Lost Boy

by Tim Green

  The guard who had the ball shrugged and handed it to him. He stuffed it deep in his jacket pocket, trying not to grin at the woman who still held him.

  The cop car pulled up and the other guards along with the cop loaded Orange carefully into the backseat along with Attack Dog. The cop stood and turned to the woman guard.

  “What about him?”

  “Mr. Girardi said to let me go.” Ryder couldn’t help blurting it out because he didn’t like the look he saw on the woman’s face.

  “Get in there.” The woman shoved Ryder toward the car door as if the whole thing with the manager had never happened. “Joe Girardi. Get a load of this kid. I bet Santa Claus put in a good word, too, huh?”

  The other security guards snickered along with her, making it seem like he was simply a liar, and the cop put him in, telling him he better keep his hands to himself or he’d be wearing cuffs like the other two. Ryder couldn’t even speak. It was so wrong.

  “But . . . but . . .” He could only sputter and stutter as the cop got in behind the wheel and began to pull away. The laughter of the stadium security guards roared through the glass of the police car’s window.

  The police unloaded them outside a faceless brick government building. Ryder was separated from the others and taken down an empty hall to a small windowless room with a bench screwed into the floor.

  “You need the bathroom?” the policeman said.

  Ryder shook his head no.

  “Okay. Wait here,” the police officer said, closing the door.

  Ryder sat in silence. All he could think about was his mom. The moment she fell into the street wouldn’t stop repeating itself in his head. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to be brave, but ragged sobs escaped him when the torment was too great. Finally, he was too tired to cry, but the image of her in that moment—annoyed with his resistance—kept at him.

  It was a long, agonizing time before a guard came and took him out of his holding cell. Orange and Attack Dog stood there in the hallway outside, waiting, and scowling at a guard of their own. They were all marched down a series of hallways, up an elevator, through a back room, and into the courtroom before the judge. Lights from above glimmered off the judge’s bald head. Big angry eyes stared out at the boys over the tops of his black-rimmed reading glasses. Rolls of fat cascaded below his ears, piling up on his shoulders like fallen cake dough so that he had no neck at all, and the rolls seemed to flow right into the billows of his black robe.

  The judge’s hands poking out from the drooping sleeves seemed small for the rest of his bulk, the hands of a puppeteer maybe, standing in the tent of clothes and making motions with stubby fingers that bore no rings. The fingers scooped up some papers and the judge studied them through his glasses before returning his gaze to the boys.

  “All right. The Bridge is full, so you two . . .” The judge looked back at the papers. “You’re sixteen, so you’ll go to Rikers Island. And you.”

  The judge whipped off his glasses and the dark furry caterpillar eyebrows sloped and met above his nose in a V. “I am sick of seeing twelve-year-olds in here committing crimes with deadly weapons. Do you know that a child is injured or killed by a gun in this country every thirty seconds! Well? Did you know?”

  Ryder couldn’t speak, could barely shake his head. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

  The judge pounded his bench with a mini fist. “Well, I know, and I’m done with it. This is armed robbery, gentlemen, and I don’t care that one of you is twelve and I don’t care that you’ve got some sob story about mama in the hospital.”

  The judge stared hard, and Ryder could barely breathe. The judge waved the glasses back on his face and looked down at the papers again. He began sifting through some others. “No room here. No room there. I tell you where I got room. I got room at Tryon Residential. How about that, son? Maybe you go see some hard-timers and you get it figured out before you come back here for your trial.”

  “Your Honor, I don’t think a boy twelve years old ought to be in Tryon, and there weren’t any guns. I grant you, two of the suspects had knives, but my client did not.” The woman who’d spoken stood at a table behind Ryder. She had lots of wavy hair and a wide, smooth forehead. She wore a gray business suit with a white blouse and had glasses of her own. Her scowl was just as strong as the judge’s. “This boy would be released to his parents under normal circumstances.”

  The judge’s mouth moved as though he were chewing a bit of paper stuck in his teeth. Then he spoke. “You call three kids with a knife normal, Ms. Angie Diles? Nothing normal about that. Tryon was good enough for Mike Tyson, wasn’t it? Where’s he now? A movie star, so the place has its merits.”

