by Greta Boris
Brian was at her mother’s, so she didn’t have to rush. But she didn’t want to take advantage either. Because Sarah made her own schedule, it was easy to forget that publishing was a business like any other. There were deadlines and appointments to keep.
Olivia reached her car, and balanced her pot of herbs on one knee while she fished in her purse for her keys. She clicked the door open. As she leaned inside to deposit her cards and the plant on the passenger seat, she saw a bit of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. She could only make out two words, “Missing Boy,” in bold, black letters.
Probably a flier from a desperate family. She reached for the paper. There were two sheets. Not fliers, but printed copies of newspaper articles. One headline read, Missing Boy Found Dead, the other, Boy Killed in Tragic Accident.
She moved to the hood of her car and spread out the pages. What was this about? Olivia’s gaze skittered between the two stories illuminated in the dim light of a street lamp. They were written about three and a half years apart, one in 2008 and the other in 2012.
They happened in different cities, Boise, Idaho, and Chandler, Arizona. One of the boys was ten, the other nine. One was missing for twenty-four hours, the other was gone for two days before he was found. The first boy, the one from 2008, drowned in a rushing river after a week of rain storms. The child from 2012 fell to his death while rock climbing on a camping trip.
Why had someone left this for her?
Olivia looked up. Her head snapped right then left, as if she might find the answer to her questions somewhere in the dark parking lot. Apprehension slid over her, cold and damp. She folded the papers, got in the car, and locked the doors. As soon as she put Brian to bed, she’d research the stories from the safety of her couch.
As she drove to her mother’s, she wondered if the clippings had anything to do with the car in the parking lot last week. Probably not. The earlier event was most likely paranoia, her imagination. This was a deliberate act. Someone wanted her to know about these boys. But why?
Someone from CPS? That’s the only thing that made any sense, and it didn’t make much. Maybe an anal-retentive case worker was trying to keep her on her toes by sharing cautionary tales. A shiver ran along her spine. Someone who left cryptic messages on windshields had to be a few tacos short of a combo plate. She stepped on the accelerator and got to her mother’s in twelve minutes instead of the usual fifteen.
Sarah answered the door in a long, white cotton nightgown, her gray hair hanging loose, and gave Olivia a sleepy smile. Olivia looked past her and saw Brian dozing on the couch. She exhaled with relief. “You’re headed to bed early. Everything go okay?”
“Fine. It was a long day. We fell asleep watching a movie. How was work?”
“It was nice. Fiona and the girls threw a little congratulations party for me.”
“Lovely.” Sarah covered a yawn with a blue veined hand.
Olivia hushed her voice as she crossed to her sleeping son. “Sorry, I’m late.”
“You’re actually early. Anyway, I turned in my manuscript yesterday. I’m giving myself a few days off.”
“You deserve it.” Olivia lifted Brian by his shoulders to a sitting position. His head lolled onto his chest. “He’s out.”
“You were like that at that age. You’d sleep through anything.”
Olivia didn’t respond. When she was Brian’s age, she’d developed that ability for survival. If she hadn’t learned to sleep through the noise, and all the comings and goings of her mother’s crazy roommates, she’d have never slept. “Did you find out anything about Proctor?”
“No, not yet. I’ve been busy.”
A question dropped into Olivia’s mind, one that hadn’t occurred to her before. One that made her heart thud. She propped Brian up on the couch and walked into the dining room. Her mother followed. “Look, I’m sorry, but you know how I am when I’m winding up a book. I get in—”
“Did Proctor ever do anything to any of the boys at the farm?” The question came in a harsh whisper.
“What? Why do you ask?” Her mother’s skin paled.
“Just tell me.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Would Winnie or Drew know?”
“They’ve never said anything like that.”
“But they wouldn’t, would they?” It was better to forget. In those days, her mother’s crowd thought laws were for squares, big brother was watching, and the police were pigs. There was an unspoken agreement between them to ignore one another’s sins, even Proctor’s.
