Taji's Syndrome (5 page)

“I don’t think so,” said Catherine. “Dave’s trouble is he wants to be the boss, which means he wants someone to boss around, preferably a lot of someones. He hasn’t said so yet, but I think he imagines himself as a travel mogul, booking two hundred tours a year for groups of seventy and eighty. Ever since we handled that cruise for that Del Mar company, Dave’s got his eye on big package deals. He forgets that the bookings I handle— which he thinks are a waste of time—bring in more than sixty-five percent of our profit. Handling a European vacation for a family of three doesn’t appeal to him.” She put her hand to her well-cut greying hair. “Never mind that. I’m blowing off steam. I probably should have yelled at Dave, but that never gets me anywhere. How’s Marilee? Have you talked to Ben yet today?”

“He still wants us to take those tests.” Jonathon glanced at Laurie as if to reassure himself that it was correct to discuss this in front of his daughter.

“Well, if he thinks it’s necessary, it probably is. We want Marilee to—”

“Get over the thing,” Jonathon finished for her. He reached out and gave Laurie a pat on her ann. “One casualty in the family is enough, isn’t it?”

“Um-hum,” said Laurie, starting to feel scared again.

—Harold Porter—

Finally the snow got so bad that Frank Porter pulled his camper off the road in the town of Mullan, a few miles over the Idaho border. He wrestled himself into his heavy shearling coat and then turned to his son. “You keep an eye out for company. I’m going to walk to that service station and find out if there’s a motel open this time of night.”

“Sure,” said Harold, his voice cracking. “I’ll do it.”

“Good for you, son,” Frank declared, taking the time to cuff the boy lightly on the jaw. “You’re a good kid.” Then he was gone into the blur of flakes swarming out of the night sky.

Harold pulled his knees up and sat huddled against the seat, trying to decide what was the best thing for him to do. His father rarely left him alone, and if he knew more about where they were, he might take a chance to find a phone and try to reach his mother. In the four years since his father had abducted him from his mother’s home in Golden, Colorado, he had been able to call her nine times, so she would know he was still all right. Twice he had tried to get away and return to his mother, but both times his father had found him and beaten him so badly that now he was afraid to make the attempt again. He felt in his pocket for coins, in case he found a phone, and realized he had less than two dollars to his name: he would have to call collect. Little as he admitted it, he missed his mother, and the life they had had before his father returned. Alexa had found them a place on the outskirts of Golden where she raised ponies, specializing in a handsome Welsh Cob/Caspian cross which was starting to earn her a reputation and a growing income. Harold had liked tending to the ponies and being with his mother Alexa, who lavished affection on him as if to make up for the years they had followed Frank on the rodeo circuit. Now Harold was once again on that circuit, and Frank, aging unpredictably, had become increasingly suspicious and demanding of his son.

“You drifting?” Frank asked as he yanked open the door and pointed an accusing finger at his boy.

“A little. It’s cold.”

Frank grunted. “There’s a motel about a mile up the road. They’ve got a room for us, and we can get sandwiches there.” He wedged himself behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. “Old fart better start,” he muttered.

The engine turned over with a protesting roar, and Harold blinked to conceal his relief. “We going to stay here a day or two?”

“Have to, if the snow doesn’t stop. Told me at the service station that most places around here are already snowed in. Shit, if I can’t get going, I’ll lose that job in Twin Falls. I said I’d be there next Tuesday.” He tromped on the. accelerator and the camper lurched onto the road, fish-tailing on the icy surface.

“Dad!” Harold said faintly, trying not to rouse his father’s anger. Nothing made Frank Porter more upset than the fear that someone was criticizing his driving. Harold clung to the seatbelt and ground his teeth to keep from yelling.

“I can handle it,” Frank growled as he fought with the wheel. “I can handle a lot worse’n this.” He continued his battle for most of a minute until the camper steadied and began real progress down the road toward the motel.

“Hey, Dad, how long are you going to stay in Twin Falls?” It was a forlorn question; Frank had never remained in anyone place as long as he intended to; someone would insult him, or he would get into a fight, or there would be accusations and Frank would take his boy and they would once again be on the road.

