Twisted (3 page)

4

I arrive back to my settled little home world.

Well, sort of settled.

Somewhere upstairs, it sounds like Devon is running in fast circles, or doing a rain dance, or God only knows what. The ceiling is thumping. Dishes rattle inside the cabinets. And my wife is clearly forcing tolerance, intent on not allowing the commotion to interrupt her phone conversation.

The banging stops—for about five seconds—then resumes.

I grin and take Jenna in, relishing the normalcy, the seemingly mundane, because it’s so much more than that. Because beneath the layers, life is all about contrasts and perspectives. After spending time in one of the darkest corners this world has to offer, a walk through our door never fails to restore the balance and order I so desperately need. I credit my wife for drawing those distinctive lines. She knows where I come from, what I lived through as a child. She knows all my demons and offers the security I need to beat them down.

“Yes, I understand,” she says, splitting her attention between the caller, Devon’s antics, and dinner preparations. Amidst all that, she still manages to brighten at the sight of me.

“Why don’t we wait on that one until I look it over tonight?” A few moments later, Jenna finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone.

I walk toward her, kiss the back of her neck. She turns to me, flashing that adorable smile, and it happens once more. I’m overwhelmed. I fall madly and hopelessly in love with my wife all over again. Pulling Jenna toward me, I breathe her in, but even skin to skin doesn’t seem close enough. Nothing seems close enough.

We stay this way for several seconds, and I can feel her draw the tension out of me, my muscles loosening, my mind finding its center. She moves back a few inches, doesn’t say anything, but I can tell this has been a challenging day for us both.

“Business stuff?” I offer, allowing my hand to slide down toward her waist.

“Business stuff, plus a few hundred other things.” She squeezes my hand and tries to smile, then walks toward the stove. Pulling open the oven door, she checks on dinner. “But yes, business at this particular moment.”

“The phone call,” I confirm.

She nods. “One of the administrators over at Eisenhower. This consulting business is turning out to be so much more work than even I’d expected.” She closes the door, lets out a weary sigh. “It’s times like this that make me wish I could just go back to being a principal again.”

“You’re not regretting the decision, are you?”

“Not always. Just sometimes.” Jenna pauses for a moment, as if giving the question further consideration. “Then I think about the reason I got out in the first place, how much being here for Devon means to us both, and everything seems okay again. The problem is . . .”

“Starting a business isn’t easy,” I say.

“Not at all.”

“Sweetheart, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. You can handle this.”

Before the discussion can continue, Devon’s pounding intensifies.

I glance toward the ceiling. “What on earth is he doing up there?”

“Being a six-year-old?”

“Dumb question.” I laugh. “But he does seem a bit more active than usual.”

She frowns.

I answer back with our unspoken language:
Uh-oh. What now?

Jenna mouths—but doesn’t say—
trouble at school.

And I feel my eyes start to roll.

“We’ll just table that one for later,” she says. “Okay?”

“Agreed. Indigestion before dinner—bad idea.”

Just then, our little devil comes racing into the room with his best buddy Jake, The Lovable Chocolate Lab, trailing closely behind.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Devon cries out as he barrels toward me, face lit up like a thousand Christmas trees. He bestows me with an arms-around-the-legs greeting, and despite what my wife has just told me, I can’t fight my grin. The pure joy on his face at the sight of me handily trumps all. Because of that, and because of thousands of other reasons, I love the hell out of my son to lengths I often feel are humanly unfathomable. The moment I leave this house each morning is the exact moment I begin missing him, and as the day wears on, I just miss him more. After encountering Donny Ray today, that sentiment is magnified times ten, so I drop to my knees and go in for the hug. He starts to take off, but I tug my son back and give him another, this time clinging to his little body longer. As soon as I release him, he speeds into the dining room, yelling, “Mommy let me set the table! Wanna see?”

I look at my wife and realize she’s been watching me.

“What was that all about?” she asks, head tilting, smile half curious, half concerned.

I try shrugging it off. “Just a rough day.”

“What happened?”

“Trust me, you really don’t want to know.”

After so many years together, Jenna is well aware of what that means, knows there are some things better left at the office. She squeezes her mouth to one side in a way that doesn’t push the issue but lets me know the door is open for discussion.

I struggle for a moment, trying to temper my statement before it comes out. “I guess I just realized how precious he is.”

Jenna’s expression softens. Her nod reflects intimate understanding.

“And I don’t know what I’d do, if anything . . .”

“Ever happened to him,” she says, finishing the sentence that I can’t bring myself to complete.

“Daddy! Come on!” Devon yells from the dining room before Jenna can respond. Jake chimes in, barking anticipatory excitement.

I wink at my wife:
I’ll be right back.

She nods and grins:
Your boy needs you.

I enter and immediately spot the table.

“Um . . . kiddo?”

Devon looks at me with a brightening expression.

“Who’s coming to dinner?” My question is actually a rhetorical one.

