by Jaime Clarke
Heat radiated from inside the house. The box that had previously contained the mobile phone provided by the administration lay open and empty on the kitchen counter. The house was still. Figs opened and closed every door, while the rest of us moved outside.
“Nothing,” Figs said, his hair matted to his wet brow.
As the party moved through the houses on Loyola Street, Figs’s demeanor switched from one of pursuit to one of determination. “He’s got to be here somewhere,” Figs said. He led the search into the Grove and identified what might’ve been fresh footprints on the ground. “They lead that way,” he said, pointing to the desert beyond Garden Lakes.
“What’s that way?” Assburn asked.
“The freeway, for one,” Figs said.
“We should get some sunblock if we’re going to go out there,” Assburn said.
Figs shielded his eyes. “Let’s go out a ways,” he said. “Just to see if these tracks go cold.”
We agreed to trek on, though the footprints faded a couple of hundred feet from the Grove. Figs forged ahead with his head bent toward the ground, his eyes roving for signs of life. We snaked along in the sand, led here and there by footprints, none of which looked fresh.
As Assburn renewed his call for a retreat for sunblock, we stumbled onto a rock grouping that had seen recent use. Figs examined the prints, circling the rocks. A variety of trash had collected: Styrofoam cups riddled with teeth marks of indeterminate origin, scraps of candy wrappers, a confetti of plastic and rubber and metal ground down by the elements. A pile of discarded apple peels gave away that Warren had been in the vicinity: Warren’s aversion to eating the skin of anything—chicken, fruit, pudding, whatever—was famously known.
Figs argued for pressing on, but Lindy said that if we did, “there’d be four more lost.” Figs relented and the party hiked back toward the development, arriving as the construction crew was calling it quits for the day.
“Nice timing,” Roger said, peeling at a scab of joint compound on his arm.
“We found something,” Figs said. He reported what we’d discovered in the desert. “I should let Mr. Malagon know,” he said.
“Mr. Malagon wanted me to report back,” Smurf said. “I need to get the handout for class anyway. I’ll let him know.”
Smurf dashed off before Figs could protest.
“What should we do?” Hands asked.
“Not sure,” Figs said. “We’ll wait and see what Mr. Malagon says.”
“Wonder why Smurf,” Hands said. Figs wondered the same. Smurf had somehow supplanted him, and he could reason only that it was a lesson Mr. Malagon was trying to impart. Figs remembered Mr. Malagon accusing him of being too much of a politician; it would be like Mr. Malagon to send a subtle message by drafting Smurf over him as a confidant.
Mr. Malagon’s decision, rendered through Smurf, was that we should wait until morning. “Mr. Malagon called Warren’s parents, and they said he sometimes wanders off on his own,” Smurf told us.
“His parents weren’t freaked out?” Sprocket asked.
“Apparently not,” Smurf said.
None of us knew Warren well enough to know whether that statement was true or not, so we followed Mr. Malagon’s directive and assembled for class to read through a handout on the First Continental Congress, though we couldn’t concentrate on anything other than Warren’s disappearance and the pallor that had begun to settle around the development in the wake of Mr. Hancock’s continued absence and Mr. Malagon’s prolonged illness.
The rest of the day was carried out as per the schedule, the illumination from Mr. Malagon’s window spurring us on. Curfew was lifted per Mr. Malagon via Smurf, though none of us took Mr. Malagon up on his offer, instead turning in early to lay awake in our beds, wondering where Warren was and how much longer Mr. Malagon would be bed ridden.
Our anxiety-induced insomnia petered out in the early-morning hours, and most of us woke well after breakfast, scurrying through the deserted streets to the dining hall, hoping that life at Garden Lakes had regained a modicum of normalcy.
Instead we found the tables in the dining hall rearranged to imitate a command center, Figs and Hands attempting to map the local terrain on the grease board, which had been wheeled in from the classroom. The whiff of bacon wafted through the building, awakening our hunger. Over plates loaded with bacon and eggs, we listened as Figs and Hands divided us into teams and assigned each team a quadrant. The search had two phases: The quadrants making up the morning phase would fall inside the outer loop; the afternoon phase, a grid of quadrants beyond the Grove. One team—Sprocket, Lindy, and Smurf—would remain at the community center to receive updates, Lindy stationing himself on the roof with his telescope for a bird’s-eye view. Smurf persuaded us that the search had the blessing of Mr. Malagon, who wanted hourly reports on our progress.
