Reunion

We’re supposed to stay in our own beds at night; those who don’t are punished. The adult monitor checks on us intermittently for the first hour after lights out, easing the door and poking her head, never bothering to kill the hallway overheads first, harsh, yellow light spilling in like the flashlight of a belligerent officer. The door closes. It opens. Closes. When we’re sure the last visit has come, our small feet touch silently to the floor. Breathlessly, we creep in the moonlight, the old wood cold and hard and capable of crashing everything with just a creak. The three of us join under a single sheet.

We fit neatly like Tetris blocks. Some nights we twist like pretzels. Always, we huddle close and hold hands, saying nothing at all, lips silent, eyes peering into souls, lids heavy, fighting exhaustion then unknowingly giving in. Slow blinks become deep REM and dreams arise of places far beyond these walls and creaky floorboards. Nicer places with basketball hoops over garage doors and snack cabinets that don’t lock. Maybe with yards and golden retrievers. His hands are thick and rough. Hers, soft and delicate. I need both. Without them, sleep is impossible. Without them, I’d never survive. We doze off whispering:

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Winn was adopted when we were nine. Christian and I were devastated. We wanted desperately to show her joy because she’d found a loving family. We wore brave faces, but silently we suffered, our little triangle destroyed. The day she left, we crawled under her bed with a sharpie to write all three of our initials, side-by-side, on the metal frame.

“Find me when you get out,” she said, tears streaking. “Promise.”

“We promise.”

“No matter how long,” she sniffled.

“No matter how long.” I cut the ‘w’ from my Warriors hoodie and gave it to her. Christian gave her a black rock that was almost the shape of a heart.

A year later, the state gave Christian back to his parents. Well, they gave him back to his mother who’d completed mandatory rehabilitation. His father was in jail for a string of misdemeanors, one of which was upgraded to a felony.

“Maybe it’ll be different this time,” he said to me, sadly, packing his things. All his clothes fit in one bag.

“It will be,” I assured him. “She’ll cook you dinner and say I love you. She’ll get you a baseball mitt and cheer you at Little League.”

“I’m sorry you have to stay.”

“I’ll be okay. Here – take this.” I shoved it in his hand.

His eyes lit up. “A Barry Bonds rookie card?! Where’d you get this?”

“My mom gave it to me one birthday. Dad tore up the house looking for it. He wanted to sell it for cash. But I hid it good.”

“I don’t have anything to give you, Will.” His shoulders slumped.

“I don't care. I want you to have it.”

He pocketed it. “Will you find me when you leave?” he asked. Christian was big and courageous, but there was something small and anxious in his voice. “Don’t forget what I said. My house is in Tanner Springs Park. It’s got a Pittsburgh Steelers flag in the front door.”

“What if it’s not there?” I asked.

“I’ll make sure. You’ll come find me, right Will?”

“I’ll find you.” We hugged and then he was gone. I was all alone without my friends.

I knew where to find Christian, but I had no idea where to find Winn. So I snuck out of bed one night and crept to the office, searching for her paperwork. I found it in a metal filing cabinet; the key already slid into the hole.

I didn’t know her last name so I had to flip through the files slowly. Finally, I found her – thank god there were no other Winona’s.

Child: Winona Moss

DOB: 2/4/2002

Adopting parents: Stan and Jane Johnson

Address: 194 Dansby Street, Anaheim, CA 92801

I memorized everything and tiptoed back through the darkness. I lay in bed at night and wondered what my friends were doing.

Three years passed. I was adopted when I was thirteen.

“Where are they from?” I asked.

“Where are they from?” Mr. Walsh asked, amazed. “That’s your first question? Don’t you want to know their names? What they’re like?”

“Where do they live?”

He frowned. “Will, let’s pause and reflect for a moment. You’ve been here long enough to see; opportunities get scarcer as kids… get older. This is a wonderful opportunity for you.”

“WHERE are they FROM?”

He looked at me, irritated, and thumbed through their file. “They live in Yorba Linda, William.”

“I want to meet them.”

It was cool they didn’t insist I call them mom and dad right away. When they brought me home, there was a chalkboard waiting that read: ‘Welcome to your new digs, Will the thrill!” My room was my own; they brought me to Target and let me fill it with things I liked. Stan took me to Angels games and we wore matching Mike Trout jerseys. Jane helped me with school and taught me to control my anger. I didn’t make them wait long. I meant it, too.

“Thank you, mom. Dad.”

Never did I forget Winn and Christian. I fished the yellow pages from a kitchen drawer and rifled through the J’s. So many Johnson’s in Anaheim. Plenty of nice ones. Oh, I’m sorry, dear, nobody here with a name that lovely. Plenty of pissed ones, too. Why don’t you make sure you’ve got the right number before you bother another stranger?

There were only three Johnson’s left. Find me when you get out. Promise? Winn’s sad face burned in my memory. On the second-to-last number, a cheery voice answered. I asked for Winn.

“Who’s calling, dear?” Her voice was warm.

