Finding Jake

by Bryan Reardon

  I eased down the rest of the stairs. A little towheaded girl, maybe four years old, walked up to me, her hands raised in the air, like she wanted me to pick her up. I stood before her, dumbfounded.

  “In there,” she said.

  The girl pointed at a circular area cordoned off by a flexible toddler fence. I did not see any toys inside the space, but the little girl remained insistent.

  “In there.”

  Awkwardly, I picked her up and placed her in the kiddy cage. I scanned the room, looking for Bo. He was playing memory with three other kids. For some reason, he wore a tiara. Jake noticed me and raced over.

  “Can we leave?”

  A chip of my heart crumbled away. “Not yet. Don’t you want to play with everyone?”

  Jake shook his head. I took in the room again. Although I knew my interpretation to be influenced by my own emotions, I saw every other kid playing together in one giant group. Rationally, this could not be true. I had recently placed the towheaded girl in a cage, but that was what I saw.

  Why wouldn’t Jake play with the others?

  That moment injected the question into my subconscious, lodging it there for eternity. It may have peeked in before, tentatively testing the fertile ground of my introspective mind, but it gained purchase at that instant. Jake had never asked to have friends over. In preschool he kept to himself on the playground. What had I done? Years of self-doubt, guilt, and insecurity would follow.

  Not soon enough, I found myself walking home, my children in tow. Entering through the garage, Jake hit the ground running, disappearing downstairs to his playroom. Laney turned her head, as if longing to return to Regina’s house. I hugged her close and then looked through the games cabinet for memory, intent on teaching Jake the game.

  Laney asked for the baby swing, or at least waved at it, so I secured her in the seat and picked up the phone. I called Rachel.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  She paused. “No, really?”

  The floodgate opened. “Jake didn’t play with anyone. Those kids have been playing together for, like, ten years.”

  “It hasn’t been ten years,” Rachel said.

  “What?”

  “Those kids haven’t been playing for ten years.”

  “Jesus, Rachel.” I rubbed at my eyes. “I know that.”

  “Were the kids being mean to him?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. You know Jake. It’s like a big group just overwhelms him.”

  “How were all the moms?” Her question sounded tentative, as if afraid of my response.

  “They don’t even want me there. They probably want to talk about bras and crap like that. Anyway, I don’t know . . . I’m a guy!”

  The rest I left unsaid. It presented itself like a hippo in my kitchen, though. She should have stayed home with the kids. I don’t think Rachel picked up on it, thankfully, or the rest of the conversation would have progressed very differently.

  “Where’s Jake?” she asked.

  “In the basement. Where else? I’m sure he’s playing with that circuit board thing your dad got him.”

  “How’s Laney?”

  I laughed. “She did great.”

  “Shocker.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I need to say this, Simon, so try not to get mad. I know you find this stuff hard, and I totally get it. You’re trailblazing against the grain of cultural normalcy.”

  “Nice,” I interrupted, not in a sarcastic way. The way she put it made me feel like Neil Armstrong, or at least like Captain Kirk.

  “But, listen, it is not them. They want to make you feel comfortable. The other moms want you to feel like you can come to the playdate.”

  “So it’s all me,” I mused, maybe a little offended.

  “Not at all. It’s probably just as awkward for them. Just know that it’s not malicious, or out of spite. They are not judging you. It’s just different.”

  I laughed. “Because I have a penis?”

  “Simon!” She acted offended, but I could tell she smiled.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I should go into the garage and do some carpentry. Or maybe I’ll change the oil in the car.”

  “You don’t even know how to do that.”

  “Would you rather me throw on some pearls and vacuum?”

  We joked, but the topic flirted so close to reality that even I knew I should step back.

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said.

  “I always try,” she said. “I think I’ll be home next week. I’ll take the kids to the next playdate.”

  I tried not to cheer. “Okay.”

  “I love you, Simon. You’re doing great.”

