blew for the third quarter, Danny hustled to the bench to watch the defense take the field.

Tired from my big night, I headed for the bleachers and took a seat about halfway up. Ray continued to follow Danny up and down the field whenever the offense was in the game, his lips moving although I couldn't hear what he said. He'd become one of those fathers, blending into the sideline masses.

The quarterback passed the ball to Danny, too high. Danny leapt into the air and caught it, landing nimbly and running for the goal.

I stood up. “Go, Danny. Go, Danny, go.”

Touchdown.

Danny did his little dance again. Ray whooped and hollered, slapping Danny on the back when he ran off the field. Danny beamed. Even the coach high fived him.

With the score tied, play grew more aggressive and each team took more risks, some of which ended badly. In the last quarter, after a fumble and a turnover, Danny's team got the ball again, close to their own goal. At the signal from his coach, Danny joined the offense as they took the field.

The first pass went to the other running back, who ran for ten yards before the visiting team took him down, a little more roughly than necessary. With the second handoff, the quarterback looked for Danny, who was twenty yards down the field. The pass left the quarterback's hand, spiraling downfield. Danny got into position. He caught the ball. A player from the other team slammed him to the ground. Danny didn't get up.

I leapt to my feet and started down the bleacher stairs, my heart beating wildly as I thought, “Don't let him be hurt. Don't let him be hurt.”

Danny sat up. He shook his head.

I stopped running.

Danny rose to his knees, then his feet. He jogged back to his team's huddle as the crowd cheered.

I breathed a sigh of relief and started back up the bleachers.

A man at the edge of the woods caught my eye. He was on our side of the field, way down by Danny's team's goal post, hovering just outside the tree line, well back from the field itself. A baseball cap shaded his face. He had on jeans and a T-shirt.

It was a strange place to stand and observe the game. I wondered if he lived in one of the homes on the other side of the trees.

The quarterback threw another pass to Danny, who caught it but landed with his knees on the ground.

The man pumped his fists, obviously rooting for Danny's team. He moved closer to the field and me.

I thought I saw a dark spot like a tattoo on his arm. I froze.

Danny's team fired off another play. The ball went to Danny again. He ran.

The man stepped forward eagerly. I saw the swish of his ponytail. My heart sank.

It was Danny's father.

I scanned the sidelines, looking for Ray. His attention was glued to the field, where Danny had been tackled just inside the thirty-yard line.

Why had Danny's father come to the game? Surely he realized the odds Ray would be here. Why take the risk? He was a wanted felon. Did he think Ray wouldn't recognize him?

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” I willed Mr. Phillips to hear the words as I muttered them under my breath.

Ray moved down the sideline, no doubt jockeying to witness Danny's next touchdown.

The ball snapped. The quarterback caught it, jogging backward as he studied the field.

Danny darted back and forth on the ten-yard line, struggling to get open. The other running back did the same. Then he stumbled and went down.

The quarterback's focus shifted solely to Danny. He waited, then threw.

The ball flew through the air.

Danny leapt. He caught it. His feet hit the ground. He spun and raced for the goal line.

When he crossed it, our side of the field went wild, cheering, slapping each other on the back, and hugging.

Mr. Phillips pumped his fists again. He moved toward the field.

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” A bead of sweat trickled off my brow.

His mouth opened.

“Don't yell out. Don't yell out.” My cautions disappeared in the din.

Danny finished his victory dance and headed off the field, surrounded by his teammates, a huge grin on his face.

Mr. Phillips' lips moved.

Danny's head tipped. He spun around, looking.

I moved down the bleacher steps. “No, no.” I hit the ground running, no longer able to see Danny or Mr. Phillips.

But I could see Ray. He'd stepped back from the sideline crowd, only yards from Mr. Phillips. Ray had him in his sights, his hand on his belt.

“No, Ray, no. Don't do it. Please don't do it.” I brushed past another father, knocking his shoulder. He didn't even notice me; he was so buoyed by the touchdown.

Ray started walking toward Danny's father, who didn't seem to notice him, his eyes still glued on the field, his arm waving in the air.

I wondered if Danny could see him. I hoped not.