Swinging his arms back and forth, he considers the table for a moment, then with a shrug, says, “Just us.”

“So . . . it looks like you may have a few too many place settings. There are five here.”

He proudly appraises his work again. “It was just in case.”

“Just in case, what?”

“In case anyone else wants to come.”

Kid logic. Gotta love it.

“Okay . . .” I give him an exaggerated, affirming nod. “Fair enough.”

Jenna walks in, takes one look at the table, and her expression falls into something like exasperation mixed with learned helplessness.

“We’ve got this, Mom,” I say, offering her a playful grin. “You never know when we might have uninvited company.”

Devon giggles.

My wife shakes her head, then goes back into the kitchen.

“Come on, kiddo,” I say, “let’s show Mom how quickly we can make the table less crowded. First guy to grab two settings wins.”

Devon is the victor of our race, and the seating plan is amended and reduced.

“So how was school today, buddy?” I ask, probing to see if he’ll volunteer what my wife didn’t.

Devon doesn’t answer, likely as a survival strategy, likely also because he’s too busy rearranging the spinach on his plate.

My son is a fussy eater.

Probably one of the worst I’ve ever seen. I was, too, as a kid, but compared to him, I was gluttonous. Hard as Jenna tries to spur his appetite, there isn’t much he likes or will eat.

“Devon,” she says, trying to strike a delicate balance between patience and assertiveness, “moving your food around won’t make it go away. Can you at least give it the old college try?”

“I
am
trying,” he protests, then continues spreading the vegetable around on his plate. He takes a stab at—but does not put into his mouth—the spinach, then moves his effort to the penne pasta, mashing it with his fork and separating the mess into two nearly symmetrical mounds.

“What’s wrong with the pasta?” Jenna says. “I thought you loved it.”

“Not this.” A nose crinkle. “It’s got white stuff.”

“That’s cream sauce, and it’s good.”

Devon gives the pasta a disapproving flick with his fork.

“You know,” I say, “if you don’t finish dinner, we couldn’t possibly allow the chocol
ate cake your mother baked to be your only source of nutrition for the night.”

Devon’s decision is laser-quick. He digs into the demolished pasta.

Jenna grins. And I’m pretty sure I’ve won some major points by restoring peace and order to our little world.

Before sleep, I stop by my son’s room to say good night and find him waiting in bed, Jake close at his side.

“Great job setting the table tonight, kiddo,” I say, taking a seat beside him.

“It was fun. Mom says I can do it again tomorrow.” He scrunches his nose. “But she told me not to set the table for company.”

“Probably a good idea, unless we’re expecting some.”

He shrugs. “But you never know.”

“True, you never do. Always good to be optimistic.”

“I love you, Dad.”

His spontaneous and heartfelt sentiment catches me off guard. It fills a void left open from long ago—so many happy endings that never had the chance to happen, so many things left unsaid.

All of it cut too short, and far too soon.

I want to give Devon those things I missed, but even more, I don’t want my pain to become his legacy. I know, perhaps better than most, the need to make every second of every day count.

I kiss his forehead, shut off the light, then leave his room.

But opening one door feels like stepping suddenly through another, memories of my own father waiting just on the other side. Memories that are good in so many ways.

But in others, so terribly tragic.

5

A LIE CALLED FOREVER

Summer evenings with Dad were my favorites.

I’d lean back in bed, immersed in the smell of jasmine as it drifted through my window. Distant crickets chirped as cars rolled by, creating music that moved seamlessly to the beat of a soft, settling night.

And I remember the comfort and security of my father’s smile.

“Daddy,” I said, settling beneath the cool sheets, gazing out at the starry night. “What comes after the sky?”

He looked there, too, and considered my question. “After the sky comes outer space.”

“What’s after that?”

“Then it’s the universe.”

“And after that?”

He paused for moment, his expression thoughtful. “Well . . . we don’t really know what comes after
.
Nobody’s ever gone that far.”

“How come?”

“Because it just goes on and on. And it’s a long way back.”

“You mean like, forever?”

“That’s what some people think, yes.”

I fell silent and considered the darkened skies, my young mind trying to process the massive complexity of eternity. Turning back to my father, I said, “But nothing lasts forever.”

“Some things do.”

“Like what?”

His warm smile. “Like my love for you. That will never end.” Then he looked more serious. “My love will always be with you, Christopher, and you’ll always know where to find it.”

“Where will it be?”

“Deep inside your heart.”

I had no way of knowing that disaster lurked silently in wait, ready to take a chunk of my heart and eclipse that love. Each day, I struggle to find balance between the before and after, clinging to the good. But while these fond memories of my father are so very precious, they are also far too few.

The bad ones, painful and far too many.

6

As I enter our bedroom, Jenna looks up from her laptop. With a soft, welcoming smile, she pats the spot beside her on the bed and says, “Come here.”

I gladly accept the invitation.

