The Lost Boy (2 page)

I can feel the inside of my body begin to shake. For a moment I close my eyes, wishing myself away. In my mind I can see myself walking through the door. I smile inside. I so badly want to leave. The more I envision myself walking through the door, the more I begin to feel a warmth spread through my soul. Suddenly, I can feel my body moving. My eyes pop open. I look down at my worn-out sneakers. My feet are stepping through the front door.
Oh my God,
I say to myself,
I can’t believe I’m doing this!
Out of fear, I dare not stop.

“
There, ” Mother triumphantly states.
“The Boy
did it. It’s his decision. I didn’t force him. Remember that, Stephen. I want you to know I didn’t force him.”

I step through the front door, knowing full well that Mother will reach out and yank me back in. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I quicken my pace. After stepping past the door, I turn right and walk down the red steps. From behind me I can hear the sounds of Mother and Father straining themselves as they lean outside. “Roerva, ” Father says in a low voice, “this is wrong.”

“No!” she replies in a flat voice. “And remember, it was his decision. Besides, he’ll be back.”

I’m so excited that I nearly trip on my own feet and stumble down the stairs. I grab on to the handrail to stabilize myself. I make it to the walkway, and I fight to control my breathing. I turn right and walk up the street until I’m sure no one can see me past The House, then I break into a run. I make it halfway up the street before stopping, only for a moment, to look back down at The House.

With my hands on my knees I bend down panting. I try to strain my ears for the sounds of Mother’s station wagon. Somehow, Mother’s letting me go seems all too easy. I know she’ll be after me in a few moments. After catching my breath, I again quicken my pace. I reach the top of Crestline Avenue and stare down at the small green house. But there’s no station wagon racing out of the garage. No one running after me. No yelling, screaming or hitting. I’m not sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the garage, not being beaten in the back of the knees with a broomstick and not getting locked in the bathroom with another concoction of ammonia and Clorox.

I spin around at the sound of a passing car. I wave.

Even though I’m wearing ragged pants, a torn, thin, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of worn-out tennis shoes, I feel happy inside. I’m warm. I tell myself I’m never going back. After years of living in fear, surviving torturous beatings and eating out of garbage cans, I now know I will somehow survive.

I have no friends, no place to hide, nothing to turn to. But I know exactly where I’m going – the river. Years ago, when I was a member of The Family, for every summer vacation we would drive up to the Russian River in Guerneville. The best times in my life were the days spent learning to swim at Johnson’s Beach, riding down the Super Slide, going on hayrides at sunset and playing with my brothers on the old tree stump by our cabin. Remembering the smell of the giant redwood trees and the beauty of the dark green river makes me smile.

I’m not sure exactly where Guerneville is, but I do know it lies north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m sure it will take me a few days to get there, but I don’t care. Once I’m there I can survive by stealing loaves of French bread and salami from the local Safeway supermarket, and sleep on Johnson’s Beach while listening to the sounds of the cars rumbling across the old evergreen Parker truss bridge that leads into the city. Guerneville was the only place I ever felt safe. Ever since I was in kindergarten, I knew it was where I wanted to live. And once I make it there, I know I will live in Guerneville for the rest of my life.

I begin walking down Eastgate Avenue when a cold chill whistles through my body. The sun has set and the evening fog begins to roll in from the nearby ocean. I clamp my hands inside my armpits and make my way down the street. My teeth begin to chatter. The thrill of the great escape begins to wear off. I begin to think that maybe,
maybe,
Mother was right. As much as she beat me and yelled at me, at least the garage was warmer than out here.
Besides,
I tell myself,
I
do
lie and steal food. Maybe I
do
deserve to be punished.
I stop for a second to rethink my plan. If I turn back now, right now, she’ll yell and beat me – but I’m used to that. If I’m lucky, tomorrow she may feed me some leftover scraps from dinner. Then I can steal food from school the next day. Really, all I have to do is go back. I smile to myself. I’ve survived worse from Mother before.