  Angie Diles shook her head and grunted with disgust.

  “Well, did you send anyone over to the address he gave?” The judge seemed to be giving in a bit.

  She shook her head. “No one there. The school said he skipped today and they confirmed the mother’s name. She is in the hospital in critical condition.”

  Ryder wondered about Mr. Starr and whether they tried talking to him or he scared them off or maybe just gave up on Ryder as a loser.

  “And you’d have me do what with this boy, Ms. Diles?” the judge asked.

  “A foster home.”

  “A foster home.” The judge blew out his cheeks. “Do you know Deshawn Harper? Does that name ring a bell with you?”

  Angie Diles frowned and her lips disappeared into the flat line of her mouth, but she didn’t give away if she’d heard the name or not.

  The judge nodded. “Boys with knives have already crossed a line. I tried to put Deshawn in a foster home and I won’t even tell you what he did to another child they had in that household. We all have our jobs to do, and I don’t mind you doing yours, but don’t push me on this one, Angie.”

  The two of them stared each other down. The courtroom went totally silent. Ryder clenched his teeth, sensing something big in the balance.

  Suddenly, Ryder heard the courtroom doors burst open behind them, and someone shouted at the judge.

  “Wait!”

  Ryder turned and didn’t think he’d ever been happier to see someone. Doyle McDonald stood tall and straight, his mustache quivering. Behind him was Derek Raymer.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. My name is Doyle McDonald. I’m with FDNY, but also a close friend of this boy’s family.” Doyle spoke as he walked up the center aisle of the courtroom, stopping once he got alongside the table where Angie Diles stood. “There is a neighbor who regularly watches Ryder and lives next door. He doesn’t have a phone, so he’s hard to get a hold of.”

  Angie Diles ruffled her papers. “Would that be a Mr. Starr?”

  “Yes! Exactly!” Doyle clapped his hands and nodded vigorously. “So, if Your Honor will agree, I can take Ryder. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

  “Well . . .” The judge’s face softened and so did his voice. “I lost a brother on Nine-Eleven. Ladder Three.”

  The courtroom went totally silent.

  Doyle bowed his head for a moment. “Your Honor. I can vouch for Ryder. I heard what happened and I promise you, when this all gets worked out, the court will see that he’s a good kid who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The judge nodded. “Ms. Diles? This works for you?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.”

  The judge thought for a minute. “Well, Ms. Diles is an officer of the court. Would you agree to check in with her on a daily basis and keep her updated as to the boy’s whereabouts?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Doyle said.

  The judge thumped his gavel. “Then I remand Ryder Strong to the custody of Mr. McDonald, to be brought to Mr. Starr until Ms. Diles can work out something permanent if that becomes necessary.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Doyle took Ryder by the arm and gently led him toward the door.

  They met up with Derek Raymer and left the courtroom, closing the doors behind the
m. As they marched down the steps, Ryder saw a pickup truck at the curb with its hazard lights flashing. He followed the two firemen and climbed into the front seat between them. Derek got behind the wheel and when the doors were closed, he switched off the hazards and put the truck in gear.

  Derek Raymer started, “I don’t know about this. You’re not a close family friend.” Derek shook his head as he made a turn. “You just met these people. At an accident.”

  Doyle waved a hand impatiently. “Derek, there’s right and there’s right. Sometimes the rules aren’t right, and when that happens, you gotta just trust your gut and do what’s really right.”

  Ryder nodded because he sure understood that, and it was a relief to hear something so sane spoken by an adult.

  “Okay, but I just hope your gut doesn’t get us fired.” Derek smiled apologetically. “I’m just saying.”

  “Don’t you get what I’m saying?” Doyle looked across at his friend.

  “Sure I do, Doyle, but rules are rules. Look at the mess you got into trying to raise money for the kid’s mom.”

  Doyle shot his partner a hard look.

  “What do you mean? What happened with the money?” Hope hung from Ryder’s words.

  Doyle huffed. “Nothing. It’ll be fine, I’m . . . it’s a setback, that’s all.”

