What Happened to Lucas
by Georgie Popovitch
PART ONE:
Lucas has been missing for a week now. The police have been good; they have been giving me daily updates, which so far, amount to nothing. Tana, Lucas’s girlfriend, is morose, in a blank stupor that neither me, nor her family can bring her out of. I have gone to visit her for tea, keeping her updated on what the police have to say, on where the investigation is heading, which, like I said, is nowhere. Sometimes she cries, but most often she just stares at her cup, the palm of her hand placed over the top, her fingers splayed tightly on the sides and grasping tightly, as though, like her life, it could slip and shatter into a million pieces at any moment, the hot liquid splattering in all directions on the floor. Her other hand covers the growing bump inside her belly, protecting it. They will be parents soon, her and Lucas, and I imagine, in her grief-stricken worry, she is wondering if she can manage on her own. If he doesn’t come back.
PART TWO:
It’s almost two weeks now and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Lucas and the messed-up life we shared, wondering if things might have turned out differently if I had stayed away from Tom, Lucas’s father. I knew Tom had a messy upbringing, he was honest with me, and I loved him for that. We talked and we cried, and I thought that was the end of it, it was packed and put away, and we would move forward. And be happy. I was wrong.
The first time Tom hit me; I fought back. It was pointless, but the surprise at being hit fueled so much shock and rage that I hit back, thinking I might be a match. I wasn’t, so the second time he did it I gathered what I could and ran.
The second time happened on a quiet stretch of country road a few miles from our acreage, home to a dilapidated out-of-use barn, a root cellar dug deep into the cold ground, and an old farmhouse that used to be small but had been added to by his grandfather, and then his father, and then extended again by him before we married. Comprised of its small, original brick-and-mortar core and later, several wood-framed protrusions, it took on the character of a large, rambling spider, unsure of which way it was about to move. To look at, the house was very much like Tom: unpredictable.
We were arriving from town on an evening that ended badly, arguing about something or other. He wanted to stay, I think to nurture a flirtation some girl was having with him, but I pressured him into coming home. We had Lucas with us that night and he was young, about eighteen months old, and he was getting tired and cranky. I used it as an excuse to get Tom out of there, but honestly, it was probably because I was afraid of where the flirtation might lead. Tom was quiet on that ride home, and as we approached our dark gravelled stretch, about three miles away from the yard, he reached across Lucas’s infant carrier, tethered into the centre of the bench seat, and smashed his fist into my face. I had learned from the first time; I was no match. He had been drinking, so I had been driving, and I used it to my advantage - I slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding on the washboard gravel until it came to a stop in the centre of the empty road. I jumped out, used all of my strength to yank his intoxicated, unsteady body out of the cab, and ran back to the driver’s side to get away, before he composed himself enough to jump back in and finish what he started.
I sped toward our yard, the truck bouncing dangerously from side to side on the gravel as it fought to stay on the rippled washboard, while Lucas’s shaken body erupted in undulating screams. It was a risk I was willing to take to avoid the consequence of Tom catching up, which, looking back, would have been impossible, but I wasn’t thinking straight at that point.
In those addled minutes it took me to drive to the house, I calmed myself down enough to develop a plan and used a precious few more to take what I thought I might need. Bottles, diapers, and a few changes of clothes for Lucas. A little bit of cash I had been saving for a new pair of shoes, and a low-limit credit card stashed in Tom’s sock drawer, our “emergency” card, that had never been used. I couldn’t remember the last time we went somewhere, where I might have stored our large suitcase, the barn maybe? So, I grabbed what was closest, a large green garbage bag kept under the kitchen sink and threw everything into it. I loaded Lucas and the bag into the cab and drove a hundred miles away, to the nearest city and the cheapest motel I could find. The plan back then was to never return, to start fresh, and safe, and never be hit again.
That was the second time. The time I realized I was trapped. No skills, no money, no family--and so, the third, fourth, and following times were not as dramatic. Eventually, I gave in. I knew when I was beaten and focused on doing everything I could to keep the peace.
What, exactly was my version of peace? Protecting Lucas, of course. When Tom came home quiet and sullen, I would order Lucas to his room for an early bedtime, and when Tom was in an explosive mood I would send Lucas to the store, or to a friend, or to any place but home. My beautiful little boy would not pay for my mistakes, my weakness. I don’t know how much he really saw or took in during his early years, but kids are perceptive, and by the time he was in grade school, he seemed to know when it was safe around his father, and when to avoid him. I always did everything in my power to make sure I took the brunt of the beatings, but sometimes I was gone, and Lucas had to fend for himself.