Ray kept moving.

“No, Ray, let him go. Let him go. Please, let him go.”

Mr. Phillips saw Ray too late. He took a step back, but he didn't run.

Ray already had the cuffs off his belt. He slapped one around Mr. Phillips' wrist.

I stopped running. I looked at the field. The other team had the ball. They were rushing to get off a game-saving play. I couldn't see Danny.

Ray cuffed Mr. Phillips other hand and led him away.

The crowd on the sidelines didn't even notice. They were too wrapped up in the last minutes of the game, screaming out advice to the defense. A couple of the boys moved toward our cooler with wicked glints in their eyes, perhaps preparing to douse their coach with the ice.

Without another glance at the field, Ray opened the door to his patrol car and helped Mr. Phillips inside. He slammed the door and got in the driver's seat.

He drove off.

The whistle blew. The crowd on our side of the field roared.

I turned and found Danny right behind me, gazing at the parking lot with tears streaming down his face.

Twenty

“Find him, Ray, or
don't come home!” I slammed down the phone.

Maury jumped and looked at Erica for guidance. She didn't blink.

I sank into my living room couch across from their chairs. “Should we keep looking?”

Danny had run from me when I reached out to comfort him, throwing down his helmet and accelerating to a speed unequaled on the field. The last I saw of him, he disappeared into the same woods his father came out of.

After an hour of waiting, then an hour of searching on my own, I'd called Erica and Maury to help. We split our town into
quadrants and drove each street at less than ten miles per hour, hoping to catch sight of Danny. Erica then checked some of her favorite old hideouts. I returned to the empty field to see if Danny had come back there. It was all to no avail. He'd now been missing for almost eight hours.

Erica examined her thumbnail. “Danny knows how to hotwire cars and he can drive. He could be in New York City by now, Jo.” She chewed the corner of her thumb.

I wondered if she would rather Danny didn't come home. She'd run off and gotten married right after he arrived, as though she needed to be first in line for someone's attention and realized he'd displaced her for mine. Still, she'd leapt in the car to help me search for him. “Ray said no cars have been reported stolen.” Not to mention I'd made Danny promise me a long time ago that he wouldn't drive anymore—not until he reached sixteen.

“You said no cars were left in the parking lot after the game or parked on the neighboring streets. Maybe Danny found the car his father came in.”

“You're not making me feel better, Erica.” My only hope was that Danny would never leave his dad, who now sat in the county jail, thanks to Ray, probably in the cell right next to Brennan Rowe, thanks to me. Ray and I were a two-person life-wreaking crew.

“Sorry. Danny'll be back. Where else has he got to go?” She got up, smoothing her tight jeans down her legs. “We're going home. I don't want to be here when Ray gets here. I've seen you two fight before. Maury can't take it.”

First of all, Ray and I didn't fight. We engaged in brief skirmishes, and, in the past, most of those had been about Erica, who used to live with us. How very like her to overlook that. Ray and I had different approaches to managing her behavior, just as we did with Danny's behavior.

Maury made a face as though offended at the notion he might be too weak, but he didn't hesitate to hop up and follow Erica out the door. I couldn't blame him. I'd had nothing nice to say to Ray for the last six hours. Now it was eight o'clock and my boy was still missing, his heart broken by the one man who had promised to take care of him.

I would never forgive Ray if Danny didn't come home.

I'd checked Danny's room when I got home to make sure he hadn't already been there and packed up his stuff. Of course, when Danny had come to us, he'd brought only the clothes on his back. He might not think anything of leaving the same way. But where would he go? His father was his only living relative. They'd lived in a car and on friends' couches before his father left him with us. Danny had nowhere to go. This house was his home now. We were his family. Too bad he couldn't stand the sight of us.

Ray had called to inform me of Danny's father's arrest. I informed him that we'd had the distinct displeasure of being witnesses to it and that Danny had run off. Ray promised to find him. He'd called to update me twice. After what I said to him a few minutes ago, I didn't expect him to call again—unless he found Danny. Then they could come home together.

In the meantime, all I could do was curl up in a fetal position on the living room couch, one eye on the phone, the other on the front door. Danny always used the front door. I willed him to walk though it.