She rests her head on my shoulder, and we indulge in the moment. No words necessary, just silent commingling that feels profoundly exhilarating.

A few minutes later, she exhales softly, and waves of unrest roll across her face.

“Talk to me,” I say.

“It’s about your son.”

“I sort of gathered . . . Wait.
My
son?”

“Yes. He’s always yours when he misbehaves. We’ve discussed this.”

“Got it. So, what has Devon the Mischievous done now?”

“It would appear that he hasn’t been eating the lunches I’ve been making.”

“But I thought he liked your lunches. Isn’t that the whole reason you started packing them? Because he hates the cafeteria food?”

She serves me a deadpan stare.

“Point taken,” I say. “He’s a fussy eater.”

“But now with a disturbing new twist. Not only hasn’t he been eating his meals”—she pauses—“he’s been selling them. It seems our young entrepreneur has been holding auctions at the lunch table.”

“Auctions,” I repeat, trying to get a visual on this.

“And my lunches have been quite the hit. For everyone
except
Devon, of course.”

“How long has this been going on? The lunchtime profiteering?”

“There’s no telling.”

I fall back onto the pillow, shake my head. “This food thing . . . It’s like—”

“Totally out of hand.”

“I mean, I was bad, but this kid?”

“He’s got you beat by a country mile, sweetie.”

“So how do we handle this?”

She flops back next to me. “
We
already have. Or I did. There was a discussion. Also a lot of defensive posturing and a lot of yelling. Perhaps a protestation or two of basic human rights violations.”

“Which, judging by his behavior at dinner, didn’t appear to sink in.”

“Setting the table was actually part of the punishment. Of course, as only our son can do, he turned it into a carnival.”

I pull Jenna against me, run a hand up and down her back. “I’m afraid punishment doesn’t work so well for him.”

“Ahh . . . the psychologist speaks,” she says, walking her fingers along my arm. “But unfortunately, there’s more to this sad little tale.”

I don’t answer. I’m afraid to.

“According to Dr. Fratiani,” she continues, “the situation went to hell in a hurry today.”

“Oh, jeez . . .” Fratiani is Devon’s principal. Adding to the problem, this is the woman who replaced Jenna after she resigned, so there’s always been an underlying note of territorial friction on Fratiani’s part.

My wife goes on. “Apparently, one of the kids got a little too excited over my apple cobbler. He tried to outbid a boy who’d offered up his Xbox.”

I cover my face with one hand, motion with the other for her to continue.

“Kid Number Two
volunteered his mother’s Maserati, which our son graciously accepted, then demanded payment. That’s when the fight broke out.”

“Oh, God. There was a fight . . .”

“There was, indeed.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

She shakes her head, expression grateful, bemused even, but nevertheless distraught. “Luckily. But Devon got very upset. He left school and walked home.”

Tension pinches the back of my neck, and from Jenna’s slightly narrowed eyes, I can tell she knows where this one is going. Where my worries always do.

“It’s okay,” she rushes to reassure me.

“It’s really not.” And as my words come out, the Donny Ray case—the children he abducted and murdered—again puts a stranglehold on my mind.

“Chris, he was fine . . . Everything is okay.”

“But it might not have been. He left school, and nobody knew where he was. Kids can’t just walk the streets alone in the middle of the afternoon these days.”

“Sweetie, I know what you’re saying, but the media exaggerates those risks. The chances that anything could have happened are so slim. You’re forgetting that I’ve worked in the school system for years. I know a lot about the dangers kids face.”

“But I
work in a psychiatric hospital. I see the other side. Hell, I work with it every day. I know what kind of evil is out there. The predators and killers.”

“I get that—I really do—but look, school is just a few minutes away, and the important thing is that he made it home safe.”

“And the other thing? The part where he might not have?”

“I had a talk with him about that and explained the importance of safety. He’s promised to never leave school without permission again.”

I shift my weight, cross my arms.

“Chris, please stop worrying about him so much,” she says. “Overreacting causes more harm than any potential danger he might face.”

“I got a new patient today,” I say, trying to explain my reaction.

“And?”

“Ten kids are missing. They think this guy killed them. The last one was Devon’s age.”

Jenna’s lips part with unsettled understanding, and all at once I know she gets the full context of my edginess from earlier this evening. Admittedly, I do worry too much about Devon’s safety but now perhaps reasonably so.

This conversation has become way too dark, even for me.
Leave work at work
, I think. Pulling Jenna close, I place an arm around her, and she again rests her head on my shoulder.

“Well, there is one good thing,” she offers brightly.

“What’s that?”

“Kid’s got a good business sense. Could really pay off for us someday.”

I shift my shoulder, raise Jenna’s head so we’re face-to-face, and inspect her for evidence of sarcasm.

She manages to hold an impressively solemn expression in place. For a few seconds.

Then she cracks.

Now we’re both laughing, and I’m reminded again that life is indeed all about the contrasts and perspectives.