I stop midstride. The thought of returning to The House doesn’t sound half bad.
Besides,
I tell myself,
I could never find the river anyway.
I turn around. She was right.

I picture myself sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shaking with fear, frightened of every sound I may hear from above. Counting the seconds and being terrified by every set of commercials; then waiting for the sound of the floor to creak upstairs when Mother gets up from the couch, strolls into the kitchen to pour herself a drink and then screeches for me to come upstairs – where she’ll beat me until I can no longer stand. I may be unable to crawl away.

I hate commercials.

The sound of a nearby cricket rubbing its wings brings me back to reality. I try to find the insect and stop for a moment when I think I’m close. The chirping stops. I remain perfectly still. If I catch it, maybe I could put the cricket in my pocket and make it my pet. I hear the cricket again. As I bend over to reach out, I hear the rumbling sounds of Mother’s car from behind me. I dive beside a nearby car the moment before the headlights spot me. The car creeps down the street. The sound of Mother’s squeaky brakes pierces through my ears. She’s searching for me. I begin to wheeze. I clamp my eyes closed as her headlights inch their way toward me. I wait for the sound of Mother’s car to grind to a halt, followed by her leaping from the car, then throwing me back into her station wagon. I count the seconds. I open my eyes slowly, turning my head to the left just in time to see the rear brakes light up before the brakes squeal. It’s over! She’s found me! In a way, I’m relieved. I would have never made it to the river. The anticipation drained me.
Come on, come on,
I say to myself.
Just do it. Come on.

The car cruises past me.

I don’t believe it! I jump up from behind the car and stare at a shiny two-door sedan tapping its brakes every few seconds. Suddenly I feel light-headed. My stomach tightens up. A surge of fluid climbs up my throat. I stumble over to someone’s grass and try to throw up. After a few seconds of dry heaves because of my empty stomach, I glance up at the stars. I can see patches of clear sky through the foggy mist. Bright silver stars twinkle above me. I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve been outside like this. I take a few deep breaths.

“No!”
I yell.
“I’m not going back! I’m never going back!”
I turn around and walk back down the street, north toward the Golden Gate Bridge. After a few seconds I walk past the car, which is now parked in someone’s driveway. I can see a couple standing at the top of the steps being greeted by the host. The sound of laughter and music escape through the open door. I wonder what it would be like to be welcomed in a home. As I make my way past a house, my nose detects the smell of food, and the thought of wolfing down something to eat possesses me. It’s Saturday night – that means I haven’t eaten anything since Friday morning at school.
Food,
I think to myself.
I have to find some food.

Sometime later I make my way to my old church. Years ago, Mother sent my two brothers, Ron and Stan, and me to afternoon catechism classes for a few weeks. I haven’t been to the church since I was seven. I gently open the door. Immediately I can feel the heat seep through the holes in my pants and my paper-thin shirt. As quietly as I can, I close the door behind me. I can see the priest picking up books from the pews. I hide beside the door, hoping he won’t see me. The priest makes his way to the back pews toward me. I so badly want to say, but
... 7
close my eyes, trying to absorb the heat for a moment, before my hand again reaches for the door.

Once outside I cross the street, where I can see a row of stores. I stop in front of a doughnut shop. One early morning, years ago, Father stopped to pick up some doughnuts before he drove the family to the Russian River. It was a magical time for me. Now I stare through the glass, then up at the fat, jolly, animated cartoon characters that were painted on the wall and going through the various stages of making doughnuts.

From my left the smell of pizza makes my head turn. I stumble past a few stores until I stop in front of a pizza bar. My mouth waters. Without thinking I open the door and make my way, in a daze, to the back of the room. My eyes take a few minutes to adjust. I can make out a pool table, the sounds of beer mugs clashing together and laughter. I can feel stares from above me, and I stop at the far corner of the bar. My eyes dart around in search of abandoned food. Finding none, I make my way to the pool table, where two men have just finished a game. I find a quarter on the table and slowly cover it with my fingers. I look around before dragging the quarter over the edge of the pool table and into my hand. The coin feels warm. As casually as possible I stroll back to the bar. A voice explodes above me. I try to ignore the sound. From behind, someone grabs my left shoulder. Instantly I tighten my upper body, waiting for a blow to my face or stomach. “Hey kid, what are you doing?”

