Chapter 15
Zane cleared his throat. He hadn’t been alone for any length of time with his son since the night of the kite festival. But he’d managed then, and okay … he’d had as much fun as the child before his emotions had ambushed him.
As long as he maintained his objectivity, he’d be fine.
He smiled at Casey. “I’d planned to buy some new duds this afternoon. You can help me.”
Casey wrinkled his nose. “I don’t very like shopping. Especially for clothes. ”
“Don’t worry, I don’t shop like a woman.”
“What does that mean?”
“I grab what I want, pay and split. I don’t spend hours browsing through stuff I have no intention of buying.”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Like makeup and yucky girly junk.”
“I promise, I won’t be buying any of that.” He walked into the kitchen and tore the grocery list off the handy magnetic notepad Jillian kept on the fridge beside a magnetic pencil. Super Value-World stocked everything from semi-automatics to kitty litter, so he might as well save Jillian a trip to the grocery store.
He strode back to Casey. “Ready?”
The child nodded glumly. “I guess.”
“Cheer up. Maybe while we’re there, we can find a toy.”
“A toy?” Casey’s face lit up. “Wow! Donnie Ray got a turbo-tank water blaster that’s really rad! They’d be so fun for water-fights! Can I have one of them?”
“Deal. Let’s go.”
The little boy chattered about the toy all the way there. Zane pulled into the crowded Super Value-World parking lot which resembled a free-for-all destruction derby. A huge red banner draped across the front of the gray brick building announced: Super Value-World Super Summer Clearance Sale.
“Super,” Zane muttered. He parked in one of the two spaces left in outer Mongolia, and trekked with Casey toward the store. He shopped as infrequently as possible, and never for food. A housekeeping service kept his kitchen stocked with basics, but he usually ordered out anyway.
Four lone carts were wedged in a straggly group outside the store. The blasted things were stuck together as tightly as teenagers on prom night. After wrestling them apart, he attempted to steer one inside. Three of the wheels went straight, but the fourth wheel stubbornly veered to the left.
“Ya got a sidewinder.” Casey giggled. “That’s what Aunt Jelly calls them woggley carts.”
Chuckling, Zane shoved it aside and grabbed a second cart. As they entered the store, he tugged the list from his pocket. “Bread, milk, eggs. Casey, do you know where they keep the bread?”
“This way.” Casey took point and Zane wheeled the cart behind him, dodging a deluge of shoppers as a headache began to pulse behind his eyes.
“Can we get my turbo water blaster now? Huh? Can we?”
“Later.” Zane turned down the bakery aisle. He shifted from foot to foot in front of the stacked shelves. Who knew there were four hundred varieties of bread? Finally, he grabbed three different loaves and tossed them in the cart. “Milk?”
“Way over on the other side.”
Figured. He tried to turn in the narrow space and was rammed by another cart wielded with deadly accuracy by an eighty year-old woman in a neon pink muumuu.
“You blind, Hot Pants?” she snarled. “The eyeglasses are on aisle seven.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Geez, these super shoppers were ruthless. On his way to the dairy section, he passed an end display of economy size extra-strength ibuprofen. Ibuprofen wasn’t on the list, but he grabbed a box and threw it into the cart.
Casey sprinted too far ahead of him and he lost sight of the child. “Casey!” he shouted. “Come back!”
Casey jumped into view from behind a tower of cookie packages at the end of the aisle. “ Boo! Over here, Zane!” He grabbed a box of frosted animal cookies. “Can we get these? Huh, can we?”
Cookies weren’t on the list, either. Jillian usually made them. “Eh, why not?” Zane accepted the box and added it to the cart. Casey rocketed off again toward the dairy case. By the time Zane reached him, Casey had opened a carton of eggs and was zealously feeling each egg.
“Aunt Jelly checks to make sure they’re not cracked before she buys ‘em.”
“Don’t—” Zane intercepted the carton a second too late to stop three eggs from plopping onto the floor.
“Oops.” The little boy looked down at the slimy mess, then up at him, eyes wide. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
“I know. But don’t touch stuff. And stay with me.” He sighed and rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. He put two undamaged cartons of eggs and a gallon of milk into his cart, then found a harried clerk and informed her of the mess.
As she trumpeted, “Hazard spill team to dairy!” he wrangled the cart to the produce section.
He again passed the ibuprofen display and tossed in another box, and a six-pack of beer.
