Finding Jake (16 page)

“Why couldn’t you just listen to me?” the officer asks.

He sounds young. I can make out his face now that the light is out of my eyes. I think I’ve seen him before.

“I know who you are,” he says. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m looking for my son,” I say.

“He’s not here. We’ve been through every inch, even with the dogs. Nothing. There’s a lot of smells, but . . . We’ve checked everything out. He’s not here, sir.”

When he calls me sir, this officer stops being my enemy. I even wonder why I thought he was or why I resisted. My mind is not clear.

“Look, how’d you get here?”

I explain where my car is parked.

“I have to escort you off the property, but I’ll let you go. Go home, get some sleep. We’ll find your son.”

I don’t say anything. What is there to say? That I can’t go home.
That the only reason I think they are looking for my son is to arrest him. Instead of speaking, I let the officer lead me back to my car. When we get there, I pull the keys out. The officer turns and looks at the car. His expression changes. Suddenly, his light is back on. He shines it into the backseat. That’s when I remember the doll.

“Shit,” I say.

The officer turns the light on me, shining it into my face. “I think you better come into the station with me.”

JAKE: AGE ELEVEN

I stared at the phone, knowing I should call her back. Our conversation ended poorly again, although I didn’t even know what set it off. In fact, I could barely remember what we’d talked about. The words melded with all the others coming before them over the past few months. I sat down on the couch in the living room and closed my eyes. Afternoon sunlight shone on the backs of my eyelids, the world a pink and orange glowing blanket. My head leaned into the pillow.

Since Jake’s birth a decade before, life failed to follow the path I’d expected. I tried to think back to when I was young and full of dreams. Had any involved being a stay-at-home dad? I laughed out loud. During one neighborhood guys-night-out, Tairyn’s husband, a tall, muscular guy with a surgical haircut and hairy arms who claimed to have played minor league baseball, looked me in the eye and said, “I always wanted a sugar mama.”

“Yeah, Sam,” I had said to him. “Guess you’re not handsome enough to pull it off.”

We traded barbs after that. In my opinion, I won. Later that night, however, as I drove home, I really thought about what he’d said. Normally, I’d bemoan a missed opportunity to zing him with some delayed witticism. That night, though, I truly considered his statement—had I always wanted a sugar mama?

After my call with Rachel, the absurdity of that statement struck me harder than at any other time. At twelve, I had finagled a paper route out of a friend’s older brother. At fourteen, I took a job at a fish store, being paid under the table to bleach maggots out of their dumpster on trash days. By the time I was sixteen years old, I’d worked at an ice cream shack, a clothing store, two department stores, and a long-extinct video rental place. I worked odd jobs all the way through college, including internships and co-ops. One week after college graduation, I started my first “career” and did not go a day unemployed until Jake was born.

Every day since, I’ve felt guilt. In the morning, watching Rachel scurrying around in the dark trying to find her matching shoes, I convinced myself that she must feel contempt as I remained in bed, waiting for Laney to wake up and jump in to snuggle for a few minutes. During the day, when both kids attended school, I often imagined the people in the cars driving by the house glancing through my windows and shaking their heads with disgust, asking themselves,
What kind of man does something like that
?

On occasion, I talked to someone about my lowering self-image. Once I even visited a professional for a total of three visits. She reminded me (at the last one) that I raised two children (at the time under seven) while making a living as a medical writer and without the help of a nanny or in-laws (Rachel’s parents tended to stay away from me when she was not around). I canceled my next appointment. I did not need someone to charge me $150 to regurgitate the obvious at me.

Often I told myself that Rachel and I were at the vanguard of a new world order. We were the Rosa Parks (admitted delusion of grandeur
on my part) of gender equality. But in some ways, it was true. She brought home the bacon and I fried it up in a pan (yes, I stole this from an old commercial), yet somehow I was supposed to never, never, never forget I was a man.

To be truthful, my psyche had actually improved over time. When the kids were younger, my aggression level had skyrocketed. I used to fantasize about getting into fistfights with the mailman who looked at me askew when he saw me cutting the grass at noon on a Tuesday. I’d coach Jake’s soccer team and tear into some father who questioned me, basically daring him to take a swing. I was not proud of this. On the contrary, it made me sick, but it happened.

