Fireside

by Susan Wiggs

  “It’s Grand Central Station in here,” a teacher might say about a classroom.

  The real Grand Central Station lived up to the description. It reminded AJ of a human anthill inside a marble cube, with everyone scurrying in different directions.

  AJ had no idea which direction to scurry. Still, he knew better than to stand around looking lost, so he joined a stream of people heading for the exit. Along one wall he spied a bank of pay phones. Almost no one used pay phones anymore, except people who couldn’t afford a mobile phone. Like AJ.

  There were stickers on the wall around the phones, advertising bail bonds, help for suicide prevention, addicts, runaways. AJ wondered if that was what he’d become—a runaway. A knot of fear formed in his stomach, compounding the lump of sadness in his throat and the keen sense of yearning that burned in his chest. All these emotions together made him want to throw up, so he followed some signs to the men’s room.

  A couple of guys there halted their conversation and glared at him, making AJ change his mind and back out the door. He cast about for somebody to ask for help, but suddenly everyone looked sketchy to him. A group of teenagers poured in through one of the entrances, and a couple of them checked him out. He could feel their stares from twenty yards, and something told him they weren’t like the guy he’d sat next to on the train. He tried to act all cool, putting on the dangerous slit-eyed expression and unhurried saunter of the gangbangers at his old school. He headed for daylight and found himself on a busy street jammed with traffic, mostly yellow taxis and delivery trucks. Honking horns, whistles and shouts clouded the air, along with the cindery smell of exhaust.

  Although there was no snow here, the city felt cold. He should never have come here. Bad things happened to kids who ran away to the big city.

  On the other hand, what could be worse than losing your mother?

  At least he fit in a little better here. There were plenty of brown-skinned people everywhere, workmen in blue jumpsuits doing street repairs, guys in hard hats on a scaffold, people stopping for a chat at the coffee carts on every street corner. As he wandered along the street, he occasionally caught Spanish being spoken, just a whiff, like the scent of hot dogs in the air.

  He dug the slip of paper out of his pocket, something he’d printed off Bo’s computer last night. It was a place with a New York City address: Casa de Esperanza. The House of Hope. Although he hadn’t planned this trip out, he’d hung on to the printout, somehow knowing it would be important. He studied the address and prayed it wasn’t far, shivering as a gust of wind howled through the street. He didn’t understand how people could live in this cold weather. In Houston, people complained about the heat, but here in the cold, you had to curl up against the wind and hope you wouldn’t freeze to death.

  He scanned the throng of people, trying to figure out who to ask for directions—the guy with the coffee cart on the corner? The grim businessman with the briefcase? The skinny girl with a long scarf wound around and around her neck? He approached a lady with graying hair, wearing a plain cloth coat and worn leather gloves. There was something about her that seemed to be friendly enough. Unlike most people in the crowd, she didn’t act like she was in a hurry.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m looking for One Hundred and Sixteenth Street East. Do you know how to get there?”

  “Sure. Go a block over to Third Avenue. Almost all the buses there go uptown. You all right?” she asked, checking him out.

  “Fine, thank you.” AJ thought it was nice of her to ask. It usually sucked, being puny, because people often thought he was younger than he actually was. Sometimes, though, it made a certain type of person act nicer to him. As he headed in the direction the woman had indicated, he tried to remind himself that there were kind people in the world, and that things had a way of working out. Yet as he progressed, he felt more and more lost and out of place. He was as homeless as the guys he passed in church doorways, huddled against the cold. And AJ was hungry on top of everything else. Food vendors were everywhere, scenting the air with the aroma of roasting hot dogs, peanuts and pretzels. There was more exotic stuff, too, sold by people with heavy accents and big iron pans of chicken and lamb skewers. AJ resisted temptation, though. He kept his shoulders hunched against the wind and put one foot in front of the other.

