J.T. Warren: Remains

“Oh?” I asked, “for who?” I got a cup and brought it back to the counter.

“I thought I might take it over to Mrs. McPherson at the hospital.”

I stopped twisting the cap, and didn’t move. “Oh?”

“Yes. It seems that she’s been very upset the last few days,” my mother said, reabsorbed in the cookbook.

“How—umm—how do you—uh—know?” I asked.

“About Gwenneth? Oh, I don’t know. Rumors floating around. I overheard someone talking about it,” she said, but her voice never changed it’s flat tone. “she was our neighbors, you know,” she said.

“What?” I asked. I still hadn’t moved, or even breathed.

“You don’t remember? It must’ve been—oh, I’d say a year or so before you started school.”

“Here? The McPherson’s lived here?”

“Oh, no, dear. She wasn’t Gwen McPherson, then. She was still Gwenneth Ladd. She hadn’t met Peter yet. She did that year, though. I introduced them.”

“She lived alone?” I asked.

“The milk, dear,” she said, looking at it with a flick of her eyes, then back to the book.

I twisted the cap closed once more. “Mrs. McPherson—umm—Gwen lived alone?”

“Of course, dear. You don’t think a young couple like that would have waited so long to have their first child, do you?” she asked. She had cracked the eggs, and was adding sugar.

“I don’t know. I didn’t—umm—I didn’t know.”

“You knew little Randolph, didn’t you?” she asked. Her hands only paused for a second, then she went back to mixing.

“I—yeah, I did,” I said.

“Tragedy,” she said and crossed herself.

“Have—did anyone say why they think that she’s been upset?” I asked.

My mother clicked her tongue, and shook her head a bit, “Well, it seems that people have gotten it into their heads that those little boys remains they’ve found, the ones from the ditch?” I nodded, though she wasn’t looking, “it seems that people are thinking that set of remains might be little Randolph.” I waited. She continued mixing. “People have been trying to talk to her. Reporters and the like.”

I nodded, again. “Ah,” was all I said.

“Imagine—” she shook her her head “—they have no shame. She’s resting, poor girl.”

“I—umm—I thought that I would maybe go see Pete today,” I said.

“That would be wonderful, Michael. My son, the good boy. I always told Doctor Gantner that you were my good child. The only one. The only one,” she repeated, and chills ran over me. She walked to me, wiping her hand on her apron. She put it on my forehead. “I don’t want to worry you, dear, but I think maybe you’re getting sick. You haven’t been yourself. Are you getting enough rest?”

I could see in her eyes that she was asking questions she was supposed to ask, but that her mind was far away. They were dull, and glazed over. I wanted to ask her about this morning, about the sheriff, about what Kevin had said. For that split second, with her hand on my forehead, I felt like I needed to confess to her. I closed my eyes, and her hand was the only thing in the world holding me up.

Then her hand went away. I opened my eyes. The room was cold, even with the oven. I looked away. I heard the squeal of the oven door as she put the cake in. I turned and walked away.

“Mikey,” my father said as I walked past. He said it low, so I knew automatically that whatever he was about to say I was not supposed to repeat to my mother. I stopped. He lowered a corner of the paper. “Your mother and I were wondering when you plan on leaving,” he said. I couldn’t stop my face from reacting. “We enjoy having you here, mind, but—well, we know you have things you have to do. I’m sure your girlfriend, Shannon, right?”

“Susan,” I said.

“Susan, right—I’m sure Susan must be missing you, by now,” he said. I didn’t say anything. He looked at me for a moment longer, and nodded to himself. The corner of the paper came back up. To this day, I still don’t know why, but I knew it’d be the last time we spoke.

The McPherson’s had always been so close that it seemed strange to have to use a bike or a car to get there at all. I’d spent so much time with Randy at the Y, and thinking about what his life must be like, that the house seemed only an extension of our own. The car hummed under me, and the radio played something in the background, but I wasn’t listening.

Instead, what I was hearing was that high pitched, near-squeal laughter that little boys have before they get teased for it, and start to laugh like their fathers. I was listening to the sound of a birthday party in my head.

When Randy turned seven, he’d asked to have his birthday party at the Y pool. His mother set it up with Mrs. Dryer. I knew she had to talk to Mr. Baxter, the Y director, too. I’d never seen him. The only thing I’d ever heard was Mr. Roger blast the man. “That damned pencil pusher,” he’d start off saying, then go into a rant about trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. ‘Still don’t know what that means,’ I thought, stopping at a 4-way. One of the signs had been riddled with tiny dents; they were BB holes.

So, ten kids from Randy’s class wound up running and yelling and laughing for a few hours. Mrs. Dryer told me that Mr. Baxter had asked me to be there. She said that they would pay me to lifeguard that Saturday evening. They closed down the Y, and opened up the pool to the kids. I was supposed to be there to remind the children to be safe around the water. What I wound up being was an extra springy diving board. “Throw me, throw me!” they kept asking. All except Randy. He was scared to be thrown like that. I could see in his eyes that he wanted to, but he was terrified.

The one time he did approach me, while most of the other kids were playing volleyball at the other end, he seemed so tiny. I always remember him being so small.

“Mikey, could—umm—,” he started, looking away.

“Yeah.” I put my hands up, linked together at the fingers. He put his tiny feet into my hands and I said, “remember, tuck forward as soon as you can.” He nodded. I lowered my hands some, then counted down from three. At ‘one’, I brought my hands up toward my chest as fast as I could. I felt him tense, and then he wasn’t in my hands anymore. I heard the splash behind me.

I looked up to see Randy’s mom staring our direction. She’d been watching the whole time. Something in me expected to see her face contort in horror. I expected that something had gone wrong, and there would be screaming any second. I knew he’d hit the side of the pool and was drowning.

Instead, what I heard was his laughter. It was this strange thing; he often grinned, but almost never laughed. I turned to see him smiling at me. His whole face was lit up.

Pulling up to the curb at the McPherson house, what I remembered was not only the laughter, but the empty. My hands felt the emptiness of that moment again; all of his weight had been resting in my hands, and then suddenly, it had gone.

I don’t know how long I sat in the car, just watching the house. I kept thinking ‘turn around’ over and over. I wanted to leave. Something like my father’s voice came up from inside me, though, and said ‘this has got to be done’. He’d always tried to instill that in me. I must have been about eight or so when I asked him “Daddy, when do I get to be a man?” It was one of those purely ridiculous things that kids ask that when you start to pick it apart isn’t so ridiculous.

This was back when he and I were still good. We’d been on our way back from the grocery store, or one of the other billion inane errands we were always on together. Back then he seemed to want me around more than he wanted mom, even. We’d just finished singing a song that was on the radio. I remember that he would stop and let me take the high-pitched parts.