We stalked out of the dining hall, charged with our duty. Some of the teams were realigned along friendship lines as we scattered to our quadrants—miffing Figs and Hands, though they did not protest.
The morning search produced the same results as the search from the previous day. Warren was not anywhere inside the walls of Garden Lakes. Those whose quadrants did not include any of the residences, and thus were quickly searched, doubled back to the dining hall, waiting for the others to arrive. Sprocket drew an X through each quadrant on the grease board as the teams returned, transferring the information to a reproduction of the map he’d sketched on the inside back cover of a book of seek-and-finds. He split his time between overseeing the search and setting up for the cold-cuts lunch we’d agreed on, determining that all hands were needed in the field.
Lindy encountered Sprocket reaching for a plastic tub of mayonnaise on the pantry shelf.
“Let me get it,” Lindy said.
“Thanks,” Sprocket said. “Not used to shelves that high.”
Lindy offered to lay out the bread and cold cuts, but Sprocket declined his help. “You won’t tell on me if I get a sneak preview, will ya?”
Sprocket smiled. “Help yourself.”
Lindy made a roast beef sandwich while Sprocket ribbed his sandwich-making abilities, Lindy laughing along at the primitiveness of his sandwich—bread, meat, cheese, mayo—before they shifted into another conversation altogether.
“Let me know if you hear another team come back,” Sprocket said, sticking his head into the refrigerator to gather condiments. Lindy said he’d keep a lookout. Sprocket wheeled up to the counter carrying half-empty ketchup and mustard bottles in his lap, placing the opened bottles in front of the new, unopened ones from the pantry. “Smurf is giving the reports, but I’m tracking all the information,” he said without self-importance. Lindy chewed his sandwich. “I’m going to miss it here,” Sprocket said.
Lindy swallowed the last of the sandwich, wishing he had something to wash it down with. “What do you mean?”
Sprocket looked at Lindy, embarrassed. “I mean, it’s nice to be useful. People like you when you serve a purpose,” he said bashfully.
“People like to take advantage,” Lindy said, feeling protective of Sprocket.
“That’s true,” he said, “but you can’t go around thinking everyone is taking advantage of you. I mean, I don’t mind if people want me to do things for them. It’s a good feeling.” Sprocket caught Lindy staring at his legs, and Lindy averted his gaze. “It’s okay, I know what you’re thinking. I mean, I know. I know that this”—Sprocket swept his hand around the kitchen, but Lindy understood that he meant much more—“is all artificial. Everyone accepts my handicap here and I’m not made to feel grateful for it, which I am grateful for.”
“Nobody cares about—”
“Do you know that I have two personal assistants at home?” Sprocket asked. “I mean, they come on different days,” Sprocket said, realizing the melodramatic tone in his voice, “but the point is I’m so useless at home that I have to have personal assistants as counterparts to my parents, who are on high alert whe
never I’m in the room. They actually sit up in their seats. They would’ve never let me organize the supply shed, they would’ve never even let me try. And they surely wouldn’t let me be in charge of the search party and laying out lunch.” Sprocket’s voice cracked and he fell silent, staring shamefully at a mustard stain on his pants.
Lindy grappled for words, not wanting to pity Sprocket, though pity was what Lindy felt through and through. It had been a long time since he felt sorry for someone other than himself. “I’m sure they—”
Sprocket interrupted again, looking up with a smile. “I don’t blame my parents,” he said. “They’re typical of what waits for me after graduation. I have to prepare myself for being pitied.” Sprocket fingered the stain thoughtfully. Lindy was too moved by Sprocket’s analysis of life after Randolph—a life Lindy hadn’t begun to contemplate, but a life he guessed Sprocket thought about all the time—to offer any comfort, though he couldn’t think of what to say anyway.
In order to prevent any team from getting lost, the desert beyond Garden Lakes was reimagined into pie-shaped quadrants, each team sweeping the quadrant from side to side, meeting up with alternating neighboring teams every ten to fifteen minutes to exchange intel and head counts. The afternoon search brought with it an extra measure of preparation: We took turns passing sunblock around the dining hall, having to raid Mr. Hancock’s supply to cover everyone. A squad of sophomores collected and washed the plastic soup containers from our residences, filling them with water so each team member had a quart for the journey.
