Waiting (16 page)

Read Waiting Online

Authors: Frank M. Robinson

BOOK: Waiting
5.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Her voice turned frantic. “You’ve got to find him, Artie!”
“Can you come back?”
“I can’t—I told you, Dad’s dying. Find him, Artie! Please, you’ve got to find him!”
“Sure, Susan,” he mumbled. “Sure, I’ll do my best.”
And then she had to go and he sat there holding the phone and all he could think of for a moment was that she had wanted Mark up there—she’d never mentioned him. Her father was dying and she’d lost her son, and he hated himself because what he’d thought of first was that she hadn’t pleaded for him to come up.
Which made sense, because if he went up there, who would be left behind to look for Mark? And he sure as hell couldn’t help her father.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, he thought. He had for fifteen years.
 
Bayview Academy was located
just off of Skyline Drive in Oakland, a pleasant ten acres that seemed a jumble of eucalyptus trees at first until Artie got a few hundred feet off the drive and saw the main building and the athletic grounds behind it. Beyond the track-and-field area the ground sloped sharply down to the bay and a view of San Francisco on the other side, partially hidden by tendrils of fog.
He had seen the school five years before, when he and Susan had first enrolled Mark there, but the ivy had grown since then. Now the redbrick buildings of Bayview Academy would look right at home in upstate New York or in some small town in Vermont.
Scott Fleming, the headmaster, was cordial enough, affable but careful to maintain a certain reserve as a protective barrier between himself and the parents of his students. He had been about to take his afternoon stroll around the grounds and invited Artie along. He looked in his early sixties, a small and somewhat placid man, thin and wiry. His hair was gray, and with his woolen jacket and thick scarf trailing behind him in the breeze, all Artie could think of was Mr. Chips. He even had a faintly English accent to go with his appearance.
Artie remembered when he’d first met Fleming and the headmaster had filled him in on the history of the academy.
“We were founded in the middle forties, just after the Second World War. Mr. Elias Putnam had his only boy come back badly wounded—he had lost a leg and the use of his right hand—and Putnam became interested in the plight of the crippled while overseeing the rehabilitation of his son.”
“‘Crippled,’” Artie had repeated. He hadn’t been sure he liked the sound of it. He had always considered Mark handicapped, not crippled.
“The students here are crippled, Mr. Banks,” Fleming had said quietly. “We could use the phrase ‘physically disadvantaged’ but I’m afraid that being politically correct wouldn’t help our students at all. They’re crippled. We deliberately use the word and with usage, the word itself is defused. It’s not the word, it’s the baggage that goes along with it. The students are certainly going to hear the word on the outside; better they get used to hearing it at Bayview.”
They were at the back of the building now, looking out over the track and the small baseball field. It was late in the afternoon and turning colder; Artie envied Fleming his thick woolen sweater. He waved at the diamond and the cinder track.
“I can’t imagine those would get much use.”
Fleming raised an eyebrow. “Physical activity is more difficult than it would be with ordinary boys and girls of the same age, but then they’re not competing with ordinary boys and girls—they’re competing with each other.” He wrapped his arms around his chest for warmth. “There’s not much to see beyond this, might as well start back. We can have some coffee in my office if you’d like.”
They detoured through the gymnasium and Artie watched a wheelchair basketball game in progress, then found himself distracted by a muscular sixteen-year-old climbing a rope to the ceiling, using only his arms.
“He can’t walk,” Fleming offered. “Nerve degeneration in his legs. But he’s an ace gymnast and the star of our wheelchair basketball games—I’ve seen him sink one from the middle of the floor.”
They had started for the exit when Fleming called to a student, his right arm hanging limply at his side, who was picking up towels from the benches. “Collins, I’ll be in my office with Mr. Banks. When you finish, I’d appreciate two containers of coffee from the cafeteria. Tell Mrs. Deveny it’s for me.”
He glanced at Artie. “I’ve cream and sugar in the office, if you use it.”
“Black,” Artie said offhand. Collins had caught his eye and they stared at each other for a second. Sturdy kid, reddish hair, probably looked young for his age—more pretty than handsome, in a homely sort of way. The type of face where all the flaws made for an agreeable whole; the tough Irish kid who looked angelic as an altar boy.
In the office, Fleming relaxed in the black leather chair behind his desk and stared thoughtfully at Artie.
“Over the phone, you said Mark had disappeared. We thought he was sick and you had just forgotten to notify us.”
Artie shook his head. “He vanished two days ago—he never came home from school. I called some of his friends; they said he’d done a few laps in the pool and then a friend had given him a lift home. Apparently he left again shortly afterward. No way he could have left by himself; his chair was still there.”
Fleming nodded. “After you called, I did some checking here. Collins was the student who drove him home; you can talk to him later.”
Artie wasn’t sure how to approach what was on his mind. “I was wondering …” His voice trailed off.
Fleming didn’t help. “Yes, Mr. Banks?” His face was impassive.
“I was wondering if … if Mark has any girlfriends. That sounds funny—I’m his father, I should know. I’m sure he would have brought any home but he never has and I was curious—”
“He’s popular,” Fleming interrupted shortly. “I would say he has his share of female friends. He’s a very outgoing young man.”
There was a knock on the door and Collins came in clutching a tray in his left hand with two sealed containers of coffee.
“Thank you, Collins. Stand by outside for a bit; I think Mr. Banks would like to talk to you.”
Again, the brief spark of something in Collins’ eyes, and then he was gone.
“You were saying, Mr. Banks?”
“How deep do the relationships go, Mr. Fleming? There’s probably no way I would know—but you might.”
Fleming looked puzzled.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
He was beating around the bush, Artie thought. But he didn’t have all day and neither did Fleming.
“Sexually,” he said bluntly. “I keep wondering if some girl … woman … might have gotten Mark to run off with her, say, for a week in Palm Springs or maybe Las Vegas.”
Fleming looked amused. “I rather think it would have been a mutual decision, not the young lady’s alone. But frankly, sexual activity isn’t something we monitor, Mr. Banks. On campus, certainly. Off campus, it’s none of our business.” He paused. “You’ve never worked with crippled children, have you? As a counselor or anything like that?”
Artie shook his head.
“Being crippled creates a rapport among the students, Mr. Banks. It’s a very strong one; they feel very close. You don’t have the usual dating rituals you find in most high schools. Friends aren’t chosen on the basis of beauty or physical prowess. They’re very open with each other, they’re very honest. To be truthful about it, I suspect our students are more sexually active than most. For one thing, to have sex at all usually requires close cooperation between them. The feelings of closeness and cooperation are already there, and I know they have great compassion for each other. I imagine that sexual activity is not far behind.”
“And what do you do when students get pregnant?”
“They usually inform their parents—we don’t have to. Pregnancy is uncommon, but when it happens it may interest you to know they invariably choose to keep the child.”
“Mark—”
Fleming held up his hand.
“That’s about all I can tell you. Mark is a very popular boy, it’s my observation that he’s much in demand. I’m somewhat surprised you aren’t aware of that. I suppose his mother probably is; a lot of fathers seem to be remote from their sons. Too bad, but then I don’t know the circumstances of your family life.”
Artie felt his face color. “I don’t see where—”
“Collins is waiting for you, Mr. Banks. It’s the last day of school and I think he would like to go home.”
It was a dismissal, but that wasn’t what hurt. He’d been accused of being remote when it came to his son, and Fleming was probably right. Only he had blamed it on Mark when he should have been blaming it on himself.
 
