Eight Minutes (4 page)

John Robberson isn’t on the list.

I rub my eyes, which are burning. Funny how disappointed I am. I should be relieved. I keep scrolling and clicking until I find the asterisk next to the total count: 395. Crashes, not pilots. My leg starts bouncing.

Footnote: Only 334 Thuds were shot down. Operational issues accounted for 61 crashes. Those pilots aren’t on this list.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BACK TO THE BONEYARD

I
won’t be around on Saturday,” Pa tells me over the phone. “I’m taking my lady friend to the Del Sol.” That’s the casino on the nearby reservation.

“Oh,” I say, and manage to compose myself enough to ask if I’ve met his lady friend.

“Her name’s Dottie.” He laughs. “She’s a pistol. Likes to play the slots till her palms turn black. You know me; I’d just as soon throw my money in the toilet and watch it go around in circles. I told her that, but she likes to sit there for six hours and win two dollars.”

The cell phone is heavy as a concrete brick in my hand. The thought of my father on a date . . . I shake my head and regroup.

“How about tomorrow? I’ll bring Toby; maybe we’ll drive down in the morning and back that same night. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds like you have something on your mind.”

“Maybe we could go to the Boneyard? Toby is still talking about one of the planes there. Are you up for that?”

“Up and back same day?”

“Yeah. He really wants to show me this one plane.”

“That’s a lot of driving to humor a three-year-old.”

I hang up and send Eric a quick text, the best way to reach him at work.

Pa has a lady friend.

He answers back, within seconds,
is she hot
?

A pistol.

LOL. I can hear him now. Let the old goat live a little
, Eric advises.

I tell Eric I’m taking Toby to see Pa at his trailer park the next day but leave out the part about the Boneyard. I’ll come clean on it once I have a chance to observe Toby. Maybe I’ll see John Robberson. Well, actually, I don’t expect to see him. I think Toby will see him. Or hear him. Or turn into him. Or something.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

At the flight museum, I ask Pa to take Toby to the restroom so I can interrogate the museum information clerk about the flight history of the F-105. She smiles. She wishes she could help. She offers me a map. She has a brochure. She even recites the museum’s website address,
http
and all.

When Pa and Toby return, we walk outside, instantly squinting in the bright sun. There’s almost no breeze to alleviate the heat.

“You should’ve brought your hat,” I say as I slip my arm into Pa’s.

“I don’t see no hat on your head,” he mutters.

I’m making a concerted effort to appear as though we are wandering, just taking in the airplanes, as far as Pa is concerned. I smile at his eyebrows creeping out above his sunglasses. He doesn’t care. Nothing looks good with those one-piece jumpsuits he wears. He must have one for every day of the week, in varying shades of neutral, all with a big zipper up the front. He calls it his retirement suit.

Just then, Toby takes off running toward a plane with a shark’s mouth painted on the front. I read the plaque. The F-105 Thunderchief. I speed-walk after him, leaving Pa behind with no explanation.

I can’t leave Toby unattended with John Robberson.

“There it is!” Toby darts underneath the plane to the opposite side. The planes are generously spaced, with no restraining barriers, so he can run back and forth.

There’s no museum security guard around, so I let Toby explore. He looks up to take in the shark’s teeth and the long black nose. He peeks underneath the fuselage and touches the blue bomb casings strapped below. I see his pudgy hands on the metal casing that once held a bomb.

He is not talking or laughing or crying. I wait, without a word. A bead of sweat rolls down my hairline. After what seems like an hour but is probably three minutes, Toby comes to a stop, mesmerized.

My boy is standing stock-still in his little high-top basketball shoes, his feet wide apart, his legs still kind of knock-kneed. He has his head cocked, with the expression of an inquisitive dog. Even his arms aren’t moving. They’re hanging there, next to his body. I don’t ever think I’ve seen him stand and not be moving in some way—twisting his torso, swinging his arms, shuffling his feet, wagging his head. I’ve never seen him so completely absorbed.

Is he in a trance? Is he seeing John Robberson right now? I can’t tell. The longer he stands there, the harder it is for me to watch. I’m trying to stare at the invisible, and it’s not working.

Because it’s not visual. It’s auditory. I strain to eavesdrop on the possibility of a whisper, eyes vigilantly scanning to find the source. Nothing.

