Bobby was quite the chatterbox during our trip to Rochester Thursday morning. For one thing, the captain's positive response – even encouragement – had been a welcome surprise. Beyond that, Bobby and I felt a lot freer with each other since we made peace after his return from suspension. I couldn't say we were back to our normal comfort level, but we were heading in the right direction, and it felt good.
He'd shaved for the first time in weeks. Bobby looks good in a beard, but I've always preferred the clean shaven look. I teased him about having a baby face, and congratulated myself when he blushed. That small triumph, plus a stop at one of our favorite coffee shops, made up for having to meet at One PP in the freezing cold before the crack of dawn. It also helped that the weather was perfect for a long drive. Whatever the cause, I was ready to go along with the upbeat mood.
I knew we were in a bubble, and it would probably pop in a nasty way, but at the moment I was going to make the most of his company. Bobby and I deserved some happy experiences.
He told me what he knew of Adam and his grandma and their life in Rochester. As long as we were discussing them and not Paul it was easier to stay optimistic. They'd come through a horrible situation - the murder of Adam's three younger brothers and separation from both his parents - and had slowly rebuilt their little family.
"Mrs. Colson relies heavily on her faith," Bobby said. "They get a lot of support from her church."
"I bet Paul's torqued out of shape over that, but I'm glad for her and Adam," I said. "Is he an altar boy? I can see him in a little white robe, lighting the candles and all that." I grinned and glanced over at Bobby. "I bet you were a cute altar boy, weren't you?"
Bobby immediately started fidgeting in his seat. "I, uh, was a lot of trouble."
"Oh, there's a shocker." He looked nervous – afraid I'd make him tell childhood stories. Not today. I wasn't about to spoil our relaxed mood. I continued teasing. "It's always the cute ones with their angelic faces that make the most trouble for the priest – my brothers, for instance."
He laughed quietly, and I didn't press the subject any further. We drove in silence for several miles. We'd long since left the city and suburbs, and were passing through farmland. Along the side of the highway herds of grazing cows alternated with small shopping centers and huge billboards advertising resort hotels or country restaurants.
"Hey, Eames?" Bobby said. "When we get closer, let's stop at a farm stand and get a basket of apples for Mrs. Colson."
"Good idea," I said. "I should bring some back for my sister, too. She loves Winesap apples, but can't always find them at the grocery store."
"Winesap? What are they like?" he asked.
"They're kind of tart, but not like Macs," I said. Funny, I'd half expected him to be an expert on apples, as he was on nearly every other subject in the world. I was sure he'd study up as soon as we got home.
"What kind should we give Mrs. Colson?" he asked.
"Don't sweat it," I said. "We'll see what they have at the farm stand. As long as they're not mushy or full of worms we can't go wrong."
"Okay, good."
"Now I'm hungry for an apple," I said, trying to sound grumpy – but Bobby only chuckled at me. He went back to watching the scenery.
After another few cycles of cows, silos, malls and billboards, he opened his leather binder and began shuffling through the papers. "We have to hope Adam is willing to talk with us," he said. "If you're right that Paul contacted him, then he's been coached to keep it secret."
"Poor kid," I said, "he shouldn't have to choose between his father and his grandmother. Hasn't he been through enough? That really steams me."
"I know." Bobby's voice was soft.
"What is it with parents who treat their children like... I don't know, like luggage - something you stick in a closet until it's useful."
Bobby was shifting restlessly in his seat. "They don't look beyond their own needs, their own ambitions."
"It's more than ambition. I mean, we're all selfish to some extent. I don't expect people to be perfect," I added, trying to explain my anger. I glanced over at Bobby, and he nodded. "But if Paul cared about his son, wouldn't he work with Mrs. Colson instead of going against her?"
"That would mean giving up control to her," he replied.
"So, he manipulates Adam's feelings just to show Mrs. Colson who's in charge? If he has been contacting him secretly, just imagine the strain it puts on the kid."
"Then again, if this is coming out of Adam's own feelings of missing a father – maybe from seeing his school friends with their fathers - he probably recognizes that it would upset his grandmother to talk about it too openly."
"True," I said. "Either way, there should be plenty of evidence to tell us what's going on. Eleven year-old kids – boys especially – they're not clever about hiding things from adults."
"You're speaking from personal experience?"
I knew he was trying to lighten our mood with teasing, and I was glad to go along. "Have I mentioned I have three brothers? It took them so much longer than me and my sister to learn how to keep our parents from finding out exactly what they were doing."
"You mean... altar boy trouble?" I could see his smile out of the corner of my eye.
"Oh, that was just the tip of the iceberg. Think Titanic."
-*- -*- -*-
I was right: the bubble of calm we rode in all the way to Rochester burst soon after we pulled into Mrs. Colson's driveway. She'd obviously been watching for us; she hurried down the front steps as we got out of the car, looking as though she hadn't slept recently.
