* * *
As I fix my make-up in the mirror, I notice my cell phone at the bottom of my purse and remember I turned it off before the meeting this morning. It’s been off all day. I turn it on now, then stuff it absently back into the purse as the start-up ringtone plays.
A moment later, a chime announces a new voicemail.
Immediately I start to sweat. My first thought is of Christian, of course. Would the boy never give up?
When I retrieve the phone, I’m surprised to see the missed call was not from Christian after all, but from some number I only vaguely recognize. Even as I put the phone to my ear, I remember—with no lessening of anxiety—that the number is Troy’s elementary school.
The voice message plays:
“Hello, Ms. Banks!” It’s a young woman, her secretarial cheer almost bordering on satire. For a moment I wonder if I’ve won some kind of award. “This is the Principal’s office at Pembroke Elementary. Sorry for contacting you, but it’s school policy. This call is just to inform you that your son Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today. If he has a doctor’s note, please have him bring that in tomorrow. If you have any questions, just give us a call. Thanks and have a great day!”
I’m not sure I heard the message right the first time so I have to play it back, really listening to the words. I stare at my own confused expression in the bathroom mirror as the message repeats.
Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today.
I smirk, shaking my head. The office must have made a mistake. Troy got on the bus this morning, and I know he wouldn’t hook school.
Still, I go ahead and dial my home phone number, just to see what Troy has to say about it. By now he’ll have been home a couple hours, probably watching cartoons and finishing whatever homework he didn’t do on the bus.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Meanwhile, my smirk begins to fade. By the time my home answering machine picks up, my lips have parted in stunned disbelief.
“Hi, you’ve reached Meredith and Troy Banks. Leave a message!”
I hesitate after the beep. “Uh, Troy, honey. It’s Mom. Pick up.” I pause. “Did you try to call me earlier? You know I like to hear from you as soon as you get home. Sorry my phone was off. Are you there?” Still silence. “Young man, if you’re watching cartoons and ignoring me, you’ll be in trouble. I got a call from the principal’s office today, and I need to talk to you, now. Troy? Troy?”
The answering machine beeps again. My thirty second message is up. Where the hell is Troy?
Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today.
Then I’m stumbling across the parking lot, doing everything at once: fumbling with my keys, climbing in my old Corolla, cursing as I hit the wrong buttons on my phone in my efforts to redial the number to Troy’s elementary school. While it rings I start the engine and pull away, awkwardly using one hand to steer.
The phone rings long enough for me to wonder, at five-thirty, whether anyone is even still in the principal’s office. Finally, an older woman—not the one who left the message—picks up with a weary, “Hello?”
“Yes, hello.” My voice shakes a little, but somehow I maintain my well-practiced phone demeanor. “My name is Meredith Banks. I received a voicemail earlier today, telling me my son was absent from school?”
“Mm-hm.” The woman on the phone practically interrupts, with a bored impatience that immediately infuriates me. “What’s the child’s name?”
“Troy Banks,” I continue. “But the thing is, I’m sure he was in school today. So it must be a mistake.”
I can hear something rustle on the other end of the line. Then the woman says, “Mm-hm. Troy Banks. He’s here on the absentee list.”
“But how can that be?” I demand. “I put him on the bus myself this morning.”
“He may have got on the bus, but he wasn’t in any classes. You are aware of our absence policy, Ms. Banks?”
“What are you talking about?” I nearly shriek. “How was he not in class?”
The woman sighs, then I hear more paper shuffling. “Looks like this is the first time this has happened?” Her voice is softer, suddenly, more empathetic. “Don’t worry. Even good kids play hooky sometimes. Be glad he’s getting it out of his system while he’s young.”
I stop at a red light, my fingers fidgeting on the tattered cloth steering wheel. My mind isn’t thinking clearly and it takes a moment to understand what the woman’s saying. “You think he ditched school on purpose?”