By Jake’s tenth birthday, that portion of my journey had passed. I’d calmed down. Outwardly, some might say my swagger had returned. Inside, I knew there were still some lasting changes. I worried about the kids, probably too much, and men aren’t supposed to worry. I also didn’t put in enough effort with Rachel. I’d admit it, even to her, though I felt she didn’t put in the time with me, either.

My phone rang and I knew Rachel would be on the line. I picked up, telling myself I would apologize and end this fight, a fight whose beginning I could not even remember.

“Hi.”

“What’s up?” I muttered back.

For the second time, I told myself to chill, to let this all go, to start over and end it. Instead, the conversation lulled. I stood up and paced the foyer, my footsteps echoing through the empty house.

“Did you want something?” I asked.

She did not answer right away. It was a stupid thing to say. We had been fighting for three days, barely speaking to each other. It was not the first time, either.

“I am just really tired of being in the doghouse,” she said.

I snorted. “You say that all the time. It is such BS.” The floodgates opened. “It’s an excuse. You do whatever you want. I get upset about it, then you spout off about being in the doghouse.”

“You are always mad at me, Simon. I work late sometimes. You know that.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t care how late you work. My issue is when you say you’re going to be home at one time, but you come home three hours later without bothering to let me know.”

“I had a meeting with Frank. What was I supposed to do? Be like, ‘Hey, boss, hold on a minute, I have to call my needy husband.’”

My face grew hot. “Nice.”

“I just mean I can’t always get in touch with you.”

“It takes two seconds to text me,” I said, my tone icy.

“You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to work in an office.”

My business had been slow for a couple of months. I had not heard from my biggest client in half a year. I took her words as an intended affront and hung up the phone. I threw it into the couch cushions and stormed upstairs, ignoring the muffled ring behind me.

“Daddy,” Laney moaned. “When’s the game over?”

I looked down at her. She sat in the grass just off the sideline of the flag football field, a book open but upside down on the ground before her. Her big greenish eyes blinked and I couldn’t help but think how cute she looked in pigtails and sweatpants, her normal attire. Considering her soccer shirt, I knew it was no wonder the moms (at least those with daughters) tended to tilt a head or tsk under their breaths. They all thought I ruined Laney by the way I let her dress. Although I fretted internally about this, I did nothing to change it. I liked her that way. She made me smile a lot.

“Soon, sweetie,” I said, tousling her hair.

I glanced out on to the field. Jake, thick for his age but not fat, a good, sturdy black Irish in my opinion, hiked the ball to Max. Jen’s son looked like a natural quarterback, dropping back, arm cocked, eyes scanning the field. The two kids running routes did not match his skill level, though. One danced with the defender, comically wiggling, flag
twirling around his hips, but not getting anywhere. The other followed a pretty good pattern but refused to look back for the ball.

Although not exclusively, I watched Jake. He blocked one of the opposing linemen well. Two others, however, got past their blockers. Max, in my opinion showing uncanny pocket awareness, broke. He sprinted down the field, Jake plodding after him.

“Go, Max!” I called out.

“I want to go home,” Laney said.

A safety pulled Max’s flag at about midfield. “Nice run.” I turned back to Laney. “We have to stay. Mommy’s not home yet.”

“Mommy’s never home,” she said.

I reconsidered my response and realized I should not have said that. I’d teed that one up for sure. I felt like a bitter divorcé.

“It won’t be long. The game’s almost over. Do you want to play on my phone?”

She brightened up. “Yeah.”

I gave her my new iPhone and she tapped away like a pro. I watched her for a moment, amazed at her generation’s deft electronics coordination.

“Looking good out there.”

I spun around to see Jen, all smiles. She liked nothing better than to watch Max play football. A sporty-type mom, she wore a performance jacket and leggings, with expensive running shoes.

“Hi there,” I said. “Like Jeff Saturday and Manning, huh?”

