by Dan Chaon
“You don’t want to get your dad into trouble, do you?” Jonah said.
“I can keep a secret,” Loomis said, defensively. He paused, and for the first time turned to look over his shoulder, toward his grandmother. “Are you really my uncle?” he said.
“Yes,” Jonah said.
Loomis stared at him dubiously.
“You have a scar on your face,” he said.
“I know,” Jonah said. “A dog bit me. When I was a little boy, about your age.”
“Oh,” Loomis said, and he seemed impressed and curious. He might have even come closer, but then in the distance, the grandmother lifted her head at last and looked around, scanning the playground. Jonah began to step backward, away.
“I’ll talk to you again, maybe,” Jonah said. “But only if you can keep a secret.” He craned his neck, while the leaves disengaged themselves from the branches overhead. “You know, if you tell your grandma you saw me, your dad will get in a lot of trouble.”
“I won’t tell,” Loomis said, softly. His face was pinched, solemn with worry, and he followed Jonah for a few steps as he walked into the shrubs and foliage. A leaf fell, and then another one, and Loomis stood there silently.
“Loomis!” the old woman called, and then, hesitantly, Loomis turned and walked back toward where she was sitting.
23
November 1996
Winter has arrived early this year. Temperatures have fallen abruptly, the little lakes and streams are frozen, there are storms and high winds all over the Midwest. Snow is coming down in Chicago, where Steve and Holiday are asleep, back to back, while their son Henry, now a toddler, sits up and stares at the blinking neon that pulses distantly beyond the closed curtains of his room; flakes melt against the window as Mrs. Orlova folds her hands against her breasts and frowns, waiting for a teakettle to boil in the darkened kitchen of her apartment; snow accumulates over the ditch in Iowa where Nora’s ashes have settled, and on the South Dakota reservation where Jonah’s grandmother’s sister, Leona, lives, and on the yellow house he grew up in, now occupied by an earnest young evangelical couple and their children; on the edge of Little Bow, in the graveyard, fat, wet clumps of snow alight on the simple gravestone of Jonah’s grandfather: JOSEPH DOYLE 1910–1984.
It is snowing in St. Bonaventure, Nebraska, as well. Ray the stripper is standing barefoot in the living room of a bachelorette party, undoing his shirt to the beat of rap music that blares from his boom box, a chilly sweat trickling down his back; and Junie, the former Stumble Inn cook, opens his eyes briefly and fingers the plastic IV drip that has been inserted into his arm. The boy Jinx sleeps in his trailer with his little brother beside him in the bed, as his mother laughs at something on television in the living room. Police Officer Kevin Onken is cruising sleepily down empty streets, his windshield wipers flapping a slow metronome beat beneath the soft hush of his car’s heater, and he perks up for a moment as the car carrying Jonah drifts by. Onken pays attention, watches the bright red radar numbers tick across the console. But Jonah isn’t speeding. He keeps both hands on the wheel as he drives up Flock Road, along the contour of the park. The roads are slick. Jonah is cautious.
——
Crystal is just prescient enough to wake when she hears Jonah’s old, rattling Festiva pass her house; her mind works in associations, and the distinctive sound of that car has lodged just firmly enough that she thinks Jonah? before settling back into the cushion of the couch, where she has fallen asleep.
Still, the ghost of him crosses through her subconscious: the shy slinking of his conversations, the radar of unspoken thoughts he had beamed out, some winking spark she couldn’t quite catch.
She had been surprised at how abruptly he’d quit his job at the Stumble Inn. He’d seemed to be settling in fairly well by her estimation. He seemed to respond to Troy in particular.
But then, for no reason, he didn’t show up for work.
“It just really concerns me,” she said to Troy that afternoon, thinking that he might have some insight. “I honestly thought he was fitting in. Didn’t you?”
But Troy only shrugged, moodily, his face growing unresponsive.
“Did he say anything to you?” she asked. “I didn’t think he seemed unhappy here.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Troy said, and bent his head down to his crossword.