  “Love you, too.”

  She hung up and I smiled, the reaction of a man given a reprieve, a stay of execution.

  CHAPTER 6

  DAY ONE: THREE HOURS AFTER THE SHOOTING

  I am now alone. Not utterly alone, in the sense that no one else remains in the church, but all the parents have left. I had watched as an officer took the last of the thirteen out one by one. The first parent to be called out, a mom I do not know but have seen around school, appeared confused. Seconds after she disappeared behind a closed door, I heard her scream. Shocked, my head swiveled. I saw everyone else, as if their faces suddenly came into focus.

  Evelyn Marks had sat on a pew behind and to the right of me. Her daughter, Leigh, had been in Jake’s first-, second-, and third-grade classes. My mind forced a memory to the forefront, Evelyn and I sitting next to each other on a bench, watching our children navigate a bouncy house at Joey Franklin’s eighth birthday party. The mother of Amanda Brown, one of Laney’s friends, had stared at nothing, her face pallid. Julia George had looked around, her eyes wide and panicked. I coached her son James in soccer for three seasons.

  Now, they are gone. I am the last. There is a phantasm of hope skirting the edge of my mind, teasing at the ominous mountain of dread I am holding at bay. I know for sure that the other parents’ children are, at best, wounded, at worst, dead. This is a harsh thought, but it is true.

  Unable to act, I am left to think. Questions snap into existence:

  Could Jake have skipped school? Had he done that before? Did I really know where he went every second of every day?

  Maybe Jake is hiding somewhere . . .

  Is Jake . . . ?

  A sliver of the shock tears away and I am left with a clear thought. More nervous than I have ever felt before, I fish out my iPhone. Going directly to recent calls, I hit Jake’s number. His picture flashes on the screen, smiling and wearing a Notre Dame Fighting Irish baseball hat backward.

  Each ring tortures like metaphorical hot irons slipping between the fingernails of my emotion. My brain screams NO over and over again as I grip the phone like it is the ledge of a sheer and bottomless cliff.

  On the fifth ring, someone answers.

  “Jake . . . buddy,” I say, my voice cracking. He’s okay!

  I hear strange rustling, the phone rubbing against fabric. Muffled voices are just audible, like ghosts in the static.

  “Jake!”

  A much louder rustle, then the phone goes dead. I am frozen, the cool glass pressed hard against my ear as I try to breathe. I dial again, and again, and again. There is never an answer. Holding the phone away, my head folds downward and my temples throb.

  Honestly, a daze clouds my consciousness. Reality slips into something less, and more. It becomes numbing absence and jolting awareness. I look up at the door, yet I cannot fathom the possibility that Jake is gone. He just answered his phone. That one time, he answered. It had to be him.

  My phone rings. I fumble, my fingers thinking they belong to someone else. When I answer, I hear my wife’s voice instead of Jake’s. She is panicked.

  “The police are here!”

  “Tell them I just called him.”

  Her tone is tight, like an unexploded bomb.

  “They’r
e at our house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The SWAT police are everywhere.”

  “Where are you? In the car?”

  “He wants me to park,” she says.

  I listen to the disjointed sounds coming through the receiver. My wife talks to someone, I assume a police officer. The phone rubs up against fabric, the speaker coughs between the sound of muffled voices. I need her to get back on the line, tell me what is happening.

  “Rachel.” It comes out more of a shout.

  I still hear her talking. Something about “entry.” She is angry when she gets back on the line.

  “They won’t let me in, Simon.” Her anger turns to obvious fear. “They’re searching the house.”

  “What do you mean they’re searching the house? Did you tell them about the call?”

  “What call?”

  “I called Jake’s phone. He answered.”

  “You talked to him?!”

  “No, he didn’t talk. I just heard . . .”

  I don’t know what to say. I can’t even ask myself why they might be searching our house.

  Finally, Rachel speaks again. “Get over here.”

