We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  Most of the stories all say the same things. The man who abducted Sam is named Russell Lee Hunnicutt. Judging by his mug shot he’s a scowling fat guy with brown hair and a gross beard and a funny eye. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Anniston, Alabama. He worked as a manager at a BBQ restaurant, also sometimes answered phones on the night shift at a funeral home (I’m not kidding). He didn’t have a criminal record. He wasn’t a registered sex offender. When I read those words, I shiver like a blast of cool air has blown through my room. Maybe I should stop.

  But I have to continue.

  This man had two older brothers, who lived in Georgia. His parents lived in Georgia, too. It doesn’t sound like they were a close family—they hadn’t seen him in years. All of his coworkers at the BBQ place said he was quiet, a hard worker, though sometimes a stickler. They are all shocked that he was harboring a fourteen-year-old boy in his apartment. Almost all the articles say something like “There’s still so much authorities don’t know.”

  It makes no sense to me. I shake my head. How could a man keep a kid like this without anyone knowing?

  It’s a stroke of luck that Sam was finally discovered. Or maybe it was just that Hunnicutt finally screwed up. The day before Sam was found, he tried to snatch a ten-year-old kid named Brandon in Gadsden, Alabama—maybe a half hour from Anniston. This kid realized something fishy was going on and started screaming, and Hunnicutt sped off in a panic. But this kid snapped a picture of the truck with his phone, and when he reported what had happened to the police, they enhanced the picture, traced the license plate number, and found Hunnicutt. When the police got to his apartment in Anniston, Hunnicutt answered the door and surrendered without a fight. But the police were surprised to see someone else there, sitting quietly, watching them. The police asked this kid who he was, and he said, “Sam Walsh.”

  One of the cops recognized that name. “The Sam Walsh who’d been missing for over three years?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” He also said, “Are you going to take me home now?”

  I close my laptop. I’ve read enough. I sit there and clutch myself, and slowly the cold trembling in my body winds down.

  I leave my room, wobbly and light-headed, like I’ve just left a dark theater after seeing a terrifying movie. I head to the kitchen. Mom and Earl are in the living room, talking with some man dressed like he’s ready for church—slacks, a nice shirt, a tie. He’s older than Mom and Earl, with receding brownish-gray hair.

  “They’ll pay,” he says, “but they want an exclusive.”

  Right then someone knocks on the kitchen door. It’s Mrs. Sykes, so I let her in. Beyond her, on the streets, I still see a few news vans, but most of the crowd has died down. Mrs. Sykes comes in holding a bulging Belk’s shopping bag. Mom comes out of the living room and greets her with a hug.

  Mrs. Sykes says, “How are we this precious morning?”

  “It’s a bit hectic, but we’re still floating on air,” Mom says.

  “I can only imagine.” She pats me on the shoulder and smiles. “Well, I don’t want to keep you long, I just brought over these clothes that I collected from the neighbors last night—you know, clothes that might fit Sam.”

  Mom opens the bag and looks in without saying anything, but soon she starts tearing up and Mrs. Sykes hugs her, and they hold on like that for what seems like forever. At first I don’t know why this is making Mom so emotional, but then I get it: Sam doesn’t have any clothes that fit him anymore. Only a closet full of clothes for an eleven-year-old boy.

  “Thank you so much,” Mom says. “You’re an angel.”

  “I’ll take these to Sam,” I say. “Okay?” Maybe it will feel more normal now, seeing him in the daytime.

  “Thanks, honey,” Mom says.

  I knock on Sam’s door. “Come in,” he says faintly.

  Inside, he’s standing by his dresser, wearing the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. Maybe he slept in them. Even in the dim light I can see his piercings. I want to ask him about them, but then I remember what Mom said about not asking questions. They look a little ridiculous, because even though Sam is older, his face is still boyish and innocent-looking.

  “The neighbors brought some clothes.” I set the sack down on the neatly made bed.

  “Thanks,” he says, offering that polite, timid smile.