Smurf escaped to Mr. Malagon’s to think. Warren’s unexpected vanishing was a monkey wrench in his plan. The secret about Mr. Malagon’s disappearance was a pressure that manifested itself physically, his head throbbing. He cradled Mr. Hancock’s mobile phone, pressing the on button. He’d call Randolph and let them know what had happened. Maybe the administration would appreciate hearing it directly, rather than from the police or whoever would get involved with the search for Warren. He tricked himself into thinking this for less than a minute, coming around to the realization that he would undoubtedly be expelled from Randolph unless he was somehow able to sustain the illusion about Mr. Malagon, which would keep order, and which in turn would make everyone campaign for Smurf’s getting credit for the fellowship.
He looked at the mobile phone as it gave three quick beeps and expired in his hand, the luminous face going dark. Smurf was peering out the window, wondering whether or not Mr. Hancock had a charger (which would be missing from the case upon Smurf’s inspection), when Hands appeared on the sidewalk below. Smurf pushed open the window and called down to him. The mobile phone was heavy as a stone in his palm. He could not bear the burden of Mr. Malagon’s disappearance alone.
“Come up,” Smurf said nervously.
By nightfall, the command center in the dining hall was littered with dirty dishes and the remnants of an unsatisfying dinner of our ever-dwindling supply of leftovers. There had been no new evidence to justify a further search of the outlying area. A committee consisting of Figs, Hands, and Smurf revisited Warren’s room with the intent of analyzing the room’s contents, but they returned without a conclusion.
“If he were dead, he’d be stinking by now,” Roger said, which was funny to no one but him.
A rattling of the window focused our attention. The fronds of the palm tree embedded in the lake bed bent horizontally, blown by a fierce wind. Sand brushed against the window, giving off a sound like static electricity. The sky was the color of ink.
“Whoa,” Assburn said.
A barrage resembling artillery fire sounded behind us. We rushed into the kitchen and found Adam Kerr, Reedy, and Cantu pacing. The sweet smell of butternut squash soup hung in the air.
“What is that?” Kerr asked.
Figs climbed up to peer out of the small, rectangular window that overlooked the loading dock. An immense grayness blew across the outer loop, and Figs winced as the building was fired upon again.
“Rocks from the Grove,” Figs said. “The wind is really blowing.”
The windstorm died down as quickly as it had begun, and we let our curiosity about the storm’s aftermath draw us outside, freeing us from the command center without having made a definitive plan for resolving Warren’s disappearance. Garden Lakes Parkway was powdered with sand, but Regis and Loyola Streets were clear except for a sprinkling of sandstone that had leaped the community center. We sneaked off in twos and threes to crawl into bed, too worn out to think.
A few of us stayed behind and helped clean up the mess in the dining hall, avoiding all topics of conversation: what should be done about Warren, and what would happen to the schedule. We moved with a fluidity that suggested clearing the tables and washing and drying the dishes was the utmost important job in the world.
A sonorous honking disrupted our concentration. We recognized the honk as that of the grocery truck, and it occurred to us that we had not received any groceries in over a week, the confusion about Mr. Hancock and Mr. Malagon and Warren preoccupying our minds, distracting us from our worry that the previous Sunday had come and gone without a grocery delivery.
“Mix-up because of the holiday,” the driver said without apology.
Figs grabbed the clipboard Mr. Hancock used to hold the grocery list and followed the driver outside to check in the groceries.
Adam Kerr and Cantu were finishing up the dishes when Figs asked them to move the groceries from the loading dock into the pantry and refrigerator.
“Where is everybody?” Figs asked.
The kitchen was suddenly empty, as was the dining hall.
“Everyone looked pretty tired,” Cantu said.
“You guys look beat too,” Figs said, feeling guilty about asking them to help with the groceries. “Why don’t we drag this stuff inside and deal with putting it away tomorrow so you guys can get to bed. I’ll take care of the perishables.”
“No one’s been sleeping,” Cantu said. He glanced at Kerr, who nodded. “Some of the guys are talking about leaving.”
Figs started. “Leaving to go where?”
“Home,” Cantu answered.
Figs put his foot up on a mixed case of pickles, mayonnaise, and ketchup. “Who is thinking about leaving?”
Cantu shrugged. “Some of us.”
