Where We Are, page 10
Prft: “Have you conjugated your purpose in the afterlife today, Micah?”
Me: (Conjugate means to join together in pairs, prft. Or to recite the different forms of a verb in a particular order.) “Do you mean have I contemplated my purpose in the afterlife today, prft?”
This is where you can feel the air in the room change. It happens instantaneously. This is why the Living Lights gather to watch when the prft shines his light on me. They come reluctantly, but in their reluctance there’s also a willingness. They’re spectators at a bullfight, and I am the bull. The knitters keep right on knitting, and Deeson keeps right on smirking, and Wife huddles by the side wall with her white robe partly pulled up like she’s trying to hide something just below her neck—a scar? A cut? A bruise? And my parents are by now hovering at the back of the gathering, because the expected has happened. Micah has challenged the prft.
Did I?
Is that what my question was, a challenge?
It’s cold in the laundry room, Ses. It’s damp. It’s hard to get warm. Sometimes I do jumping jacks in the middle of the night if I can’t stop shivering. That works. For a while.
What happened was we left the world of sun and light and we descended two flights of stairs into the belly of the beast. Here we are gathered together to fight the armies of darkness. Which is ironic, because when the prft talks about the armies of darkness, everything he talks about is aboveground, in the world of sun and light. He doesn’t see how dark it is down here. Literally it’s dark—all the floor lamps are gone now, and we’re down to bare bulbs overhead—and it’s dark in our minds. People are quiet now. There’s a lot of sleeping. When it’s quiet and dark, your body wants to sleep. Or maybe it’s your mind that wants to sleep. To get away. It’s dark and heavy here in the underworld, and there is no lightness.
The prft’s reach is long. He is gaining power as I think these thoughts.
Everything is foreboding.
12 Sesame
MY NEW ROUTINE has taken over.
Sleep, sort of, as much as I can anyway between worrying and checking my phone.
Get up before daybreak.
Check the phone again.
Call Officer Emmanuel: “Hi, Officer Emmanuel, it’s Sesame Gray. I’m calling about my boyfriend, Micah Stone. There’s still no word and it’s been six days/seven days/eight/nine days.” She won’t reopen the case, but when winter break ends and he doesn’t show up at Southwest, I want Micah’s name to be instantly familiar.
Go to the Jameses to pick up more flyers. James Two makes fifty copies every day in the copy room at work and leaves them for me on their porch bench so I can pick them up anytime, day or night.
Go to Greenway Elementary and write poems with Vong. Today is the last day of school before winter break, then winter break begins. I haul out my ID at the front desk on the way in, like always, and like always, I wait for Miss Najma, the secretary, to print out my ID badge. I sign in, I peel off the adhesive backing, I stick the badge onto my jacket.
“Everything okay, Sesame?”
Miss Najma is looking at me with concern. She’s known me for a long time now, ever since I got this tutoring job.
“You’re pretty quiet these days,” she continues. “You seem a little anxious.”
“Everything’s fine,” I say, but this doesn’t seem to satisfy her, so I cast about for something else. “It’s just so cold,” I add. “Hard to get warm.”
At this, Miss Najma smiles. That’s the thing about living in Minneapolis. You can always rely on the weather for a distraction. The truth is that everything about this daily check-in process is annoying. Miss Najma knows exactly who I am, and so does everyone else I pass on the way to the Greenway Elementary tutoring room, which is right off the main office, yet I still have to go through this charade of ID, sign in, badge.
But a cult can take someone away and no one even notices. It scares the shit out of me.
“For real,” Miss Najma agrees. “It’s a good thing we’re tough, right? And a double good thing that as of tomorrow we’re officially on break, right?”
Right.
Vong is waiting for me in the reading room. He taps his giant wristwatch when I walk in. He’s added another rubber band to the two he keeps wound around it. It’s doubtful Vong will ever be big enough to fit that wristwatch. But I’ll say this, the kid is always on time. He tilts his head and gives me a questioning look. I shake my head.
“No word,” I say. “The search continues.”