  Even from a few feet away, I can smell his body odor—musky, the way the guys on the soccer team smell after a long practice. I wonder why Mom or Earl haven’t made him shower, and then I feel bad for even thinking that. He’s home now. It doesn’t matter.

  Sam just stands there, unsure of what to do, so I pick up the bag and dump the contents onto the bed. “I don’t know if you’ll want to wear any of it,” I say, surveying the pile. I grab some jeans that look sort of acid-washed. “I mean, these are tragic.”

  He looks at me, then at the jeans, and lets out a little laugh. To my surprise, I laugh, too. Sam comes over and starts picking through the pile with me. Some of it’s fine, but there are some other horrors, like a neon tank top and some pleated red shorts. I try to push back the thought that I don’t know what kinds of things Sam wears because I don’t know who he is anymore. I don’t know his style, what he likes, what he hates—I don’t know anything. I see his knapsack, sitting by his bed—the knapsack he brought with him from Anniston. What’s in it? I want to know, but I know I can’t ask him. Instead I just hold up a collared shirt with light blue vertical stripes. “This might look good on you.”

  “You think?” he says, staring at it like it’s some strange costume. He picks it up and then walks to the small mirror above the dresser.

  “Yeah, it looks great.”

  He stands there for a bit, looking at himself. Then he walks to the window and peers out the blinds.

  I keep going through the clothes, organizing things in piles—ugly shirts, decent shirts, hideous pants, acceptable pants, and then things that can’t be classified, like a pair of boxer shorts with pineapples on them. Sam just keeps standing there, clutching the shirt, staring outside.

  Finally, Mom comes in. “Look at all these clothes,” she says. Sam still holds his gaze out the window. Is there something out there to see?

  To me, she whispers, “Can you come talk?”

  I nod. “We’ll be back in a minute, okay, hon?” she says to Sam.

  She takes me to the den and we sit. I can hear Earl, still in the living room with that man, who has a really loud voice. “Sure, you can wait, sure. But there will be fewer opportunities the more time passes. People have short memories,” I hear him say.

  “Who is that?” I ask.

  “That’s what I want to discuss. His name’s Bud Walker. He’s a, well, like a lawyer. I mean, he is a lawyer, but he also helps people deal with stuff. Like the media and interviews, that sort of thing. We’re getting a lot of interview requests—it’s overwhelming. He fields requests, handles details, acts as our spokesperson, stuff like that. People want to know Sam’s story. Our story.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I guess because it’s . . . It’s a story that will give people hope.”

  “Is that what that man says?”

  “It’s what everyone says,” she says, bringing her hand up to my cheek and smiling. I can’t get used to this touchy-feely Mom. “Producers from TV shows have been calling.” She puts her hand back down. “And that’s what I wanted to tell you. We’re going to New York in a few days. All of us.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, feeling a twinge of excitement. “Like, to be on Good Morning America or something?”

  “Well, we’re deciding on the offers right now.”

  “Wow,” I say. “What does Sam think?”

  She looks at me, then down at the floor, like she’s embarrassed or something. “He wants to do it—we wouldn’t do it otherwise. He says he wants to help other k
ids.”

  I have a ton more questions, but Mom keeps going: “Honey, this is a hard decision. Part of me just wants to move on and keep things private. And we will do that. But, they’re . . . well, they’re offering money. Good money. And we can use that, to pay for Sam’s college.”

  College? Sam’s fourteen and he’s been gone for years and she’s thinking about college? Whenever I brought up college, she always told me that my only option was the University of Alabama. It was all we could afford, and I’d still have to get a job. But she never pushed me about college, like my friends’ parents seemed to do. She was too busy always thinking about Sam. And now that Sam is back, not much has changed.

  “And your college, too,” she adds, because I must have made a face. “Okay,” I say, wondering if it’s an empty promise.

  “You should start packing,” she says, patting me on the knee before she joins Earl and Mr. Walker.

  I walk back to Sam’s room. He’s still peering out the window.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask.

  He drops the blinds quickly, like I startled him. After a few seconds he says, “They moved?”