Crystal looked at him, sharply. “You guys didn’t have an argument or something, did you?” she said, and he was silent, hesitant enough to confirm some event—disagreement? personality clash?—in her mind.
“Oh, Troy,” she said. “He was a nice guy. What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Troy said, but she could feel the untruthfulness seeping out from him. “I hardly knew the guy.”
“But didn’t you feel bad for him?” Crystal said.
“Sure,” Troy said. “Of course I felt bad for him. I feel bad for a lot of people.” And then he moved off, abruptly, his back tight, out onto the barroom floor to straighten the chairs.
——
Vivian heard through the grapevine that Jonah had been hired as a cook by The Gold Coin. “That little shit,” Vivian said, and Crystal lowered her eyes. “If he wanted more money he could have asked for it,” Vivian said. “I don’t appreciate that kind of behavior. Being left in the lurch like that. I guess he thought he was too good for us.”
“I don’t know,” Crystal said, neutrally.
“I have half a mind to drive out to that banty-assed trailer of his and give him a piece of my mind,” Vivian said. “I did him a favor, hiring him on the spot like that. I’ll tell you, it goes to show what people are like in the world these days.”
“Well,” Crystal said, gently, “who knows what really happened?”
But Vivian wasn’t a very forgiving person. She liked loyalty, and that was nearly all she liked about people. She had managed, over the years, to secure Crystal and Troy; and old Junie, the now-dying cook she had hoped Jonah would replace. There had been others, of course, workers who had stayed on for months or even years, but she resented them all, just as she resented Jonah, the little liar. That first day that he hadn’t shown up for work, she had called him, and he’d feigned being sick.
“Oh,” he’d said, when he recognized her voice. “Vivian. I was just about to call you. I’ve got a fever.” And she was aware of the way he suddenly tried to make his voice sound frail. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. . . . It was just, it really knocked me out. I’ve been practically delirious. I lost track of the time.”
“This puts me in a bad situation,” she said. “I’ve got a menu posted. What am I supposed to do with it?”
“I know,” Jonah said hoarsely. “I’m . . . really sorry.”
The next day, he called to say that he quit. He didn’t even have the decency to come by. He just left a message on the bar’s answering machine.
“This is Jonah Doyle,” he said. His voice came out, boxy and full of static. “I’m just calling because . . . I wanted to let you know. I don’t think I’ll be able to come to work anymore. I . . . well.” And then there was a long pause. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for the opportunity to work at the Stumble Inn. I really appreciate it.”
Vivian pressed the button marked “erase,” very hard. But after a few weeks had passed, she didn’t think too much about him, though she’d still look forward to catching him in the supermarket or someplace and telling him off.
——
Quitting his job at the Stumble Inn was a show of faith, Jonah thought. A sacrifice. To quit like that, so abruptly; to cut himself off from the people, like Crystal and Vivian, that he and Troy had in common. He hoped that Troy appreciated the gesture.
But it was necessary. Even as he struggled to tell Troy the facts of the story, he realized that they would need to put some distance between them for a while. He said as much.
“Look,” he said, “I know that . . . maybe I didn’t exactly go about this in the righ
t way, and it’s a little hard to . . . get your mind around. I mean, I want to give you some space, just to . . . think things over.”
And Troy had stared at him.
“I don’t want you in my workplace,” Troy said at last. “I just . . . don’t want people gossiping about this adoption shit. It’s like the kind of thing they’d put in the fucking newspaper . . . for human interest or something. It’s just too weird for me, you know?”
“I agree completely,” Jonah said. He nodded earnestly, using the same grim frown that Troy was wearing. “That seems best,” he said. “I mean, I realize that my taking the job there in the first place was, uh, probably not the smartest idea, but . . .”
“I’m serious,” Troy said. “I want you to quit. Tomorrow.”
“I understand,” Jonah said.
“And I don’t want you to tell them either. About this . . . this . . . adoption stuff.” He paused, heavily. “The last thing I need is to have Vivian and Crystal all titillated.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Jonah said.