Vong frowns. He opens his notebook and pulls out another poem.
Micah Stone
where have you flown
we are alone
since you have gone
please come back
“The last lines don’t rhyme,” he says.
“Actually, ‘gone’ does rhyme,” I say. “Even if it doesn’t sound like ‘alone’ and ‘flown,’ it’s still an official rhyme because its ending is the same as ‘gone.’ Now, ‘please come back’ isn’t exactly a rhyme, but—”
I stop. I’m trying to shift into writing tutor mode, someone knowledgeable about the differences between rhyming poetry and free verse, but it’s not working. Because who cares? Vong’s poem is exactly how I feel. Micah has flown and I am alone since he has gone. I am alone, I am alone, I am alone. I close my eyes. Then I feel a clunk on my hand. Vong is trying to hold my hand—this tiny little second grader—but the giant wristwatch gets in the way.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say. “I love this poem. I’ll add it to the stack.”
When the hour is up, I tell Vong I’ll see him after break. And then I continue the search.
If I find an abandoned building, I walk around it with a long stick. I poke it down every vent I see, every crack. Bend down and cup my hands around my mouth and call through the vents and cracks. “Micah! MICAH! Hello! Hellooooo! Anyone in there?” Walk until I’m too cold to walk anymore, then go inside a coffee shop and warm up until I can walk again.
Keep going. Staple flyers up to every pole. Restock every poem box with flyers. Collect any notes left behind and add them to the stack of Micah Christmas notes on the poems table in my house.
You don’t know me, but we are all praying for Micah to come home soon!
THANK YOU FOR ALL THE POEMS. I’M ASHAMED I NEVER LEFT YOU A NOTE BEFORE. THANK YOU AND JUST SO YOU KNOW, I HOPE HE COMES HOME SOON.
Poem Person, is Micah your boyfriend? Your brother? Your son? Whoever he is, he looks like such a nice and good person. My biggest hope is that next time I come to get a poem from this box, I will see a note that says Micah is home!!!!!
When the sun goes down, I meet Inky and Sebastian in the library conference room. They’ll start searching with me when break starts tomorrow. Right now they’re constantly monitoring the Missing Micah Instagram and Facebook and Twitter accounts they set up on the first night. They are both administrators, and one of them responds to everyone who writes in, whether it’s a credible tip or not. Not that there have been any credible tips. They would let me know instantly if there were, so there’s no real need to meet in person, but we do anyway. Because they are my best friends. Because Inky always has a cappuccino for me. Because Sebastian somehow can make me smile no matter what.
Go to the Y. Work out. Shower. Dress. Go home.
Try to sleep.
Dawn. Time to get up, even though it’s Saturday.
I check my phone: nothing. Time to make my call. Whoa! She picks up! Isn’t it too early for her to be at her desk? Then I remind myself it’s a police station. They’re always open.
“Hello, Officer Emmanuel, it’s Sesame.”
“Hi, Sesame.” Her voice is friendly and calm. She must be used to me and my daily voice mails by now. “Do you have new information for me?”
“Not really. I was just wondering—”
“If anyone else has called in a missing person report? I can’t comment on that. But I can tell you that we have received nothing pertinent to your situation.”
“Are you sure?” I say this so she’ll have to think twice, just in case anything has slipped her mind.
“I’m sure. If we do receive information that makes us reopen the case, I’ll let you know immediately. Keep in touch.”
There’s a tiny hint of a smile in her voice when she says, “Keep in touch.” Probably because she knows I’ll be in touch. I’m always in touch. I call her every day. Maybe I’m driving Officer Emmanuel crazy, but you know what? I don’t care. Next, I put on all my layers and head over to the Jameses’ house to collect more flyers. Today they’re up, drinking their coffee, waiting for me with a full to-go mug. The Jameses’ coffee isn’t a cappuccino from Inky, but I’m grateful to them. They are always kind. James One hands me my coffee, and James Two hands me the envelope full of new flyers, copied covertly at his office.
“I called Officer Emmanuel myself yesterday,” James One says.