  “Who? The Kellers? Oh yeah, like, a few years ago. Across town.”

  “Does he . . . does Josh go to school with you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I see him, but we don’t really talk.” He’s on the tennis team—I see him almost every day as I walk to soccer practice. He’s not as tall as Sam is, but he’s not all shy and wimpy like he used to be.

  Sam walks to the bed, picks up a T-shirt from the decent pile and holds it up. It’s gray with long dark blue sleeves. “I like that one,” I say. He drops it and looks over at me and then surprises me by reaching in for a hug. After a few seconds, I pull back.

  He’s smiling at me, but it’s still the polite smile you’d give to someone you barely knew. He seems so fragile. He’s shy around us—which makes sense I guess. “Sam, are you sure you want to . . . to go on TV?”

  He shrugs. “Mom says people want to know my story.”

  “But what do you want?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  But then Mom comes in. “You find any good stuff?” she says, gesturing to the clothes. It’s clear that only some of it is suitable. He’ll have to buy new things. New things for his new life.

  ===

  It all happens so fast. Sam’s back for a blip of time, and all of a sudden we’re packing our bags for New York.

  Mom and Earl have agreed on Helen Winters. She always gets the “big” interviews, apparently. She’s “classy and respectful,” Mom said, which is probably what Bud Walker told her. “She’s been in the business for years. She’s interviewed presidents, world leaders, everyone.” The big-time producers are flying us up, first class, and putting us up in a fancy hotel.

  I have my suitcase on my bed when Mom comes in. “Don’t pack too much. We’re just going for a few nights.”

  “Okay,” I say, glancing at the clothes in my closet and not seeing anything that looks remotely cool or hip enough for New York City.

  “I know I don’t need to say this,” she says, “but this isn’t a pleasure trip. It’s work.”

  “We can’t even go up the Empire State Building, or see a show?” I ask, feeling like a brat for even thinking it.

  “We’ll go back one day, I promise,” Mom says.

  Later, after Bud Walker leaves, we all scarf down some of the food that the neighbors have been bringing over. Then Sam goes to bed and I go to my room. I look at my phone, which is still turned off. I put it in my desk drawer. After a while I get thirsty and want some water so I head to kitchen. But I stop before I get there. I can hear Mom and Earl.

  “This is the right decision, isn’t it?” she says, sounding uncertain. “I mean, it’s for Sam’s future. For our future.”

  “I think so,” Earl says. “Plus, maybe we’ll inspire other families with missing kids—inspire them to not give up.”

  “You’re right,” Mom says. “We’ll do it, we’ll get it over with, and then we can just get on with our lives.”

  Get on with our lives. I want to laugh, or scream, something. Because it’s like Mom thinks our lives are like some TV show that got interrupted, like when something big happens and the news cuts in and once they’re done, the announcer says, “We now return to regular programming.”

  Sam was gone and now he’s back. We now return to regular life.

  ===

  A driver wearing a suit is waiting for us at the airport in New York. He helps us with our bags and ushers us all into a big black SUV. As the driver speeds through traffic, Mr. Walker goes over the schedule again, but I don’t really listen. I just want to take in the sights. I guess we’re not really in the city yet, but on the outskirts. Still, everything is so alive. Rows and rows of brick buildings, streets crammed with parked cars, giant billboards that announce new movies and TV shows, taxis zooming by, people headed toward a zillion possible destinations.

  The driver veers off onto yet another freeway and soon, up ahead, we can see the city in the distance, ablaze with so many lights—the Empire State Building, and all these other gigantic ones that I don’t know the names of. It all looks so imposing and exciting.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” Mr. Walker says, ignoring our surroundings. Maybe he’s been here a lot.

  “We’ll try and get a good night’s sleep,” Mom says.

  I look over at Sam, but he’s staring out the window, gobbling up the views like I am. It must be even more overwhelming for him.