Absorbed in trying to figure out if he was supposed to buy the green bananas and wait for them to turn yellow, or buy the yellow ones that were already going brown, he heard a childish squeal accompanied by ominous rumbling. The sound of loud, wet splats quickly followed. He whirled to see Casey standing in the midst of a wrecked battlefield of smashed cantaloupes.
“Oops.” Casey cringed. “Them cant-elopes just fell down.”
He prayed for patience. “All by themselves? Imagine that.”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
The sadistic hammer in his head pounded viciously. “Look, I told you to stay with me and not to touch anything. I meant it.”
“Can I get my turbo blaster, now? Can I?”
“In a minute.”
“How long is a minute? Huh?”
Zane found a produce employee, who hollered, “Hazard spill team to produce!”
Zane gritted his teeth and jockeyed behind Casey to the clothing department, reaching out to snag a third box of ibuprofen as he passed. He assessed the jam-packed clothes racks and parked the cart beside them. “Stay here with the cart,” he ordered the kid. “I’ll be right back.”
Squeezing around the clothing racks and dodging jostling, sharp-elbowed shoppers hell-bent on a bargain, he snatched up jeans, socks and boxer-briefs, randomly grabbed four T-shirts and two cotton button-downs.
Shit, he’d taken less brutal body hits on the football field. Now to get Casey’s toy and blow this nuthouse.
With a sigh, he plowed back to the cart and dumped his load.
The little boy was nowhere in sight. “Casey!” he called.
Exasperated when the child didn’t pop out from behind a display, he called out once more, louder this time. “Casey! Get your buns out here!”
No response.
A knife edge of panic ripped up his spine. Abandoning the cart, he wove a rapid search pattern around the bulging clothing racks.
No Casey.
Panic morphed into cold, greasy terror. Had the sicko who’d been tormenting Jillian managed to snatch the child?
Not a second to waste. During an abduction attempt in a crowded store, successful kidnappers immediately whisked their victims outside. Gut churning, he sprinted to the front of the store. He had to find Casey fast, or he might never find him.
Zane’s frantic gaze ricocheted to the exit doors and parking lot beyond.
Nothing.
Zane veered left and burst into the men’s bathroom, praying fervently that some pervy creep wasn’t hell-bent on molesting his child. Because in that case, Zane was going down for murder one.
It was empty, as was the women’s bathroom.
Casey had to still be somewhere in the store. Zane ran to the service desk and reported him missing. As the overhead speakers screeched a code yellow, Zane widened the search, hunting aisle by aisle
Minutes dragged like hours, every horrifying picture of abducted children he’d seen burning through his brain in a nightmare slide show. Nausea curdled his stomach.
If something happened to Casey, he’d never forgive himself.
A curly-haired toddler darted in front of him. Her chubby arms clutched a bright pink ball and she laughed delightedly. Zane’s frenzied thoughts coalesced, connected.
Toys!
He raced to the toy department at the rear of the store, frantically scanning the overhead signs. Rounding the third aisle, he skidded to a stop.
Casey stood in front of a shelf, reverently fingering a neon turbo water blaster.
Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
Panting, his heart galloping in his throat choking off his air, Zane propped shaking hands on his rubbery knees and leaned against a post.
“Hey, Zane. Look at this. Isn’t it epic? ”
Cold anger devoured the warm rush of relief. He straightened, swayed, unsure whether to hug Casey or throttle him.
He struggled to find his voice. “I told you to stay with me,” he ground out through a jaw that felt too tight to speak. “I’ve been searching the whole store for you.”
At his grim tone, Casey gulped. The little boy backed away. “I just wanted to see my turbo blaster. Don’t spank me. Don’t spank me, Zane.”
Still shaking, he fought to control his ricocheting emotions. “I’ve never seen Jillian spank you.”
“Not Aunt Jelly, she puts me in the timeout chair. But Uncle Richard spanks me.” Casey’s lower lip trembled. “And Aunt Brooke uses a wooden spoon now cause one time she ruined her manny-cure spanking me and got real mad.”
The flame of anger roared into a blazing inferno. That vicious bitch was never touching his son again. “ Shit, ” he hissed.
“I’m sorry.” Tears welled in those big brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Zane. Don’t be mad at me.”
“Okay. It’s okay.” Sucking in a shuddery breath, he dropped to his knees in front of the child. “Listen, I was afraid something had happened to you and I got scared.” He gently grasped the child’s shoulders. “We talked about bad guys who hurt other people, remember? I’m sure your mom and Aunt Jillian warned you about staying with grownups you know well and not going off with someone else.”
“Uh, huh. They did. Stranger danger.”
