No one had seen or heard a thing. Later, there were a couple of reports of two men running down an alley behind the store. That was it as far as the culprits were concerned. As time went on, the descriptions of the men became more fanciful—there were bloodstains on their clothes; they were high on drugs; they were Satanists, cannibals, escapees from a lunatic asylum; they were white, black, Hispanic….
When he got older, Jasper would come to visit that alley one day to examine its brick surface, with weeds sprouting from the mortar, futilely hoping against hope that a clue might remain. He tried to imagine the killers. Did they feel remorse? Who could do such a thing?
Ultimately, no one was ever caught for the tragic and horrifying crime, although to this day, theories and gossip surrounding the crime still floated around the small town. It was a good spooky story to tell around a campfire. Some believed the murderers were still at large. Some said they were dead. Others attributed many, many unsolved crimes over the years to whomever had snuffed out the lives of Jasper’s family.
Except it wasn’t just a story for Jasper and his dad. The crime, which had probably taken only minutes to perpetrate, echoed through their years together, marring their very lives with an ugly rust-colored stain.
That summer day it was as though Dad had died too. Jasper had vague recollections so Americana in nature that Jasper wondered if he’d conjured them up out of whole cloth in a need for—what? Closeness? Attention? But he liked to imagine he could remember being a little boy and balancing on his father’s shoulders as they watched Fourth of July fireworks at a local park. Maybe therewasa time when he and his dad tossed a Frisbee back and forth under a summer sky of endless blue. Hethoughthe recalled going hunting with his dad one autumn morning, the air crisp and cold, their yellow, red, and black beagle, Topper, his bark sounding like a yodel, pursuing a rabbit through the brush.
Jasper had cried when Daddy shot the rabbit.
Those memoriescould havebeen real, Jasper thought. Theyseemedauthentic enough.
They also could have been someone else’s recollections or even scenes from an old movie. Sometimes we want something to be true so much, we imagine it to be so.
What he really remembered for sure was growing up in a two-bedroom, green-shingled house with a man who hardly ever spoke, who took no interest in him. His best vision of his dad was him seated at the maple kitchen table, the daily newspaper spread out before him, a cup of coffee at his side, and a cigarette burning in an ashtray next to that. He never mentioned what was in the news. In fact, beyond what was necessary for school and the like, they seldom spoke. Sadly, this came to feel like a familial norm for Jasper.
It wasn’t personal, Jasper always told himself. When Jasper’s mom, sister, and unborn sibling had been murdered that day, his father had become a ghost. He went through life as though on automatic pilot. He never seemed to regain any semblance of life, so he went through the motions without feeling anything, a kind of zombie.
To his father’s credit, Jasper could claim he’d always been fed and clothed properly. His dad met all the minimum standards for care—Jasper was never hungry or cold.
Except for love. Except for the warmth of love.
Now he sat up in bed and put his feet on the hardwood floor. “Why am I dredging this crap up now of all times?” He hopped from the bed and headed toward the bathroom. “I have a flight to catch.”
As he made his way, he heard his phone’s ringtone and hurried back to his bedroom. He snatched it off the nightstand where he’d left it the night before to charge.
The caller ID chilled him with its one word: Dad.
Jasper let it go to voicemail.
JASPER HADnever flown before.
At first he froze when the entrance doors under the Alaska sign glided silently open. He couldn’t force himself to step inside—deer frozen in the headlights and all that. All the people in the terminal rushing about, the long lines, the sound of nonstop announcements over invisible speakers, and the digital boards, mounted high, posting dozens and dozens of arrivals and departures, overwhelmed him and made beads of sweat break out on his forehead and the palms of his hands.
What do I do? What do I do? How do people know what to do?
He backed up a few steps and ran into a guy about his own age rushing inside.
“Watch it, bud!” the guy exclaimed and veered around Jasper. “Jesus!”
The guy looked likeheknew what he was doing in his crisp designer jeans, pink oxford-cloth shirt, and leather Tumi bag. He wasn’t much older than Jasper, but Jasper felt a world apart.
People know this stuff. Most people anyway. They know how to check a bag. They know what line to get into. What do I do first?Jasper wondered.Get in one of the long lines? But which one? If I get in the wrong one and wait too long, maybe I’ll miss my flight. Good thing he didn’t need to check his nylon duffel bag. He saw people printing out tags for their luggage and had no idea how he would managethat. He looked at the threadbare bag, sitting on its wheels beside him, and felt a wave of embarrassment. Rob’s luggage was probably all leather, Vuitton or some other designer label.
And speaking of Rob, he most likely knew exactly what to do when he got to the airport. This would be second nature for Rob. He probably had an assistant to take care of all the details and would blithely board the plane when the time came. He’d stroll right on up to that line to Jasper’s left, the one that said First Class.
Wait a minute. I’m first class. Rob had told him that his ticket would be waiting at the first-class counter.
He breathed a sigh of relief and got in the first-class line with the other travelers. Thankfully, this line was very short. Yet he immediately felt out of place, as though he were an imposter who had snuck into the grounds of some exclusive enclave. He wouldn’t have been surprised if some dark-suited man or woman glided up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and in a soft voice told him, “You don’t belong, sir. You simply do not belong. Please exit the airport now.”
But no one did, and Jasper moved forward behind a blonde in yoga pants cradling a Yorkshire terrier in her arms. Her luggage was hot pink. The dog eyed him with what Jasper thought was disdain. Even a Yorkshire terrier found him out of place.
Jasper was sweating by the time his turn came. When he got to the attendant, an older man with a shaved head, gray beard, and cool red round glasses, he was tongue-tied.
The man cocked his head. “ID? Ticket?”
Jasper didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have a ticket. He just knew he’d be sent away, laughed out of O’Hare for the rube he was.
