The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  I slip into the office, pull down the worn, red album from the bookshelf, and begin to pore through its entirety: a dozen or so yellowed newspaper clippings about Ben’s abduction and my scribbled theories on possible motives and suspects. On the album’s last page is a story I saved from the Detroit Free Press from ten years earlier. It featured the state’s then major unsolved crimes. The lead art is Ben’s third-grade class picture. In the photo, Ben is wearing his favorite red shirt, which offsets his jet-black hair and olive skin, bronzed and lightly freckled from what we thought would be endless childhood summers at the shore. Ben looks especially proud in the picture, despite the fact that we were dirt-poor back then. He is forever captured looking back at the camera with an air of confidence, like a little boy who knew he was going to be something special one day.

  I trace my finger along Ben’s strong jawline in the photo and remember our final day together at Funland. After the carousel ride, Mark Brewster cornered us. He was the middle-school bully who could smell the blood of two vulnerable kids from a mile away.

  “Hey, Ben, I thought you were too poor to come here,” Mark said, sauntering over. “Why don’t you leave so your little sister can go and beg all the neighborhood kids for money so your daddy can buy gas for that beat-up car of his?”

  “Leave Julia alone. She didn’t do anything to you.”

  “What did you say to me? I’m going to kill you, you little bastard,” Mark said, puffing out his lardy stomach. “Hey, loser boy, how’s your stringy-haired, alcoholic mother?”

  “Stand back, Julia,” Ben warned and shoved me away from the danger of the pending fight and into the crowd that had gathered in hopes of seeing two kids beat the crap out of each other.

  Right before Mark could throw his first punch, a lanky security guard in a blue polyester uniform made his way toward Ben and Mark. “What are you kids doing? Break it up, you two!” he yelled.

  Ben grabbed my hand, and we raced down Michigan Avenue as fast as we could, away from Mark Brewster and Funland. When we reached the library, breathless and feeling like we were going to die, we turned around to face our tormentor. But we had left the overgrown, tubby bully in the dust.

  “He’s going to be after us forever now!” I cried. “Mark Brewster’s dad is the most powerful man in town, and he’s going to sue us.”

  “He’s not going to sue us,” Ben answered. “And if he did, what’s he going to take? We don’t have anything. Do me a favor. Don’t ever back down from bullies like Mark Brewster. You’ve got to stand up to them. It doesn’t matter if you’re poor. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

  “I can’t fight someone like Mark Brewster.”

  “Sure you can. Don’t give in to the bad guys. Okay? You’ve got to fight them with all you’ve got.”

  I file the red album back on the bookshelf and speed dial the number for the St. Clair Sheriff’s Department. Even though it’s early and a holiday, I know Leidy will answer. But after the fourth ring, I am about to admit I am wrong when Leidy picks up.

  “Detective Leidy here,” he answers in his flat Michigan accent.

  “Detective, it’s Julia Gooden.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call,” Leidy answers without missing a beat.

  I look down at my usual script of questions for our annual go-round.

  “Anything new on Ben’s case?”

  The sound of papers shuffles in the background until Leidy finally resurfaces.

  “Nothing new. We had a little girl go missing this summer down in Algonac. A farm kid. Turned out her grandma snatched her up when she found out her son-in-law was cooking up meth instead of harvesting corn.”

  “We were at Funland the day Ben was taken,” I interrupt. “He got into a fight with a boy there, Mark Brewster. His dad was powerful, owned the big cannery outside of town and was the president of the St. Clair County Council.”

  “Hard to believe a nine-year-old or his daddy would take a kid over a dustup at an amusement park. But we questioned them, along with at least fifty other people including several of your dad’s business associates,” Leidy answers.

  My heart begins to race as I recall the frequent parade of heavy drinking and late-night parties my parents hosted as my dad tried to hook would-be investors to his latest shady business scheme.