  He reached Third Avenue but didn’t spot a bus stop right away, so he walked in the direction of the traffic. The street numbers got higher as he went along, so that was something. He hoped the Latino place wasn’t much farther. Finally, when his toes went numb, he asked directions again and hopped on what he thought was the right bus. He paid the fare, found a seat and began counting off the streets as it crawled through the lurching traffic.

  The neighborhood changed every few blocks, from grimy shopfronts to fancy apartment buildings to official-looking government and school buildings. Then the bus nosed its way into a neighborhood with shrines of flowers on some of the street corners, familiar-looking tiendas, rows of brick buildings, walls exploding with graffiti and a big covered mercado with colorful displays of pepper wreaths, lacy quinceañera dresses, piñatas hanging from the awnings and bottled imported drinks lined up on open counters.

  He stepped off the bus, thinking, now I’m getting somewhere. Yet he didn’t fit in around here, either. Down one block, he spied a school. At least he thought it was a school, although it looked a lot different from his school in Texas. This one was an old brick building, with ball courts surrounded by a chain-link fence, mounds of dirty snow in the corners. He hurried in the opposite direction, sticking to the street with all the shops. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go or a job to do.

  Just as AJ started to feel completely invisible, someone noticed him. “Hey, kid,” a voice said, “whatchoo doing? Skipping school?”

  AJ saw a boy who looked just a little older than him, gesturing him over. Although the kid seemed friendly enough, there was something about him that made AJ nervous. He tried not to let it show as he said, “Just looking for an address.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  AJ showed him the address on the printout.

  “I know where that is,” the kid said. “Come on. I’ll take you.” He fell in step with AJ. “I’m Denny.”

  “AJ.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Looked around the street. Buses, taxis, delivery vans. They passed a worn-out city park, where the trampled grass was dead and pigeons littered the sidewalks.

  “Where you from, AJ?”

  “Texas.”

  Denny took out a phone and swiftly texted something. He barely had to look at the keypad as his thumbs pressed the buttons. AJ frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Texting my cholos. We can all hang out.”

  “Maybe later,” AJ said. “I better check in at this place.”

  “Yeah, okay, but I gotta make a stop along the way. It’s not much farther.”

  AJ didn’t like Denny. It was something he knew in his gut before he admitted it to himself. Denny looked normal, except maybe he was wearing eye makeup. That was definitely weird. And he smelled of something AJ couldn’t quite identify. Pine-Sol cleaner, maybe.

  Before long, the cholos joined them, and that was when AJ knew without a doubt that he’d made a bad decision. They were some tough-looking customers for sure, two boys in baggies and big parkas, and a girl wearing lots of fake-looking jewelry. She had on lots of makeup and a scare-do—hair teased up high.

  “You said it was nearby,” he reminded Denny. “That was like twenty minutes ago. I bet you don’t really know where this place is.”

  Denny laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “What’s your hurry, eh? They’re all churchy and boring at that place, and they’ll get you in trouble.”

  “C’mon inside where it’s warm,” the girl invited, pushing open a heavy door. AJ felt a momentary relief from the cold, but that was quickly eclipsed by an itchy
, restless anxiety. They went up the stairs of a building that smelled of frying onions and urinal cakes.

  Graffiti covered the walls. On the third floor the girl unlocked a battered door that looked as if it had been kicked in a few times and repaired. A tinny-sounding radio played somewhere. Two teenagers lounged in front of a TV with the sound turned up to compete with the radio.

  “I’m gonna go now,” AJ said, lingering by the door.

  “Man, don’t be such a chonger. Hang with us for a while. You don’t need the Casa.”

  “I’ll check it out and see for myself,” he said.

  “Just stick around,” Denny insisted. “It’s better that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Our way.”

  “No, thanks.” AJ made a snap decision. Instead of trying to act all cool for a bunch of strangers, he forgot about pride. He remembered something Bo had told him—There’s no shame in looking out for yourself. Be who you are.

  He acted like the scared kid he was, and ran.

