Running In and Out of Time

Running In and Out of Time

The misty haze of drugged sleep hung over me like a veil. The only thing that I knew was that I was waking later than I should be, the sun glaring accusingly through the window.

I took a nap every afternoon after work, between then and when my son came home. Rolling over to check the alarm clock, I groaned as my back twinged in protest.

3:35p.m. it read. Joey should have been home five minutes ago.

Slipping into my slippers, I shuffled out into the hall. Silence echoes off the walls of the living room, leaving gaping holes in its wake. Where was Joey, I thought to myself, he isn't ever late from school. Certain I didn’t want to overreact, I simply took the book I was currently reading and settled into my armchair to wait for him.

I waited, and waited, and waited.

It felt like hours. Decades. Eons passed as the sun settled behind the mountains that wrapped our valley. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. 5:30 p.m.

That was too late for Joey, yes of course he had been late before, but never this late.

Grunting, I pushed myself up from my perch, grabbed my shoes from by the door, and hurried outside.

Maybe his bike chain had come off on his way back. That had happened before, but he usually borrowed Bobby’s cellular phone to call home and let us know. The phone had never rang, I was quite certain of that. I turned in the direction of his school, the setting sun warm on the left side of my face. He had to be between here and Centertown Middle School.

Slowly, as to not miss anything, and accommodate my tired legs, I made my way down the mile walk to Joey's school. Passing the residential area, I started down the shopping district’s packed evening streets. There were always lots of people out and about during dinner time in our town.

Muttering apologies to people as I accidentally bumped them, I asked everyone if they had seen Joey. If anyone had seen an eleven year old boy, with a faded green backpack and bright red bicycle. Surely, no one would forget seeing Joey.

No one had. I could feel anxiety begin to eat away at my stomach. Keeping an eye out for arcades or candy stores, anything that would deter an eleven year old. Nothing, not a trace of my boy.

The walk took nearly an hour, with all of my detours included. Finally I approached the middle school. It looked dirtier than it had the last time I had been here. The grass was getting long, and there were weeds sprouting between the pavers on the sidewalk. What was weirder, I noticed, is that no one stirred. There were no kids laughing, no teachers scolding, swing sets creaking, or music coming from any corner of the lot. It was quiet, too quiet.

The tension rose from my stomach to my chest, something had to be wrong. A woman was leaning against the picket fence, puffing circles of smoke in front of her. She looked him up and down as he approached her.

“Hey bud, what do you want?” her voice was raw from the smoke.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” my voice trembled slightly as I tried to get a grip on what was going on, “but what time did school get out today?”

She just stared at me blankly, “school? Like this one?” she jerked a thumb to the building at her back.

I nodded eagerly, maybe she had seen Joey.

“This school got out earlier,” relief simmered in my gut, “about fifteen years earlier.”

Anxiety crashed like a tsunami driving the relief, and breath, right out of me.

“What do you mean fifteen years ago?!” I cried, “My son was here for classes this morning. I dropped him off at the bus station. What kind of joke is it to pretend a school has been out for fifteen years?! Maybe you’ve seen him? His name is Joey, he has curly brown hair, he’s eleven, has a green backpack, and a bright red bike.”

I was rambling now, my son's descriptors rolling off my tongue as if I described him in detail daily. Like it was something I had done all my life. How strange for something like fear to trigger that.

“Sorry bud, it’s been closed awhile, no idea where your kid is,” the nonchalant shrug that accompanied her unhurried tone sent my head careening to the darkest places.

Where was Joey? Where on earth was my son? Why wasn’t he home for dinner.

I set out at a brisk pace down the block. Skirting around people and trash cans until I was far away from her and the desolate school. He had to be nearby, but there was no way I would be able to find him on my own. I turned my steps downtown, certainly the cops would be able to find him.

Thirty minutes later, I was seated in an office with the chief of police and a few of his sergeants. It was all a blur, all I remember was bursting into the front room, demanding someone find Joey. After a few minutes of waiting they pulled me back here.

The little plastic cup of water helped, cleared my head, giving me something to do. Something to stop my hands from shaking. My son was missing, we had to find him.

“Now, Joseph, you said we are looking for Joey, is that a nickname or his legal name?” The nearest officer asked, typing all of my responses on his computer.

Running him “through the system”. That’s what they were calling it. That's what we were doing. Writing down everything that I could possibly describe about Joey in order to “run him through the system”, to see if we could locate him.

“It’s his legal name, sir, Joey William Smith,” my voice cracked.

I could picture his face, smiling and laughing while I made his all time favorite tacos. Cheese sauce smothering his face, his blue soda staining his tongue.