The phone rang.

I snatched it up. “Danny?”

“Cory.”

“Oh.”

“But I'm calling about Danny.”

“You know where he is?”

“No. Is he missing?”

“Yes.” I filled Cory in on the football game and the arrest. He wasn't surprised to hear about Mr. Phillips. In fact, he confirmed my suspicions.

“He's in a holding cell next to Brennan.”

“Brennan called you?”

“He heard the officer call Mr. Phillips by his name. He knew he had to be Danny's father from the scar on his neck and the tattoo.”

The scar on Mr. Phillips' neck looked as though someone had tried to slice it open and finish him off. According to Danny, he'd gotten attacked in prison, the very reason he never, ever wanted to go back there. The tattoo, a heart with a sword running through it and a blacked-out scroll beneath it, was a remnant of a love gone bad. The man had an unhappy past, losing his wife and then her sister, his second love, to untimely deaths. He might have given up stealing cars if not for the fact that he couldn't read and had no other significant income prospects. Of course, Ray said that was no excuse. I had to agree, albeit unwillingly.

“Brennan didn't see Ray, so he asked to make a phone call. He wanted to be sure you knew Mr. Phillips was there.”

I knew all right. “Did Brennan say anything about his case?”

“Actually, he said a lot, but you don't want to hear about it now. It can wait.”

“Tell me. It will take my mind off Danny.” And Ray. “Was he angry at you for looking through his things?”

“He didn't say.”

“What did he say?”

“His argument with Wayne wasn't about him being gay. They all found that out right after senior prom night, when Monica expected fireworks and Brennan didn't deliver. She dumped him and started dating Wayne, who had a reputation for delivering.”

“Really?” I sat up. “Interesting.”

“It gets better. Wayne dated a lot of girls in high school, except for Monica and her friend Elizabeth. It made Brennan sick to think of him with Monica. She was special to Brennan, even if they weren't right for each other.”

“And?”

“Brennan tried to tell her what kind of guy Wayne was. She didn't care. Wayne was the right kind of guy compared to Brennan. So after graduation, Wayne, Monica, and Elizabeth were the three Musketeers. Brennan didn't really talk to them again until
Monica called to invite him to go with them to the five-year
reunion. He said he was so surprised to hear from her that he said ‘yes' without thinking. When Wayne couldn't ride with them, he was relieved.”

“Does he think that's what they argued about at the reunion? How Wayne moved in on Monica?”

“He doesn't remember, but that's his guess.”

“Did he say anything about his argument with James Gleason?”

“Only that James still thought he was driving drunk and didn't care enough about Monica.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“Not really. He ran out of time.”

“You must be thrilled that he called.”

“I would be if he had really wanted to talk to me. He just called me to get the message to you and Ray.”

“But he confided in you. He answered the question you asked him that night you had dinner at his house. That's a good sign, Cory.”

“I guess so. Listen, do you want me to help you look for Danny?”

“No thanks. Ray's got the department helping him now. I'm going to stay here and wait.”

“Call me as soon as you hear anything, no matter what time.”

I promised and disconnected. Feeling chilled, I headed into our bedroom to get a sweater. I flicked the light switch and walked into the closet. Chunks of mud covered the carpeted floor. “What the—?”

The biggest pile of mud lay in front of my dresses, which hung to the floor, hiding the wall behind. I shoved them aside and gasped.

“Danny.”

He still had on his grass-stained and muddy uniform, his face a film of dirt. His gaze remained trained on the floor, refusing to acknowledge me.

I held out my arms. “Danny, come here, buddy. I was so worried about you.”

He blinked.

“Danny, we'll work it out. It'll be okay. We'll take care of your dad, I promise.” I wiggled my outstretched fingers. “Come on, it's okay.”

He fell into my arms, nearly knocking me over. His body shuddered. Great sobs burst from his boney chest. “I want my dad. I want my dad.”

I pulled him tight and rubbed his back, remembering those words. Danny had said them almost a year ago, the night he came to live with us. I thought we'd come a long way since then.

But now, we were back to square one.