She went straight to Bobby. He began to offer the bag of apples (we'd decided on Cortlands at the recommendation of the farm stand lady), but Mrs. Colson reached up and gave him a big kiss on his cheek.
"You dear man!" She kissed his other cheek just as energetically.
I was standing there enjoying the bright red tint on Bobby's face when she turned on me. Not only did she kiss me, but she hugged me so hard I felt my ribs flex. "I can't thank you enough for coming!" she said in a choked voice, and then her tears began.
I felt sorry for her, and a little guilty. Bobby and I had spent most of our time discussing Adam, but I now realized that Mrs. Colson needed help as much as her grandson, even if it was only someone to talk to. She probably wasn't able to tell her family's problems to many people. I hugged her in return.
In another minute she recovered. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief Bobby had given her. "I certainly didn't mean to welcome you by crying all over you. Please come inside."
"There's no need to apologize, Mrs. Colson," Bobby said. He gently took her arm and led her to the front door.
"Actually," I added, "that was one of the nicest greetings we've had in a long time."
As we entered the house a delicious smell surrounded us: I guessed chicken soup. On the dining room table I saw a loaf of bread that looked as though it came out of a bread maker; it added its own mouth-watering aroma. I had a bread maker collecting dust in the back of a closet; I'd never made anything this good.
Bobby and I had agreed to persuade Mrs. Colson to put off talking about her current troubles by asking about Adam's arrival at her home three and a half years ago.
However, she'd barely hung up our coats when she blurted out, "Adam wants me to let him go to that school. He said – it was at breakfast this morning, and he - he told me I shouldn't keep him apart from his father any more." She choked on the last few words.
So much for easing into the problem gradually.
"Why don't we sit down?" Bobby said. He held out his hand toward the dining room, where the table was set for three. "You can tell us all about it. The law is on your side, Mrs. Colson – you have full custody of Adam."
As we took our seats I said, "You're not keeping them apart. If Paul wants to see him, he already has two weekends a month to come here."
She nodded. "I know, but when Adam talked to me in that demanding way I didn't know what to say."
It took a bit of doing, but we did get her to fill in the events of hers and Adam's lives. We knew their story wouldn't be all upbeat, but she'd clearly done her best to help Adam through his terrible loss. I admired this quiet woman who was willing to disrupt her own life to rescue her grandson's.
Until recently she thought she was succeeding.
"Adam is a Boy Scout," she said with a proud smile. "His troop meets at our church. I'll have to show you all his badges and awards. Last spring he told me he wants to earn the Eagle Scout award. He and his scoutmaster planned out everything he needs to do, year by year."
"That's great," Bobby said. He didn't look at me, but I felt his foot nudge mine under the table. We both knew there was a "but" coming.
"Has he been working on it?" I asked.
"Yes – that is, he was," she said, suddenly losing enthusiasm. "In the past month, though, he always has some excuse why he can't."
Bobby reached for another slice of bread. "Do you think it's because he's busy with his friends, or with sports? Sometimes children change their interests."
"Well, that's what I thought," she said, "and I told him it would be all right if he changed his mind. He insists he wants to do it, but whenever I bring it up he's vague and nervous. Sometimes he gets angry and even... well, rude."
"Has he changed any habits?" I asked.
"There've been days when he didn't come straight home after school, and I couldn't get him to tell me where he'd been."
I leaned forward as I asked, "Is he hanging around with different kids at school?" It wasn't likely Adam was running with the drug crowd at eleven years old, but we had to check that possibility.
"No, he has the same friends – very nice boys. They're Boy Scouts, too. Maybe this is a phase he's going through? It's really not like him at all." Her voice trailed off sadly.
No, it was like Paul. I understood her feelings of panic.
Bobby met my eyes for a brief moment, and I gave him a small nod to go ahead with the ideas we'd discussed. He turned back to her. "If Adam is hiding something from you – something to do with Paul - it would account for his secretive, defensive behavior."
"Something he thinks you won't approve of," I added. "Do you remember exactly when this started? Was it before Paul's phone call about the boarding school?"
"Yes," she said, "in fact it was just after Adam's eleventh birthday, a little more than a month ago – his birthday was on the ninth."
Bobby pulled his leather folder into his lap and took out the pen. "Mrs. Colson, Alex and I can only speak as friends. Unless we find that Paul has broken the terms of custody, it's not a police matter. You understand?"
"Yes, I do" she said, wringing her hands, "but I appreciate whatever help you can give us. I don't want to lose Adam."
She was on the verge of tears again, so we waited a minute for her to regroup.
I realized I was smiling at Bobby. He almost never used my first name in our own conversations, which I didn't mind – I knew it was about showing me respect and keeping our work relationship professional – but it felt nice when he relaxed enough to say Alex. I wiped the silly grin off my face before either of them noticed. That would have been awkward to explain!