  “I can’t leave. I’m waiting for Jake. I called his cell. He answered . . . or someone answered. I—”

  I turn around. A police officer stands in the doorway of the church. He is looking at me. I turn away. He’ll go away if I don’t pay attention. My eyes close. Everything will go away if I don’t look at it. It will all disappear, not like a dream, but like it isn’t real. None of it is real. I am not real.

  “Mr. Connolly?”

  “What is it?” Rachel asks.

  “Mr. Connolly.”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Who’s that? What’s going on? Simon?”

  “Nothing,” I repeat.

  The officer is standing over me. “I need you to come with me, sir.”

  “Simon.”

  What does it all mean?

  The officer leads me to one of the vestry’s back rooms. White linen cloths drape a thick-legged, wooden table. A plastic bag filled with pounds of white wafers, perfect circles, rests on a counter in the back. Robes hang from pegs beside the door. I know I will remember every last detail of that room. Forever.

  He pulls a chair out for me. I sit, and he sits across from me, placing a leather-bound spiral notebook on the table. The pen fits perfectly into the tubular wires. He slips it out and opens the pad. His eyes meet mine for the first time. I assume this is because I did not look him in the face before that moment.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” the officer says.

  Some leftover, primal instinct urges me to strike this man. My brain can’t come up with a single reason why, but I have to restrain myself. I nod.

  “Are you Jake Connolly’s father?”

  I nod, but he looks like he is waiting for more. “Yes.”

  “Did Jake attend school today?”

  “Yes. Look, can you please tell me what’s going on? Is he okay?”

  The officer pauses, as if carefully choosing his words. This, for some reason, frightens me more than anything else that has happened so far. Finally, he answers.

  “At this time, Jake’s whereabouts remain unknown. All we know for sure is that his car was found in the student parking lot.”

  “What does that mean? He just answered his cell.”

  The officer checks his pad, tapping it as if he suddenly understands something. “Does your son know Doug Martin-Klein?”

  Everything rushes over me, my entire life, Jake’s entire life, everything that has happened, it all crashes on me like a tidal wave. I am drowning.

  “Mr. Connolly?”

  “Can I have some water?” I ask, my voice gravelly.

  The officer looks me over. My primal instincts have vanished. He dissects me with his eyes. He picks at my guilt, my fear, and my failure. He understands it all, just as I suddenly did as well when he mentioned that name.

  The officer walks out of the vestry. I am alone for some period of time, I do not know how long. The initial overwhelming blast of emotion fades. I am numb, but I am also aware again. When the officer returns with a woman in a wrinkled pants suit and a long, straight black ponytail, I am all too aware of what is going on.

  “You think . . .”

  I stop myself. As awful as it sounds, I need to be careful. I was about to say that they think Jake is somehow involved in all this. The reason I think this is simple—Doug Martin-Klein.

  “Hello, Mr. Connolly, I am Detective Anderson. I wondered if I could ask you some questions?”

  “Look, I’m going to find Jake.”

  I stand up. The first officer squares off, blocking me from moving toward the door.

  “Please sit,” Detective Anderson says. “We want to find Jake, too.”

  I am enraged now. Her tone implies our desire to find my son does not share a motive. “What does that mean?”

  Detective Anderson blinks. My phone rings again. It is Rachel.

  I answer without asking if that’s okay. The detective waves her hand dismissively and looks at the officer.

  “Rachel.”

  “They think Jake’s involved in this,” she says, her voice near hysterics.

  I look at Detective Anderson but talk to Rachel. “Are you okay?”

  “What the hell? Didn’t you just hear me? They think Jake shot those kids!”

  “I’m coming home,” I say. My voice sounds soulless, even to me.

  Rachel sobs, gasping for breath.

  “I need to get home,” I say.

  Detective Anderson nods to the guy in uniform.

  “Officer Gunn will drive you.”

  “I have a car,” I say.

  “We’ll get that to you. We need to have a look inside it first. Is that okay?”