“Will.”

“Will who, sweetheart?”

I forgot my new last name. I forgot my old one too. “From Southern Cal Family Services.”

Shuffling on the other end. And then: her voice, different but exactly the same. “Will!”

Our houses were thirty minutes apart but two hours with traffic. First, we had our parents agree to meet. Once that was done, we started searching for Christian. We googled ‘Tanner Springs Park’ and learned it was a mobile home park in Fullerton. Nobody was listed under Christian’s last name in the yellows. One day, Winn and I got on our bikes and went. We made excuses for our parents, alibis that would break under the faintest scrutiny. I’ll be at Will’s house, dad. Mom, I’m going to Winn’s. We didn’t think they’d understand. We didn’t think they’d let us. They’d spent weeks getting to know each other before the two of us were allowed to see each other. We didn’t want to wait.

The park was cruddy, the trailers sunken and ill-kept. Burnt dirt patches and gnarled weeds reaching from cement cracks. The same agent’s face, fat and purple, was plastered on signs everywhere, for totally different functions. For sale! Sold! Maintenance and safety! Landscaping services! Do you need help towing? What can Lower East Capital do for you? A few cars were up on cinder blocks, one with its hood popped and the engine missing. Gaunt faces peered from closed curtains.

“Will! Look! There it is!”

A battered trailer. A faded Steelers banner in the door.

We kept our bikes with us. I knocked. “Hello?” I called.

Nothing.

“Maybe they’re not home,” Winn said, disappointed.

I looked in the gravel driveway: no tracks. No flowers or lawn chairs. “Let’s check.”

We leaned our bikes on the side of the trailer and used a milk crate from the neighbor’s yard to climb through the back window. I crawled in first and then helped Winn wiggle through.

“You okay?” I asked her.

“I’m okay,” she said, catching her feet. “I’m –”

She stopped. There was nothing but dust.

The silence eerie and frightening. “Are you sure this is what he said?” Winn trembled.

Everything covered in a thin layer; the floor, the cupboards, the flimsy countertops. I opened the fridge and there was nothing. In the recessed bathroom mirror, there was a pack of smokes and a box of nicotine patches. The television stand was still outlined in the rug. The couch too, but with a grimier edge. They hadn’t been there for some time.

“I’m sure,” I whispered. “Tanner Springs Park. Steelers flag in the door.”

“Where do you think they went?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

Two bedrooms down the short hall, the first completely bare. On the floor in the second: the Barry Bonds rookie card. He looked at me with a thin face and radiant smile. He wore that striped Pirates hat that looked like the cap of a train conductor. I sat on the floor, running my thumb over the plastic case. Winn rested her head on my shoulder. We rode home in silence and arrived to our parents screaming. Of course they’d discovered our pathetic attempt at a lie.

Four years later.

I’m eating breakfast and his face appears on the news. He looks a decade older than he should, but I’m sure it’s him. His features have hardened. He looks exhausted. Exhausted from what? Everything so angular – jawline, brow, cheekbones. Stubble on his chin and hair wild like he’d been in a hurricane. He’s much bigger now, but in the photo I see only a ragdoll. Next to Christian is the mugshot of an older man. His beard is full and his eyes brimming with aggression. A scar on his tattooed neck where someone slashed him. I grab the remote and turn the volume up.

“…Forty-eight year old Dylan Morris, and son, Christian Morris, eighteen. Police say the duo are responsible for a string of aggravated robberies throughout Northern California, the latest of which resulted in the slaying of Eureka resident, Zayd Kahn. Mr. Kahn was a long haul truck driver and stalwart in his community. He leaves behind a brother, nephew, and canine companion.

The camera cuts to a woman in what looks like a diner. She’s got a sad face and a nametag that says Tina. In her waist strap, a pen and pad. “It ain’t right,” she says, shaking her head. “Kahn came in all the time. Read the paper, made jokes. Always smiled and left a good tip.” She frowns. “I don’t know who would do something like this.”

The shot pans back to the anchor. “The suspects were arraigned Tuesday in court and a bail hearing will take place for the younger Morris early next week. The pretrial phase is expected to move swiftly, with a court date likely to be set by the end of the month.”

Winn and I read the articles online. Then we headed to Eureka.

Christian looked ragged behind the glass. They had him in a navy jumpsuit and ankle cuffs. His wild hair had been trimmed. He smiled meekly when he saw us. Can you believe this shit?

He lived with his mother in the trailer for about a year. She was erratic but mostly kept it together, working a fulfillment center job and staying on schedule with her drug testing. She got him a baseball mitt and hit him grounders and fly balls in the nearby park. She had bad days, too. When they came, she slept all day. There were more good days than bad.

All of that disintegrated when his dad was released. He was supposed to stay away but of course didn’t. Soon, Christian’s mom was drinking again. Smoking. Missed work and got fired. She failed a drug test. Then another. Vans from Child Services began to reappear.

