by Eric Walters
“Maybe if we all could just sit down and talk,” the officer asked. “Is your husband home?”
“He might be,” my mother said coldly. “Of course, this isn’t his home now and he isn’t my husband any longer.”
“Oh,” the older cop said. The look on his face and the tone of his voice in muttering that one word said volumes—things like That explains everything—it would be different if there were a man in the house.
“I was raised by my mom,” the big cop said. “It’s not easy being a single parent.”
“His father hasn’t been living with us for almost two years,” my mother continued.
“But I see him all the time,” I said, defending my father.
“And when was the last time one of those visits took place?” my mother snapped. “It’s been weeks!”
“It hasn’t been that long. Besides, he’s busy.”
“Too busy for his—?”
“How about if we put that away for now,” the older officer said, cutting her off. “It’s late. We just need to ask a few questions before we can leave…okay?”
My mother nodded. “Come this way, please.”
She led them down the hall and into the living room. I trailed behind as she motioned for them to take seats. The big cop pulled a pad of paper and a pen from his pocket before he sat down.
“We have to get some information,” he began. “We need your full name and date of birth as well as your son’s.”
My mother answered his questions and he made notes in his book. He looked as clumsy writing as he had trying to punch in the entry code for the building. I was tempted to say something, but I kept my mouth shut.
“How long has your son been on the run?” the big cop asked.
“Nearly two days. I know better than to call the police until he’s been missing for at least forty-eight hours.”
“It sounds like he’s run away before.”
She laughed slightly. “Three times over the past few months.”
“What’s making him run?”
“I wish I knew,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
I knew what was going to come next. Her eyes began to well up and then tears rolled down her cheeks. She quickly turned her head.
“Does your mother beat you up?” the big cop asked, turning to me.
“What?” I asked, not believing what I’d just heard.
“Does she beat you up? Does she hit you?”
“No, of course not!”
“Does she feed you, take care of things, buy you clothes?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“I don’t want to hear no buts,” he snapped, cutting me off. “You got life better here than most kids do. Do you feel like a big man making your mother cry like that?”
“No, I—”
“You’re just a selfish little snot who figures he can do whatever he wants to do and doesn’t care about—”
“Please, that’s enough!” my mother said. “He’s a good boy…he is…he really is…he was never any trouble,” she said, and then she looked like she was fighting back the tears again. “It’s just been the last year or so…”
The old cop walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, ma’am,” he said. “And sometimes what’s needed is a little time and a little space.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Is there someplace your son can go for a day or two? You both could probably benefit from a little time apart.”
“We’ve been apart…he’s been on the run!”
“I mean a safe place. Maybe a family friend, or a grandparent’s house.”
“There’s nobody,” she said, shaking her head.
“How about his father’s home?” the big cop suggested.
“His father?”
“Does he live in the city?”
“He does…but…but…I can’t call his father,” she said.
“Does he know what’s been going on?”
“I’ve told him things…most things,” she admitted.
“Maybe it’s time to tell him everything. After all, he’s still the boy’s father, and I bet you’d want to know if the shoe was on the other foot, wouldn’t you?”
My mother nodded. “You’re right…thank you.”
The two cops got up from their seats. They shook hands with my mother. Then the big cop came over and stood right in front of me, towering over top of me.
“I don’t want to see you again,” he said softly. “And I’ll take it very personal-like if you end up on the streets tonight after we leave. Do you understand?”
I didn’t answer.
“Do you understand my meaning?” he asked, no longer speaking softly.
“Sure…yeah…you want me to stay home.”
“Or wherever your mother arranges.”
“Sure,” I said. That was an easy promise to keep. I was tired and dirty and hungry. I wasn’t going anywhere. At least not tonight.
“Good.”
“Why don’t you give his father a call now,” the second cop said.
“I can’t call him now. It’s the middle of the night.”
“You have to let him know what’s happening. Everything. And the time to start is right now.” He paused. “Okay?”
She shrugged and then nodded ever so slightly.
“In the morning it’s too easy to dismiss things. Call him now, wake him up, and let him know that this is important enough to miss some sleep over.”
The two of them turned and walked out, leaving me alone with my mother.
2
“Where do you think you’re going?” my mother demanded.
“I’m going to the kitchen,” I said.
“I’m calling your father.”
“You can do that without my help,” I snapped. “You know the number.”
“Don’t you give me attitude!” she shot back.
“I need something to eat,” I said. “It’s been a while since I ate.”