——
Jonah thinks of this again as he drives along the edge of the park, and he can feel the blush rising in his cheeks. He can picture Troy’s pained, flinching look. “Jesus,” Troy had said. “Why didn’t you just tell me? This is— It’s kind of a creepy feeling. I mean, it’s like being stalked or something.”
“Well,” Jonah said, “that’s not what I meant.” And Troy had put his palms over his face.
“Jesus,” he said. “This is not something I need to deal with right now.”
“I know,” Jonah whispered. “I realize that. I’m . . . sorry.”
Beyond his windshield, the snow is a powdery mist. It turns the trees and houses and signs into the grainy, blurry grays of television static. The sky seems to be pressing down, collapsing, settling over ground.
Jonah slows. The heat coming from the defroster smells vaguely of carbon monoxide, and fits over his mind like a stocking cap. He presses his foot against the brake and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.
——
At first Troy didn’t seem to believe what Jonah was saying.
“Look,” Troy said, “I’m not into this whole adoption thing. As far as I’m concerned, once the woman signs the papers, that’s the end of it. I mean, I had a mom and dad that I was happy with. That’s it.”
“Okay,” Jonah said. “But listen, let’s just settle it once and for all. I’ve got the papers in my car. Don’t you at least want to look at them? I mean, they could be wrong.”
And Troy was silent for a long time. He knitted his hands together, hardening his mouth.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Now, as the snow comes down, Troy can’t help but look again at the materials that Jonah has given him. The original birth certificate: Baby Boy Doyle, it says, and he blanches again as he traces through the columns. Mother: Nora Doyle. Occupation: High school student. Father: Unknown. Occupation: Unknown. He feels his chest tighten, despite himself. This is not what he wants, he thinks. At first he’d really thought that he wanted this sneak, Jonah, and his adoption search nonsense out of his life forever. But now he’s not so sure. A heaviness fills his diaphragm, and he draws breath, lets it out in a long stream.
Nora Doyle, he thinks. He doesn’t much like her, this woman who had given him away, but now that she’s in his mind he can’t get rid of her. In his imagination, Nora Doyle vaguely resembles Carla—one of those unpleasant psychological tricks that a person doesn’t want to think about too hard. He’d like to see a picture of the woman, if only to erase this creepy association from his brain.
And, well, he does have questions. She has been only the vaguest outline in his head up until now, a generic silhouette, like the picture on a bathroom door that meant “women.” He might have been happy for things to stay that way. But now, without his even wanting it, this person, this mother, has begun to develop weight and contours, materializing into something that’s almost solid. As angry as he was with Jonah at first, he knows that he’s going to break down and call him after all.
He leans his forehead against the glass of the window, taps his cigarette against the rim of an ashtray. He’s sitting there, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, a prisoner, and after a moment he reaches down and digs his fingers into the skin around the belt of his parole anklet. It itches, and he scrapes his nails back and forth, distractedly.
——
It’s not long after eleven at night, and Jonah parks a few blocks away from the house. A blast of wind hits his face when he gets out of the car, and he keeps his head down, pulling up the collar of his coat, aware of the snowflakes settling over his hair in a thin layer.
By now he has gotten used to Foxglove Road. He knows, in general, when people go to sleep, he knows who has barking dogs, who has garage lights with motion detectors, he knows the yards with the best trees and bushes to cover him, though in this storm it’s doubtful that even someone watching out a window could see him as he moves quickly down the sidewalk and up the driveway that leads to the backyard. He is a dappled shadow, passing through the swirl of snow, his hands balled up in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders hunched, soundless. But even on a clear night, he would be invisible, he thinks. He knows the puddles of shade, the easiest way to beat a quick retreat, the places where he can stand still and blend into the background.
He knows the circumference of Judy Keene’s house. In front, the large window is the living room, and the other, smaller, is Judy’s bedroom. Another window into Judy’s bedroom faces the driveway. At the back of the house, there is the kitchen, and then the back door, and then Loomis’s room.
