At first the parents thought the scarred man had taken their daughter. Tom, the father, came screaming down the front porch in his boxer shorts, no shirt, and began attacking him. The police held him off. The mother was taken off in an ambulance. Something about her back, about fainting, about pain, maybe a slipped disk.
Tom said, “You were stalking her. At school, in the playground, at home. Standing outside our house, looking up at her window.”
The scar-faced man said no. Denied everything. Mentioned the little man in the brown suit. But no one believed him because he looked like that. Until John stepped in and mentioned the little man in the brown suit and Trish began screaming hysterically, saying something about pamphlets and pedophiles and bears. Then they believed him. Then they believed both of them.
The police said they were going to find him. “Don’t worry,” they said. “He can’t have gone far.”
The scar-faced man’s face was horrific.
John saw it, his face, one last time in the police station. The man was being led through a hallway to be questioned. His face in the harsh fluorescent light even worse than in the shadows.
The dog wasn’t put to sleep. Although he should have been, considering the permanent damage he did to John’s ankle. John will always walk with a limp now. George Clooney with a limp. But John was a trespasser, they said. The dog was merely protecting his family.
“You see,” Dayton says. Later. “You see why I had to take my daughter and leave you? Do you see?”
John was hoping that when he finally saw Dayton he would be much more distinguished, much more manly and in control of the situation. He didn’t expect to be bleeding and crying a little, limping into the back of a police car. Lights flashing.
The neighbours on the street stand together. The rain is hard, cold, unforgiving. Dayton walks up to him, then. She approaches him and leans into the window of the police car and says, “You get this.” She puts her hands up and signifies the entire street, the houses, the world, the sky, the rain. “You get this. This here. You get what you deserve.”
John sits in the police car awkwardly. He can hear the radio blasting in and out — “suspect sighted,” “shelter,” “no girl.”
Afterwards, after they let him go, after they are satisfied that he had nothing to do with it, and when he is finally boarding the plane back to California, storing his crutches with the stewards and then limping back to his seat, John thinks, “She’s wrong. I didn’t deserve any of this.” When the plane takes off and begins to climb it feels to John as if his foot is going to explode, as if the broken bone is splintering and is going to stab him in the brain. Kill him. Instantly.
But not quickly enough.
John isn’t sure what happened to that missing girl, but he is sure that he never got to see his daughter that night. He went all that way, he suffered through all of that, and he never laid eyes on his child. His baby girl remains missing for him.
Parkville News
Columnist, C.L. Douglas
On the beat since 1965
After the arrest of the Rooming House Pedophile (as he was immediately labelled following Judge Snider’s media publication ban yesterday), the director of the Abernackie Men’s Shelter, Art Spack, who had met the accused several times when the Shelter men got together with the Rooming House men, has been quoted as saying that the man was “quiet, kept to himself and wouldn’t kill a fly.” Despite this assurance, Rebecca Shutter, 12 years old, is still missing. She has been missing for 30 hours and counting. Rumour has it that the accused isn’t aware of the girl, has no idea what the police are talking about and “didn’t do anything.” We have heard that he will plead not guilty and is currently being held without bail. There will be psychiatric tests, of course, and I, for one, would like to see if there is a connection between his behaviour and the Tourette’s-like symptoms he displays. It’s a chicken or egg situation. Does this man’s difference make him commit crimes or does he commit crimes because he is different? This makes me wonder about the other characters (again, because of the media publication ban we cannot publish the names of those involved), the man whose face was split in half from an accident with a snow shovel when he was young, or the California man who was intending to kidnap his own child back from her mother. What role did they play that night? Stay tuned for the most interesting trial Parkville has ever seen.
A fundraiser is being organized at the Local Legion 21 by Rebecca Shutter’s friends. Please help by donating what you can or by registering to take part in the searches. Yellow ribbons are also available for your trees. The more volunteers, the better. Parkville News has already donated $1,000 and our staff has committed to volunteering on a rotating basis. Please do your part to help bring Rebecca Shutter home.