“I’m going to ask your father to take you for a few days,” she called out after me.
“Whatever,” I tossed back over my shoulder.
“You need to be here when I speak to him.”
“I need to eat,” I said as I walked out of the room and into the kitchen.
I pulled open the fridge and grabbed the milk pitcher and a hunk of cheese. On the counter I found an apple and a banana. I’d had nothing but fries and doughnuts and Coke for the past two days. I poured a big glass of milk and drank it down in one big gulp, then refilled the glass.
When I peeked around the corner back into the living room my mother’s back was to me, and she had the phone up to her ear. I heard her say something but couldn’t make it out. I moved over to the kitchen counter and quietly picked up the extension, covering the mouthpiece with the palm of my hand.
“Don’t you know what time it is?” my father said angrily. “It’s almost three in the morning!”
“I know perfectly well what time it is,” my mother answered.
“Perhaps you know the time, but you’ve obviously lost your sense of timing. Whatever this is, it could certainly have waited until—”
“It’s about our son.”
There was a pause.
“Is Winston all right?” he asked. There was concern in his voice.
“He’s fine…well, not fine really, but he’s here…he’s safe.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
There was an even longer pause.
“The police just brought him home, and—”
“The police!” he exclaimed. “Why was he with the police?”
“He was on the run again,” my mother said. “Two days. They found him downtown…
they think he’s been drinking. That’s why I’m calling. I’m at the end of my rope. I can’t take it right now. I was hoping that he could come and spend some time with you.”
Again, there was no answer right away. Didn’t he want to see me?
“I’m going away on assignment early tomorrow morning. I’ll be back in a few days and I can take him out to a movie or—”
“I’m not talking about you taking him to a movie! I want him to come and spend a few days with you. Stay with you.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” he snapped. He sounded annoyed. “I’m going on an assignment. Maybe when I get back I can—”
“You can’t be going far if you’re only going for a few days,” my mother argued.
“I’m not…just out to the East Coast, to Nova Scotia…two days at the most.”
“If you’re just going out East for a couple of days then he could go with you.”
“This isn’t a holiday; this is work. You should know as well as anybody what it’s like to be on assignment. Or has that cushy television job erased your memory of what it’s like on the road for a real reporter?”
“I remember perfectly, and that’s why I know he can go with you. It’s not like you’re taking him into a war zone…unless somebody invaded the Maritime provinces while I was busy doing my cushy television job.”
“If there had been an invasion I’m sure you would have read about it in the newspapers,” he said. “Who knows, it might even have made it to TV.”
My father worked for a newspaper and my mother for a television news show. Newspaper people thought television was nothing but fancy images read by empty talking heads, and the television people thought the newspaper people had to get with the times and that the world was passing them by.
There was a stony silence and neither talked for a few seconds.
“And what if I need to interview a confidential source?” my father asked.
“He’s fourteen. You can leave him in the hotel by himself for a couple of hours. What story are you covering, anyway?”
“It’s a nothing story…human interest angle.”
“I didn’t think you did human interest stories.”
There was no answer from my father.
“I thought that was the sort of fluff that television news shows handled. Not the sort of thing a real reporter would cover.” She sounded amused.
“Unfortunately, there can’t always be a war or disaster to report,” my father replied.
“So it’s settled. He’ll come with you,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
It seemed like my mother was working hard to get rid of me, while my father was working just as hard not to take me. It felt special to be so wanted.
“What about school? Wouldn’t it be better if he came with me during the summer? I wouldn’t think he could afford to miss any more school if he’s been on the run already.”
“He can’t afford it, but there isn’t much choice. Either way, he’s not going to school.”
“What do you mean?’
“He’s been suspended…again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?”
“He was suspended at the start of the year for two days.”
“What for…what did he do?”
“He was skipping classes,” my mother said.
“And isn’t that brilliant!” my father exclaimed. “The boy doesn’t go to school, and for punishment they won’t let him go to school, so he misses more classes!”
“It didn’t make much sense to me either, but there’s no arguing with school administrators.”
“You should have called me. You should have told me.”
“Winston didn’t want you to know. Despite everything, he still doesn’t like to disappoint you. He begged me not to tell you and he promised it wouldn’t happen again.”
“And?” my father asked.
“Another promise he didn’t keep.”
“How long was he suspended for this time?” my father asked.
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks! Did he kill somebody?”
“He was caught drinking on school property. And then when they searched his locker they found a screwdriver.”
