“We needed money. Brad took Ryan and had him help out at the trainyard.”
I considered her for a moment and what she was feeding me. I didn’t believe that she was oblivious to what Ryan really did at the train yard that put money in their sickpockets.
“How did he help out?” I glanced down at the picture. “He was, what, maybe nine? I doubt he could lift much or help out with manual labor. And there are strict child laborlaws.”
His mom faltered a little. I saw it. Sheknew.
“Well, I don’t remember exactly. It wasn’t Brad’s fault that Ryan died on the tracks. Ryan’s shoe got caught, and a train came. I never got to even see his body. They wouldn’t let me,” she tried toreason.
“They wouldn’t let you, because he didn’t die. There wasn’t a body to showyou.”
I pulled out his fourth-gradepicture.
“That’s Ryan in the fourth grade,” I continued, “The year after he supposedlydied.”
I added the fifth-grade picture on top of it and kept adding the yearbook pictures all the way up to his senior year. Then I added a photocopy of an article that recognized a handful of local boys in the area that were attending Southern California universities to play baseball. Ryan had been named and pictured. I put the picture of Ryan at Christmas back ontop.
“That’s Ryan Hudson. That is the young man that you, your husband, and your other son abused and neglected,Elizabeth.”
Her vacant stare afforded me no confirmation that he even registered to her suddenly. Apparently, she visually recognized him up until his third-grade year, but beyond that, nothing. The illness presented itself whenever it wanted, I realized there was no control over it. Knowing how much this moment could mean to Ryan, I picked my phone up and pressed the record button on my voice memoapp.
“If you could, would there be anything that you’d want to say to him today,ifyoucould?”
Elizabeth shrugged and shook her head slowly. Her hand sifted through the photographs, and she pulled out the third-grade picture. I gave her a few moments to look at the pictures and the baseball article, hoping for Ryan’s sake she’d utter anapology.
“He was a dirty boy, I remember. He was sinful. He shouldn’t have been playing on the tracks,” shedeclared.
I sighed and stopped the recording, then hitdelete.
“Speaking of your other son, Chad,” I began to say. I cued up my video from this afternoon and turned it so she could watch the wholething.
“My baby,Chad?”
It irritated me immensely that she had more of an emotional reaction to seeing Chad carted off than seeingRyan.
“Correct. He was arrested today for possession, the production, and distribution of pornography with a minor.” I held my phone in my hand and calmly put the photos and article back in the portfolio. “If you ever try to contact Ryan, I will notify the authorities of your role in all ofthis.”
I stood and left without so much as a glance back. I knew that there was a good chance that as the authorities went through the videos, they would visit Elizabeth Hudson in the very nearfuture.
By the time I left the Ventura Senior Home, it was nearly 8:00 p.m. and I tried sending Ryan anothertext.
“What is with this godforsaken lack of cell signal here?” I ranted and then tried to dial Ryan. The busy signal came up, and the screen in my car said ‘weak signal.’ “Well, no shit,” I yelled at the screen. I tossed my phone onto the charging pad and rubbed my hand over myface.
I was tired from the emotional pull of the day, and I just wanted to hear my boy. I pulled into a Starbucks drive-thru and got some coffee to begin my drive home. As I got further from the Hollywood and L.A. area, I saw the cell strength move from one bar to two. Each time I attempted to call, the second bar would flutter and disappear. The signal disappeared completely in the mountain pass between San Bernardino and Hesperia. As soon as I was clear of the mountain range, my dash screen beeped to alert me that signal strength had beenrestored.
“Finally,” I sighed. My screen lit up to notify me of my missed calls, messages, and texts. “Read my missed texts,” I instructed mycar.
“Missed text from Leonard…Don’t worry Russell. I reached out to Ryan and am going to work with him to make sure he’s good enough for you. You deserve better than him…End ofmessage.
What thefuck?
“Next message fromNick—”
“Stop,” I commanded so it wouldn’t go onto the next message. “Repeat the text fromLeonard.”
I listened to this a few more times before the weight that had already been in the pit of my stomach felt like it got a little heavier. I swear to God, if he so much as texted my boy, there would be hell to pay. I was almost certain Leonard had contacted Ryan. It only made sense as to why I’d had no messages or texts from him all day. Granted, the cell signalsucked.
“A quiet Ryan is a worried Ryan,” I said outloud.