"Do you think - could we see those Boy Scout awards?" Bobby asked.
Mrs. Colson jumped at the distraction, and led us down the hallway.
The rest of the house looked about the same as it had three years ago, but Doreen's bedroom had been redecorated for Adam. The ugly brown wallpaper was painted over with a bright blue, and he'd put up the usual little boy posters: athletes, racing cars and cartoon heroes. My nephew had the same stuff in his room. There was one religious picture on the dresser of Jesus with some children. It sat next to a hinged display of Adam's large collection of Boy Scout patches and pins – this kid really was serious about making Eagle Scout.
We learned that Adam walked part of the way home from school with a buddy, and the last few blocks alone. Mrs. Colson had no computer in her home, but the school and public library had internet access freely available. There were plenty of opportunities for Paul to make contact with the boy, either in person or by email.
"Mrs. Colson," Bobby said, turning from where he'd been looking out the window, "as a precaution you need to notify the police and the school that Paul might try to meet with Adam in violation of the custody settlement. Do you have a picture of Paul to show them?"
"Yes, I have a picture of the family from before the, umm... It's of all of them. Will that do?" she asked.
"That'll be fine," I said, silently thanking Bobby for not bringing up the possibility of kidnapping. "We can get it done this afternoon."
She was thanking us again when her telephone rang; she hurried to answer it.
I leaned close to Bobby and whispered, "When we talk to the police and school, we won't mention in front of her that Paul might try to snatch the boy. No sense in freaking her out without clear evidence."
He nodded and gestured around the bedroom. "I wonder if there's something here from Paul that Adam didn't have a month ago." Bobby looked as though he was ready to reach into his pockets for latex gloves or an evidence bag – I had to admit I had the same itch. He pointed to the window. "A first-floor bedroom with easy access in and out. He's got a clear view to the nearest street corner, too."
I was at the window when Mrs. Colson rushed back into the room. "That was the school," she said. "Adam's feeling sick, and I need to pick him up." She'd been anxious and hesitant during our discussion, but now, even though concerned, she looked confident – this was a problem she knew how to handle.
As we followed her back to the living room Bobby said, "We'd like to come with you. Why don't you get that family picture, and we can talk to the principal about Paul while we're there."
"What's wrong with Adam?" I asked when she returned with the framed photo.
"They said he threw up, and then after he got to the nurse's office he had a bad nosebleed." She handed us our coats and went back to the front closet to pull out her own.
Bobby casually asked, "Mrs. Colson, did Adam know we were coming today?"
"Oh yes," she replied. "He always loves to read your letters. He remembers you both fondly, you know. I told him last night that you'd be visiting us."
Another quick look passed between Bobby and me. He held my coat for me. As he straightened my collar he leaned close to my ear to whisper, "Vomiting and nosebleed could be signs of stress in a child."
"Poor little guy," I replied.
"Mrs. Colson," Bobby said as we went out the door, "let's go in our car. You – uh, you can take care of Adam better if you don't have to drive."
As I drove the short distance to the middle school, Bobby asked her about Adam's soccer team, keeping the conversation light. At one point he softly touched my elbow; he kept talking to Mrs. Colson but tilted his head toward a Dunkin' Donuts shop. He couldn't be asking to stop for a snack? Not after I'd just watched him demolish most of that homemade loaf. I finally got it when he repeated the subtle tap and nod toward a convenience store: these were places Paul might have waited to intercept Adam on his way home. I gave him a tiny nod to show I understood. We'd come back to these stores with Paul's picture.
We signed in at the front office, where a secretary asked us to wait for the nurse. She showed up in a few minutes, carrying a boy's jacket and backpack – Adam's, apparently, since Mrs. Colson reached for them.
The nurse introduced herself as Ms. Falkenheim, and led us down the hall to her office. "He has no fever," she said over her shoulder to us, "and he felt much better once his tummy was empty." Her voice was sugary in an annoying way. The woman was just too brisk and cheery for me. "I wouldn't worry, Mrs. Colson. We see this kind of thing now and then when there's a big test coming up."
We reached her office, and she ushered Mrs. Colson inside. I started to follow, but tripped over Bobby – he'd suddenly halted, staring at the floor. I grabbed his arm until I got my balance; meanwhile the door swung shut.
"What?" I said. "You afraid of school nurses? This place does have that sickening antiseptic smell." I wrinkled up my nose.
Bobby was now gazing off down the hallway, rubbing the back of his head. Something was brewing in his mind; I'd learned long ago to let him follow his thoughts until he came back to earth. He finally reached out to open the door for me. "Sorry. Let's go in."
When we got inside we found Mrs. Colson and the nurse gaping at an empty cot. There were wads of bloody tissues scattered on the cot and floor. Ms. Falkenheim didn't look quite as brisk.
"Sooo... Where's Adam?" I asked.