“A screwdriver…so what?”
“They said it was a weapon.”
“A screwdriver isn’t a weapon; it’s a tool!”
“That’s what they called it.”
“That’s outrageous! There are dozens of reasons why somebody might have a screwdriver in his locker,” my father protested.
“None that your son could come up with.”
Of course I wasn’t going to use it as a weapon. The reason I had it was that I was planning on using it to break into people’s lockers. I just figured that telling them that wasn’t going to get me in less trouble.
“Why haven’t you talked to me about any of this before now?” my father demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me he was on the run?”
“I’ve tried. It’s not the sort of thing that you leave on an answering machine.”
“You could have just asked me to call,” my father said.
“I did leave you messages. At least three.”
There was a pause. “I don’t always get my messages. My machine has been acting up, and—”
“Do you forget who you’re talking to?” my mother asked. “I was there when you didn’t return your first wife’s calls.”
There was an even longer silence. I wondered which of them was going to break it.
“It sounds like there isn’t much choice,” my father finally said.
“No, there isn’t,” my mother agreed. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. I catch an eight-fifteen flight, so I’m expecting an airport limo at six-thirty. I’ll have the driver swing by and get him just after he picks me up.”
“I’ll have him packed and ready to go.”
“How about if you bring him downstairs and meet us at the door to the building. I’ll be tight for time,” my father said.
“What else is new?” my mother asked sarcastically.
“This isn’t the time for that discussion.”
“You’re right…I’m so tired…and worried.”
“There’ll be nothing to worry about for the next few days. He’ll do just fine…won’t you, Winston?”
I froze at the mention of my name.
“I know you’re on the extension. One of the things I learned long ago is that you have to slip your hand over the mouthpiece before you pick it up to listen in.”
I held my breath.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” my father said. “I’m going to try to get at least a little more sleep.”
3
“Can I get another drink?” my father asked the flight attendant.
“Certainly, sir.” She had a big smile on her face. She was blond and perky, the sort of flight attendant they always have on television commercials so you’ll want to fly with their airline.
“And make this one a double.”
“Yes, sir,” she said and hurried down the aisle.
My father turned to me. “That’s just one of the many things I like about first class—service with a smile. Shame about this new ban on smoking, though…three hours is too long to wait between drags. You want anything? Another Coke, some peanuts, a pillow?”
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re so fine, how come you haven’t put together more than two words since I picked you up this morning?” he asked.
“I guess I don’t have anything to say.” At least, nothing I wanted to say to him. What I really wanted was just to be left alone to catch up on my sleep.
“Then it’s probably wise to stay quiet. Most of what gets people in trouble is talking when they have
nothing to say.”
“Here’s your drink, sir,” the flight attendant said.
He took the drink with one hand and offered her the empty glass with the other.
“Excuse me…I was just wondering…are you Winston MacDonald?” she asked him.
“Why, yes, I am,” he said. He sounded pleased.
“I thought I recognized you from the picture on your newspaper column.”
“It’s not a very good picture,” my father said.
“Do you think you could do me a big favour?” she asked.
“Depends on the favour.”
“I have today’s paper up in the cabin, and I was just wondering if you could autograph it for me.”
I could almost see my father’s chest puffing up with pride.
“Not a problem,” he said. “Not a problem at all.”
“I’ll be right back.” She giggled as she disappeared down the aisle once more, and he leaned slightly out from his seat to watch as she walked away.
“It’s funny how often that happens,” he said, now looking at me.
Not as much as it used to, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. When my father was on the TV news program as well as writing his newspaper column, he was a lot better known. Funny, back then he didn’t seem to think TV was such a bad thing.
That was where my parents met. He was a big-time correspondent and she was a copy editor…really, a junior copy editor. My father had once told me it was a “June and September” relationship. That was his way of saying that he was almost twenty years older than my mother.
They were married for nearly twelve years. I guess they separated because by that time she was becoming a “July” or “August” and he was still looking for somebody from the earlier part of the calendar. At least that’s what you’d have to think judging from the women—or really girls—he dated after he and my mother separated. Those girls all seemed closer to my age than his. For sure they were closer to the age of his two sons from his first marriage.
“Remember the time I broke that big government corruption story?” my father asked.
“Which government? Which corruption?” I asked.
He smiled. “You’re right, there’ve been a few. Anyway, you have to remember this one. We were down in Vancouver just after that and we were eating in that little restaurant, that one right by the ocean, and people kept on coming up and—”