“Ms. Banks, have you got home from work yet?” Before I can answer, the woman says, “I bet when you get home, he’s waiting for you like everything’s normal. Lot of kids were absent today. Maybe he met a friend. Just make sure he knows he can’t get away with it. Have a talk about the rules. Five unexcused absences and he could be suspended.”
“That’s not like Troy,” I say in a choked voice. God, this is the longest red light ever.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she says.
I splutter for a moment, then the light changes green and I simply hang up on her, tossing the phone in the passenger seat. The little Corolla whirs off as I floor the gas pedal. In another minute I’m peeling onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic. My house seems a million miles away. Everything seems broken up, dreamy, like a stop-motion film.
Sure. Troy just skipped out on school deliberately. Lied to my face about wanting to go in, about playing some game he invented at recess. Got on the bus, then ditched his classes to do God knows what.
It sounds absolutely nothing like Troy, yet all the same I’m eager to believe it. I want to believe this is all just misbehavior, however out of character. That seems better than any alternative.
He’ll be at home when I get there. He’ll be safe and at home. That’s what I tell myself.
But I keep driving faster.
As I reach my development, I screech past a speed limit sign that reads 10 miles per hour at triple that speed. I nearly crash-land in the reserved space outside my townhouse and race to the front door. The keys tremble in my hand as I turn them in the lock and step inside.
“Troy?” I call, dropping my purse. “Are you here?”
No one answers. I see no backpack, no shoes or socks strewn about the entryway. My heart pounds in the silence like a tribal drum.
“Troy, baby?”
I look through every room, the kitchen, the living room, up the stairs. There’s no sign of him. His bedroom is silent, the bedding still unmade from this morning. His dinosaur dolls sit neatly along the wall, seeming to watch me with vacant eyes.
“Troy!” I shout, pushing back the sweaty hair from my forehead. I pace about the room, feeling light-headed. “Where are you? Troy?”
I collapse to my knees, tears running down my cheeks. I hug his T-Rex doll to my chest and lean my head against his bed, starting to sob openly.
“Troy!”
My voice echoes through the house, and afterward a silence seems to fall over the entire neighborhood. The birds and insects outside have all hushed.
And in the silence, my doorbell rings.
At first I’m too overcome to even register the sound. The bell rings again, then again and again—politely at first, then insistently. Like a child.
Hope springs in my breast and I stumble downstairs, nearly tripping on my own feet in my haste. Whoever’s outside is laying on the doorbell, now, so the sound is one continuous drone.
It must be Troy, it has to be…
“Coming!”
The ringing stops abruptly at my voice. I’m reaching for the door knob, but at the last moment something gives me pause. I remember how Christian surprised me the night before and a sudden fear makes me look through the peephole first.
There seems to be no one outside the door—or if there is, he’s too short to be seen.
It’s him!
Breathlessly I throw the locks, pull open the door, his name already on my l
ips.
Then I stop short. A man is squatting on my front stoop. As the door opens, he stands, dark against the setting sun, and turns toward me.
The stranger’s face is so black with soot and filth it seems to bear no features, save for two blue eyes, fixed and piercing. His greasy hair hangs in long strands, so thin his scalp shines through in patches. A thick and dirty beard encircles his face, sharp and coarse as steel wire. He wears a dark green army surplus trench coat over layers of frayed and soiled clothing.
He lurches toward me and I scream, leaping back into the house, back behind the front door. He looks around the darkening neighborhood in a nervous way, and I can smell the stink of rotten eggs and human feces, pulsing from him in waves.
“What do you want?” I demand, hiding behind the door like a shield. My voice is small and frail as a mouse.
The homeless man peers in past me with wandering, searching eyes, his expression almost confused. His mostly toothless mouth works with wet smacking sounds.
Suddenly his bright eyes fix on me with alarming concentration. What comes next is a moment I remember for the rest of my life.
In a flat and toneless voice, he starts to sing:
“Meredith Banks
This song’s for you
You broke my heart
So I broke yours, too
How does it feel
When the lonely one’s you?
Don’t worry, darling
‘Cuz this much is true:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
One day very soon
I’m coming for you.”