A Frightened Pall
By Lisa Heidle
In 1983, a young boy we’ll call Richie left his home in Langston, Georgia, spurred on by his father who insisted that the weather was nice and should be enjoyed. The mistake made, one that would haunt the father until welcome death released him, was that he never asked his boy where he was going on that bright, sunny fall day with a warm breeze blowing through the trees and the smell of smoke in the air from the leaves the family burned the night before.
When the sun, the same sun that marked the day when the boy, spurred on by his father, went out to play, had dropped below the Blue Ridge Mountains and the street lights came on, one by one, as if the small Georgia town had a combined epiphany, and Richie had not returned from his father-imposed exile, the mother grew concerned. Insisting that the father call the police, the mother nodded her head like a glass drinking bird as the father dialed the phone and began to speak; it was unclear if she was agreeing with what the father was saying or approving of his getting help.
The father shared with the mother what the police said: 24-hours is the customary wait time for a missing person.
But do they know it’s Richie? she asked.
Believing in his man’s heart that he, with a little fortitude and perseverance, could fix the problem, the father went in search of his boy. The mother started calling friends, deftly avoiding why she didn’t know where her eleven-year-old was so late in the day.
The father searched the town of Langston, tucked into the side of the Blue Ridge Mountains, until a new sun, a different sun than the one he sent his boy out to enjoy, rose steadily above the trees. When returning to the house where Richie once lived, the deep blue hollows beneath the mother’s eyes told him that the boy had not made his way back to the only home he had ever known.
I’m going to the police station, he told the mother. Someone there will help.
Wait, she said as he opened the door to the place Richie once called home. Here, give them this.
The mother handed the father the last school picture taken. He tucked it into the front pocket of his work shirt, the same one he wore the day before when he said to go out and enjoy the sunshine.
Don’t lose it, the mother said.
The unspoken, like you did our boy, hung between them like the sheets on the line Richie liked to run through when he was small, in a time before he was sent out to enjoy the sunshine on a warm fall day.
As the father backed out of the drive and pointed the car toward the police station where someone would help, the mother noticed Rachel, the sister of Richie, standing in the doorway.
Mommy? the sister said to the frightened woman with the deep blue hollows and the bird-like nod. The mother turned back to the window, away from the girl standing in the doorway, and took a drag from her cigarette, a habit given up so many years before when she and the father decided to make a family.
A frightened pall settled around the Asher home, a bad thought made real, forcing those left behind to prepare for a life-long vigil for the way things used to be.
- - -
Lisa Heidle lives by the words of Robert Heinlein:
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards."
By Lisa Heidle
In 1983, a young boy we’ll call Richie left his home in Langston, Georgia, spurred on by his father who insisted that the weather was nice and should be enjoyed. The mistake made, one that would haunt the father until welcome death released him, was that he never asked his boy where he was going on that bright, sunny fall day with a warm breeze blowing through the trees and the smell of smoke in the air from the leaves the family burned the night before.
When the sun, the same sun that marked the day when the boy, spurred on by his father, went out to play, had dropped below the Blue Ridge Mountains and the street lights came on, one by one, as if the small Georgia town had a combined epiphany, and Richie had not returned from his father-imposed exile, the mother grew concerned. Insisting that the father call the police, the mother nodded her head like a glass drinking bird as the father dialed the phone and began to speak; it was unclear if she was agreeing with what the father was saying or approving of his getting help.
The father shared with the mother what the police said: 24-hours is the customary wait time for a missing person.
But do they know it’s Richie? she asked.
Believing in his man’s heart that he, with a little fortitude and perseverance, could fix the problem, the father went in search of his boy. The mother started calling friends, deftly avoiding why she didn’t know where her eleven-year-old was so late in the day.
The father searched the town of Langston, tucked into the side of the Blue Ridge Mountains, until a new sun, a different sun than the one he sent his boy out to enjoy, rose steadily above the trees. When returning to the house where Richie once lived, the deep blue hollows beneath the mother’s eyes told him that the boy had not made his way back to the only home he had ever known.
I’m going to the police station, he told the mother. Someone there will help.
Wait, she said as he opened the door to the place Richie once called home. Here, give them this.
The mother handed the father the last school picture taken. He tucked it into the front pocket of his work shirt, the same one he wore the day before when he said to go out and enjoy the sunshine.
Don’t lose it, the mother said.
The unspoken, like you did our boy, hung between them like the sheets on the line Richie liked to run through when he was small, in a time before he was sent out to enjoy the sunshine on a warm fall day.
As the father backed out of the drive and pointed the car toward the police station where someone would help, the mother noticed Rachel, the sister of Richie, standing in the doorway.
Mommy? the sister said to the frightened woman with the deep blue hollows and the bird-like nod. The mother turned back to the window, away from the girl standing in the doorway, and took a drag from her cigarette, a habit given up so many years before when she and the father decided to make a family.
A frightened pall settled around the Asher home, a bad thought made real, forcing those left behind to prepare for a life-long vigil for the way things used to be.
- - -
Lisa Heidle lives by the words of Robert Heinlein:
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards."
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