  “Inside my car?”

  She nods. “We just want to make sure we find Jake.”

  I don’t believe what she says. At least, I don’t believe her intent. Rachel’s words buzz behind my eyes, making my thoughts pulse like lightning. They think Jake shot those kids. It does not make any sense. Except . . . Except for Doug Martin-Klein.

  CHAPTER 7

  JAKE: AGE SEVEN

  Ten seven-year-olds screamed, hanging from the chain links like little apes. I let them. Some of the parents, and all of the other coaches, thought I was, at the least, disorganized. I liked the kids’ spirit, though. No one could say my guys weren’t having fun.

  “Let’s go, Jakey,” I called out.

  He stood outside the batter’s box, his cleats digging at the rust-colored infield mix. His shoes appeared so small that I smiled. If he knew I thought he looked cute, Jake would have killed me. Shaking my head, I turned to the other boys, the members of our team, the Johnson Plumbers, or as we liked to call ourselves, the Mighty Green Machine.

  “Who’s up next?” They looked at me like I’d asked for the formula for rocket fuel. “Check the lineup. Remember?”

  Ritchie and the other Jake, Jake T, hustled over. I turned back to the game. My Jake tightened one of his batting gloves and took up his stance. I found it amusing that all the kids owned two batting gloves, at least one bat, their own helmet, and at least one mitt. Almost all of them stowed their equipment in a nylon baseball bag, including my son.

  When we were kids, it was a little different. I remembered showing up for my Little League practices wearing Toughskins, a striped T-shirt, and hand-me-down sneakers, often from my sister. The coach showed up with a chewed cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and four (or less) batting helmets (most missing sections of foam), two aluminum bats, and (hopefully) some catcher’s gear. One kid came to the first game sporting a single batting glove. We all looked at him in awe and ignored the fact he struck out twice. He became our idol, or at least his batting glove did.

  Jake hacked at the first ball, swinging so hard that he nearly fell over. I noticed his cheeks getting red.


  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I whispered.

  “What, Coach?” Ritchie barked out behind me.

  I turned and smiled at him, noticing one of the other kids behind him.

  “Carter, stop eating that,” I said, walking over.

  Carter, a kid with bristly hair and flat eyes, sat in the dirt, crisscross-applesauce (the new PC term for Indian-style I’d learned from Jake’s preschool teacher). His pudgy hand, an inch from his open mouth, held a spilling mound of infield mix. His eyes met mine and he jammed it into his face. Most of the dirt puffed into a dust cloud surrounding his bulbous head but I could see dirt covering his tongue and teeth.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Carter hit me,” Ben said.

  “What?”

  Ben was our power-hitting, best-catching, soon-to-be pitcher. I could not fathom Carter hitting Ben.

  CRACK!

  I spun around in time to see the baseball flying over the shortstop’s head.

  “Runrunrun,” I called out, but Jake was already at first. He flew around the bases as the left and left-center fielders just looked at the ball rolling between them in the thick grass of the outfield.

  “Get the ball!” their coach screamed.

  Jake kept running. The Mighty Green Machine, sans Carter, sprang up and threw itself against the fence. The chains rattled as they cheered.

  “JAKEJAKEJAKE!”

  Finally, the left fielder retrieved the ball. By that time, Jake was headed to third.

  “Whoa!” My hands went out in front of me, willing Jake to stop. I would have hated seeing him get thrown out after such a great hit. I forgot we were talking about seven-year-olds here. The throw from left careened past the third baseman, hitting the fence of our dugout.

  Jake’s (cute little) cleat hit the bag at third and he headed home. The catcher, looking very professional, threw his helmet down and squared off in front of the plate. Jake bore down on him as the third baseman raced after the ball. He picked it up in enough time to make the throw. It flew on a rope right to the catcher, but that massive glove failed the kid. The ball struck the leather and popped up. Jake slid into home, safe.