“You did?” The surprise in my voice makes him smile.
“Yep. Just to keep her on her toes. Let her know we’re on Team Sesame.”
Aha. Maybe that’s why she picked up when I called this morning. “Officer Emmanuel says to let her know if new information comes in,” I say. “The minute she knew about the school excuse, she quit caring, though. Case closed.”
“Nothing from Inky and Sebastian?”
I shake my head.
“Your aunt back yet?”
Again I shake my head. They ask every day, in person or via text. They’ve searched Micah’s parents’ names in the special professional databases available to them at their jobs: nothing. They’ve called all the area hospitals just in case a seventeen-year-old male John Doe’s been brought in. What a scary but great idea. Why didn’t I think of it myself?
“No news, though,” James Two says. “We’re sorry, Sesame.”
Their kindness makes it even worse that I’m lying to them about my aunt. I hate lying to the Jameses. Or lying about anything to anyone, including Inky and Sebastian. Lying to keep your life intact and whole is one thing, lying by omission is another. But I’m not going to tell them I live alone.
Then James One puts his hand on my shoulder and my throat closes up.
I will myself not to cry.
Prince and Peabop are looking at me sadly, both their tails wagging in unison, and suddenly I get an idea. How, how, how had I not thought of this before?
“Hey,” I say. “Would it be okay if I took Prince and Peabop with me while I look for the South Compound?”
“Of course,” the Jameses say simultaneously, and James Two says, “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s a great idea.”
“Give them a T-shirt to sniff,” James One says. “Or a few of them. Anything with Micah’s scent on it.”
“And explain to them what you want them to do,” James Two says. “They’re not trained search dogs, but they’re smart. On some level, they’ll understand.”
“We’ll join you tomorrow,” James One says, and then, at a look from James Two, he adds, “If he hasn’t turned up by then, I mean. Which we hope he will.”
It’s December in Minneapolis, ten days into this siege. Take your pick of hypothermia, starvation, dehydration: any of them can kill. Don’t be dramatic, Sesame, I tell myself, but in my bones I know I’m not being dramatic. I’m being realistic.
“Meanwhile, I’ll make a bunch more flyers at work today, since it’s Saturday and no one else will be there,” James Two says. “Enough to get us through a few days at least.” He gives me a sneaky smile. Maybe he likes being a rule breaker.
* * *
When I walk into the conference room, Inky and Sebastian are already there. The momentary relief I felt from the Jameses’ kindness earlier dissolves instantly, because the air in the room is flat. Inky and Sebastian look tired. I’m tired too—I’ve been out in the cold for four hours already—but I force myself to smile. Today is the first day of winter break, and they’re taking the afternoon to help me search, and I feel both grateful and guilty.
“Thanks, you two,” I say, and they both nod.
“People are leaving notes in the poem boxes,” I say, like this will somehow renew their energy. “I’m saving them all as a Christmas present for Micah. A homecoming present.”
They nod again. Inky’s brought me a cappuccino. Extra cinnamon, extra froth, extra tall. “Sesquipedalian” is the name she’s written on it. That’s a new one. She wrote it carefully, each letter separated by a little space, which means she had to look it up.
“Know what sesquipedalian means?” she says, and I shake my head. “A foot and a half,” she says, measuring with her hands.
“Now, isn’t that useful,” Sebastian says. “Super useful.”
I know they’re trying, trying to drum up energy, trying to act normal. They don’t want me to see that they are losing hope, but I know them too well. They have come into the conference room trailing dark threads of anxiety and frustration. The air is thick with invisible stress. This has to change. I take a deep breath.
“So, I thought of a great idea,” I say. “You know Peabop and Prince?”
They nod. Of course they know Peabop and Prince.
“We’ll use them as search-and-rescue dogs,” I say. “Give them something with the scent of Micah on it and tell them it’s their job to find him. The Jameses think it’s a great idea too.”
“Their job?” Sebastian says. “Aren’t Prince and Peabop, like, ordinary dogs?”
“Yeah,” Inky says. “I mean, I don’t want to be discouraging, but don’t you have to be specially trained to be a search dog?”