“Us?”
“Not us,” Cantu said, pointing at himself and Kerr, “but some of the other guys want to go home.”
“You mean some other sophomores,” Figs said.
Cantu nodded.
“I don’t understand—,” Figs began, but Adam Kerr cut him off.
“They think maybe Warren was murdered.”
Figs brought his foot back down, rocking back. He’d guessed the sophomores’ mutiny was about Mr. Hancock’s and Mr. Malagon’s absence, not Warren’s. Figs forced a laugh. “Warren wasn’t murdered,” he said. He laughed again for effect. Kerr and Cantu didn’t look convinced. In the face of their doubtful stares, Figs spoke as rapidly as his mind spun an answer. “The grocery guys found Warren.”
Cantu’s eyes grew wide.
“Yeah,” Figs said. “They said they would’ve been here sooner, but they ran into Warren wandering around by the freeway and they took him to the hospital.”
“What happened to him?” Kerr asked.
“He fell down and hit his head,” Figs said. “Dehydration. They said he didn’t even know who he was when they found him. But they recognized his outfit.” Figs’s voice acquired a conspiratorial tone. “We’ll let everyone know in the morning.”
The story picked up Kerr’s and Cantu’s step as they finished moving the groceries off the loading dock. Figs reminded them again to keep their secret as they parted ways in front of the community center. He trod down Regis Street and knocked on Hands’s door to confer and cement the story, but Hands was passed out from exhaustion.
Hands woke early, refreshed. His dream about a flood that had submerged Garden Lakes amused us as he told it over breakfast. �
��It was like Atlantis,” he said, equally amused.
Someone had erased the grease board and rolled it out into the hallway, packaging it for its return to the classroom, an action that lent credibility to the tale of Warren’s rescue by the grocery truck, which by breakfast had circulated, so that Hands quizzed Figs about the details upon his late arrival to the dining hall, Figs having overslept.
“Where did he fall?” Hands asked.
Figs buttered a bagel. “Not sure.”
“Did the driver say Warren was bleeding?”
“He didn’t say.”
Conversation around the dining hall dropped off so we could hear the story.
“Was he really by the freeway?” Hands asked.
Figs took a bite of his bagel, nodding.
Hands drained a glass of chocolate milk, replacing it on the brown ring that had formed on the tablecloth. “Is he going to come back?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Figs said.
“It cheered Mr. Malagon up to hear that Warren was okay,” Hands said, looking across the table at Smurf.
“Yeah,” Smurf said, to bolster Hands’s statement.
Figs curbed his feeling of betrayal that Hands had been taken into Mr. Malagon’s inner circle, the need to speak confidentially with Hands growing urgent.
“What exactly did the driver say?” Hands asked.
“What I told you,” Figs said, dropping his butter knife on the floor. He bent down and retrieved it. “That they found Warren by the freeway and that he had amnesia, or something like that. They didn’t say a whole lot about it.”
“Maybe we should give him a call and see how he’s doing,” Assburn said. “You know, to make sure he’s okay. We could use Mr. Hancock’s mobile phone.”
Smurf belched to mask the jolt he felt at the mention of the mobile phone. “Great idea,” he said. “I’ll ask Mr. Malagon. Though he’ll want to make the call himself. You know how he is.”
We nodded, knowing what Smurf meant.
A motion proposed by Smurf (which we read as coming from Mr. Malagon) that each of us would be responsible for making, eating, and cleaning up after our own meal—so all hands could report to 1959 Regis Street—was roundly passed. The motion was put into effect and we all chipped in with the breakfast dishes, working with a precision we didn’t know we possessed. Figs made several failed attempts to try to isolate Hands, to explain his lie about Warren and to be briefed on the situation with Mr. Malagon, but Hands sensed Figs’s anxiety about not being privy to the secret about Mr. Malagon, and for the moment, Hands did not want to share the deception he considered insignificant if it kept order and motivated everyone to move forward with the essential obligations of the leadership program. Also, he knew Figs would ask endless questions about Mr. Malagon, a quiz Hands wanted to avoid. Warren’s disappearance was a bigger threat, Hands reasoned, and with the resolution of that situation, there was no reason they couldn’t soldier on toward the finish line. The who, what, when, where, why, and how would sort themselves out after, he told himself, and would pale in comparison to our collective achievement.
