The telephone rang in the middle of the eleven o’clock news and Mom reached it before anyone else, standing in the kitchen, the receiver to her ear, saying things like, “Uh-huh, okay, don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“Is it Grandpa?” Joel asked me.
“I think so,” I answered.
“He’s gone off again,” Mom said, coming in and grabbing the keys to the station wagon. “Bring a flashlight.”
We’d been told that it wasn’t abnormal for someone in Grandpa’s mental state to wander. Still, it was alarming whenever he did. Fort Colson wasn’t a large town, but there were woods in which one could become lost and more than a few rivers or ponds to fall into.
The year before, he’d gotten all the way to the ice cream shop a mile and a half away from his house, throwing a fit because the girl behind the counter wouldn’t give him a malt if he didn’t have any money. Six months after that, he’d knocked on the door of an unsuspecting widow’s house, asking for a glass of orange juice. He’d made it as far as the other side of town more than once. If I’d had to guess, he’d taken off at least half a dozen times.
And each time he’d been found within an hour of going missing.
But that night was dark and it would have been easy for him to get lost in the shadows, unseen by anyone who didn’t know they should be looking for him.
“Your grandmother said the back door was wide open when she realized he was gone,” Mom said, keeping her eyes moving from one side of the road to the other as she drove her station wagon, as if she might see Grandpa shuffling along on the shoulder.
Joel tapped his thigh with the flat of his hand. All the way down the country roads and around the sharp curves. Tap, tap, tap. Up the long drive to Main Street. Tap. Tap. Tap. Any normal day I would have sniped at him to stop.
The rhythmic slapping sound only added anxiety to worry.
We pulled into the driveway, and Mom threw the car into park, turning off the engine but leaving the key in the ignition in case we needed to leave fast.
Grandma stood on the porch, waiting for us. Her usually perfect posture was slumped and she held her arms crossed tight against her body. She didn’t look at us but let her eyes swipe up and down the street, watching for him.
“No one’s called,” she said. “I didn’t dare go looking for him by myself. It’s too dark.”
“That’s okay, Gran,” Joel said.
“I just went to the bathroom.” She breathed in sharply. “I thought he was sleeping in his chair.”
“We’ll find him.” Joel sighed. “Don’t worry.”
Mom climbed the porch steps. “Let’s go inside.” She put her arm around Grandma. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Grandma didn’t argue but followed behind her. Mom looked over her shoulder at me, giving me a sympathetic smile.
Joel and I went to the backyard. The garage door was open, hammers and screwdrivers pulled out of their chest and scattered across the workbench.
“The ax is gone,” Joel said, looking out at the wooded area on the other side of the yard. “I bet he went out to chop wood.”
“Let’s go.”
We ran to the tree line, the wide beam of Joel’s flashlight leading the way. There was a well-worn path between the trees where we entered the woods. To the right was the clearing where Grandpa used to chop wood when he was well. Where Frank and Mike and Joel had, too, over the years.
“Look there.” Joel pointed the beam to the chopping block. “He must’ve gotten tired of carrying it.”
The ax lay, discarded, among last year’s fallen leaves.
“Do you think he could have made it to the creek?” I asked.
“Gosh, I hope not.”
The underbrush crunched beneath our feet as we ran the direction of the creek. It wasn’t so deep that a full-grown man couldn’t stand up in the middle and it wasn’t so strong that it could drag him under. But with Grandpa’s mind the way it was, I didn’t trust that he had the sense to get out of it if he needed to.
God, don’t let Grandpa be dead, I prayed. I don’t want Joel to see that.
We made it to the edge of the creek, nothing but the nighttime noises of crackling tree limbs, scampering critters, and a stillness of dark around us. The sounds of Joel and my panting breath joined in, my own heartbeat pounding so hard in my head that I feared I’d miss a sound I needed to hear.
Joel knelt, looking in the soft mud of the shore for footprints, any sign that Grandpa had been that way. Then he pointed his flashlight up and down the creek. Nothing but the still water and the rocks we used when we were little to hop across to the other side.
“Should we split up?” I asked.
Joel shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stood, the knees of his jeans dirty. “Maybe he didn’t come out here—”
I shushed him. “Did you hear that?”
We both quieted, not moving a muscle until we caught the sound. A weak, faint call off to the right of us.
“The tree house,” Joel said, taking off ahead of me.
Nestled back in the woods was a tree house that Grandpa had built decades before. Frank had taken Mike on campouts there right after Korea. But not me. I’d never been allowed up there. The “Boys Only” sign had prohibited me.
But the tree house hadn’t been used in a long time. Over the years it had fallen into disrepair. The only thing that spent any time there anymore might have been of the less-friendly variety. Opossums or raccoons, I imagined.
Dodging trees and jumping over fallen limbs, Joel and I made our way to the smaller clearing where the tree house was. We saw Grandpa right away, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his head hanging. He didn’t move. But he gasped and cried.
“Somebody please help me,” he whimpered, sounding the way I imagined he might have when he was a little boy. “Is anybody there?”
He had on his pajamas. The faded red flannel ones he’d owned forever. And he had nothing on his feet, as if he’d forgotten the need of shoes when tromping through the woods.
We knew better than to rush up to him. Anything sudden could scare him, confusing him even more than I assumed he already felt. So, we walked slowly, evenly, with soft feet on the ground.
“Grandpa?” Joel called. “Are you hurt?”
Grandpa looked toward us, his eyes wild and mouth open from his sobbing.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Rocky,” I said. “Hey there, Rocky. We’re friends.”
“I don’t remember you,” he said, sobbing. “I can’t find my way home.”
“It’s all right.” I got close enough to kneel next to him. “We’re going to help you out. Okay?”
He let me take his hand. It was so cold, clammy. I rubbed my hands against his skin, hoping to warm him up even if just a little.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“I don’t know.” His voice was thick, garbled.
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head no, he frowned and sobbed.
“I just want to go home,” he cried.
“Do you think you can walk?” Joel asked. “We know the way home.”
“Help me up.” Grandpa raised his arms, and between the two of us, we pulled him to his feet.
Walking was slow going, especially with his bare soles. He had one arm resting across Joel’s shoulders and put a good deal of weight on him. All along the way, he groaned, saying that it was taking too long.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” he asked.
“We are,” I told him. “I promise.”
As soon as we got within sight of the house, he stopped, turning toward me.
“Gloria? Is it you?” Grandpa asked, squeezing my hand but believing that it belonged to my mother. “Gloria, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I didn’t correct him.
“Frank. He’s gone. I’m afraid it was something I did.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” I said, looking him in the eye. “He’ll come back.”
“What if he doesn’t?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Let’s just get you inside, okay? Maybe you can have a little hot chocolate. With marshmallows too? Would you like that?”
“And a cookie?”
“Maybe.”
I put my hand on his cheek, feeling at least a few days of stubble there.
“Don’t run away again,” I said. “Please.”
“I’ll try not to.”