Missing Boy
I found this blog where you write down your secrets and send them in and they post them anonymously online for the whole world to see. It’s cyber-confession. You can see them at www.postsecret.blogspot.com.
Anyway, I have a confession of my own to make, although I should point out it wasn't exactly my fault.
It happened when I was seven or eight. I was given the opportunity to either sit and play in the sandbox with my six-year-old sister, or race my Dad’s brand-new DeSoto on a dragstrip. It took me one second to decide.
“Just run in and tell the babysitter,” my father told me from the idling car. I immediately did a 180 and ran into the house. She was an older woman, our soon to be ex-babysitter, and she seemed to be involved with my sister‘s playtime frivolity, trying to restrain her in some way without the use of a straitjacket. Or maybe it was baby brother, Ricky, who was only two at the time.
I should have waited until I had her full attention, but I just ran in the house, got her attention, and announced “I’m going to the racetrack with my Dad!” Then I ran back out again.
It wasn’t really her fault. I’ve felt bad all these years that I didn’t speak up and explain that she might not have heard me correctly. She did look at me and seem to comprehend what I was saying, but she must have forgotten.
My rep as a wanderer didn't help matters. It wasn’t unusual to see me, as a toddler, walking alongside the main road which led into the next village. I remember the faces of kindly neighbors trying to coax me into their Buicks with expressions similar to those one might use with an obstinate cat. To passersby, I’m sure they must have sounded like perverts, talking to a cautious four-year-old from the open door of their automobile. “You remember us, honey, we’re the Morgans. We live down the street from you. Your mother is very worried about you.” But nobody ever arrested them and I always got home safe.
So, when I didn’t show up later in the afternoon, the sitter called my mother at her job. Mom raced home.
Out at Westhampton Beach, though, all was bliss for me. Dad turned his aqua and white tail-finned beauty out onto the blacktop and revved the engine. He pulled me onto his lap, moved the seat all the way up, and we counted down from ten.
“Three, two, one!” I mashed my foot down on the gas pedal, and the back wheels made a chirping sound. I hung onto the oval-shaped steering wheel tightly and by the time we’d finished we were going about 65 miles per hour. We didn't break the sound barrier, but when you’re that age it feels much faster.
Driving home along 25a at dusk, we began to notice people walking through fields as we got closer to our house. “I wonder what's going on,” my father said. "It looks like they‘re searching for somebody.”
They were.
Me.
The closer we got to our house, more and more people were out and about. When we turned onto our street, there were police cruisers and fire engines parked right out in front of our house. As my father turned into the driveway, flashbulbs went off from people standing around who suddenly produced cameras. My father’s immortal words were printed in the paper the following morning. “What’s going on?” They told us the entire town was looking for me. Boy Scouts were combing the nearby woods calling my name.
On our front porch, a bloodhound was sitting with a handler. In a sea of confusion, I stopped to play with it. I remember the velvet texture of his ears. He became excited, probably recognizing my scent, and realizing his night was over.
Inside the house , I saw my mother with a champagne glass in her hand, talking to some people.
As soon as she saw me, she ran over to me and hugged me. She was crying.
I looked over her shoulder into the living room and saw all my neighbors. They had cocktails too. I thought maybe some adult birthday party was in progress. But then why would my mother be crying. All of a sudden, a photographer with the biggest camera I ever saw, followed me into my bedroom. I cringed against my father who sat with me on my bed.
That photograph appeared in the newspaper the next morning under the headline:
MISSING BOY FOUND SAFE
Was at Racetrack with Father
I never asked them about public apologies or having to perform community service or anything like that, but I imagine it must've taken the folks a while to live that one down.
Anyway, I have a confession of my own to make, although I should point out it wasn't exactly my fault.
It happened when I was seven or eight. I was given the opportunity to either sit and play in the sandbox with my six-year-old sister, or race my Dad’s brand-new DeSoto on a dragstrip. It took me one second to decide.
“Just run in and tell the babysitter,” my father told me from the idling car. I immediately did a 180 and ran into the house. She was an older woman, our soon to be ex-babysitter, and she seemed to be involved with my sister‘s playtime frivolity, trying to restrain her in some way without the use of a straitjacket. Or maybe it was baby brother, Ricky, who was only two at the time.
I should have waited until I had her full attention, but I just ran in the house, got her attention, and announced “I’m going to the racetrack with my Dad!” Then I ran back out again.
It wasn’t really her fault. I’ve felt bad all these years that I didn’t speak up and explain that she might not have heard me correctly. She did look at me and seem to comprehend what I was saying, but she must have forgotten.
My rep as a wanderer didn't help matters. It wasn’t unusual to see me, as a toddler, walking alongside the main road which led into the next village. I remember the faces of kindly neighbors trying to coax me into their Buicks with expressions similar to those one might use with an obstinate cat. To passersby, I’m sure they must have sounded like perverts, talking to a cautious four-year-old from the open door of their automobile. “You remember us, honey, we’re the Morgans. We live down the street from you. Your mother is very worried about you.” But nobody ever arrested them and I always got home safe.
So, when I didn’t show up later in the afternoon, the sitter called my mother at her job. Mom raced home.
Out at Westhampton Beach, though, all was bliss for me. Dad turned his aqua and white tail-finned beauty out onto the blacktop and revved the engine. He pulled me onto his lap, moved the seat all the way up, and we counted down from ten.
“Three, two, one!” I mashed my foot down on the gas pedal, and the back wheels made a chirping sound. I hung onto the oval-shaped steering wheel tightly and by the time we’d finished we were going about 65 miles per hour. We didn't break the sound barrier, but when you’re that age it feels much faster.
Driving home along 25a at dusk, we began to notice people walking through fields as we got closer to our house. “I wonder what's going on,” my father said. "It looks like they‘re searching for somebody.”
They were.
Me.
The closer we got to our house, more and more people were out and about. When we turned onto our street, there were police cruisers and fire engines parked right out in front of our house. As my father turned into the driveway, flashbulbs went off from people standing around who suddenly produced cameras. My father’s immortal words were printed in the paper the following morning. “What’s going on?” They told us the entire town was looking for me. Boy Scouts were combing the nearby woods calling my name.
On our front porch, a bloodhound was sitting with a handler. In a sea of confusion, I stopped to play with it. I remember the velvet texture of his ears. He became excited, probably recognizing my scent, and realizing his night was over.
Inside the house , I saw my mother with a champagne glass in her hand, talking to some people.
As soon as she saw me, she ran over to me and hugged me. She was crying.
I looked over her shoulder into the living room and saw all my neighbors. They had cocktails too. I thought maybe some adult birthday party was in progress. But then why would my mother be crying. All of a sudden, a photographer with the biggest camera I ever saw, followed me into my bedroom. I cringed against my father who sat with me on my bed.
That photograph appeared in the newspaper the next morning under the headline:
MISSING BOY FOUND SAFE
Was at Racetrack with Father
I never asked them about public apologies or having to perform community service or anything like that, but I imagine it must've taken the folks a while to live that one down.
posted by Jon at 9:44 AM
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