A Son's Tale

As if there’d be some news about Morgan Lowen’s son there already. Just because her urgency was coursing through him like a river with a broken dam didn’t mean that he was in any kind of loop that would be privy to her private information on an immediate basis.

Still, he couldn’t just sit there. A child was missing. Something had to be done.

He was overreacting, of course. Kids went missing every day, and almost every single time they turned up. Morgan was probably with Sammie at this very moment. Maybe scolding him for having given her a scare. Or taking him for fast food hamburgers, which she’d told Cal she’d done last April after Sammie’s problems at school. She’d wanted her son to talk to her. Rather than punish him, she’d wanted to know why he’d acted out.

“This message is for Dr. Caleb Whittier. Dr. Whittier, I left a message yesterday. My name is Detective Ramsey Miller. I’m with the Comfort Cove Police Department in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. It’s important that you return my call… .”

Cal cut off the message before the man recited his numbers, including one for a private cell, a second time. He hadn’t been anywhere near Comfort Cove, a coastal town not far from Boston, since he was seven years old. Not since the accusations had forced him and his father out of town.

He’d be damned if he was going to waltz back there of his own accord. Other than this office line at school, his numbers—landline and cell—were unlisted. His father’s cell was a pay-as-you-go with an untraceable number. They rented instead of owning so that there was no tax record of the residence. They used a P.O. box for mail. He paid taxes, but Frank didn’t. His father worked at the local nursing home, doing handyman and janitorial work, and the rent on the home they lived in was free in trade. Cal hadn’t lived thirty-two years without learning a thing or two about protecting his father from the stalkers who’d all but ruined his life.

Bile rose in his throat as he thought about the tall, proud man who’d once stood at the helm of one of Massachusetts’ most prestigious private high schools, getting up every morning to fix bathroom plumbing and mop piss off floors.

His father had not only been one of Massachusetts’ most respected educators, he’d also been a damn good basketball coach. And in the past twenty years the only ball he’d touched professionally was the float ball in a toilet.

There were two other messages. One confirming that while the adventure vacations group had sympathy with Cal’s plight, the thousand bucks he’d put up for his father’s fishing trip was not going to be refunded, regardless of the circumstances. The second one was from the assistant of one of yesterday’s bankers informing him that she’d sent a list of questions that he would need to answer, in writing, before her boss could consider Cal’s scholarship request for the young artists’ league.

Voice mail over, he sat down. Opened his email.

And saw the message in his in-box that Joy had sent the day before, confirming their date the night before. She’d said she had something to speak with him about. He’d thought she wanted to deepen their relationship with spoken commitment. To talk about some kind of future.

It hadn’t gone that way… .

“Hi, hon. How was your day?” he’d said as he’d met her outside the restaurant. He’d bent down for a kiss, which she’d returned as though everything was fine. It hadn’t been until later, back at her place, that she’d let him know how she was really feeling.

He’d pulled her into his arms. She’d pushed him away.

“I don’t want to do this, Cal,” she’d said. “It’s like I’m on your list of things to do, not like I’m the person you need in your life. When you kiss me…I don’t know…I don’t feel like I do it for you anymore.”

“It’s not that,” he’d hastily assured her. “I want you.”

“I’m not talking about sex, Cal. All your working parts are in perfect order, as I’m sure you’re fully aware. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had and then some.”

“So what’s the problem?” His tone was purposefully light. But he knew. In the end, the story was always the same.

“You don’t give enough of yourself, Cal. You bring gifts. You take me to concerts and the theater. You’ve introduced me to some great restaurants that I’d never been to even though I’ve lived in Tennessee my entire life. You entertain me. You bring me physical pleasure I didn’t even know I could feel. But you never talk to me. I know more about what’s playing and who’s cooking than I do about you.”

Different words, but same story. As he’d predicted.

“What’s there to tell?” he’d asked, as much out of habit as anything. And he’d waited for her answer with more curiosity than hope. Would her answer be any different than any he’d ever heard before?

“If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you know what there is to know?”

“It did. But I don’t believe that. You have too much insight, too much consideration and too much understanding to ever pass for a shallow man.”

Her words made him uncomfortable. “You get more of me than anyone else in my life gets.”

She’d wanted more.

He wasn’t going to give it to her.

Her next words replayed themselves loud and clear—their echo joining the chorus of others in his mind. “I think we need to start seeing other people, Cal.”

“You’re breaking up with me.”

“Were we ever really going together?”