“Right. When I couldn’t find you, I was afraid—” Zane’s voice faltered. “I worried someone might be hurting you, and I got scared. Then when I was afraid I might not be able to help you, to stop a bad guy from hurting you, that made me mad. Do you understand?”
Casey’s tears spilled over and trickled down his cheeks, socking Zane in the gut. “I’m sorry I scared ya, Zane. I didn’t mean to.”
Zane swallowed down the unfamiliar urge to cry himself. “I know you didn’t. But when you’re out in public, you have to stay with the grownup who brought you at all times, even in a place you’re familiar with. It’s to keep you safe.” He held his son’s watery gaze. “I don’t want you to ever forget, okay?”
Casey sniffled and nodded. “I won’t. Are you gonna punish me?”
Chest aching, Zane gently wiped the child’s tears with unsteady thumbs. “This is serious stuff, pal, so yes. When we get home, I’m going to give you a timeout. And while I’m still going to buy the water blaster today, I’m going to put it away for a week, and you can have it after that.”
“‘Kay.” Casey’s slender arms slid around Zane’s neck. “Are we still friends?”
His heart crashed into his ribs. “You bet.” He patted Casey’s back. “Just promise you’ll never do this again.”
“Cross my heart.”
He held his son’s small, trembling body, willing away lingering fear. Casey was okay and that’s what mattered. He struggled to regain his equilibrium, then gave Casey a final reassuring pat.
Zane notified the service desk he’d found Casey, and he and the kid relocated the abandoned cart.
Casey was silent during the drive home, giving Zane hope he understood the gravity of his actions.
When they arrived, Zane popped three ibuprofen tablets before directing Casey to a chair he’d faced toward the kitchen corner. “I’ll set the timer on my watch for the amount of time I spent looking for you. While you’re sitting there, I want you to think about how it felt for me to worry about you that long.”
He figured his gut-wrenching search had lasted no more than fifteen minutes. Though it had seemed like hours.
Fifteen minutes again seemed like hours as he put away the groceries, took his new clothes upstairs, and returned to sit on the sofa and wait for the timer.
He didn’t hear a peep out of Casey.
Nobody had ever told Zane punishment was this tough on the person dishing it out.
An eternity later, his watch beeped. Before he could rise, Casey tore into the room. He climbed onto Zane’s lap, his small face solemn. “That was a real long time to worry. I won’t never do it again. I’m real sorry, Zane.”
“Apology accepted.”
Casey smile beamed. “I’m starving. Can we eat now?”
He glanced at his watch. No wonder. It was well past two o’clock. First he lost the kid, then he starved him. Amazed at the little boy’s resiliency, and relieved that Casey wasn’t going to carry a grudge, he nodded.
“Piggy-back me like Luke’s tauntaun, Zane.”
Grinning, Zane bounced the laughing child to the kitchen on his shoulders. “Hey, kid, do you know what the interior temperature of a tauntaun is?”
“Nope, what?”
“Luke warm.”
“Good one!” Casey roared in laughter, pulling Zane’s ears.
“Watch it!” He swung Casey down and tickled him. “Be nice to your tauntaun, or else he might eat you up!”
As Casey dissolved into a giggling pile on the floor, the doorbell rang.
Zane went to the front door and opened it to see Danielle on the porch, flanked by two blond, freckle-covered little boys in swim trunks and T-shirts, one boy slightly taller than the other. “Hi, Mr. Wolfe,” Danielle said. “I have to leave Robbie and Donnie here for a while.” She spun and jogged down the walkway.
Zane flung the door wider. “Wait! They can’t stay—!”
“Sure they can, they play with Casey all the time.” Danielle climbed into a car idling at the curb filled with a group of giggling teenage girls. “Bye.”
The car roared away, leaving Zane shell-shocked in the doorway. Two identical pairs of curious blue eyes stared up at him. “Hi, Mister,” the tallest boy said. “Where’s Casey?”
Before he could answer, Casey ran into the room. “Robbie! Donnie! Yippee!”
Robbie and Donnie raced past Zane, and all three boys chased around the living room, shrieking like air raid sirens. A ceramic vase of daisies went airborne, soaking the sofa cushion. The vase bounced off the cushion and hit the rug, where it cracked into pieces.
“Freeze!” Zane yelled.
Abrupt silence descended. Three small, surprised faces turned toward him.
With effort, he lowered his voice. “Casey, take Donnie and Robbie to the kitchen and … uh … make yourselves some peanut butter sandwiches while I clean this up.”
“‘Kay. C’mon, guys.”