  “The man who was taking pictures by the carousel. I’m pretty sure he took my photo with one of those old Polaroid cameras. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I know it was odd for a grown man to take a picture of a child he didn’t know. I can’t believe no one ever found him.”

  “It was Labor Day and Funland was packed. The whole town was swarming with tourists, and there must have been at least two hundred people at Funland that afternoon. Finding the guy with the camera would have been like plucking a needle out of an eighty-foot haystack.”

  I look back at my weathered list of questions. The second one is underlined in red.

  “The Indian arrowhead you found under Ben’s bed, that had to mean something, like a hunter who made off with his prey.”

  “Seemed like it at the time. The arrowhead was Chippewa. I interviewed members of their Indian community over in Port Huron, but nothing panned out. Most likely, the person who took your brother bought the arrowhead at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk and it fell out of his pocket during the abduction.”

  I scramble for a new lead to press Leidy about, but the silence on the phone prompts Leidy to conclude our conversation.

  “I promise you, we haven’t forgotten about Ben. I still have his missing-person flyer on my desk.”

  And then Leidy adds a piece of advice I don’t acknowledge. “What happened to your brother wasn’t your fault. Sometimes people just can’t remember. I know dozens of people who witnessed horrific crimes, and they’re never able to remember what happened until years later. Sometimes they can’t remember anything, ever. If you’re still beating yourself up, stop. You were just a kid back then.”

  “I was in the same room with my brother when we fell asleep that night. I should’ve been able to remember something. Anything. No matter how hard I try, it’s like a black hole of a memory.”

  A few seconds of silence pass between us before I muster up the courage to ask Leidy what I never could before.

  “Do you think Ben is still alive?”

  “Julia, I . . .”

  I cut Leidy off before he can finish.

  “Don’t worry about it. I know how these things turn out.”

  * * *

  I load Logan and Will in my SUV and feel the burn of mounting frustration and a renewed sense of helplessness over my nonproductive call with Leidy.

  “Just share a bite of your donut with your brother. Help Mom out, buddy, okay?” I ask Logan, who is making a mess of his makeshift breakfast in the backseat.

  “It’s not my fault Will dropped his donut on the floor,” Logan answers.

  “I know. But you’re the big brother. Be the leader here.”

  Will’s little protests begin to escalate into a full-fledged “red-faced, screaming until he stops breathing” temper tantrum.

  “Here you go,” Logan says as he breaks off a piece of his glazed donut and hands it to his little brother. Will pops the piece of donut in his mouth and smiles, exposing the gap between his two front teeth.

  “Good,” Will says and gives me a wave with his plump hand.

  “Thank you, Logan. You’re compassionate beyond your years,” I say.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re especially nice.”

  “Dad’s picking me and Will up later, right?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Do we have time to go to the library when we’re done shopping for my school stuff before Dad comes?” Logan asks. “I want to check out the Guinness Book of World Records. A guy from Germany held his breath for fifteen minutes and two seconds. I think if I keep practicing, I can beat him.”

  “That doesn’
t sound safe.”

  “That’s the thrill of it. Safe is boring.”

  “I like boring.”

  Logan makes a face and busies himself picking the discarded donut sprinkles off his lap. I stare back at my two little boys in the rearview mirror and am amazed at how two children from the same parents can look so different. Will takes after David with his golden blond hair and green eyes, and Logan looks like me with his dark features. But his jet-black hair, handful of freckles that scatter across his high cheekbones, and dark eyes that tilt up just slightly on the ends make him a ringer for my brother. Sometimes when I catch Logan in silhouette, his resemblance to Ben is uncanny.

  The boys become temporarily engrossed in their DVDs, and I try and snatch a rare moment to myself. I flip on the radio and turn the dial to 760 WJR-AM to catch a repeat of Mitch Albom’s talk show.