  * * *

  In all his years on this earth, Bo figured he knew what it was like to be afraid. He knew what love and hate were, and what it felt like to be abandoned. He thought he knew fear—the way it tasted and smelled, the way it trickled across your scalp and down your neck.

  He was wrong. He’d never, ever in his whole life felt a fear like this, like knowing someone small and defenseless was at risk. It was a painful physical affliction, like freezing to death or suffocating. The moment he’d been informed that AJ never showed up at school, this new horror superseded all other fears he’d ever felt. Until AJ, he’d never known this kind of terror existed. Picturing his boy alone in the world, and lost, Bo could think of many dangers, so many he felt as if his head might explode.

  And it was a kind of madness, too, so intense that Kim insisted on going with him to the police station. The second Bo had hung up the phone after speaking to Chief McKnight, she had said, “We’d better get going. I’ll drive.”

  He’d been too freaked out to argue. Kim gathered up the things the chief had told them to bring—laptop, ID, photograph—and took him straight to the station.

  Lt. Brenda Flynn immediately took charge of the case. When a child went missing, there was no delay or lag time. No designated waiting period. The assumption was that the kid was in trouble now.

  Bo had a few pictures of AJ on his cell phone. His hand spasmed and trembled as he gave it to an assistant. These were uploaded to a database to go out with the alert. The lieutenant questioned Bo and Kim about what they knew. He told her about Yolanda, as much as he knew.

  Had she been in touch with AJ?

  No.

  Did AJ have a cell phone?

  No.

  Did he have friends or relatives in New York City?

  Not that Bo knew of.

  Was he ill? On medication? Mentally altered?

  No, no and no.

  Each question was another turn of the screw.

  “I’m an idiot,” Bo muttered. “I believed him when he said he’d go to school on his own, that he didn’t want to be treated like a kindergartner.”

  “Sign here,” Lt. Flynn said. “This gives us permission to access the browsing history of your laptop.”

  “You got it.” Bo understood he was giving up all kinds of privacy, but he didn’t care. At the same time, he tried to remember whether or not he’d been looking at porn lately. Nope. He had nothing against porn, but it was completely useless as a substitute for the real thing, so he didn’t really spend much time looking at it online.

  The lieutenant’s assistant, who was also an expert in digital forensics, went through the browsing history and found an online trail through a maze of websites.

  “Here are a few possibilities,” the assistant said. “Your son’s been busy.” He gave Bo a quick overview of AJ’s browsing. No gaming sites or networking with friends. The boy was desperately seeking a swift resolution to his mother’s troubles. He’d perused an impressive array of sites devoted to immigration and naturalization, churches and agencies dedicated to helping immigrants regardless of their legal status.

  Bo’s heart sank as he thought of AJ, sitting for hours at the computer. He’d thought the boy was playing games. Hell, he should be playing games. He was only a kid. His head should be full of fun and games and stupid stuff like fart jokes and wacky inventions. Not immigration law.

  “He hit Print from this page.” The assistant paused. “He printed quite a few pages.”

  The icy fist in Bo’s gut twisted a little. “It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “Not quite.” Lt. Flynn handed him a MapQuest printout. “I’ve already uploaded the pictures to a special dispatch. Every substation in New York will see it.”

  Bo felt ready to jump out of his skin. He got up and paced, feeling Kim’s eyes on him. “It’s going to be all right,” she said.

  “Thank you, Pollyanna,” Bo snapped.

  “I’m not being a Pollyanna,” she said. “Just realistic.”

  “Yeah, what’s the view like from behind those rosy lenses?” He was being a prick and he knew it. He shut his mouth before he did any further damage. But shit. She understood nothing, he thought. She’d been raised like a hothouse flower, insulated from things that were harmful or ugly. Hell, she’d probably been to finishing school, for all he knew. Whatever the hell “finishing school” was. People used the term all the time, but he doubted they had any idea what it was. She’d gone from her sheltered childhood to USC to a career in some tony L.A. firm. She didn’t know squat about the real world.