Sarah hugged her arms around herself. “Why do you want to know? Now? After all these years?”
“Please, find out for me.” Olivia wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the articles until she had some clue as to what they meant, or why they were left for her.
***
Brian never fully woke, not even when Olivia pulled off his shoes and pants and trundled him into bed. She tucked the covers around him and hurried into the living room.
She took the newspaper articles from her purse, laid them next to her on the lumpy green couch and turned on her laptop. She typed the basic facts from the top article into her search engine: name—Peter Compton, date—April, 2008, place—Boise, Idaho. The first thing that popped up was the article she already had. Below it were some shorter, less detailed news stories, the funeral announcement, and finally his obituary.
After reading each account, she pieced together a sad story. Peter was the only child of a single mother, Anne Compton. Reading between the lines, Olivia guessed he’d been on some spectrum or other, maybe high functioning autism. One Tuesday morning he rode his bike to school along the river trail as usual. He arrived on time according to teachers and classmates. He left school at 3:15 and was seen pedaling toward the Boise River, but he never made it home.
Peter was a latchkey kid, and Anne worked late that night so wasn’t aware of his absence until she arrived home in the evening. After calling all his friends, her ex-husband, and every relative within ten miles, she called the police. An AMBER Alert was issued and search and rescue teams dispersed.
His bike was found on the river trail at midnight. His body wasn’t found until the next day when a fisherman saw it snagged up on a felled tree about a mile and a half downstream. They surmised Peter had wandered too close to the edge of the water and had fallen in and drowned—a tragic accident.
A line in his obituary brought tears to Olivia’s eyes, “Peter was a sweet and loving child with a curious nature. The great outdoors was his favorite classroom. We’ll miss him, but are comforted to know he died in the river—the place he loved most on earth.”
There was more information about the second boy, Trevor Johnson, because of a lawsuit filed by his mother against a local father-son backpacking club in 2013. Trevor went on a camping trip with the club to a place called Queen Creek Canyon, about forty-five minutes from Phoenix. The club leaders believed he sneaked out of his tent on the second night of the trip, climbed part way up a treacherous rock face, lost his hold and fell to his death. It was two days before a search and rescue team found him.
According to the adults on the trip, Trevor had mentioned rock climbing several times. They’d explained to the boys it was too dangerous without proper training and equipment. The backpacking club’s lawyer claimed the boy was ADHD and had left his medication at home. Trevor was survived by his mother, father, stepmother, and a younger sister.
Olivia rubbed her neck, stiff from bending over the computer, and looked at the time, 1:13. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow. What a waste. She wasn’t any closer to understanding why the news stories were placed under her windshield wiper. Or, who’d done it.
She shut off her laptop, and padded to Brian’s room. He lay still under a blanket covered in race cars, his face angelic as only a sleeping child’s can be. He was the same age as those boys in the articles, the same age she had been when Proctor had come into her life.
; When she was ten her mother moved them both to a commune in Vermont. The big farm, with vegetable gardens, sheep, chickens, and a milk cow seemed like a slice of heaven at first. They’d arrived on a beautiful September day. It was the time of year when leaves set fire to the woods, and the air was as crisp as the late apples still hanging from the trees.
They pulled up a long, dirt drive and were met by two middle-aged people. Rainy and Edgar, in jeans, work boots and flannel shirts, looked more like siblings than the husband and wife they actually were. Despite the clothes, Olivia could tell by looking at them they were city transplants. They were too round, too friendly, and too androgynous to be austere New Englanders.
Rainy and Edgar took them into a farm house kitchen that smelled of lavender, cinnamon, and baking bread and set a cracked mug of cocoa in front of Olivia. In later years, whenever she smelled that combination of scents she would be transported to the warmth and comfort of that room. Distracted though she was by chocolate and cinnamon bun ecstasy, she still caught bits and pieces of the adult conversation.