17
Becky hadn’t planned for it to happen this way. He was so weak and clammy and snivelling and, well, sort of funny. It wasn’t at all like she imagined it would be. He reminded her, actually, of Mr. Bean. Last year, in French class, Becky watched Mr. Bean’s Holiday, where he wins a trip to Cannes and bikes around and falls in love and generally screws up a lot of things. Becky thought it was funny, but the rest of her class thought it was stupid. Becky doesn’t have any idea what she was supposed to learn from the movie, although some of the actors did speak French occasionally. Mr. Bean mostly grunted. The way he does. The man in the brown suit was like Mr. Bean in that he screwed everything up. He couldn’t get the kidnapping right. He let go of Becky’s hand about five minutes into the kidnapping and then he started to cry a bit and pat her on the head and Becky mainly felt sorry for him as she ran quickly away. She forgot to feel afraid. In fact, she had been waiting for so long for someone to kidnap her, for all fall and all winter, that the whole thing felt completely inevitable. It was like capital-letter-F Fate. Like those commercials you see for online dating sites. The ones where the man and woman connect online and then meet at a fancy restaurant and say that it was “meant to be,” as if it was magic. Becky didn’t, however, expect the kidnapper to be the brown-suited-Mr. Bean guy. She thought he would be a scar-faced man wearing a hoodie that said Falcons on it. For god’s sake, this man was shorter than Becky. And weaker. And slower. He clip-clopped down the street after her (actually saying “clip-clop” as he came running), but couldn’t catch her even though she was wearing her slippers in the rain. “Wait,” he snivelled. “Wait for me.”
Becky saw him at the back door. No, not true. First she saw her mother on the floor right beside the back door. Becky had heard her mother call out and she had come down the stairs in her slippers. There was her mother, all tangled in her bathrobe, lying near the back door and the man in the brown suit was standing there, the door open, and Becky said, “Who are you?” and the man smiled at her, a creepy smile, and Becky’s mom seemed to fall asleep or faint or something, her head hitting the floor hard. Becky moved forward — to help her mother, she thinks later — but the man put his hand out, thrust it towards Becky, and Becky was terrified and kept thinking, “This is it. It’s finally happening,” and she took his hand and they walked out together into the rain. Becky doesn’t know why she took his hand but she thought that maybe it had something to do with the way her mom has been treating her lately. Becky thought a few things at that moment — so quickly that she didn’t know she was thinking these things — and one of them was that maybe her mom would be nicer to her if she had been kidnapped. Maybe then she would see how much she needs Becky, how much help Becky is to her with her cleaning and such. It was kind of a told-you-so moment. One Becky later regretted. So she took his hand and walked out with him, sort of wishing that he’d have kidnapped her a little more forcefully, dragged her or something, a little more dramatically. She should have something to show for this, something other than a gross sweaty palm. This walking out, holding hands, just seemed weak to her. Becky wondered who the other man was, the one by the bush at the side of the house, but
Dog came — Dog! Safe! Home! — and was attacking this man as Becky walked away with the brown-suited man — with Mr. Bean — and all she could think was that this was Fate. Finally happening. All those months of waiting for it and, blammo, the time had come to be kidnapped.
Fate and her mom. All she could also think about was her mom and what she would think when she found out Becky was gone.
That day in the snow, after she left Rachel at Hannah’s house with the hot chocolate and the weird brother, Becky went back to the school to think. She huddled on the play structure, trying to keep the wind off her face, her nose buried in her collar, and she thought about Stranger Danger and the guy who was stalking her and she thought about how old she was — twelve — and how she was either too old or too young to feel so afraid of everything. So, later, when Terry — the weird brother — came up to her and sat down next to her, she made a conscious effort not to scream or move or run or freak out. Becky sat there, with Terry bumbling away beside her, talking and scratching his private parts and fiddling with his nose, which was leaking in the cold, and she didn’t move. Later she went home and everyone else was afraid. Because they thought she was missing. And it was a nice feeling to have everyone worried for her, even if she did end up getting grounded. But even though she did that, stayed there with Terry on the play structure, got used to him and his strangeness, she was still scared of things. Her tooth, the dentist, the men she sees everywhere, dirt. Everything.
