Gravity Box and Other Spaces (30 page)

Occasionally Jonathan came into the study to watch him or quietly play nearby. The child seemed to know not to interrupt Paul, and Paul enjoyed his son's presence, finding it pleasant to glance over and see the boy playing in some other part of the room. But, he sometimes wished Jonathan would interrupt him with questions or requests, child's concerns, or laughter. Paul caught himself once in a while wishing Jonathan would hurt himself so that Paul could minister to the wound and be more necessary to the boy, a benefactor, a father. He played scenarios out in his
head, imagining an injury or crisis, constructing his own responses, knowing the outcome would be a father and son drawn closer together by the trauma.

Such thoughts made him deeply uneasy, but he could not seem to stop them. He impatiently dismissed these daydreams with a stern reminder to himself that he wished only the best for Jonathan and he certainly never wanted the boy hurt. At other times, he watched his son and dimly realized that he did not really understand the child. Someday he would. Time would draw them together; proximity would forge its own intimacy.

Will I be closer to Eric in thirty years—?

One day Jonathan came into the studio. After watching Paul quietly for several minutes he said, “Daddy—?”

“Hmm?”

“How long's gra'pa going to sleep?”

“Thirty years.”

“He'll be alive afterward?”

“Of course. He's just frozen.”

“I'll be a grown-up when he wakes up.”

“Uh-huh. Thirty-four. A man.”

“Will he still be my gra'pa?”

“Of course. Time can't change that. Though you might call him ‘grandfather' instead.”

“You call him Eric. Can I?”

“If he says you can.”

“Will he still take me places?”

“What? You mean like Disney World, like last year? Well, you probably won't want to then. You'll be an adult, with adult interests.”

Jonathan digested this with a serious expression. Paul watched him absent mindedly, his thoughts on a problem of entrances and exits in the design on his board. When
Kay had been pregnant with Jonathan, Paul had designed a school. Now he was working on a daycare center, a commission he had wanted to get ever since. Finally, Jonathan shrugged, hugged Paul briefly and went off to play somewhere else.

I'm glad we can talk
, Paul thought, returning to his design.

Five weeks after Eric went to sleep, Kay went into labor. They hurried to the local clinic and six hours later Michael came into the world.

The next day Paul was allowed to bring Jonathan into Kay's room. She looked tired and a little pale. The labor had gone well, not as hard on her as Paul had feared, but he was still struck by how fragile she seemed.
No more
, he thought;
Michael is the last
.

“We could have done this at home,” Kay said. “It wasn't so bad.”

“I feel safer about it here,” Paul said. “Anything goes wrong—”

“Next one I want to have at home.”

Paul frowned. Kay's eyes drifted closed sleepily.

“Is Mommy going to sleep for thirty years?” Jonathan asked, his voice small and a little tremulous.

Paul looked at him, shocked, but Kay laughed.

“No, honey,” she said, “I'll be home in a day or two.”

Jonathan seemed to consider this, frowning, then nodded and looked up at Paul. Paul's heart hammered. He could not read the question he thought he saw in Jonathan's eyes, nor could he seem to speak.

“My brother,” Jonathan said, “won't know anything about Gra'pa, will he?”

“Not unless we tell him,” Kay said. She sounded so tired.

“Maybe we better not.”

Paul licked his lips and said, “Why not?”

Jonathan shrugged. “It wouldn't be fair. He'd miss Gra'pa and not even know who he is.”

“My, my,” Kay said, “we have a natural-born philosopher in our family.”

“It's not funny,” Paul said. “Jonathan, your grandfather hasn't got anything to do with this. Understand?”

Jonathan kept his gaze down.

“Paul,” Kay said, “I don't think this is the time—”

“Then when is? That selfish son-of-a-bitch. Even on ice, he's controlling my life, interfering with my family.” He touched Jonathan's shoulder. The boy looked up. “Try to forget about him, Jonathan. You can ask him in thirty years why he decided to duck out of our lives, but for now he's just not part of anything.”

“Paul!”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “I just won't say anything to my brother.”

Paul completed the initial floor plans for the daycare center and sent them off to the client.

Kay was in the living room, cradling Michael against her shoulder and looking out the window. Paul smiled at them. For the first time in a long while, he felt satisfied. He paused for a few seconds to enjoy the moment, the gestalt of family.

Kay looked at him. “Have you seen Jon today?”

Paul stopped. “No. I've been working.”

She nodded. “I haven't seen him in a few hours.”

“Did he go outside? It's warm enough.”

“I don't see him. I told him not to go into the woods out of sight of the house.”

“I'll go find him.”

He went outside and called. After half an hour he began to feel uneasy. He checked Jonathan's room. The small bed was made, as if it had not been slept in. Jonathan was a conscientious boy, Paul told himself. He had been making his own bed for several months now, though not this well. Paul asked Kay if she had made the bed.