  The driver slows down through a tollbooth and then we’re in a tunnel and then, just as suddenly, we’re in the city. We’re all quiet as the SUV creeps through traffic. I’ve seen New York a lot on TV, but it’s still kind of weird actually seeing it all up close. So many types of people—women dolled up and in high heels, scraggly men shuffling along in dirty coats, cyclists snaking through traffic. Restaurants and shops everywhere—nothing closed, even though it’s a little after nine o’clock.

  The SUV finally pulls up to our hotel. It’s on a street lined with trees and fancy apartment buildings. It’s not far from Central Park, the driver tells us.

  When we get out, bellhops in dark-green uniforms spring out to help us with our bags. It’s kind of embarrassing, especially since we don’t have much with us. The inside of the hotel lobby is shiny, full of marble and brass. Mom sits in one of the lobby’s chairs and waits while Earl and Mr. Walker deal with check-in. Sam stands next to Mom, looking shell-shocked.

  But I’m energized and excited. I stand there hoping someone famous will come out of the elevators, because this seems like a place where celebrities might stay. But I look at Sam and feel a pang of guilt for thinking—even briefly—that I’m just a normal tourist. We’re not here for fun. We don’t even really get to leave the hotel, since we’re doing the interview here. According to Mr. Walker, when privacy and security are important, Helen Winters conducts interviews in the penthouse suite. He explained this to us at the airport this afternoon, before we took off, when I had mentioned it would be so cool being near Times Square, where the network’s studio was. I think he got a little pleasure out of dashing my hopes. But then he added, “She interviewed the Pope at the hotel. And Britney Spears once.” He sounded like we should be grateful, like that would make up for the past three years.

  “We’re all set,” Mr. Walker says now, walking up with Earl. “You guys are in Suite eight-o-seven. Now, one of the producers wants to meet with us over breakfast, so be downstairs at the restaurant at eight. And then the makeup and wardrobe people are coming at ten, to get you dressed and ready. And then Ms. Winters will arrive around noon. I imagine the interview will start soon after that, after she chats with you guys for a little bit. For dinner tonight, help yourself to room service.” My heart sinks. I was hoping we could venture out—go to a real r
estaurant and see more of the city up close. But no. We have to stay holed up. We could be anywhere in the world, really, it wouldn’t matter.

  The suite is huge at least, with a big main room decked out with polished furniture and a couch, a big flat-screen TV mounted in the wall, and large windows that look out onto the street, flanked by heavy dark green drapes. Then, on each side, there are two rooms with huge king-size beds, each with its own bathroom. The idea was for Earl and Sam to share a room, and for me and Mom to share one, but Mom has slept in Sam’s room each night since he’s been back, so I’m not sure what will happen.

  “Okay, let’s unpack,” Earl says.

  But I sit on the couch and flip on the TV. Sam sits next to me.

  “Beth,” Mom says.

  “I’ll unpack in a minute,” I say. “Can’t we just relax?”

  “This isn’t a trip for relaxing,” she says, her tone grumpy and tired, the way I’m used to her sounding.

  Sam stands and grabs his duffel bag—one he borrowed from Earl—carrying it into one of the rooms.

  I turn back to the TV but it’s just commercials. I’m about to change the channel when suddenly there’s a picture of Sam. Sam as a little kid, and Sam now—a still from the news conference. A voice says, “This week, an exclusive—” I switch it off. I look over at where Mom was but luckily she’s now in one of the bedrooms. Earl too. I stand and walk to the window, look down at the street as cars and taxis whiz by. A woman walks by on the sidewalk in a puffy coat. I think, if that woman watches the interview, she’ll know who we are, she’ll know all the horrible truths about our lives. She’ll think, what an incredible story, and then flip the channel and get on with her life. I think how amazing that is, and how unfair.

  ===

  The format for the show is simple: The whole family will appear on camera in a group interview. Then just Mom and Earl. And then we’re done.

  Just as Mr. Walker said, the TV network sends over hair and makeup people that morning after we eat breakfast. They invade our suite like they’re long-lost relatives, familiar and aggressive. There are two people for each of us, carrying makeup cases and wheeling in racks of clothes.