J.T. Warren - Remains

“Umm—,” I started, and closed my eyes, willing the stammer to stop, “twelve.”

“Twelve,” he said, and shook his head slowly, just as he had before, “so the boy was ‘bout five, six years younger’n you?”

I nodded, “Yeah, give or—umm—take.” He nodded once.

“You ever have a scuff up with the boy?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “we never fought.”

“If I remember correctly, you and the McPherson boy was friendly.” I could tell the statement contained more than one question.

“I taught him how to swim.”

“Uh huh,” he said, looking at the floor again, “now, I don’t mean to cast dispersion on no man, but I gotta’ ask this question, considerin’ the day and age we live in,” he finished, paused, inhaled, then exhaled as his eyes slowly rolled toward my face, “was you and the McPherson boy more than friends?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I’m not—,” I started to say ‘gay’, but we had been boys at the time. For some reason, it seemed strange to call two little boys together ‘gay’. ‘Gay’ was Kevin O’Mally.

The sheriff raised his hand as if to stop me, “You don’t have to say anything else. Understand that I gotta’ ask that. I mean, hell, coulda’ been a lover’s spat or whatever the hell those boys call it.” I wanted to ask him if he thought that two boys that much different in age could be—and even in my head there was a pause— like that with each other. Then, I realized that I didn’t even know how I felt about it, so I didn’t ask.

“It—umm—it wasn’t,” I said. He nodded, and sat up straighter. He looked toward the door.

“Did that boy never say nothin’ about, I dunno’, maybe Pete hittin’ him or somethin’?” he asked.

I thought for a second, the said “No.” Pete had never laid a hand on Randy, and Randy had never been the kind of kid that adults have to hit. He had always been a quiet, shy, thinking little guy. I remember that most of all; adults loved Randy. It was me that most adults didn’t like. I mumbled and, as Mr. Roger put it, ‘lurked’. “Always standing around, watching everyone from the corner,” he’d said, “it ain’t right, boy. It don’t seem right.”

The sheriff nodded that slow nod of his, once more. “Had you ever met Gwen McPherson during the time you knew her boy?” he asked, his eyes hitting mine directly. Something in them made me want to scoot as far from him as I could.

“Only once,” I said.

“Some say she started to crack up before that boy went missing,” he said. Again, I could tell there were lots of questions in that statement. His eyes stayed glued to mine. I felt like squirming.

“She came to pick him up after one of the first swimming lessons. That was just before they got him that bus pass, I guess,” I said. He’d always talked about how much he liked riding the little bus that the town had. He said that the vibration made his chest feel funny, and he liked seeing people he didn’t know. Neither of his parents had ever come to pick him up from the Y after that. I’d offered to walk him home a few times, but he said he liked the bus. Like most kids, I guess, I didn’t understand that to have a kid that young ride a bus by himself is not only odd, but a little dangerous. Thinking back on it, it seemed shocking.

In that small space, I realized that I had forgotten a lot of things. Not forgotten, maybe, so much as stopped thinking about them. Randy, so much a part of my life in his absence, was missing. Not just from the town, but a lot of things about him were missing from my memory. In that small, quiet spot in the sheriff’s questions, I realized there were huge, dark fields littered with things I didn’t remember about Randy. I could see outlines and shapes of things, silhouetted by the light which was, just now, starting to creep over them. I started to shake a bit, and I felt that same weak-kneed feeling of my first roller coaster ride.

“Did you ever walk him home after his swimmin’ lessons?” the sheriff asked. “No.” I wanted to tell him about how I’d offered, and about how much I was worried for the boy’s safety in hindsight, but nothing more would come out. If it was possible to be on the verge of remembering something, I was about to, and I could already tell that, whatever it was, it was going to terrify me.

“As I recollect,” he said, looking down at the floor again, “you was a wanderin’ soul back then. Always saw you out and about on that bike of your’n. People told me you was out way past curfew, too,” he said, then looked back up at me, “did you see anyone strange, maybe not so wholesome lookin’, wanderin’ around town the day or anytime the week that boy went missin’?”

I wanted to jump on this new line of thought. I wanted to think about, and remember some drifter, looking vaguely like Charles Manson, that I could say ‘Oh, Yeah!’ about. I wanted there to be a manhunt and an arrest and a trial; I wanted there to be justice. Instead, I was stuck on the verge of remembering something. I felt it building in my head like the cresting of a wave that, just before it starts to curl, you know is too big, too dangerous to ride.

“I don’t—umm—I don’t know. I can’t remember—umm—that far back,” I said.

“Son,” he said, tilting his head to the side a bit, “you look pale. Are you alright?”

“Must be something I—umm—ate. Is it okay if I—umm—go?”

He squinted, “Well, I guess so,” he said, and stood up. I stood, as well. He walked to the little wall and pulled the gate open for me. “I’d be much obliged if you’d let me know if you’re going to leave town, alright?” I nodded and walked out the door.

I had almost reached home before I realized that I didn’t feel ill so much as shocked and afraid; it dawned on me that same moment what he meant when he said that last bit. I stopped walking, and my knees went weak, again. I sat down on the grass, not bothering to look at where I was. I knew the sheriff considered me a suspect.

My mother was cooking something. The second I opened the door, I could smell it. It was familiar, but the name wouldn’t come to the surface. I walked straight upstairs, though. My knees were still shaking some.

The springs of the mattress groaned under me as I lay down. I kicked my shoes off, and put my arm over my eyes, and rested for a moment. I wanted to leave; just pack my things into my bag and turn in the return-trip portion of my ticket. After all, the sheriff hadn’t charged me with anything—I could still leave. ‘But then, what about Susan?’ some part of me asked, ‘what are you going to tell her?’ I didn’t have to go home, though; Sarah had asked me to come stay with her for a bit. I had told my boss that I didn’t know how long I’d be gone. I could go stay with her and then tell her no to let anyone know I was there—disappear for a while.

‘They always run,’ some part of me said. It was right, too. Someone who runs immediately looks suspicious in ever movie where there’s a murder.

I stopped breathing. That’s right, some part of me said, murder. If the Sheriff was asking questions like that, then he knows more than what they released in the press conference. He thinks that maybe the boy was murdered. When I thought the boy, it was in the sheriff’s voice.

The possibility that something terrible had happened to Randy had always lurked in the back of my mind, like a shadow. I hadn’t ever focused on it. Even the last few days, when I knew on some gut level that the bones they found were Randy’s, I didn’t think about how they might have gotten there. I’d been busy with other things. It felt the same as the day I’d found out he’d disappeared.