I said, “We’re . . . collecting money for orphans. We’re orphans,” but she was already running out of the entryway.
“Zeke?” I said.
“We better go,” he said, but he hesitated, thinking about taking the poster back, and then a man appeared, wearing only boxers and a T-shirt. “Son?” he said. The woman was peering out from another room.
“Dad?” Zeke said.
“What are you doing here?” his dad said. “Why didn’t you call?” His eyes got a little wild, and he said, “Is your mother here? Did she send you?”
“It’s just me,” Zeke said. “And . . . this is my friend.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Why are you here?” his father said, now getting angry because he was no longer terrified that his wife was about to stab him.
“We went to the zoo,” I offered.
“Who is this?” his father asked.
“I told you,” Zeke said, starting to stutter.
“What is this?” his father asked, nothing but questions, this guy. Nothing about missing his son, no apologies, no explanation for why he was at home with some woman young enough to be his daughter in the middle of the fucking afternoon on a weekday. He grabbed the poster and examined it.
“This is . . . this is what they’ve been talking about on the news. This is everywhere.”
“It’s like . . . graffiti,” Zeke offered.
His father’s eyes widened and he looked at Zeke. He looked down at the poster and then back at his son. “You drew this,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He had moved on to declarative sentences. “You did this.”
“We both did,” I offered. “I wrote it,” and he said, “Excuse me, miss, I am talking to my son right now.”
“Well, okay, but—”
“Son, this is very bad. This is . . . this is really bad. You are going to ruin your life.”
“Who is that lady?” Zeke suddenly asked. “’Cause that’s not either one of the ladies that Mom told me about. Is she living here?”
“The fact that you are trying to turn this around on me,” his father said, “to deflect blame for . . . this thing. Jesus Christ. Your mother has made you crazy.”
“I hate you so much,” Zeke said.
“Get in this house right now,” his father said, almost yelling. “You want to go to jail for . . . this poster? I cannot believe—”
“I hate you,” Zeke said again, rubbing his face with his hands, like he was trying to scrub dirt off, like there were bugs on him, like he was starting a fire inside of his brain.
“Get in the house,” his father said, teeth gritted. “We need to figure out what we’re going—” and Zeke suddenly leaped toward him and started scratching his father’s face, digging his nails into the skin, and Zeke’s father began to howl.
“Reuben!” the lady shouted.
“Shit!” his dad said, trying to tear his son’s hands from his face, but Zeke was like a rabid squirrel. I ran forward and kicked his father as hard as I could, and his knee buckled and he was on the floor. It had nothing to do with my own dad. I just so badly wanted to hurt the person who had hurt Zeke. “Shit!” he shouted again.
“I’m calling the cops!” the lady yelled, but Zeke’s dad shouted, “Sheila, are you crazy? Don’t do that!”
“Come on,” I said to Zeke, who finally pulled his hands from his father’s face. There were these jagged little cuts all over his face, and I could see this flap of skin stuck on Zeke’s fingernail.
We ran back to the car, and I burned rubber pulling away. We were both nearly hyperventilating, and I was going fifty-five miles per hour in a residential area, but I just kept going. I blew right through a stop sign and there was an old lady walking her dog who shouted at me, but I screamed, “Fuck off!” and kept going. Finally, after a few miles, I pulled into the empty parking lot of some auto parts store that had gone out of business.
“Oh, fuck,” Zeke said, his whole body tensed like he was waiting for something to hit him. “We are so fucked.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You did the right thing.”
“I just . . . Frankie, I’m so sad,” he said, and he started sobbing.
“It’s okay,” I told him. He was shuddering, making these little screechy sounds as he tried to breathe. It scared me. “It’ll be okay.”