But she’s not afraid of Terry anymore.
Now they sit together in the baseball dugout at the back of the field at the high school. The first night it’s raining and wet and cold and Becky is afraid when Terry leaves her and goes back home and she is alone. The first night, the night she escapes her kidnapper, she can’t stop thinking about the man in the brown suit and worrying that he’ll find her. She worries that he might change his mind and really kidnap her this time, not let go of her hand, rape her. Because that’s what they do, these kidnappers. But the second night the rain stops and it’s a bit warmer and she’s getting used to being by herself in the dark. Terry keeps her company for a while. The brown-suited man never appears. She thinks about her mom. If she stays one more night, she thinks, she’ll be cured of all the fear that wells up inside her. If she stays one more night, her mom will have been punished enough. In the daytime Terry comes and goes between his classes, and when he is with her they watch the teenagers head into the school and no one seems to notice them. Terry brings her an old sleeping bag to put over her pyjamas, to keep her warm. Becky figures they blend in, with their dark clothing, with the green sleeping bag, to the forest green of the dugout.
“It’s odd how it happened,” Becky says again. She’s been saying this over and over.
Terry nods and uses the penny he found to carve things into the bench. A turtle, a lion, an elephant. His carvings look like the petroglyphs they’ve been reading about in school.
“I ran away from him and you were outside your house and we bumped into each other and here we are.”
“Why aren’t you going home?” Terry asks. And it feels as if he’s asked that same question thousands of times. Because he has.
Becky doesn’t know. She shrugs. Terry keeps asking this, but Becky isn’t sure how to answer him. It’s like she’s been hit on the head, she’s brain-damaged, she has a concussion or something. Becky doesn’t want to get up from the dugout and go home. How do you explain it, how do you explain your mom and everything that has happened lately and how you just want her to love you, need you, want you. You want her to pay attention to who you are, Becky thinks, not try to change you. Not be ashamed of you. You want her to love you for who you are, not for who she wants you to be. How do you tell someone like Terry all of this when you don’t even get it yourself — because how can a mom be ashamed of her daughter? Becky knows that if Terry didn’t come see her she’d be home already, but having him here with his tics and moans and grunts and things, even for an hour or so, makes her feel like she’s protected. Or protecting. She’s not sure which. He makes her safe while she figures it all out.
“My mom lost Dog,” she says.
Terry barks quietly. Becky smiles.
“She also never believes me.”
“Sad,” Terry says.
“I was kidnapped.”
“Me too,” Terry says. “I was kidnapped.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, whatever.” Becky sighs. “You were kidnapped too.”
“A girl was kidnapped,” Terry says. “On the news. On TV.”
“Well, I was too,” Becky says. “Me.”
“You were kidnapped.”
“Yes.” Becky hears her stomach growl. Terry is bringing her food. He shares his lunch. He brings her a few granola bars or a jar of peanuts from home, but he tends to grab small stuff, as if he’s not thinking about her when he’s at home. He brings small, insubstantial stuff that makes her hungry minutes after she’s eaten. And she keeps having to remind him to bring water. If he keeps this up she’ll dehydrate and starve by tonight. Although she doesn’t mind the dehydration. She hasn’t had to pee for hours. Ever since last night after Terry left when Becky crouched out in the field in her slippers in the dark, terrified more of the dirt than anything else.
Why can’t she go home now? She’s had enough.
Why won’t she go home?