She laughed, getting my reference to the Indianapolis Colts center and quarterback. “Not Manning. He could never break the pocket for a first.”

I smiled. “True that.”

We stood next to each other watching the game. Other parents hovered around, as intent as we were, but I rarely if ever spoke to them. I never knew what to say. Plus, I had a hard time remembering which kid was theirs. Jen and I commented through the rest of the game. She shared a pithy one about the ref who, officiating at a ten-year-olds’
flag football game, wore the full outfit, from stripes to white pants.

“He’s hoping to get the call up to a middle school game. Big leap, you know.”

She laughed. Despite myself, I looked at her again. The sound of her voice breaking out in real amusement warmed me from the inside. Not in a sappy way, either. I actually felt warm. She met my eyes and her smile broadened. I had to look away, suddenly uncomfortable. Not with her, with me. A thought rudely butted in line. I used to talk to Rachel like this before kids.

“Whatcha playing?” Jen asked Laney.

“Cut the Rope,” Laney replied without taking her eyes off the small screen.

“Nice. Max likes that one.”

The very official official blew his whistle, signifying the end of the game.

“Do you even know what the score was?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Don’t they all end in a tie?”

“That was so last year,” she drawled.

I laughed again as Max and Jake raced over. Max hugged his mom. I thought that was nice, the star quarterback hugging his mom in public—a good kid.

“Can Jake come over?” he asked his mom.

Jen looked at me and shrugged.

“Sure, if it’s okay with you?”

Jake tugged at my arm. I bent down and he whispered in my ear, the earnest way kids do.

“I’m supposed to go to Doug’s, remember?”

Crap
. Maybe I had remembered. Maybe I simply did not want Jake to go to Doug’s house. He’d seen a lot of the Martin-Klein kid since school had started back up. I glanced at Max and wondered if he had noticed. I probably transferred my emotions on to the kid, but it all happened so fast.

“Don’t worry about it,” I whispered. “Go have fun with Max.”

I could see Jake considering it, fully. He took his time, his face pensive.

“I don’t want to upset Doug.”

“I don’t think anything was set in stone,” I said.

This was not an outright lie. The boys talked about it, but not the parents. I assumed that it was just kid stuff, wavy gravy as they said.

I pressed Jake. Eventually, he gave in. With a smile that I took to mean he would rather have been with Max anyway, the two boys sprinted to the car.

“What time do you want me to get him?” I asked.

Jen shrugged. “Five-ish.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

“ ’K.”

Jen walked away. I felt good about myself, feeling like I’d steered my son down the right path, at least in a big-picture manner; I watched her go. She looked very good in her leggings, and she walked with the grace of a feminine athlete. It had been nice talking to her.

My mind went where most men’s go. The thought materialized, fuzzy and incomplete, yet arousing. What we did to each other, or with each other, popped from one disjointed scenario to another, all variants of some moment I shared with a female from my past. Disheveled clothing, unique combinations of undress, and daring moments of acceptable bravery, to name a few.

A little hand grasped my finger. I looked down at Laney as she peered up at me. She looked so much like her mother that I flinched. Laney’s lip pouted and my soul flooded with pounding, burning guilt.

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

DAY TWO

I am a bit player on a prime-time cop drama. I drag through the steps—fingerprints, photo, search, confiscation—and wait. They impound Rachel’s car. The officer has brought me to the local city station. Eventually leading me to the holding cells, I pass a half-dressed woman sitting on a bench, picking at her nails and cursing at no one. I see a homeless man I recognize, a man who smells of urine and melted candy. He mumbles to himself. The police officer, the uniformed cop who processed me, a nondescript man I prefer to forget, cuffs me to a bench across from the smelly man. I don’t care. The officer walks away. I sit for what feels like an hour.

My bladder burns inside my gut. The need to urinate permeates every part of me but my impetus. I do not ask to use the bathroom, as I see others do. Instead, the discomfort, near pain really, fuels me. Little by little, it awakens my senses again. I float toward the moment, inch by inch clawing closer to the agony that sent me to oblivion. I know already that I will never be the same. Something broke inside. But I am not a quitter.