Out of nowhere, I feel a breeze, as if someone just turned on a fan. It gives me goose bumps, even though the sun is hot on my forearms.

Toby still hasn’t moved a muscle. How long can he stay like this? I’m holding my breath. I feel a rock under my left heel and try to move my foot without making a sound.

“What’s he doing?” asks Pa in a loud voice, breaking the spell.

Toby runs over to show him the bombs. I follow them, deflated. If there was a moment, it has passed.

“Okay, what was that all about?” Pa asks when we get back to his trailer.

I start at the beginning and, to his credit, he doesn’t laugh at me. But it’s obvious he doesn’t believe one word of it. Pa sits in his recliner taking it all in as I ramble on, not fully considering the ramifications of my words or their impact on my father.

I lean back on the sofa and conclude, probably too flippantly, “I think we really don’t know what happens to people after they die. Who knows? They could come back, right?”

He pushes the footrest down to sit upright in his chair.

“Baby girl, I miss your momma more than you do. But she ain’t coming back. Her spirit ain’t floating around somewhere looking for a little kid to fly into.”

“What? I wasn’t talking about Mom.”

“Is that right?” He rocks back in his chair.

“Oh, Pa. I didn’t mean—” I try to explain, and he waves his hand dismissively at me.

I hate that gesture. This is getting old, all these men in my life not taking me seriously. I take a deep breath and see him rub his eyes.

I know. He misses her. “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.

He shakes his head as I escape to the kitchen.

I miss her too, but my memories are more convoluted. I can’t help feeling that we could’ve found a whole new way to relate if we’d had more time. I would love to talk to her about John Robberson. I have no idea what she’d say. Now that I’m a mother, I want a do-over with mine. I turn on the faucet so Pa can’t hear me sniffling.

In the car on the way home, the late afternoon sun makes me squint, so I reach for my sunglasses. I look into the rearview mirror in time to catch Toby crossing his eyes to focus on the tiny hook of a straw coming out of the juice box.

“So, Toby. Was your friend John Robberson there by the Thud?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t? It looked like you were—”

“No!” He throws his juice box on the floorboard and starts crying. I pull into the first gas station I see, and we stay there until he settles down. Once we get back on the road, I leave the radio off and he falls asleep.

I take a shower as soon as we get home, and Eric not only plays with Toby, he makes dinner, which is a nice break. Toby is in a much better mood by the time dinner is ready. Eric asks how it went with Pa.

“It was great, wasn’t it, Toby? Pa took us to the flight museum. I thought maybe Toby could show me what he saw last time.” Before Eric can react, I say, “Tell Daddy what you saw.”

Toby’s eyes light up. “Thud.”

Eric says, “Sure, I remember that plane. The one with the shark mouth, right?”

Toby smiles at his dad. Baby teeth.

I say, in that bright voice adults use when they are actually talking to the children in earshot, “Toby ran right to the F-105 and stayed there, completely still, for a long time. He didn’t even move. For a long time. Several minutes. He knew right where to go. I had to read the sign. F-105. Thunderchief.”

“John Wahbuhson says Thud.”

Eric gives Toby a fist bump. “That’s right.”

I drop the bright, fake tone and try to get the answer I couldn’t get in the car. “Toby, what made you stand so still? Next to the Thud?”

Toby doesn’t respond.

“Did you hear anything? Like the last time you were there?” I try to keep my voice light. “How about your buddy John Robberson? Was he there by his plane today?”

“No.”

Eric shoots me the grin of a conqueror.

Toby says, “Here.”

“Here? Like now?” I hold up my hand to keep Eric from interrupting.

Toby doesn’t say anything.

I lean forward. “Please, baby, this is important and you won’t get in trouble. Tell Momma. Is John Robberson here right now?”

He looks at his plate. His lip starts to quiver.

Eric offers his hand, palm up, in Toby’s direction. Toby holds tight and nods.

“Yes? Toby, are you saying yes?”

“Yes.”

It’s like a stop-motion blanket falls on the dining room. I can almost feel the ceiling fan slow down. A bird chirps outside. I see dust particles in the sunbeam coming in the window and hear Thud breathing in the corner. I look down at my half-eaten halibut and detect the aroma of pine nuts in the pesto sauce. I steady my fork in my hand and slowly place it on my napkin.

I say, as gently as I can, “Tell Momma. What do you see right now?”