“I really need to find him, it’s getting dark, and he’s just a boy,” my throat was tight, “he’s all I got, his mama died a few years back, cancer you see, and so it's just me and Joey now.”

“I understand Mr. Smith, “ the officer gave me an understandingly sympathetic smile as he looked through his records.

Silence echoed through the room for a few minutes as the officers discussed what was coming up on the computer. My vision hazed slightly at the edges, my sanity fraying. Breathing was becoming difficult as I shoved thoughts of my Joey out there, alone, not sure how to get home from wherever he had run off to.

“Mr. Smith, your son is not coming up in the records anywhere…we’ve, uh, we’ve checked. Every record for the past twenty years, he is not showing up,” the chief said cautiously, “do you have any idea why?”

“He’s…” I started to hyperventilate then, “what do you…what do you mean he isn't in there….isn’t everyone in there.. Why can’t. Why, why can’t anyone tell me where my son is?!?”

My fists clenched and unclenched as uneasy glances were tossed between the present officers.

“Well, how about we take a ride back to your house, and we see if he made it there while you were out looking for him?” The chief got up from his desk, starting for the door.

Knees trembling from the effort, I grabbed the arms of the chair I was in to push myself into a standing position.

Body weak, I fell into the passenger seat of the cruiser. Dozens of thoughts racing through my head, where on earth could Joey be? Maybe the officer was right, and he was home. Maybe they just ran into an issue when filing his information at the school. That could be it.

The chief reassured me that they would file a missing persons report as soon as they checked to make sure that my son was not home.

A kernel of hope embedded itself, an island in the tsunami of panic. I forced it to take root, to withstand the waves. It was necessary, or I would drown.

We made it home, my little house on Great Oak St., the green door illuminated by the porchlight. Green, like Joey’s backpack. He had picked out the paint color, a dimpling smile on his face.

There was a woman in front of the door. Light brown hair pulled back, her clothes a powder blue shade. Flawlessly white sneakers scuffed slightly as she ran off the porch to me.

“Joseph! Where have you been? I was about to come look for you when I saw you weren’t home!”

Her arms wrapped around me tightly and I held her embrace, appreciating the stability of it a moment. A slight problem, I did not know who this was.

“I am so sorry,” I pulled away, “who are you?”

She smiled unfazed,” Oh, I’m a friend of yours, I check on you sometimes, what are you doing with the officer?”

“He’s helping me find Joey, he didn’t come back for dinner,” the tsunami returned, threatening to swallow me whole.

Her face dropped, I saw it, only for an instant. There was something, sadness, fear, regret? Then it was gone, maybe I’d imagined it.

“Joseph,” she laughed, “ Joey went to dinner at Bobby’s tonight, don’t you know? He got invited last minute and you said it was fine. They rode there after school, he’s just fine!”

Bobby’s? I clung to my little island. He was..at Bobby’s? Bobby was his best friend, surely I would have remembered that he had been going there. Maybe not, the days were kind of blending together lately.

“Are you certain?” I felt the tsunami starting to roll back into its place on the shore.

“Yes yes, he’s sleeping over there, you’ll see him tomorrow. Why don’t you head inside, I’ll tell the officer about Joey. Get ready for dinner, it’s almost done.”

I relaxed, nodding once. My legs ached like no other, hauling myself up the stairs to the door. The railing shook a bit under my weight, but it held. I smiled at the green door, opening it to get into my home, and wait for Joey.

Shayla watched as Joseph made it up the stairs, concern lining her face. He was getting worse.

“My deepest apologies chief, you see..Joseph hasn’t been doing well for a bit now. He’s getting older and the dementia is catching up to him I’m afraid. I’m his caretaker, Shayla Atkins.”

She shook the hand of the officer as understanding dawned on his face.

“Ahhh that makes much more sense, no worries Ms. Atkins,” he paused, dropping her hand, “so..Joey, is he real? Because his name didn’t come up in our system. “

A twinge of sadness altered the features of the typically upbeat caretaker.

“Yes.” A pause, “ Joey is real. He was Joseph's son. He disappeared nearly forty years ago. He was walking home from school one day, and just vanished into thin air. The Smith family never got to find out what happened to him, or where he went. It overwhelmed poor Cynthia, his wife, she died almost a decade ago now.”

They both turned, watching Joseph through the large window in his living room. He was shuffling around in the house. They watched him gather things from the small kitchen, his wire rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. His hands, wrinkled with age, shook slightly as he took his collection to the table.

Two plates. Two napkins. No utensils. A plate of tacos. Two cups, one with water, and one with blue soda.