I spin around toward the voice, but I refuse to look up.

“
I said, what are you doing?” the voice again asks.

I look up at a man wearing a white apron covered with red pizza sauce. He places his hands on his hips, waiting for a reply. I try to answer, but I begin to stutter. “Uhm. Noth … nothing … sir.”

The man places his hand on my shoulder and leads me to the end of the bar. He then stops and bends down. “Hey kid, you need to give me the quarter.”

I shake my head no. Before I can tell him a lie, the man says, “Hey, man, I saw you do it. Now give it back. Those guys over there need it to play pool.” I clench my fist. That quarter can buy me some food, maybe even a piece of pizza. The man continues to stare at me. Slowly I uncurl my fingers and drop the coin into the man’s hand. He flicks the quarter over to a pair of men holding pool sticks. “Thanks, Mark, ” one of them yells.

“
Yeah, man, no problem.” I try to turn away, looking for the front door, when Mark grabs me. “What are you doing here? Why’d you steal that quarter?”

I retreat inside my shell and stare at the floor.

“
Hey, man, ” Mark raises his voice. “I asked you a question.”

“I didn’t steal anything. I… I just thought that… I mean, I just saw the quarter and …I…”

“First off, I saw you steal the quarter, and secondly, the guys need it so they can play pool. Besides, man, what were you going to do with a quarter anyway?”

I could feel an eruption of anger surge through me. “Food!” I blurt out. “All I wanted was to buy a piece of pizza! Okay?”

“A piece of pizza?” Mark laughs. “Man, where are you from … Mars?”

I try to think of an answer. I can feel myself lock up inside. I empty my lungs of breath and shrug my shoulders.

“
Hey, man, calm down. Here, pull up a stool.” Mark says in a soft voice. “Jerry, give me a Coke.” Mark now looks down at me. I try to pull my arms into my sleeves – to hide my slash marks and bruises. I try to turn away from him. “Hey, kid, are you all right?” Mark asks.

I shake my head from side to side.
No!
I say to myself.
I’m not all right. Nothing’s right!
I
so
badly want to tell him, but …

“
Here, drink up, ” Mark says as he slides over the glass of Coke. I grab the red plastic glass with both hands and suck on the paper straw until the soda is gone.

“
Hey, kid, ” Mark asks, “what’s your name? You got a home? Where do you live?”

I’m so ashamed. I know I can’t answer. I act as if I did not hear him.

Mark nods his head in approval. “Don’t move, ” he states as he grabs my glass. From behind the bar I can see him fill up the glass as he grabs the phone. The phone cord stretches to its limit as Mark strains to five me another Coke. After he hangs up the phone, Mark sits back down. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Mother and I don’t get along, ” I mumble, hoping no one can hear me. “She … ah … she … told me to leave.”

“Don’t you think she’s worried about you?” he asks.

“
Right! Are you kidding?” I blurt out.
Oops,
I say to myself.
Keep your mouth shut!
I tap my finger on the bar, trying to turn away from Mark. I glance at the two men playing pool and the others beside them – laughing, eating, having a good time.

I wish I were a real person.

I suddenly feel sick again. As I slide down the stool, I turn back to Mark. “I gotta go.”

“Where ya going?”

“Uhm, I just gotta go, sir.”

“Did your mother really tell you to leave?”

Without looking back at him, I nod my head yes.

Mark smiles. “I bet she’s really worried about you. What do you think? I tell you what. You give me her number, and I’ll give her a call, okay?”

I can feel my blood race.
The door,
I tell myself.
Just get to the door and run.
My head frantically swivels from side to side in search of an exit.

“
Come on now. Besides, ” Mark says, raising his eyebrows, “you can’t leave now. I’m making you a pizza … with the works!”