A Son's Tale

No.

This was Morgan Lowen. Not Rose Sanderson. This was Tyler, Tennessee. Not Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. This was 2012. Not the 1980s.

He decided he was going to do a quick drive-by to make certain that she was okay. Then he’d head straight home. Due to his slow start that morning, he hadn’t left lunch prepared in the refrigerator for his father and chances were that the older man wouldn’t bother to fix something for himself.

Frank was a good cook. Better than good. If his father cared enough to get up and get out to the kitchen, they’d be eating much better meals than the ones Cal provided for them.

If Frank cared what he ate, or if he ate…

A child was missing. Frank would care about that… .

All thoughts of his father fled when Cal turned the corner of Apple Road and saw the cars parked outside the small duplex in the center of the block. Could be a woman having a Friday luncheon. Or a kids’ play group. Could be, but his gut told him it wasn’t.

People were walking the neighborhood. Calling out. Some had fliers already. He pulled up slowly, stopping his blue Ford Flex right behind a Cadillac Escalade—the vehicle he would have bought if he’d had the money.

A woman who looked to be about forty stood just off the sidewalk a couple of units down from the front door bearing the number he’d pulled from his computer. She had her arm around a young girl, holding her close, as she surveyed the street.

Moms would all be holding their kids close in that neighborhood tonight. There’d be no more summer nights playing tag on the streets. No more summer days playing tag, either. The fliers would be hung, and when they faded, they’d be rehung. People would watch carefully as they came and went. New locks would adorn doors that would remain tightly shut to the summer breeze.

Fear would become a family member.

No, this was Tennessee, not Comfort Cove, Massachusetts.

Flashes of knowing accompanied Cal as he approached the screen door of Morgan Lowen’s small home and knocked.

A woman appeared almost immediately. She was about his age, early thirties, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her face was pinched, her green eyes void of any makeup at all. She opened the door with an expectant look.

“Is Morgan here?” he asked.

“She’s in the living room.” The woman kept herself placed between him and the inside of the home.

“I’m Caleb Whittier, her English professor. She was in my class this morning when she got the call about her son.”

“Dr. Whittier?” She said the name like she knew it. Like it would be followed by “The Dr. Whittier?” He couldn’t tell if recognition was a good thing or not, but he nodded.

“I’m Julie Warren,” the woman said. “I’m the secretary at Sammie’s school. And Morgan’s friend. I’m the one who called her out of class.”

“Have they found him?”

After seeing the cars on the street, the shake of her head was no surprise. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Julie Warren stood back. “Come on in.”

“No. I don’t want to bother her. I just…”

Just what? He could have called to find out if she was all right. If Sammie was. Or waited until class on Monday.

He could have watched the news tonight and known, if nothing was there, that the boy had probably been found.

“Morgan’s told me about you. About your talks,” Julie said, still holding the door open. “That’s unusual for her, the way she talks to you. Morgan doesn’t open up to people much.” The woman was talking fast, as though running away from something, or trying not to think about someone who couldn’t be found. “You may not realize it, but your support has helped her a lot,” Julie said now. “I really think she’d like to see you.” The woman’s brow was creased with worry.

She held the door open farther and Caleb moved forward.

* * *

SHE’D HEARD THE KNOCK on the door a few minutes ago. Could see the people traversing the street through her living room window. She knew her mother was sitting next to her on the sand-colored faux-leather couch she’d picked up at a moving sale several years before. Her father was just around the corner in the kitchen, talking on the phone. His tone brooked no argument or refusal.

His first time in her home and he’d already taken command of the place.