“We inherited the place from my Great Aunt Ida five years ago.” Rainy was talking to Sarah, Olivia’s mother. “But we had no idea how to care for it.”
Edgar set down his mug and slapped a hand on the worn, oak table. “One day Teach and Patty showed up with the kids. Saved our asses.”
“They’ve been a Godsend.” Rainy smiled. “A Godsend.”
Kids. Olivia listened more closely.
“You have more people living here now, though, don’t you?” her mother said.
“Fifteen adults and five children. Sixteen and six, if you two join us. Teach and Patty invited some friends to work the harvest that first time. They never left. More folks showed up in the spring for planting. Pretty soon stray souls were wandering in like hungry cats,” Edgar said.
“Edgar didn’t have the heart to shoo them away.” Rainy glanced at her husband with so much love, Olivia felt a pang of longing.
Sarah agreed to take on the housecleaning and help whenever they needed her in the gardens. The adults shook on it and Olivia and her mother carried their shabby suitcases up a flight of creaking stairs into a bedroom overlooking a dirt road.
This was the first time in her life Olivia had regular, daily companionship with people of her own age. Teach, the original caretaker, had been a grade school teacher before moving to the farm. He was a tall, thin, gentle man who stroked a bushy beard while he told stories. He taught the six children in residence the basics: reading, writing, and arithmetic.
They followed him around the farm in the mornings for science lessons. That’s what he called learning to milk, gather eggs, and tend sheep. To be fair, he did regale them with facts about the nature of plants and animals while they worked. Olivia remembered more from those lessons than she did from the textbooks of her later years.
In the afternoons, they’d gather in a small room of the main house that had been turned into a classroom. There Teach taught them long division, grammar, and French. After lessons, he’d read them stories about famous people from the past. It was the happiest time of Olivia’s young life, until Proctor showed up.
It had never occurred to her before tonight that he might have been a danger to any of the other children. But why wouldn’t he have been? He was evil. Evil touched the people around it, wherever it went.
She pushed the bangs from Brian’s forehead with one finger and kissed him softly. Her chest ached. Those poor mothers. She knew the pain of thinking your son might not survive the night. She could only imagine how it would feel if he didn’t. Excruciating. She straightened and felt strength course through her. Brian wasn’t going to be in that kind of danger ever again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“TV OFF,” OLIVIA said. Brian obeyed, dragged himself off the carpet, yawning, and headed toward the door.
“Shoes.” She stopped with her hand on the knob. He gave her a sleepy smile, ran to his room, and reemerged with his Vans in his hand. She hated to rush him after a busy day at school and soccer practice, but she’d agreed to drop him off at Davy’s by 5:30.
Davy. He irritated like a splinter. He reminded her of Ferris Bueller, the character from the old 80’s movie, who was wildly rewarded for his irresponsibility. Two days into Davy’s new job, the company expanded his sales territory because another employee left unexpectedly. He now made more money than she did. He also paid less rent than she did—for a nicer place. He’d even lost his alcohol weight in a couple of months without having to change his eating habits.
She was being petty. She should be happy for him, but she wasn’t. Honestly, she wanted him to suffer, at least a little, for all the ways he’d made her suffer. She wanted him to experience some of the same struggles she’d experienced after he’d started drinking. His charmed life exasperated her.
She drove into Davy’s complex through a river rock entrance flanked by palm trees—much more elegant than the suburban side street she lived on. “Stop, Mom.” Brian pointed out the window, excitement on his face. Davy stood in a well-landscaped green belt that ran between the banks of buildings. It took a moment for her to see the reason for the emotion in Brian’s voice. Davy held a brown leash in his right hand, at its end was a black dog.
She pulled up to the grass, and Brian flew out of the car. “Dad, whose is he?” He dropped to his knees by the animal.
“Yours,” Davy said.
Olivia turned off the ignition and got out of the car.
“Mine? Really? Hi, boy. Hi there.” The words sputtered from Brian’s lips between dog kisses.