“No. It wasn't messed up this morning when I checked.”

Paul went through the house, room by room, calling his son. With each non-response, his uneasiness grew less and less dismissible. By the afternoon it was clear that Jonathan was not anywhere in the house.

Kay called the police.

Paul tried to find some trail outside to indicate that Jonathan might have wandered away, or some sign that someone had come up to the house undetected. While that was unlikely, Paul found himself snatching at any possibility. His well-ordered sense of the world was losing its capacity to cope, and he did not know how to handle panic.

The police arrived, took statements, a couple of photographs; a pair of dogs were ordered. Paul watched with intense impatience as the police checked Jonathan's room and the rest of the house, clearly, to Paul's mind, unconcerned. They moved much too slowly, did things with far too little sense of urgency. All their reassurances sounded hollow.

On top of everything else, Michael began to cry incessantly.

By the time the search dogs arrived Paul realized that he was useless in his current state of mind.

“I'll be in my office,” he said to Kay. “I have to—”

She nodded, giving him a gentle shove.

“I'll help them,” she said.

Gratefully, Paul retreated to his work place.

There was a message waiting for him on the computer.
A response already? That would be quick
. He opened it.

Dear Mr. Dover: We have gone over your floor plans with great enthusiasm. At a glance, they appear perfect for our needs. Wonderful. Exactly what we wanted. However, there is one detail that must surely be a mistake. The outdoor play area is fine. However, there does not seem to be any direct access to it from the interior. We're quite sure this is an oversight. Please advise. We wait your response.

Paul reread it six times. Then he pulled up the floor plans and traced all the doors. To Paul's surprise, there was no door to the playground. The nearest access from inside the building was the fire escape. A deep, percussive laugh worked its way up through his larynx. It was a silly, obvious mistake. He sat down.

The door opened. Kay stared at him with wide eyes. Paul shrugged, realizing how silly and insensitive he must seem, but when he told her why he was laughing in the midst of all this tension she would understand. He held up his hand and opened his mouth.

A policeman appeared behind Kay.

“Mr. Dover,” he said in a voice quiet and somber. “We've located your son.”

Kay chewed her lower lip.

“Great!” Paul said, standing.

“Would you come with us, sir?”

Paul frowned. Kay was not smiling. She held Michael, who complained with small, uncertain sounds. Paul walked by her and followed the officer.

They did not go outside. Baffled, Paul followed the man into his basement. Paul wanted to tell him that he had already looked down there and that he knew this house very well. Jonathan could not have hidden from him within it. After all, he had grown up here, played in these halls and rooms, and explored everything even as it was being built.

The dogs snuffled at the ends of their leashes. Faces in harsh light turned to look at him as he followed the policeman. It was chilly in the basement. The floor was tiled, the walls were off-white. For an instant it reminded him of the cryotorium. Paul had always been happiest playing in the basement. He had trouble reconciling the conflicting feelings. The policeman parted for him.

“The paramedics are on their way,” someone said.

He stopped at the side of one of the big chest freezers.

Jonathan lay within, eyes closed, hands folded across his small chest, the ice crystals glinting on his eyelashes, frosting his hair. His skin was a perfect expression of calm and patience in pale blue; his eyes were rimmed with dark circles. A small suitcase lay beside him and at his feet was a plastic bag containing some of his favorite toys.

“He's all ready,” Paul whispered, “for when Gra'pa comes home. He's—”

Peter Malon heard them when he switched off his chainsaw. There were people running through underbrush. He set the chainsaw down beside the trunk section he had just finished cutting and cocked his head to get a sense of direction.

Out of the thicker woodland to the east, a girl sprang into the clearing, naked, arms and legs pistoning, face set around clenched teeth. She was halfway across the glen before she saw him. Her eyes narrowed briefly, then all sign that she recognized his existence vanished, her attention returned to her flight.

As Peter stepped toward her, two men emerged in pursuit. Both wore jeans. The taller man wore a black t-shirt with the faded emblem of some band, the other a soiled tank top. They ran with the gangly abandon of kids in summertime, arms flailing, faces stretched in manic grins. The shorter one carried a coil of rope in his left hand.

As they neared, Peter snatched a heavy branch from the ground, took four long strides forward, and threw it at the nearest. The branch tangled the short one's legs, and he pitched forward. Peter continued on at a sprint and intercepted the tall one. Peter caught his upper left arm,
spinning the man around. Staggering, he swung a wild right haymaker that Peter ducked reflexively. From then on, everything became automatic for Peter, a dance of block and jab, which ended quickly with the man on the ground, winded, holding his side. Peter spun around as the shorter one charged, a branch raised like a club. Peter slammed a shoulder into his chest, jammed a thumb up into his armpit, and then, as his opponent staggered backward, brought both hands down onto the his collarbone.