I took my son to the park every day.
Every day until four days ago.
His name is David. He’s 21 months. I don’t know when you stop counting months and start going by years, but until then, months it is.
We arrived at the park. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. Kids were playing. Dogs were running.
We passed the group of people practicing Tai Chi, training for a really slow fight. We passed the shirtless showoff hitting focus pads with his “trainer.”
There were the old Russian men playing chess and smoking cigarettes beneath the “No Smoking” sign. The Mexican fruit vendor was slicing up bitesize pineapple and watermelon with a rusty butcher’s knife. At the price of seven bucks a quart, I might add.
David and I had been coming here every afternoon for weeks, and by this point, we had our park routine down. First, we’d hit the swings where he’d need to try all of them. And if at any point another kid jumped on one of the swings, David would need to use that swing as soon as the kid was done.
After the swings, came the slides. We’d just worked our way up to David going down the corkscrew by himself and not in my lap. A proud dad moment for sure. Once his size fives hit the sand, David exclaimed, “Again!”
“Okay, one more time,” I answered, knowing full well that it’d take at least six more times of me saying, “one more time,” before we moved on to hanging from the monkey bars.
Climbing back up through the jungle gym to the top of the slide, we came upon a boy in dinosaur sweat pants and a Transformers T-shirt. He was sitting by himself, hugging his knees to his chest, crying. He looked to be about four years old. Not 48 months.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m lost,” he said.
Shit. I looked around but didn’t see any frantic parents looking for their lost kid. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t very well say, “Okay, then,” and move on. Instead, I chose to ask, “Who are you here with?” Reflecting on this moment now, bile rises in my throat. Because at this point, what I didn’t realize was, that I’d already asked two questions too many.
“My uncle,” he said.
“What’s his name?”
“Hector, but I call him Tio.”
I had to do something to help this poor kid, but what?
“Okay, let’s look for him,” I decided.
This was a mistake.
I watched Raul wipe snot across his cheek as he got to his feet. I reached to wipe it off out of instinct but quickly stopped myself.
“What’s your name?”
“Raul.”
“Hi, Raul. This is David. I’m David’s dad.”
David looked at me, confused and concerned. Somehow, at 21 months, he knew something wasn’t right. I wish he’d said something.
Raul, David, and I searched the park. I held David’s hand. Raul walked beside us. We didn’t see Tio. Didn’t see anybody who looked like they might be a Tio. We kept looking. But after a few minutes of searching, we discovered the weirdest thing – we were the only people at the park.
The rhythmic tap-tap of the boxer hitting the pads, the chopping of pineapple, kids chasing each other with sticks – had all stopped. Silence. The only sound came when the wind sighed through the branches, making them rustle mysteriously.
Where’d everybody go?
It was now about the time when David and I would normally be leaving. David’s mom would be cooking dinner and expecting us soon. But I couldn’t leave this crying baby all by himself.
My cell phone was back in the car. I looked around on the off chance there was a – wow, what do you know, a payphone. In the distance, there was the rusty squeak of a vacant swing.
I hadn’t used a payphone in fifteen years. Maybe twenty. I didn’t have any change on me. Who the hell carries change? Or cash? But police calls are free in case of emergency. So, I called the police. The voice on the other end of the line told me, “We’ll send somebody.”
All I could do was wait. The shadows grew long. It was getting dark.
David’s mom was surely getting worried. But I didn’t want to go back to the car. With my luck, I’d invariably miss the police when they finally showed up.
“We’ll just wait a few more minutes,” I told them, and myself, hearing the faint rusty squeak of a vacant swing.
David was getting hungry. Tired. He needed a diaper change. Raul was also tired and hungry. I didn’t know about his diaper situation. I wasn’t about to find out.
“Just a few more minutes,” I reiterated to all interested parties. But it was dark. We couldn’t wait any longer. Certainly couldn’t stay here all night. I decided to take both boys home with me. David’s mom and I could call the police or child services from our house. And that’s when I heard the crunch of gravel under rubber—followed by two headlight beams swiping across the parking lot. A police cruiser. I waved and walked the boys over.
“Been waiting long?” the Cop asked.
“Yeah, since I called you.”
“Yeah, sorry. We had to find a car seat. Didn’t know how to install it. Actually had to go by the fire station if you can believe that.”
“Somehow, I can.”
I gave the officers my information, Raul’s name, and Hector’s name. I watched them put the scared little boy in the backseat of the squad car. I’d never felt so guilty as I stood there, watching the Keystone Cops fumble with car seat straps. The door slammed shut. I snapped out of it.
“Goodnight,” said the Cop.
Raul looked at me through the glass as if I’d betrayed him. The car drove away.
I drove David home. It was only seven or eight minutes back to our house, but I was wondering what would happen to Raul the entire time. Would his family find him? Would he become part of the system? I couldn’t think about it. But it was all I could think about.
We pulled into our driveway, and I slammed on the brakes. My breath clogged and stopped in my throat. My face went pale. I didn’t blink. I was looking at something I couldn’t possibly be looking at. What in God’s name was standing on my driveway?
I got out of the car. I felt faint with fear. My testicles drew up, and my belly turned to lead. I slowly walked up to him. Standing there, fully illuminated in my headlights, was Raul.
“I wanted to come home with you,” said Raul.
END PART ONE