Collins was waiting for
him just outside the door. He sized up Artie quickly, then said, “If you want more coffee, the cafeteria’s still open.” Artie followed him down the hallway, then caught himself watching Collins closely. Stocky build and athletic, his right arm useless but not withered. Physical therapy had to be a good part of their phys ed routine. But the kid walked with the same sort of confidence that Artie had noticed in Mark the last few years. Not cock-of-the-walk, but very confident in who he was.
They took a table in a corner of the almost deserted cafeteria and Artie sipped at his coffee and studied Collins over the edge of his cup.
“You gave Mark a lift home Tuesday night?”
Collins nodded, a faint curiosity in his deep-set eyes as he watched Artie in turn. “We left here at three-thirty and got to your house about ten after four. Traffic on the bridge was pretty light. I helped Mark get in his chair and he rolled up the walk and that was it.”
“Any reason why Mark might have left the house again later? Anybody coming to pick him up?”
Collins shrugged. “He didn’t mention any.”
How the hell did you discuss sex with a seventeen-year-old? Artie wondered.
“Any girlfriends who might have showed up after you left?”
“Was he fucking anybody?” Collins asked coldly. “Is that what you want to know?” There was more than just belligerence in his voice; there was something else as well.
“He’s been missing for two days,” Artie said coldly. “He’s handicapped”—he couldn’t bring himself to use the word
crippled
—“and I don’t think he could go anyplace by himself. Somebody had to help him.”
Collins took pity on him. “He has a lot of girlfriends,” he said, but once again something was hidden. “If he didn’t … sleep with them, I’d figure he was a fool. And he’s no fool. He might have had a date for later that evening; he acted like it but I didn’t ask. There’s a senior woman who likes him a lot. They’re close.”
“He gets around,” Artie said bitterly, more because he hadn’t really known about it than because of any bias against teenage promiscuity.
“More than I do,” Collins said coolly.
“His mother’s desperate,” Artie said, pleading. “And so am I. Who is she? We’d like to find out if she and Mark went … somewhere.”
Collins stood up; he wasn’t about to be a snitch. “I’m sorry. I’ve told you everything I can. Mark can take care of himself. I wouldn’t worry about him.”
He was halfway across the cafeteria when he suddenly stopped and came back. He reached in his left pocket, took out Mark’s earring, and put it on the table.
“We were wrestling in the gym earlier that day and this fell off. I found it on the mat the next morning. If Mark doesn’t come back, then I guess you should have it.”
Artie took the small piece of stone and what looked like worked silver, wrapped it carefully in a napkin, and dropped it in his shirt pocket. He glanced up at Collins to thank him for it, then realized with sudden shock that it wasn’t a bad case of hero worship Collins had for Mark; it was something else.
“Mark didn’t drop this—he gave it to you, didn’t he?”
For a moment Collins looked like he was going to deny it, then shrugged, his face suddenly drawn. Whatever memory he had obviously hurt. “It was a consolation prize,” he said quietly. “He said we would always be friends.”
Collins got a few feet away, then turned back once again.
“Mark is still my best friend, Mr. Banks. He was generous with me—I’ve no complaint.”
Artie stared after him, not quite sure what he should think. He didn’t know what, if anything, had happened between Mark and Collins, but Collins had called Mark generous and the earring had been an heirloom. Mark hadn’t given it away lightly. Artie felt like he had when he’d walked in on Mark that one morning.
Mark was way past puberty and besides, it wasn’t any of his business.
 