“They are specially trained,” I say. “They’re dogs. And they love Micah.”
Inky and Sebastian look at each other. They are communicating silently.
“It is worth a shot,” I say, putting a tiny space between each word. They hear the tiny spaces and they rise to the occasion.
“Okay,” Inky says, and “What do we have to lose?” Sebastian says, and “Point us in the right direction,” Inky says, and out the door we go.
* * *
It’s their first time at the Jameses’ house, and Inky and Sebastian want to hang out there for a while because who wouldn’t, but I wave my hand in the air like a conductor. Allegro! Presto! Once Peabop and Prince are clipped into their leashes and harnesses, we head out, straight to Micah’s house.
“We have to go back in there?” Inky says, with a shiver.
“It’s kind of creepy,” Sebastian adds. “Don’t you have anything of Micah’s at your place?”
Yes, but no way we’re going to my house.
“They need to smell Micah’s things and also get a whiff of his parents,” I say. “Because if they’re all together, wherever they are, then that’ll give the dogs a better chance.”
Micah’s house feels dead in the way that abandoned houses always feel. There’s a certain feel to an empty building. A house needs people to feel alive. Otherwise the process of decay will begin. Micah’s house is already decaying. There’s a stain in the corner of the kitchen ceiling—an ice dam on the roof, slowly melting through the layers? There’s a dark patch on the floor in front of the living room window—some kind of rodent leaving its mark? Dead bugs litter the stairs, and the air in the whole house feels cold and ungiving and angry. You left us, the house is saying to us. Don’t expect us to stay the same in your absence.
It’s awful being here.
We all feel it.
Inky and Sebastian stand silent and still by the kitchen counter, where the three phones are still lined up next to each other by the toaster. The phones are forbidding, but I pick Micah’s up anyway and hold it in both hands. It’s cold. A corpse of communication. I call up some of my favorite lines by my favorite poets, to try to give myself strength. “Let him enter the lion’s cage.” Danez Smith, poet warrior of Saint Paul, across the Mississippi River. Lucille Clifton and her poem about the waters rushing back, about being drowned, about drowning. What about Yeats? I wait for the right lines to come to me because Yeats always comes through, but what comes is “Yet we, for all that praise, could find nothing but darkness overhead,” and they are not the right lines. Not, not, not the right lines.
Then I think of the right lines:
Roses are red
violets are blue
this poem is for you.
I wish on the stars
I wish on the moon
that the boy who’s gone
comes home soon.
Lines written not by a famous poet but by a stranger right here in South Minneapolis who’s thinking of both Micah and me. Not half a mile away my house pulses with the presence of all the poems scrolled and waiting inside it. Scattered around the southwestern quadrant of the city are all the poem boxes, filled now with photos of Micah’s smiling face and the notes people have left for me. For him. For us. I picture Vong and the poems he wrote for Micah. I picture all the other people out there who know that Micah’s gone, who are worried about him, who are hoping and praying he comes home soon. The thought of those unknown people gives me strength.
“Let’s go,” I say, and I grab the leashes and charge upstairs to Micah’s room. The air is as cold and still upstairs as down. Prince and Peabop prowl around to the end of their leashes, circling me, nosing each other, almost getting tangled.
“We’re on a mission, boys,” I say. “Stay with me now.”
I pull open Micah’s middle drawer, where he kept keeps his T-shirts, and lift a stack of them out. Most of them are bands, Minneapolis bands. Vintage ones like the Replacements and the Suicide Commandos and Soul Asylum and Babes in Toyland and Prince, all found at Value Village. Newer ones from shows we went to together, like Doomtree and Brother Ali and Atmosphere and Dessa. Holding them in my hands is like holding something living. It’s like Micah is with us in that room.
Inky and Sebastian are coming up after us, slow feet on the stairs, whispering to each other, and I bury my head in the T-shirts to drown out the feeling of hesitation and reluctance that’s coming with them. The T-shirts smell like him. He’s here. We are breathing his air. Micah, we will find you.