“He said if I didn’t go with him I’d end up back in foster care,” Christian explained. “So I went.”

“Then what?”

His eyes were tired. His heart too. “It started small – mostly I was the lookout while he ripped people off. Then when we started robbing industrial sites, he’d send me in at night to scope. Ya know, where are the guard stations, how many guards, is the stuff locked up or just lying around inside the main gates. Are there cameras everywhere. That stuff. He told me it was smarter that way since I was only a juvenile, that I could play dumb and get away with mischief criminal trespassing or some shit like that.”

Winn and I listened quietly.

He went on: “He got more and more paranoid. I think it was the drugs he was taking. He bought them late night at trucks stops. And then one day, out of nowhere, he had a gun. I have no idea where he got it.”

“Did he threaten you with it?” I asked.

“Me? No, never. But he was reckless. And impulsive. He didn’t have the patience to plan anymore. So we started sticking up gas stations.”

“What’d you do?” Winn asked.

Christian sagged. “I just drove. I never went inside. He’d crash in the passenger seat with the bag stuffed full of cash, screaming ‘GO! GO! GO!’.” He laughed. “You’d be shocked how little cash some gas stations have in the register. Seventeen bucks one time.”

“And the guy who died?” I regretted the question immediately. I still do.

“I can’t,” Christian stopped me. “My lawyer said not a word.”

“We found this.” I pulled the Bonds card from my jacket.

He smiled. “I left that for you. In case you came looking.”

I frowned. “I’m sorry I was too late.”

“Hang on to it for me, would ya?”

“I’ll keep it safe,” I promised. They led Christian away.

Three weeks later he took a plea deal that put his father away for life. Mr. Kahn had confronted him with his own weapon. Instead of fleeing, Christian’s dad put four bullets in his chest. Christian was three days past his eighteenth birthday when the killing happened. His sole involvement was driving the car, but under the felony murder rule, all participants in certain dangerous felonies can be charged with murder if someone’s killed. The D.A. put his heel to Christian’s throat, threatening to try him as an adult. Christian cooperated and got four years instead of a possible life sentence, with a hearing for release after two. He served all four despite perfect behavior.

Winn and I somber on the drive home.

“What do you think your life would be like if they gave you back to your parents?” I asked.

“ I don’t know,” she answered, staring blankly out the window. “I never knew my parents.”

Silence.

“What do you think your life would be like?”

I hit a pothole and cursed. The only one on the whole fuckin’ road. In my mind: sirens screaming and cops pouring through the front door. Jagged glass sparkling and blood smeared all over the floor. I blink it away.

“I think I’d be dead.” Winn eased her hand onto mine. We laced fingers and squeezed.

We both landed in San Diego – Winn at UCSD and me at SDSU. I kissed her deep one night at 2am. She kissed me back. I undressed her delicately, like a flower to be spared damage. She grabbed my face with two hands, cold comets in her eyes. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Senior year we signed a year lease for a house between our two campuses. We got a golden retriever and named him Ollie.

Christian called two weeks prior to his release.

“I’ve got a job opportunity up North, but it’s not until April. Could I come spend a week with you and Winn before I leave?”

“Of course you can,” I answered. “You need us to come get you in Sacramento?”

Badgering behind him.

“Nah, they give you bus fare on release. Can you get me at the station in San Diego? It gets in around four.”

“We’ll see you at four.”

He looks good when we pick him up; clean-shaven and sturdy. His hair’s long, tied back in a butterfly clip. There’s a clearness to his eyes. We get tacos from a food truck and bring them down to the beach. Dusty rose and bright lemon in the sky. California coastline: pure medicine for the soul.

It’s a wildland firefighting position that awaits him up in the big reds. He was accepted to the volunteer fighters program while incarcerated. Well, not technically a volunteer program – that would create messy allegations of forced labor. He made a buck ninety an hour digging trench lines and hauling supplies up blazing mountainsides.

“Most of those guys don’t get jobs when they’re released,” he explains. “But my boss was an ex-convict himself. He climbed the ladder before they tightened the rules and shut everyone out. It helped his record got expunged. He liked me cuz I did what I was told. I’d be an idiot not to take it.”

We stroll the beach an hour then head home. He drops his bag and surveys our place. Laptops humming on the kitchen table. Photos and magnets on the fridge. Ollie mobs him with a rope toy and demands tugs. I know what he’s thinking: this could have been me. He’s not normal and neither are we. But we were rescued before it was too late. Christian wasn’t. I’m glad he’s alive.

We put on a movie and lay on the living room floor. Ollie topples our bowl of popcorn and I make another. We talk for hours. The evening gets dark, then pitch black, before lightening in the dawn. We huddle close, lips silent, lids heavy, fighting exhaustion. Our eyes fade. We find each other’s hands.

“Hey,” Christian whispers.

“Yeah?” Winn whispers back.

“Do you both remember the day Winn got adopted, when we wrote our initials under her bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmhm.”

He squeezes our hands. “I think of that whenever I’m afraid.”