“Through May, in any case. I told Bowan that I’d help out with getting his horses in off the range and broke, if he’ll guarantee my wages and a place to live for us both. He said there’s two house trailers on his place and we can have our pick of ’em. Things are going our way, kid, if we can get there.” This last was a dark reminder of Frank’s belief that he had been the chosen target of a capricious and vengeful fate.

“We’ll get there. You can phone from the motel, can’t you, so he’ll know where you are?” He made this suggestion carefully, so that it would not appear that he was in any way prodding his father to do anything. Frank hated any kind of manipulation unless he was doing it.

“I might,” he allowed when he had thought about it. “Ah. There’s the motel. Hang on, Harold.” He swung the camper abruptly and it slithered across the road, sliding into the parking lot of the Riverbend Motel. “Wait here while I get us checked in. I’ll be quick about it.”

“Great.” He watched his father stamp into the light over the office and pound on the door. For an instant he thought he might open the door and slip away, making his way toward the highway where he could hitch a ride back to Golden and his mother. But he had sense enough to know that the chances were he would freeze or his father would find him and take out after him with his fists again. Harold shuddered, and told himself that it was from cold.

“Okay,” said Frank as soon as he came back. “We got Unit Number Eleven. Here’s the key. I want you to get the duffles out and bring them in. We can get the rest in the morning. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t let nobody in while I’m gone, you understand?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Harold, knowing that his father would be going in search of drink, since he had run out of the cheap alcoholic liquid that called itself scotch earlier in the day. “Anything you say.”

“You’re a good boy, Harold,” said Frank as he closed the door.

As soon as he had finished carrying the duffles into the motel room, Harold went back to the office and asked the manager if there was a pay phone around. “I . . . got some people to call, with the roads being closed.”

“Sure, kid,” said the manager. “There’s one down the hall. Takes quarters only.” He turned and started back to his sitting room behind the reception desk and then said, “You want a sandwich? Your father said you hadn’t had supper yet.”

“That would be nice,” Harold said uncertainly. “But I don’t have any money—he does.”

“I’ll put it on the bill,” offered the manager, and once again pointed down the hall. “Go ahead and make your calls. I’ll have a couple sandwiches ready when you’re through.”

“Thanks,” said Harold, perplexed by the kindness the manager was showing him. He quickly put that out of his mind as he went to the phone and punched in the familiar number and the code to make it collect. He felt a twinge of guilt at making his mother pay to hear from him, but it passed as he listened to the beeps and clicks.

“Who shall I say is calling?” asked the electronic voice of the computerized operator.

“Harold. Harold Porter.” He felt his throat go dry as he waited, listening to the rings and counting them.

Alexa picked up her receiver on the ninth ring. “Hello?” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Harold had to swallow hard to keep from crying. Sternly he admonished himself to be more grown-up, but as Alexa took the call, he felt tears well in his eyes.

“Harold?” she pleaded. “Is that you? Really?”

“Hi, Mom,” he said inanely. “Yeah. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine. What about you? Where are you? Are you all right? Oh, God, I’ve been so worried about you.”

He knew that she was at the edge of her control and he tried to reassure her. “I’m doing okay. I miss you.”

“Oh, baby, I miss you so much.”

She was crying now; he could hear the sound of it in her words and her silences. “I miss you, too.”

“Where are you?” she made herself ask.

“Somewhere in Idaho. It’s snowing. We were in Montana last week, and then something happened and . . . ” He choked.

“You don’t have to tell me; I know.” In her tears there was anger now. “He hasn’t hurt you again, has he?”

“No, Mom, not really,” he answered evasively. “Look, he said something about going to a Bowan place near Twin Falls. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, but that’s what he said, and maybe . . .”

“I’ll try. I’ll call the State Police again and see if they’re willing to do anything. If he hadn’t taken you out of Colorado, it would be a lot easier. It always takes time when there’s another state involved.” Determination drove the sound of weeping from her speech. “I’m going to bring you home, Harold. You’ll see.”

“I hope so, Mom.” He tried to laugh and failed. “I keep hoping that . . . it’s almost Christmas, you know? I wish I was spending it with you.”

