Gone, Gone, Gone(7)

And I want something to take care of.

We listen to Dad squeak his knife around for a minute. It’s brutal. Todd clears his throat, then he stands up and turns on the radio. He plunks it down in the center of the table like it’s something for us to eat.

My father sighs, a little.

Todd tunes the radio to a news station and settles back into his green beans. The radio switches from weather to local news. A few car accidents, a stabbing, and two shootings, both in Glenmont. One was through the window of this craft store, Michael’s, about a quarter mile from the Glenmont metro. The bullet didn’t hit anyone. An hour later and two miles away, a bullet did—someone in the parking lot of the Shopper’s Food Warehouse. He’s dead.

My father shakes his head while he drinks.

“Weird it made the news,” Todd said. “People get shot all the time.”

My father says, “Not while they’re shopping,” which is pretty representative of his world view. My dad’s old enough that even September 11th didn’t change his mind that violence only happens to violent people. The only people who get stabbed are in gangs. The only people who get shot, shot someone else first. As much as my bleeding heart wants to convince him this is wrong, the truth is most of the violence here is revenge-driven or gang-related. I should know, I mean, I go to public school.

The first shooting was at 5:20. That was when Lio kissed me, that was the exact minute. I know because I checked my watch afterward because I wanted to see how long it lasted, then I realized I hadn’t checked my watch before he kissed me, so I’d never know. But I don’t think it was very long, really.

No one died in the 5:20 shooting, which would have been kind of crazy romantic in this horrible way, and it would have given me an excuse to call him. But I don’t think he would like the symbolism of “so, we’re just a like a bullet that didn’t hit anybody” any more than I do.

God, I hope he wouldn’t like it any more than I do.

My mom finishes her dinner and stands up. “Ready, Craig?”

I say “Yeah,” and pull on my jacket. I hope I don’t get shot. That’s pretty weird. I’ve never thought anything like that before. That kiss has me all screwed up.

We swing our flashlights back and forth, whistling and calling out names. Mom checks behind bushes and under the railing of the walkway to the metro. There’s a couple making out on the bridge above us. I think it’s one boy and one girl. Todd swears that he saw two homeless people having sex up there once—one boy and one girl.

“There are a lot of frogs here,” I say. “We could get a frog.”

She laughs in this way that says she doesn’t know if I’m kidding.

“I only go for the fuzzy ones,” I tell her.

“All right.”

I take my comment out of context in my head and giggle a little. I only go for the fuzzy ones. Heh. This is a gross thing to be laughing about in front of your mom.

She’s wearing the brown patchwork jacket I got her a million Christmases ago. She blows on her hands and runs them through her hair. “I hope we find Casablanca,” she says. “She’s my favorite.” Casablanca is a Labrador retriever. She’s old and missing a leg.

“We’ll find her,” I say. “She’s easy. Easy to describe in posters and stuff. Easy to hear coming.”

But the cold is making my nose run and making it a little hard to breathe, and right now nothing sounds very easy.

I wipe my nose.

Mom flicks her flashlight beam to me, and I look away quickly. “It’s cold,” I say stupidly, and crunch some of the leaves on the ground. It’s not like she’d get upset if I were crying. I cry like three times a day, so it’s the opposite of a big deal. It’d be like getting concerned every time I eat a meal.

Mom says, “I called the shelter this morning. They have all their descriptions, and they’re all looking out, just waiting for someone to bring them in.”

“Okay.”

She says, “I’m so sorry this happened, sweetheart.”

“We’re going to find them. We’re going to find all of them. That’s right, yeah?”

“Yes.” Mom cups her hand around the back of my head. “That’s right.”

I felt better when Lio comforted me, but it’s still nice to be here for a minute, with Mom, searching for animals that she never even wanted.

We find Jupiter, who’s this amazing Chihuahua-pug mix, trying to pick a fight with some bigger dogs a few blocks away. We start to head home with him, and my heart is pounding against his little body, and then we find Caramel, and just when everything feels so, so amazing, we find my parakeet, Fernando, except he’s dead.

It’s like a punch in the chest.

But Caramel and Jupiter scurry out of my arms as soon as we’re home and go rub up against the couch and chew on the rug, and everything feels a little more possible again.

I leave them for a minute to go outside. I make a cross out of sticks and scratch Fernando’s name in the dirt, then I cross it out and write Flamingo instead. He would have liked that.

But he isn’t buried here. I didn’t move his body from where we found it by the side of the road. I was too scared. I didn’t want to touch it. I suck.

We’re still missing:

Three dogs.