  “You’re having trouble with raising the money?” Ryder tilted his head, his stomach twisting.

  “I’m just still working on it is all.” Doyle kept his eyes on the street.

  “Working on it?” Derek rolled his eyes.

  “That’s right, I am, Derek. Enough.” Doyle glared at his partner.

  “I just happen to like having a job, Doyle,” Derek muttered.

  “Stop being Negative Nancy,” Doyle said. “One thing at a time. We gotta get my guy home.”

  Derek shook his head. “We were coming to visit him? Remember?”

  Derek looked at Ryder and smiled sadly. He turned away, sighed, and shook his head, and then they drove in silence.

  As they crossed over the Harlem River, Ryder asked, “Doyle, can you take me to see my mom?”

  Ryder saw Derek give Doyle a sharp look, but Doyle laughed another time. “Sure, I can. Let’s go there right now.”

  Derek huffed. “Would you mind dropping me off at the firehouse?”

  “Can I use your truck?”

  “Of course you can, but don’t double-park it.”

  When they reached the firehouse Derek mussed Ryder’s hair before hopping down and wishing them luck. Doyle circled around and got in behind the wheel.

  “He’s nice.” Ryder watched Derek wave in the side mirror.

  “The best.” Doyle looked around and did a U-turn.

  “He’s not too happy about all this, though,” Ryder said.

  “Derek’s just cautious. That’s why he and I are a good team.”

  “I hope you won’t get into trouble.” Ryder meant that.

  “Trouble’s my middle name.” Doyle sped up to make a light. “So, you gonna tell me what the heck you were doing at Yankee Stadium with a bunch of thugs?”

  Ryder’s stomach clenched. He’d almost forgotten about how he and Mr. Starr had kept all that from Doyle.

  He hung his head. “Mr. Starr found my dad.”

  “Oh, right.” Doyle laughed, but not in a funny way. “Kid, don’t even dream about your dad being a Yankee. That Starr is pulling your leg. He’s a mean cuss if he told you that. It’s a pipe dream and he shouldn’t have led you on. There’s no Jimmy Trent on the Yankees.”

  “He’s not a Yankee.” Ryder shook his head.

  “Oh.” Doyle looked over. “Good. What, then? Ticket-taker?”

  “He’s a Brave. An Atlanta Brave. They played the Yankees in an interleague game.”

  “Ryder, the Braves’ pitcher is Thomas Trent, not Jimmy Trent. I’m sure that cranky old fart just googled the name ‘Trent’ and ‘MLB’ and came up with him. And then he sent you to that stadium?” Doyle ground his teeth. “I don’t care if he is in a wheelchair. I’m gonna give that Starr a shake-up.”

  Ryder shook his head and pulled the baseball from his coat pocket. “No, he is my dad, Doyle. He met my mom in Auburn, where she was from. He played for the Doubledays, it’s a minor league team. That’s where he signed this ball for her. Everyone called him Jimmy, but his name is Thomas James Trent. I saw him at the stadium. I looked right at him across the parking lot . . . and he smiled.”

  Doyle bit his lip. “Well . . . it’s possible, but you can’t be certain.”

  Ryder frowned and turned away.

  “Hey, don’t shut me out like that. I’m not the enemy. I just don’t want you to be crushed if this doesn’t work out. We’re making a lot of assumptions here.”

  Doyle parked the truck in a garage and they crossed the street to the hospital.

  Every step closer they got to his mom’s room seemed to add a weight to Ryder’s heart. When Doyle asked at the desk if they could go into her room, the nurse gave him a serious look and said she’d have to see.

  When she disappeared, Doyle nodded his head toward the hallway, silently motioning for Ryder to follow. “You wait around for these medical people and they give you a bunch of rules. Come on. You can see your mom.”

  The room had a big glass window looking out into the hall, but the glare from the lights didn’t allow them to see her well, only the shape of a person in a raised bed. When Doyle put his hand on the door and swung it open, Ryder’s knees nearly buckled.

  He had no idea what they’d find.