  Then he remembered the bruise on her face, so artfully concealed with makeup. He was wrong about her. “Sorry,” he said.

  She waved away the apology. “Look at the guy who phoned about him. Julian Gastineaux. He was just a stranger on a train. He didn’t have to send that text message about AJ. He did it because he was concerned.”

  When she was right, she was right. The pounding in his gut abated. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked the lieutenant. “I can’t just wait around for something to happen. Shouldn’t I at least go to the city?”

  “You should let us do our job,” said Flynn. “I know that’s hard, but the best thing you can do for your boy is to give us a chance to get all the info into the system. NYPD already has the pictures, train time, description. We’ll add the likely destinations next, and—”

  Bo’s cell phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Crutcher.”

  Every head in the room turned his way. There was a beat of silence. His heart stumbled.

  “It’s me,” said a small voice. “It’s AJ.”

  Bo slumped against the closed door, giving everyone a thumbs-up sign.

  * * *

  All during the drive to the city, Bo rehearsed what he was going to say. He pictured himself giving a stern but concerned fatherly lecture on decision-making and responsibility. He would explain the need for supervision. He would be the very model of the responsible adult.

  Instead, what he ended up doing the minute he saw AJ was driven by nothing but instinct.

  AJ stood out in the busy, brightly lit community center. He was perfectly still, hugging his backpack to his chest. When he spied Bo, his face softened with relief and despair. And whatever Bo had planned to do and say, it all flew out of his head. He opened his arms, grabbed the boy and held him close. AJ seemed to fit perfectly against his chest, warm and alive, smelling of shampoo and the city and peculiar smell that had no name. My son, Bo thought. I’m finally holding my son. Bo’s entire body shuddered with relief, intense and so sweet that it hurt.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said in a rough whisper. “Do you hear me? Don’t you run away again.”

  AJ was trembling, but Bo felt him nod his head.

  “Come on,” Bo said, his throa
t hurting with emotion. “It’s been a hell of a day. Let’s go.”

  Out on the street, teenagers were circling around the car, tough-looking kids in sagging black clothes slashed with color. The roadster wasn’t the kind of car you saw in a neighborhood like this. Bo felt AJ stiffen beside him, and as soon as Bo hit the unlock button, the boy ducked into the passenger side and quickly slammed the door. Amid the murmured Spanish commentary, Bo caught gabacho—a term he knew well—but decided to ignore the derogatory comment. He nodded politely to the onlookers, then took his time getting in and heading for the expressway.

  “You’re okay?” Bo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Nobody messed with you?”

  He noticed AJ twisting around in his seat, looking back through the window.

  “Did those kids mess with you?” Bo persisted.

  AJ turned back around and adjusted his seat belt. “No.”

  “Some of them looked pretty tough,” Bo said, trying to get the boy to talk.

  “You thought so?”

  “Yeah. I grew up around kids like that,” he explained. “I got my ass kicked nearly every day at school or baseball practice.”

  Finally, AJ showed a spurt of interest. “Why?”

  “Bullies don’t need a reason. I was probably a little turd, though.” He glanced sideways in time to see AJ’s mouth soften, on the verge of smiling.

  “What did you do about it?” he asked.

  “Ran like a scalded dog. They still caught me, though. I was a puny little thing.”

  “You?”

  “Yep. Just a tadpole, until my growth spurt started. Right around the time I turned fourteen, I started waking up at night hollering from the pain in my legs. ‘Them’s growing pains,’ my big brother, Stoney, used to tell me. Turns out they were, and by the next year, I was more than six feet tall, and people stopped messing with me. They tended to back off, thinking they couldn’t take me. Which was a lucky thing, because to this day, I don’t know the first thing about fighting.”

  AJ fell silent, the fragile thread of connection broken. Bo hoped he’d speak up again, explain himself without prompting. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. After a while, Bo said, “So why’d you do it, AJ? Why’d you take off like that?”