  My favorite Detroit Free Press columnist isn’t on though, just a local news call-in show hosted by some announcer with an overly slick broadcaster’s voice who launches into his early-morning segment intro: “This is Ric Roberts, and I’m here at the Macomb Correctional Facility for an exclusive interview with Reverend Casey Cahill and his lawyer, Brett Burns. Detroit’s own controversial holy man whom Rolling Stone once anointed ‘The Rock ’n’ Roll Jesus of Motor City’ is in the news again and up for parole after his conviction for tax evasion and sex with minors. Reverend Cahill, we’re live. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, my son.”

  A cold shiver runs through me as I hear Cahill’s familiar smooth baritone.

  “Thanks for joining us. So let’s get to it. You’re up for parole after just two years. You’ve got to be feeling pretty good about that.”

  “There are many souls to save here, lost lambs that Satan distracted from God’s path to do his wicked bidding. I go wherever God directs me.”

  “My client maintains his innocence and we hope the parole board will consider this, in addition to his exemplary behavior during his incarceration period,” Cahill’s lawyer interjects.

  “Reverend Cahill, despite your conviction, you’re saying the charges against you . . . having sex with three underage girls and stealing two million dollars from your church . . . are false?”

  “What we’re saying is . . .” the lawyer starts.

  “I was framed by the press,” Cahill interrupts.

  “So your incarceration is the media’s fault?”

  “That’s correct. And because of my absence, many of the good have fallen by the wayside. The former pure-of-hearts who heard God’s word through my voice have now scattered, and their faith has blown away like dry kernels of wheat tumbling through a barren field,” Cahill preaches. “God will only forgive when He sees true atonement from his true believers. When God sees sacrifice, when we take what is most precious, what we covet and adore, and give it all to him, only then will God see a change in our hearts and He will return to us. God’s Word tells us in Genesis 22:2: ‘Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.’ Not all will make it into the gates of heaven, though, despite their sacrifices, the gays, the sexual deviants, the liberal media . . .”

  “Asshole,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What’s that, Mom?” Logan asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer and quickly turn off the radio. “Just something on the news about a man I used to write about.”

  I brush off my disgust over hearing Cahill’s voice and his hateful dribble again, and pull into the crowded parking lot of the big box store. Before I unlock the car doors, I make Logan recite the rules.

  “Always stay in your sight. No talking to strangers. If anyone approaches me, I yell and run away as fast as I can,” Logan dutifully answers. “Do my friends have to do this with their moms?”

  “I have no idea, but they should.”

  Logan rolls his eyes and we head toward the giant cutout of a pencil that hovers over the back to school aisle.

  “Can you pop a wheelie on the cart?” Logan asks.

  “No wheelies. You could hurt yourself.”

  “Could we go over to the toy aisle then?”

  “Let’s get your supplies first, okay, kid?”

  I scour the aisle for any supplies that haven’t already been snatched up and spot the last semi-decent backpack wedged far back on the highest shelf. I turn away from Logan and Will and stand on my tiptoes to try and reach it, but it is beyond my grasp. I test the cheap metal divider between the first and second shelves with my foot and take the chance it will support my tall and slender frame. I climb on top of the divider and crane my arm as far as it can reach until I pluck the vinyl backpack down from the shelf and let out a victory yelp as though I’ve scored the winning Super Bowl touchdown. Even small victories should be celebrated. I look back toward Logan to get his approval over my hard-won prize.

  But he is gone.

  A wave of panic surges through me. Orange T-shirt and shiny black hair. Those discerning features should set Logan apart in the crowded aisle that is now at least twenty people deep. I jump back up on the shelf divider to try and spot Logan, but he is nowhere in sight. It took me less than a minute to turn around and grab the stupid backpack. And in less than sixty seconds, my son disappeared.

  “Logan!” I yell. “Help! Someone took my son!”

  The sea of parents and their children parts around me, and I spot a forty-something, heavy-set man wearing faded blue jeans and an Eminem concert T-shirt. He bends down next to a little boy so they are eye-to-eye. Orange T-shirt and shiny black hair. The stranger has Logan.