“Me, too,” Alexa said so softly that Harold barely heard her.

“Anyway, Mom, I got to go. I don’t want to run up your bill and I don’t want to . . .” He did not have to finish; they both knew what Frank would do if he even suspected that his son had called Alexa.

“You take care, Harold. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” Before he said anything more, he hung up.

There were sandwiches waiting, and the manager turned off his television so he could talk with Harold while the boy ate the two chicken sandwiches that the manager had made.

“This is real kindly of you,” Harold said indistinctly through a full mouth.

“You looked half starved and miserable as a drowned puppy,” said the manager, giving him a second glass of milk.

“Not real common, your hospitality,” said Harold, this time with several questions implied in his tone of voice.

The man shook his head. “I’m waiting for my two kids to get back from rehearsal for their high school Christmas program. I can worry on my own, or I can worry with company. Thing is, I hope that if my kids ever showed up looking the way you did that someone would give them. a sandwich or two.” He indicated the television. “There’s cable in the room sets, but no pay stations. I can get you a listing of what’s on, if you want it.”

“Thanks,” said Harold, relaxing a bit.

“Think nothing of it. My name’s Tucker, by the way. Norton Tucker,” He held out his hand.

Harold took it. “I’m Harold Porter,” he said feeling very grown-up for a change.

“Stick around, if you like, and meet my kids. They’re a little older than you are, but you don’t mind that, do you?” Tucker got up and took the nearly empty plate from Harold.

“I better get to the room. My Dad’ll be back soon, and he wants me in the room.” Saying the words made him uneasy.

“Whatever’s right,” said Tucker. “The kids’ll be around tomorrow, if you change your mind. Maybe if I say something to your Dad, he might—”

Harold interrupted him. “No. Please. Don’t say anything. He . . . he doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”

Tucker nodded. “All right.” He watched as Harold started toward the door. “You let me know if you need anything.”

“Sure. Thanks.” He started toward the door, then turned back. “Don’t say anything about the phone call, will you? Dad doesn’t like me making calls.”

If Tucker thought there was anything out of the ordinary in this request he did not reveal it. “You got it,” he said with a wave that was almost a salute.

Harold made his way back to Unit 11, and took up his vigil.

—Mason Ross—

“We’re so sorry about Kevin,” said Joan Ellingham. “I wish there were something I could say—”

Susan nodded and tried not to cry again. “Thank you,” she murmured as she reached out to take Harper’s arm.

“Both of you,” their neighbor Barry McPhee said as he held out his hands to them. “Caroline and I are going to miss him so much.”

Harper said a few words as he tightened his hold around Susan’s shoulder. He glanced at his other two children, so quiet in their dark mourning clothes, both of them grieving and awkward at their brother’s funeral.

“Don’t worry about the rest of the . . . the holidays,” Harper’s department head told him as he took his hand. “I’ll put the grad students on your papers, so that you won’t have to bother with them. I’m really . . . you know.”

“Thanks, Phil,” said Harper.

“You, too, Susan,” Phillip Sanders said to her. “It’s a real shock, and what a time for it to happen.”

Susan had to stop herself from getting angry with Phil, to keep from screaming at him that there was no time that was good for a teenager to die. That it was Christmas made it no worse than it would have been at any other time of year. She nodded, not trusting herself to do anything more.

“I’ll call you later, Phil,” said Harper.

The line seemed endless, and by the time everyone who attended the memorial service had left the chapel, Susan was afraid she would not be able to walk as far as the car. She reached out for her two remaining sons, touching them blindly and with ill-concealed desperation. “We’re going home.”

“Okay, Mom,” said Mason, reaching out to take her hand. Despite his youth, he was curiously mature and responsible, as if he had been born thirty years old and was growing ancient before he reached high school.

“You did a fine job, Susan,” said Harper, his face closed and remote, as if he were lost in study rather than grieving for the loss of his child.

“How does anyone do a fine job with something like this?” she asked, but there was no heat in the words, only listlessness.

“We do the best we can,” Harper said, starting down the steps of the chapel.