Becky begins to cry. Terry says, “There, there,” and pats her on the head, reminding her of the man in the brown-suit and the way he patted her head while he was crying. His patting also reminds her of her mom and dad and suddenly Becky wants her mom more than anything. And her dog. And mostly her father. She wants a bath. A clean room. New PJs. Food.
A bell rings at the school. Becky needs to get home.
Maybe she’s in shock? She studied shock at school. Did a huge project with a bristol board and a PowerPoint presentation. About how your heart beat speeds up and how you get irritable and confused and withdrawn. She’s withdrawing from others. So she may be in shock. She’s also tired and can’t think. Becky thinks that Rachel is an idiot. Rachel thinks that everything they are learning in school doesn’t matter, that you don’t need to pay attention or listen, but it’s times like this, in the dugout, when Becky is grateful she listened, grateful she read the book about World War II and learned about emotional shock. How else would she know what’s going on in her mind? Even if she is confused.
Even if she’s not in shock, well, she can tell everyone she’s in shock. Maybe then she won’t get in trouble for taking off, hiding out?
Obviously Becky didn’t plan any of this. How could she have? Even though those girls at school eventually confessed after that incident, after Becky was suspended, Becky knows that still no one believes her. In fact, sometimes Becky doesn’t believe herself. She’ll think one thing and then wonder if she’s just making it up. Maybe what she thinks about things isn’t the right thing?
“Bye.” Terry gets up and leaves. Like that. He infuriates Becky, but this is also what she likes about him — he does what he wants when he wants. And doesn’t seem to care one way or another.
An hour later, as she’s shuffling towards home in her muddy slippers, Becky sees a few yellow ribbons wrapped around trees. They look pretty in the grey day; they brighten up the trees.
She will tell them she was confused. She will tell them she was in shock. Or she will tell them she was kidnapped, that he took her to his lair and had his way with her. No, maybe not. But that he took her somewhere. Because she was kidnapped, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that the way it happened?
Exactly like in the winter, they see her and they all come running. Like in the winter, she feels warm inside seeing them rushing towards her. But this time police run too, and a few men in suits (not brown!), and even Rachel comes at he
r, crying. They all stomp down the street towards her — why is Rachel crying? — splashing through a few of the puddles left over from the morning shower. Dog bounds towards Becky, and Becky’s mom hobbles stiffly forward, wearing a back brace, sobbing. Calling, “Becky, Becky.” There are yellow ribbons everywhere, the whole street is decked out in them, even the huge tree in front of Dayton’s house has three or so ribbons tied together to make it around the trunk. But it’s Becky’s dad who surprises her the most. He stands still, on the top step of the porch, his mouth open, tears slicing down his cheeks. He doesn’t come towards her, he stands still and cries quietly and stares hard. As if he’s seen a ghost. His mouth open. And beside him is the scar-faced man. Standing up there, on the porch, with her father. The kidnapper who isn’t a kidnapper. The truth that was a lie. Standing there, looking at her, an odd half-smile on his face.
Dear Dad,
Thanks for all your letters regarding Grandpa’s postcards. I’ll forget about them. I won’t mention them again. I just find it weird, that’s all. I remember them, but then I don’t remember them. But, then again, I’ve never been good at remembering what I think I remember. If that makes sense. Hmmm. As I’ve learned lately, life is weird. Weirder than you’d think. I mean, anything you can imagine happening, Dad, isn’t half as strange as what will happen. Believe me. Take my word for it. And there is nothing you can do about any of it — about life, about life being weird. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say except for the promise that I won’t bring up the postcards again.
On another note, Maria, Becky and I were thinking of coming down after school is out to visit you. When is the best week? I know it’ll be hot but Maria loves heat and Becky would love to use your pool (is it chlorinated? Cleaned daily? Is she allowed to wear flip-flops in it?). I think I can take two weeks off the beginning of July if that works for you and Mom? I’m glad you’ve decided to stay for a bit this summer. We could really use the break. Let me know. It would be great to have a nice holiday.
Interference Page 23