The trio tromped toward the kitchen. “Who is that?” Donnie asked in a stage whisper.
“Zane. He’s my friend.”
“Is he always crabby?”
“Nah,” Casey replied. “He’s just a rookie. But he’s learning real good. He even put me in timeout.”
Zane blotted as much water as possible from the sofa cushion with a towel. He threw away the pieces of broken vase, and concerned about small bare feet, vacuumed the remaining shards. He was returning the vacuum to the utility closet when Casey’s piercing scream echoed through the house.
Pulse racing, Zane tore into the kitchen.
Casey stood by the sink, sobbing hysterically, one hand clamped to his mouth.
Zane’s stomach dropped as he knelt in front of the child and pried Casey’s hand away, searching for an injury. No blood, always a good sign.
“Whoa, take it easy.” He drew the crying child into his embrace. “What happened?”
“I—” Casey wailed. “I swallowed my tooth! Now the Tooth Fairy won’t be able to find it!”
For the second time that day, a wave of relief crashed over him. He closed his eyes briefly, opened them again. “It’s okay. We can...” What could he do to make the child feel better?
Inspiration struck. “We’ll write her a note, and explain what happened.” He grabbed a blank sheet off the grocery list pad and the magnetic pencil. He glanced at Robbie and Donnie, huddling nervously near the table. “Can you guys handle the sandwiches for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Donnie nodded. “We for sure can do that.”
Zane carried Casey into the living room and sat at the dry end of the sofa with the child on his lap.
Casey’s sobs were already subsiding. He blinked, hiccupped, and looked sorrowfully at Zane. “I can’t write a note. I just can print my name.”
“I’ll write the note for you.”
“I guess, but I can’t read very good, either.” Fresh tears welled up. “That was my only very first tooth.”
Zane stroked the child’s hair, thinking. Though the old man had taunted Zane for being a “sissy”, his mom had assured Zane he had artistic talent. He’d doggedly pursued his beloved hobby, and had especially liked sketching portraits. There was something so satisfying about capturing a person’s inner essence on paper.
He’d been in the middle of a graduation portrait of Trevor when his brother died. Zane hadn’t had the heart to pick up a brush or drawing pencil since.
But now, his son needed consoling.
“Tell you what, Casey. We’ll draw her a picture. That way, you can understand it too.”
Holding his breath, Zane began to draw. Unsteady at first, his hand soon remembered the rhythm. Before long, he’d completed a short series of sketches featuring Casey swallowing his tooth.
“That’s me,” Casey breathed, enchanted. “You drew me. ” He clutched the paper to him. “The Tooth Fairy will love this. Will you sign your name? And can I write my name beside yours?”
“You bet.” Feeling oddly poignant, Zane added his signature.
He watched while the little boy’s short fingers struggled with the pencil, laboriously eking out a wobbly CASEY in block letters . “Great job, pal.”
Agonizing realization torpedoed him.
He wanted to stay and see his son grow into manhood.
Detach, Wolfe.
Swallowing the throbbing lump in his throat, he forced a hearty tone. “Let’s go see how those sandwiches are coming along.”
Holding Casey’s hand, he walked into the kitchen. Where he jerked to a dead-stop, staring in stunned horror. The place had been hit by a double-whammy F-5 storm. Hurricane Robbie and Hurricane Donnie.
Bread cascaded from the wrapper on the counter onto the floor, which was a swampland of water puddles and purple Kool-Aid. Peanut butter gooped the countertops, cabinets and both boys. Aragorn perched on the table, purring like a ’57 Chevy without a muffler as he licked the inside of the peanut butter jar. A gritty sugar trail meandered from the sugar canister, over the counter, and across the floor to the table, where sugar coated both boys from head-to-toe, turning them into frosty snowmen.
At the table, Donnie industriously wielded a jam-laden spatula. He slathered another slice in a tottering pile of mangled peanut butter and strawberry jam-coated bread, then licked it.
Robbie stood on a chair, his arm immersed in a pitcher of purple Kool-Aid … stirring it with his hand. He was naked.
Zane tried to speak three times before any words emerged. “Where’s your clothes?” was all he could think to ask.
“They got sugar in them,” Robbie stated. “They itch.”
A startled gasp behind him made Zane whirl around.
Jillian was framed in the kitchen doorway, eyes huge. A slim gray-haired woman wearing a dark green suit and carrying a briefcase stood stiffly at attention beside her.
Jillian gave him a wobbly smile. “Zane, this is Mrs. Stevens.” She gulped. “The adoption caseworker.”