He has been thinking about Troy’s letter to Mrs. Keene. I realize that there are many good reasons why you have been reluctant to allow Loomis to have contact with me, Troy had written, and Jonah recalls that precise blockletter handwriting, like the calligraphy in the voice bubbles of a cartoon. It was an earnest, heartbreakingly careful script, Jonah thought, neatly aligned on a page from a legal pad. Although I know I have made mistakes I only want what is best for him, Troy had written, and Jonah thought of Troy bent over his crossword puzzle at the bar, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he filled in the squares; he thought of Troy hunched down, washing beer glasses, his eyes far away. Now he understands what Troy was feeling.
He has found himself looking at the letter over and over. He took it without thinking really—he had noticed it sitting on the kitchen table the evening he’d brought the groceries to Troy’s house, had noticed it was addressed to Judy Keene. He had picked it up curiously when Troy was in the bathroom, and then, when Troy came out, he crumpled it into his pocket—all he needed was for Troy to catch him snooping! He had almost forgotten about it, as events had unfolded that night, and in fact it wasn’t until the next day that he’d remembered, when he discovered the envelope balled up in the front pocket of his pants.
He had been feeling a lot of despair that morning, as he unfolded the letter and spread it out on the coffee table in front of him. He’d made a mess of their first real meeting—I think we’re brothers: God! How stupid!—and even after he had shown Troy the PeopleSearch information, even after Troy seemed to believe him, there was a chilliness that Jonah was afraid they’d never get over. This is not something I need to deal with right now, Troy had said, and Jonah had felt his heart contracting.
“I know it seems weird,” Jonah had said. “But it’s something that means a lot to me. I’ve been wondering about you for my whole life. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense.”
And Troy had looked at him bleakly. “It makes sense,” Troy said. “I just don’t know whether I can deal with it right now. To tell you the truth, I don’t really need any more complications in my life.”
“I can imagine that it’s a lot to take in,” Jonah said, but it wasn’t until that next day, with the letter unfolded in front of him, that he truly realized what
Troy meant. Please, Mrs. Keene, I am Loomis’s father and I love him. Have mercy on me.
Jonah recognized that kind of desperation perfectly, and sitting there in his trailer, with the pale morning light slanting in through the smeary windows of his trailer, it was almost as if Troy was sitting there beside him. Confiding. It was almost as if the letter had been meant for Jonah rather than Judy Keene. Have mercy on me, Troy said, and Jonah pictured himself reaching out and closing his hand over Troy’s wrist.
“I know you may not believe this,” Jonah imagined saying. “But I understand what you’re talking about.” He had lain his palm across the words on the letter. Could he say, “I really want to help you”? Could he say, “I want to be a brother to you”?
Probably not.
——
But he likes to think about it. Standing in the steadily ticking snow outside of Loomis’s window, he can vaguely see the shape of the child lit by a dim night-light, Loomis under the covers in his bed, his sleeping head peeking out of the spaceship-patterned comforter. Jonah puts the pad of his fingertips against the glass, watching the flowers of snow crystals catch against his knuckles and turn to water. He’s aware of the accumulation on his shoulders and hair, and he likes to think that at some level Loomis knows that his new uncle is watching over him.
Have mercy on me, he thinks, and he wishes that the glass could turn liquid beneath his touch, that his hand could pass through, that the walls and windows of the world would give way to him. Just for this one time.
24
June 4, 1997
At three in the afternoon, four hours after Judy first noticed that Loomis was missing, the trail dogs arrive. There are several police cars parked in front of her house, and two heavyset men stand on the sidewalk with their arms folded hard against their chests, talking to Kevin Onken.
Judy is sitting on the steps in front of her house, very still. She feels a drop of perspiration slip from her hair and along the back of her ear, leaving a slow, cool track behind it like a snail. She shudders, watching as a man with a Doberman pinscher crouches on his haunches to look the dog in the eye, to speak to it, stroking its muzzle. Some of the neighbors have come out to stand on their front steps as well, shading their eyes; the few that have come up to inquire have been turned away, but she is aware of a circle of watchfulness around her. She observes as the dog man presses one of Loomis’s T-shirts to the Doberman’s nose, whispering to it. The dog’s ears lift into triangles, and its bobbed tail vibrates enthusiastically.