“What do you mean, he’s Brian’s?” Olivia asked.
“I was out running errands yesterday.” Davy wore the innocent smile that always drove her crazy. “I passed this pet shop that was having one of those adoption days. There were all these dogs out front, and I stopped to take a look. That was my first mistake.” He shrugged. “This big guy comes charging over to me, climbing on my legs, tail going a mile a minute. I couldn’t resist.”
“I told you I didn’t want a dog,” Olivia said.
“I know. He’s not yours. He’s mine. Mine and Brian’s.”
“I can’t believe you.” The words edged past Olivia’s frozen lips.
Davy’s eyes grew wide. “Brian wanted a dog. I think a dog would be good for him. You said yourself I come up with ideas, then expect you to carry them out. I’m taking responsibility for a change. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy? Happy that you’re always the fun guy, and I’m always the heavy? Happy you get to take Brian to the zoo and Disneyland, and I get to take him to school and doctor’s appointments? Sure. I’m ecstatic.” Olivia ran a hand through her hair and turned toward the car. She needed to pull it together. She’d broken her own rule—never fight in front of Brian.
“Olivia, come on. You’re being unreasonable.” She spun to face him. He held up his hands in supplication. “Call me. I’ll take him to the doctor next time. I can come over and do homework with him too.”
“I have to get home,” she said. He was right, she could ask. The truth was, she didn’t want to. She wanted to control Brian’s schedule without having to consider Davy. It might be selfish of her, but there it was.
“You needed to be the custodial parent in the beginning, I get that. But we could go fifty-fifty now. I could help more. I want to.”
Fifty-fifty. Cold crept over Olivia. Brian was hers. It was bad enough having to drop him off Tuesdays, Thursdays, every other weekend and share holidays. No way would she give up any more of her parental rights
“Here, Dad. You better take him back,” Brian said, his face stoic. Davy’s eyes bored into Olivia’s as he took the leash from his son’s extended hand.
“No. No. Brian, honey, I’m sorry. Of course, you and your dad can keep the dog. I’m... I’m just tired. I didn’t think about what I was saying.” Olivia wished she could snatch back her words, lock them in the black vault they’d escaped from. She kneeled
on the grass by her son and hugged him to her. “He’s yours. Yours and Dad’s, just like Dad said.”
“I don’t want him if he’s going to make you and Dad fight.”
“It’s not the dog’s fault your mom’s a nut.” She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean it. Honey. Really. Look how cute he is.” The dog strained toward Olivia.
“He likes you, Mom.”
“I like him too,” Olivia said. “What’s his name?”
“His previous owner called him Crackers.” Davy looked at Brian. “But you can name him anything you want to.”
“What do you think, Mom?” Brian turned to her, his eyes full of hope. Shame burned in Olivia’s cheeks.
“Crackers is cute. Do you like Crackers?”
“It fits. Wait until you see him loose in the apartment. He’s a crazy guy,” Davy said.
Brian hugged the dog. “Hi, Crackers. Hi, buddy.”
Olivia kissed her son and said a terse goodbye to Davy. The chill from his words stayed with her all the way home. He’d wanted more time with their son, and she’d given it. Primarily because she had to, but still, she’d been trying to work with him. It never occurred to her Davy might want to share custody.
He’d cleaned up his act. He’d joined a church-based recovery group, got a decent job, a nice car and place to live. He’d look pretty good to a judge right now. Nanette’s words rang in her mind; Carl’s taking me to court.
When Davy was drinking, he’d been a disappointment, but never a threat. He couldn’t even handle temporary custody when CPS had taken Brian from Olivia, which was why her mother ended up with him. Davy 2.O, the new and improved version, could pose a problem.
Thank God she hadn’t told him about the newspaper articles, or her fear that she was being followed. If he knew a danger from her past had possibly resurfaced, it might motivate him to take legal action for Brian’s sake. But she didn’t need Davy. She could take care of Brian on her own. She’d been doing it for three years.