“You and Daddy.”

“What do you hear?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Tell me. What did he say to you? Tell me.” Even before I see Toby recoil, I can hear the pointy steel in my voice.

Eric twists his head so Toby can’t see his expression. Stop it, he mouths.

He turns back to Toby. “It’s okay, buddy.”

Toby’s tears, which were about to pop, recede with his father’s assurance. “No Kay,” he hisses, his eyebrows scrunched together for emphasis.

I say, “Is that what he said? That you have to go see Kay?”

He kicks his feet out, bucking like I’ve just thrown a spider in his lap. “I don’t want to!”

Eric reaches over and lifts Toby out of his chair. “All right, all right. Let’s go play.” Standing, he says to me, under his breath, “You’re freaking him out.”

Fine. I breathe. I do the dishes. I can’t prevent the flood of possible explanations from polluting my mind. Or the boulder that seems to have settled in the center of my chest.

I pull a load of laundry from the dryer. As Toby plays on the floor, Eric sits near me on the sofa to help me fold.

I whisper, “What happened in there?”

“Toby has an imagination and you don’t.”

“Or our son just had an auditory hallucination. Have you considered that?”

“Not for one second.”

“Eric. Be serious. Have you ever heard about early-onset schizophrenia? Little kids, they hear voices. Voices that tell them to do things they don’t want to do.”

“Come on. You can’t be serious.”

“But what if he’s . . .” My voice cracks.

“A perfectly normal three-year-old with an imaginary friend?”

“I’m calling the pediatrician.”

“Right now? Look at him. He’s fine. Can’t you wait until morning? This doesn’t exactly qualify as a life-threatening emergency.”

He’s right. I put away the laundry and leave them alone to play until Eric volunteers to give Toby his bath and tuck him in. I slip to the office and quickly find a website describing childhood schizophrenia symptoms. I create a list so I know what to say to the doctor.

1. Onset: three weeks ago
   
2. Voices: One, but it’s not scary to Toby, except when he talks about Kay.
   
3. Speech: Not disorganized or out of context.
   
4. Social Isolation: No. He has other friends, real ones.
   
5. Reduction in Emotional Expression: No.
   
6. Lack of Motivation: No.
   
7. Loss of Enjoyment: No.
   

I read a bit more, browse a few case studies, and finally push back from my desk, somewhat pacified. I’m still going to call, but he’s going to tell me not to worry. I return to the living room and overhear Eric reading from that airplane book that doesn’t have a Thud in it. Finally, the door closes and I hear his bare feet in the hallway. I intercept him before he makes it to the living room and read him my list.

“Good. Glad you’re feeling better about it.” He walks around the sofa. “Where’s the remote?”

“I don’t know if I feel better. Let’s just say I can wait until morning to call the doctor.” I put the list away. “I would love to know what this John Robberson keeps whispering about.”

I pause and watch him change channels in silence.

“And why does he tell Toby to go see Kay? It’s like he’s sending our kid on an errand.”

He’s still changing channels and doesn’t even make eye contact. “I don’t know. Maybe his imaginary friend has an imaginary girlfriend. Toby doesn’t like girls yet, so it’s not a stretch to understand why a girl doesn’t sound like fun to him. I don’t see why it bothers you.”

Keeping my tone deliberately calm, I let my words come out slowly. “Toby doesn’t
like
her. It’s almost like he’s scared. He doesn’t want to meet her.”

He matches my cadence. “So he
won’t.
We’re the parents. We can control this. Create a Kay-free zone.”

“Can we? We haven’t been able to create a John Robberson–free zone.”

“Whose fault is that?”

My face burns.

“Just drop it, Shel.” He flips to the sports channel and leaves it there.

“I can’t. All these coincidences—what if they actually mean something? What if there really is a John Robberson?”

“There is, Shelly, but only because Toby made him up. Let him have it. The whole thing is harmless.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Yes,” he says. “It
is.
Unless you start messing with his head about it, like tonight. You totally freaked him out, jumping all over him.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. You couldn’t stop yourself,” he says. “I just don’t get it. Why take a trivial detail and make it scary?”

I’m all jittery inside and have no idea how to articulate it. I say, “Because it’s scary to me.”

“Only because you didn’t think of it for him. Get used to it, Shel. Our son is going to have independent thoughts.”

“I know, Eric, but this is different.”