Found
Page 58
In light of what we had just seen, I knew that was true. But it still hurt.
“There will be next season,” Myron said.
I couldn’t imagine it right now, but maybe he was right. Or we could move. Mom might be better again. But I couldn’t let Troy get away with it. Every basket we’d make would feel tainted. There would be no joy. That was the problem with doing the wrong thing for whatever reasons.
It never feels right.
Uncle Myron opened the fridge and sighed.
“What?”
“We’re out of Yoo-hoo.”
Myron drank this chocolate soda called Yoo-hoo nonstop. “There’s more in the basement,” I said. “You want me to get it?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
He started down the stairs. I was alone. I walked over to the sink. The room was silent. Silent, I thought, as a tomb.
Maybe that was it.
I started thinking now about silence. More specifically, I started to think how silent this kitchen was at this very moment. I looked over at our refrigerator. I started thinking about how Bat Lady’s refrigerator was so noisy. I leaned closer toward the sink. Through the pipes, I could hear Myron whistling some old song. So maybe that was it.
Or maybe it was when Myron whistled that song.
Or maybe it was when I realized that I could hear him faintly through the pipes.
Or maybe it was because I realized how quiet our refrigerator was and if it’d been noisy—if it’d been like Bat Lady’s—I’d never hear that faint noise.
Especially if I was old. Especially if I played music a lot.
I felt a cold pinprick at the base on my neck.
Bat Lady had turned off the music too. That was what she said. She turned off the music so she could hear the doorbell when the repairman came. Her kitchen had been silent for the first time in years.
Silent. Like this one.
No refrigerator noise. No music.
And that was when she heard the faint sound of my father’s voice.
Like I was hearing the faint sound of Myron’s.
The cold pinprick grew and spread.
“Oh my God,” I said to myself. Then in a panic, I started shouting, “Myron! Myron!”
At the sound of my voice, he ran up the stairs as fast as he could. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Do you have an axe?”
“A what?”
“An axe? An axe!”
“In the garage. Why?”
“Get in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just . . . just get in the car.”
Chapter 49
It was still daylight when we got to Bat Lady’s house.
I was out of the car before Myron pulled to a complete stop. I had the axe in my hand. I ran through the crime-scene tape. The tape made sense now. The police hadn’t put it up.
Luther had.
He wanted to keep people away.
That was why he set the house on fire too. He wasn’t trying to kill Bat Lady or me.
He wanted us gone.
“Mickey? Where are you going?”
Someone had locked the garage door. I took the axe, aimed at the knob, and smashed it open. I found the trapdoor and threw it back.
“Mickey?” Myron said again.
The secret room that had been sealed off all those years—it was soundproof. That was what Dylan Shaykes had told me. But he also said it had huge food supplies and a shower and a toilet. It had plumbing.
And if you had plumbing, there were pipes.
You couldn’t make those soundproof. Sound could always find its way through pipes, no matter how distant and faint.
The dead never speak to me, Bat Lady had said.
Could she be right? Oh please, please, let her be right . . .
I found the hidden door to the sealed secret room. There was no way I was going to bust it open, even with the axe. The door was thick steel. Instead I took the axe and started pounding the dirt just outside the door frame.
I thought about Luther and little Ricky trapped in this room all those years ago.
I thought about him in there watching the only person he ever loved slowly suffer and die.
He blamed my father for that.
What better revenge, I thought, than to lock my father down there alone for the rest of his life?
Uncle Myron was down the ladder now. “What is this place?”
I could hear the awe in his voice. I didn’t answer. Seeing what I was doing, Myron ran down the corridor and found a metal bar. He started working on the other side of the frame. I swung the axe until exhaustion. Then I kept going. When I needed one short break, Myron took over.
I pounded on the door. “Hello?”
No reply.
Was I wrong?
I took the axe back. Myron worked with the metal bar.
Finally, after half an hour, I felt the door budge just the slightest bit. That propelled me. Or worse. I may have lost my mind at that stage. I don’t know. But I started wielding the axe harder and harder, tears running down my face, my muscles so far beyond exhaustion, I didn’t know what would happen next.
“Please,” I cried. “Please . . .”
In the corner of my eye I could see Myron watching me, wondering what to do, whether he should grab me and stop my frenzy.
He looked as though he was about to do just that when the heavy door finally gave way.
It fell into the darkened space with a great thud. For a moment, no one moved. Nothing happened. There was no light in the room. I stopped breathing. I dropped my axe, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone.
As I switched on the light, I saw a figure rise before me in silhouette.
I lifted the beam toward a familiar face.
My heart stopped.
The face was drawn and bearded, but I recognized it even before I heard Myron gasp out loud.
With my legs shaking, I stepped into the room and managed to say just one word.
“Dad.”
EPILOGUE
Ten minutes later, I walked into another dark room.
After I said his name, my father ran to me. I wrapped my arms around him and just collapsed. But my dad held me up. He held me up for a very long time. Pain is a funny thing. It can’t endure in the face of hope. Even as my father held me, even as I knew that we weren’t out of the woods yet, I could feel so much of my old pain subside. I could feel my wounds closing up as though something divine had touched me.
Maybe it had. What really is more divine than a parent’s love?
My father was alive.
For a long time I wouldn’t let myself believe it. I held on, afraid to let him go. I just held on tighter and tighter. See, I had been here before, in dreams. I would see my father in my sleep and I would hold him like this, tighter and tighter, and then the dream would start to end and I would shout, “No, please don’t go!” but slowly, as I awoke, he would fade.