It was eight in
the evening. Artie sat alone in his car, the lights and radio off, the engine silent. He had put on two sweaters and the heaviest jacket he had and he was still cold. The Avenues in San Francisco were on rolling dunes west of the hills and nearest the ocean so they caught the brunt of the fog and the winds off the Pacific. When it was sunny in the Mission and the Castro, you could usually count on the Avenues being fogged in and chilly.
Tonight the fog had rolled in late in the afternoon and now blanketed the entire city. But he would bet the Avenues were still colder and clammier than the rest of the town. He shivered and hunkered down lower in his seat, watching the pink stuccoed house a few doors up at the corner of Ulloa and Thirtieth. It was a two-story affair with a huge garage beneath and surrounded by stubby little palm trees and rows of potted cactus plants on the front steps. Big house: Lyle Pace couldn’t be doing too badly.
All Artie knew about stakeouts was what he’d seen in the movies, but they never let you know how the characters kept from feeling foolish—or guilty. He was going to spy on one of his friends and, once again, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Something out of the ordinary, something that didn’t jibe with their character as he knew it. That was vague as hell, but presumably he would know what he was looking for when he saw it.

Other books

The Parson's Christmas Gift by Kerri Mountain
The Code of the Hills by Nancy Allen
Locked and Loaded by Mandy Baxter
Martin and John by Dale Peck
Trans-Siberian Express by Warren Adler
Not Quite Perfect by Annie Lyons
Vixen’s Run by Zenina Masters
Boneseeker by Brynn Chapman