Chasing Shadows: Lost in Portland

I followed the scent from the charter school, across the street into the park blocks, south to Burnside and across the river. It was a long way for a kid to walk, I thought. His legs must have burned. The man with him smelled clean, expensive. No one would question him, no one would ask if it was his kid, why he was walking him across the Burnside bridge at four in the afternoon on a school day. Everyone would mind their own business as they passed by, hand in hand. Just a father and son, a Cat Stevens lullaby, two gents out for a stroll on a pleasant day in June. I ran faster.

The mother hadn’t waited around. She’d shown up at the school at three thirty, found her eight year old son wasn’t there, talked to his teacher for two minutes and called us. She called us before she called the police, before she’d called her husband. Someone at the school had given her our number. Ronny had spoken to her briefly, then called me. Twenty minutes later I’d met her in front of the school. Her face had been as tight as the grip she’d had on the kid’s soccer jersey. He’d had a game that day, across town.

She’d pulled a wallet-sized picture out and handed it to me, studying my face as I studied his. He was like her, delicate, wide eyed. The kind of kid who fell asleep already dreaming, who knew that fairies were real without being told. His mother had lost that gift, probably in junior high, maybe sooner. Someone had sucked the dreams from her and left her holding tampons and a copy of Hamlet. Why does everyone have to read Shakespeare?

I’d taken the picture and the jersey, the blue fabric bouncing in my hand. Already I’d found the kid’s scent, wandering in front of the school, and joining it the man’s, the two leaving together. My head turned towards the trail and I forced it back. The mother had moved her eyes from my face to my hands. It was a warm day but I was dressed in long sleeves, jeans and track shoes. I took her thin arm in my hand, but just barely, just enough so she could feel the warmth of another human being.

“I find them.” I said, looking at her until she looked back. “I always find them.”

A breeze came down the street then, and the trail wavered, weakening further. My whole body leaned to go after it.

“Go.” The mother said, watching my eyes as I stared after the threads of scent. “Bring him back to me.”

I’d left her then, running down the street, sound vanishing as I gave myself to the chase. The pavement rolled under my feet like I was standing still and the world was getting pushed along under me like a log in water. It always felt good to run. This side of the universe was so slow, even the cars, just crawling along the surface in fuel soaked gasps.

The windows passing me began to crack and fade, weeds grew tall, paint chipped, cars got older and the city lost its shine. I moved into a neighborhood shifting into a ghetto, slipping from grace into a tangle of midnight gunshots and tired eyes. The food scene went from organic to corn fed, trendy to cheap. And the bastard still hadn’t taken a bus. Every step the kid had taken must have been agony, blisters along his heels and the sides of his toes, his leg muscles jerking forward.

I was catching up. The man could force the child to walk, but an eight year olds legs are only so long. Up ahead the trail suddenly turned, vanishing through the doors of a Safeway. It didn’t come back out. The man was enjoying the show, he wanted it to last. See me with my son, see us together. He was parading him in there. I went in, grabbed a tan shopping cart and threw a few bags of chips in from a nearby display.

It was difficult to match the pace of the other shoppers, slowly dragging their carts through the aisles. But I couldn’t startle the man. I had to be patient. The air was heavy with subtle psychology, soothing lights, cheerful music, clean, orderly shelves filled with food wrapped like birthday presents. I nearly ran into them, distracted by the smell of bread and donuts.

The man was nothing to see, it was hard to even focus on him. My eyes wanted to move away, to ignore. The child was just a shimmer at his side. They were standing in front of plastic bins filled with cookies. The man leaned over and murmured something to the child. I left my cart and went to the man’s left. He was confident. The sleeves of his polo shirt didn’t even reach his elbow. I took a step sideways, closer, and wrapped my fingers around his lower arm.

He was strong enough to turn and look at me, but not strong enough to keep ahold of the boy at the same time. As he dropped the small arm I could see the raw imprint of where his hand had been. He’d burned the surface of the skin. The boy collapsed to the floor. I looked over the cases of baked goods and saw movement towards the back of the bakery, hidden behind a tall rolling rack filled with French bread. A man in a hair net looked out at us, his eyes sliding off to the side. He went back to work.

I called the police, then Ronny. The man’s arm felt cold under my fingers. He stood there, utterly still, transfixed by a bin full of onion bagels. He’d used up everything he had forcing the boy to walk with him. His house was probably close, within a block or so. His face was still ordinary, but I could see it clearly now, unshaven, dull hazel eyes, thin hair fading from brown to grey. There was a bit of ketchup in the corner of his mouth.

My shadow had her reptilian head halfway through the glass doors of the donut case when I hissed at her. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped down and lumbered over to where the man and I were standing. I put him on the floor, face down, forcing him to cross his hands in the small of his back. She crawled over him, the rough scales of her belly dragging across him. He could breathe, but he couldn’t move.

I turned to the boy. He was conscious again and he could see my shadow, a massive lizard colored a dull ink black, long claws tapping the linoleum. In a few hours the Sight would fade but the burn on his arm would linger for weeks. His eyes went out of focus again and his head dropped onto his knees. He was leaning against shelves full of hot dog buns and hoagie rolls. I didn’t touch him. His mother should be the first one to do that. My hands would only remind him of the man, a similar feeling, no matter how different the intention behind it.

By the time I reached the stairs leading up to my apartment the sun was setting, long rays hitting me at the opening of each landing. I stopped at the third story and looked out down the street, west towards the river. The air smelled like exhaust and propane, grilled meat and heavy traffic. The green tops of trees sprouted among the roof lines like broccoli, bunching together at Reed college and making lines along the parkways.

I shut my right eye and the city vanished, replaced by a dry riverbed running along a rocky valley, only the white bones of trees remaining. Shadows the size of small buildings slithered and crawled among the caves and boulders at the river’s edge. It was very quiet. It smelled like dust and animals. There was no sun, just starlight and two faded moons. I opened my eye and the city melted into the dark land once more, the two worlds intertwining. A snake with skin like wet ash curled around the dumpster in the alley next to me, it’s body long enough to go around it twice.

I left the landing and went inside, made Mac’and Cheese with some hotdogs cooked in a skillet. My easy chair groaned as I sat down and I joined it, my body weary from all the running I’d done earlier. I flipped on the TV and knocked the cap off my beer with the edge of the coffee table. I had a bottle opener, somewhere, but the battered edge of the table said I was too lazy to look for it. Jeopardy was on. Cairo. Hydrogen. Paul Klee. I finished the first beer and opened the second. Thrombosis, Tessla, Trebuchet. Third beer. Final Jeopardy. What is Juniper?

I kicked out the leg rest and pulled a blanket up to my chin. My shadow was curled up under the window. It was wrong, that man. He was sick and he had power, a dangerous mix. I knew the gift didn’t fall fair but it still bothered me. The last of the sun vanished behind the horizon and I felt my eyes closing, my breath slowing. Let it go until tomorrow. The commercials flashed and danced against my closed eyes. Tomorrow. My hand curled around the knife, reassured by the rough grip. I slept.