  The sight of the tubes that snaked up into his mother’s nose brought tears to Ryder’s eyes. He just knew that couldn’t be good. The machines beside her bed played their beeping and whirring tunes, blinking red and green in time to the noise. The crease in the sheet folded down below her shoulders rested perfectly, suggesting no movement at all. Her tan skin had a hint of green.

  He choked. “Mom?”

  She didn’t move.

  He crept close as Doyle circled the bed, frowning. He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. The tubes hissed like deadly snakes.

  “Mom?” He looked at Doyle, his face rumpling.

  Doyle pointed at a small black screen lit by green squiggles of light that followed the path of a bright dot, skittering like a water bug up and down and across the screen. “That’s her heartbeat.”

  “Is it good?” Ryder’s voice shook.

  “It’s there.” Doyle’s mouth was a flat line.

  Ryder brushed some hair from her forehead. “Mom?”

  Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She looked at him, her eyes dialing into focus. Then she smiled, and her lips moved. “Ryder.”

  Sunshine poured into Ryder’s heart. “Mom, we’re going to get you better. You need an operation, but Doyle’s helping me and Mr. Starr. Doyle’s raising money. The fire department’s helping and . . . and . . . I think I found him, Mom.”

  “Found who, honey?” He could barely hear her groggy whisper, and didn’t know if the wince of pain was from speaking or the subject he was speaking of.

  Ryder glanced at Doyle, who also winced.

  Ryder held his breath, then exhaled the name. “Jimmy Trent.”

  His mom closed her eyes, and her face went slack. Ryder’s attention jumped to the machines. Everything stayed the same, a steady beep and the steady wave of green lines going up and down.

  “Mom?” He put his hand on her forehead.

  The door opened behind them. A nurse came in and went right to the machines.

  “Is she all right?” Doyle rounded the bed and put a hand on Ryder’s neck.

  “Well, she’s on a lot of morphine, so she fades in and out,” the nurse said, glancing over her shoulder. “You’ll have to talk to the doctor about everything else.”

  The doctor had already entered without a sound. “Ah, are you the family?”

  “We are.” Doyle nodded. “I mean, he is. Her son. I’m a close friend.”

&n
bsp; The doctor frowned and glanced at Ryder. “So, we need to talk.”

  They followed the doctor down the hallway, past other ICU patients tilted up in front of their own windows. They entered a lounge where a small family huddled around a table in the corner. An older lady sniffled and choked back tears as the others patted her back and offered soft words.

  “Coffee?” The doctor raised his eyebrows at Doyle and slipped a dollar bill into a vending machine that rattled out a cup then spurted a stream of coffee.

  Doyle held up a hand to say no. The doctor got his coffee and sat down across from them at a small table. He sighed before he looked at them. “I presume you’ve got other family on their way?”

  Doyle shook his head. “Ryder here is pretty much it. He’s staying with a neighbor.”

  The doctor had a young face, but his eyebrows were thick, and dark like the shadow on his jaw, and he knit them together. “I’ll have our admin make a call to social serv—”

  Doyle cut him off with a hand. “I got that covered. I’m with the FDNY. We brought her in and I know the drill. He’s okay for now. We’re hoping that you guys can get her well and out of here soon. Meantime, the neighbor is fine.”

  “Well, that’s the problem.” The doctor rubbed the scruff of his unshaven face so that it rasped loudly. His eyes skipped over Ryder to Doyle. “I don’t know how much the ER doctor told you.”

  “That she needs a valve replacement. Actually, two valves.” Doyle spoke in a low voice. “And insurance won’t cover it? Is that true? I mean, she looks tired, but good.”

  “Yes.” The doctor nodded. “She does look good for someone who got hit by a truck, on the outside. The problem is on the inside. When she got hit, it severely bruised her heart and damaged the valves. She won’t get better.”

  “What?” Ryder whispered. The horror of it made Ryder’s ears ring. He gripped the edges of his chair to stay upright.

  “I just don’t understand this insurance thing.” Doyle softly pounded his fist on the table.

  The doctor shook his head. “Well, here’s the problem. Ruby was actually in here about ten years ago.”