“There will be next season,” Myron said.
I couldn’t imagine it right now, but maybe he was right. Or we could move. Mom might be better again. But I couldn’t let Troy get away with it. Every basket we’d make would feel tainted. There would be no joy. That was the problem with doing the wrong thing for whatever reasons.
It never feels right.
Uncle Myron opened the fridge and sighed.
“What?”
“We’re out of Yoo-hoo.”
Myron drank this chocolate soda called Yoo-hoo nonstop. “There’s more in the basement,” I said. “You want me to get it?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
He started down the stairs. I was alone. I walked over to the sink. The room was silent. Silent, I thought, as a tomb.
Maybe that was it.
I started thinking now about silence. More specifically, I started to think how silent this kitchen was at this very moment. I looked over at our refrigerator. I started thinking about how Bat Lady’s refrigerator was so noisy. I leaned closer toward the sink. Through the pipes, I could hear Myron whistling some old song. So maybe that was it.
Or maybe it was when Myron whistled that song.
Or maybe it was when I realized that I could hear him faintly through the pipes.
Or maybe it was because I realized how quiet our refrigerator was and if it’d been noisy—if it’d been like Bat Lady’s—I’d never hear that faint noise.
Especially if I was old. Especially if I played music a lot.
I felt a cold pinprick at the base on my neck.
Bat Lady had turned off the music too. That was what she said. She turned off the music so she could hear the doorbell when the repairman came. Her kitchen had been silent for the first time in years.
Silent. Like this one.
No refrigerator noise. No music.
And that was when she heard the faint sound of my father’s voice.
Like I was hearing the faint sound of Myron’s.
The cold pinprick grew and spread.
“Oh my God,” I said to myself. Then in a panic, I started shouting, “Myron! Myron!”
At the sound of my voice, he ran up the stairs as fast as he could. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Do you have an axe?”
“A what?”
“An axe? An axe!”
“In the garage. Why?”
“Get in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just . . . just get in the car.”
Chapter 49
It was still daylight when we got to Bat Lady’s house.
I was out of the car before Myron pulled to a complete stop. I had the axe in my hand. I ran through the crime-scene tape. The tape made sense now. The police hadn’t put it up.
Luther had.
He wanted to keep people away.
That was why he set the house on fire too. He wasn’t trying to kill Bat Lady or me.
He wanted us gone.
“Mickey? Where are you going?”
Someone had locked the garage door. I took the axe, aimed at the knob, and smashed it open. I found the trapdoor and threw it back.
“Mickey?” Myron said again.
The secret room that had been sealed off all those years—it was soundproof. That was what Dylan Shaykes had told me. But he also said it had huge food supplies and a shower and a toilet. It had plumbing.
And if you had plumbing, there were pipes.
You couldn’t make those soundproof. Sound could always find its way through pipes, no matter how distant and faint.
The dead never speak to me, Bat Lady had said.
Could she be right? Oh please, please, let her be right . . .
I found the hidden door to the sealed secret room. There was no way I was going to bust it open, even with the axe. The door was thick steel. Instead I took the axe and started pounding the dirt just outside the door frame.
I thought about Luther and little Ricky trapped in this room all those years ago.
I thought about him in there watching the only person he ever loved slowly suffer and die.
He blamed my father for that.
What better revenge, I thought, than to lock my father down there alone for the rest of his life?
Uncle Myron was down the ladder now. “What is this place?”
I could hear the awe in his voice. I didn’t answer. Seeing what I was doing, Myron ran down the corridor and found a metal bar. He started working on the other side of the frame. I swung the axe until exhaustion. Then I kept going. When I needed one short break, Myron took over.
I pounded on the door. “Hello?”
No reply.
Was I wrong?
I took the axe back. Myron worked with the metal bar.
Finally, after half an hour, I felt the door budge just the slightest bit. That propelled me. Or worse. I may have lost my mind at that stage. I don’t know. But I started wielding the axe harder and harder, tears running down my face, my muscles so far beyond exhaustion, I didn’t know what would happen next.
“Please,” I cried. “Please . . .”
In the corner of my eye I could see Myron watching me, wondering what to do, whether he should grab me and stop my frenzy.
He looked as though he was about to do just that when the heavy door finally gave way.
It fell into the darkened space with a great thud. For a moment, no one moved. Nothing happened. There was no light in the room. I stopped breathing. I dropped my axe, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone.
As I switched on the light, I saw a figure rise before me in silhouette.
I lifted the beam toward a familiar face.
My heart stopped.
The face was drawn and bearded, but I recognized it even before I heard Myron gasp out loud.
With my legs shaking, I stepped into the room and managed to say just one word.
“Dad.”
EPILOGUE
Ten minutes later, I walked into another dark room.
After I said his name, my father ran to me. I wrapped my arms around him and just collapsed. But my dad held me up. He held me up for a very long time. Pain is a funny thing. It can’t endure in the face of hope. Even as my father held me, even as I knew that we weren’t out of the woods yet, I could feel so much of my old pain subside. I could feel my wounds closing up as though something divine had touched me.
Maybe it had. What really is more divine than a parent’s love?
My father was alive.
For a long time I wouldn’t let myself believe it. I held on, afraid to let him go. I just held on tighter and tighter. See, I had been here before, in dreams. I would see my father in my sleep and I would hold him like this, tighter and tighter, and then the dream would start to end and I would shout, “No, please don’t go!” but slowly, as I awoke, he would fade.