  Three seconds. That’s the amount of time I calculate it will take me to check the security strap around Will’s waist and slam the shopping cart into the back of the man trying to steal my son.

  “Hi, Mom!”

  Logan looks up at me, not terrified or desperately trying to ward off his attacker, and gives me a small wave. The man in the Eminem T-shirt ignores me and continues to race a remote control car between Logan and another little boy who looks somewhat familiar.

  “Logan, get over here now.”

  I lunge, grab Logan’s arm, and yank him behind the protection of my body.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout.

  The middle-aged man in the Eminem shirt drops the remote control down to his waist and pulls the other little boy in close as though I’m the one who is the threat.

  “I’m Jonah’s dad,” he says in an accusatory tone. “Our kids go to the same school. I’m not sure what you think is going on here, but we’re leaving.”

  The reality of my colossal screw-up comes crashing down.

  “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

  * * *

  I spend the entire painful ride home kicking myself for humiliating Logan. But even my most earnest mea culpas can’t repair the damage.

  “Hey, buddy, will you talk to me, please? I messed up in the store. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was really scared and maybe I overreacted just a bit. I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have run off like that.”

  “I didn’t run away! I was just playing with a friend and I could still see you,” Logan pouts. “If Jonah tells anyone at school, I’m dead.”

  And then Logan serves up the worst kind of punishment, the silent treatment. I finally give up trying to find clever ways to win Logan’s forgiveness, and we both stew in our misery until the hellish car ride ends.

  I pull into the driveway, where David waits for us on the front porch swing. I don’t want to be alone tonight, but David insisted he would pick up the boys and take them into the city to watch the Labor Day jazz festival along the banks of the Detroit River, a family tradition I used to be a part of.

  David rubs his hands together with just an edge of nerves, like he does before he launches into his opening statements of a trial. He spots us and jogs effortlessly over to my SUV, still with the fluid grace of his Harvard
lacrosse days.

  Logan and Will tear over to David, and he picks both boys up in his arms.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Logan says excitedly. “Mom bought me a pair of binoculars. I’m going to take them with us tonight so we can see the stage better. I tested them out at the lake and I think they’re going to work. You want to see?”

  “Hey, buddy. Why don’t you give me just a minute? I need to talk to your mom.”

  Logan easily acquiesces, peels his orange two-wheeler off the fence, and begins to execute perfect figure eights across the gravel driveway.

  I look over at David, whose blond hair curls at his ears. With his end of summer tan, he looks more like a California surfer than a Detroit prosecutor. Ten years together and throw in a separation, David still gives me a thrill every time I see him.

  “You look good,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate.

  “So do you. The break from the paper has treated you well.”

  Now done with the small talk, David looks away from me, his hallmark move when he has something to say that I probably don’t want to hear.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel on the boys tonight. Bernie Masten called right before I got here. I have to go into the city. Our case schedule got moved up, and I’m the first chair on this one so I have to be at the meeting. It’s the firm’s biggest client, and I can’t say no. I know you don’t want to be alone with the anniversary of Ben’s disappearance, so I figured it would be okay.”

  I grab Will out of the car and breeze past David. I take a seat on the front porch swing, bury my nose into Will’s white blond hair, and contemplate taking a page from Logan and giving David the silent treatment. But the direct approach has always worked better for me.

  “This isn’t about me. You can’t do this to Logan again. He misses you. So does Will. They both were really looking forward to spending time with you this weekend.”

  David stands over me with his arms folded across his chest.

  “I’m not trying to let anyone down here, but if I want to make partner, I have to put in the hours. I’ve worked hard for this. Two mortgages and two college funds keep me up at night. The money has to come from somewhere, and your paycheck can’t compare. I don’t know why you stay in a high-pressure job that doesn’t pay you what you’re worth. It would be an easy move over to corporate PR. There’s a lot more money in public relations and the hours are better.”