PART THREE:
The police have come back several times, always with the same questions, “What time did Lucas stop by that day? Did he say where he was going next?” And finally, “You realize, right? What we are asking you? What we are saying? At this point in our investigation, you were the last person to see him before he disappeared.”
And now, the police are here again, but this time, there are two cars; both with lights flashing blue and red and blue again, warning there is something drastic to come. My heart sinks and my body leans to the right, an arm outstretched toward the hall console in case I need to brace my fall. Do they know where Lucas is? My mind races and a scene comes back to me: a one-year-old, wailing in his car seat as I fight to control a truck that could go into the ditch at any moment. I see him at five years old, cowering in the corner of his small bedroom as his father, fist curled and ready to strike, stands over him. So many scenes pass before me of Lucas and the violence he faced. I don’t know how much he’s told Tana, or how much I should tell her.
I have visited her often since she reported him missing. Each time she reaches forward to pick up her teacup, I watched her shirtsleeve slide up to reveal the inside of her delicate wrist, the bruise turning from a deep purple to a harsh green, and then a fading yellow. Fresh two weeks ago, the bruise slowly disappears with time. I know why she holds her belly the way she does, as though she’s trying to shield the life inside her from what is sure to come on the outside. What I have done is for her, too.
I can see them coming to the door, search warrant in hand. They will find him, stiff and cold in our root cellar, where I have chained him, and it will be too late. Too late for Lucas, my beautiful little boy, but not too late for my grandchild.
Lucas has been missing for a week now. The police have been good; they have been giving me daily updates, which so far, amount to nothing. Tana, Lucas’s girlfriend, is morose, in a blank stupor that neither me, nor her family can bring her out of. I have gone to visit her for tea, keeping her updated on what the police have to say, on where the investigation is heading, which, like I said, is nowhere. Sometimes she cries, but most often she just stares at her cup, the palm of her hand placed over the top, her fingers splayed tightly on the sides and grasping tightly, as though, like her life, it could slip and shatter into a million pieces at any moment, the hot liquid splattering in all directions on the floor. Her other hand covers the growing bump inside her belly, protecting it. They will be parents soon, her and Lucas, and I imagine, in her grief-stricken worry, she is wondering if she can manage on her own. If he doesn’t come back.
PART TWO:
It’s almost two weeks now and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Lucas and the messed-up life we shared, wondering if things might have turned out differently if I had stayed away from Tom, Lucas’s father. I knew Tom had a messy upbringing, he was honest with me, and I loved him for that. We talked and we cried, and I thought that was the end of it, it was packed and put away, and we would move forward. And be happy. I was wrong.
The first time Tom hit me; I fought back. It was pointless, but the surprise at being hit fueled so much shock and rage that I hit back, thinking I might be a match. I wasn’t, so the second time he did it I gathered what I could and ran.
The second time happened on a quiet stretch of country road a few miles from our acreage, home to a dilapidated out-of-use barn, a root cellar dug deep into the cold ground, and an old farmhouse that used to be small but had been added to by his grandfather, and then his father, and then extended again by him before we married. Comprised of its small, original brick-and-mortar core and later, several wood-framed protrusions, it took on the character of a large, rambling spider, unsure of which way it was about to move. To look at, the house was very much like Tom: unpredictable.
We were arriving from town on an evening that ended badly, arguing about something or other. He wanted to stay, I think to nurture a flirtation some girl was having with him, but I pressured him into coming home. We had Lucas with us that night and he was young, about eighteen months old, and he was getting tired and cranky. I used it as an excuse to get Tom out of there, but honestly, it was probably because I was afraid of where the flirtation might lead. Tom was quiet on that ride home, and as we approached our dark gravelled stretch, about three miles away from the yard, he reached across Lucas’s infant carrier, tethered into the centre of the bench seat, and smashed his fist into my face. I had learned from the first time; I was no match. He had been drinking, so I had been driving, and I used it to my advantage - I slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding on the washboard gravel until it came to a stop in the centre of the empty road. I jumped out, used all of my strength to yank his intoxicated, unsteady body out of the cab, and ran back to the driver’s side to get away, before he composed himself enough to jump back in and finish what he started.
I sped toward our yard, the truck bouncing dangerously from side to side on the gravel as it fought to stay on the rippled washboard, while Lucas’s shaken body erupted in undulating screams. It was a risk I was willing to take to avoid the consequence of Tom catching up, which, looking back, would have been impossible, but I wasn’t thinking straight at that point.
In those addled minutes it took me to drive to the house, I calmed myself down enough to develop a plan and used a precious few more to take what I thought I might need. Bottles, diapers, and a few changes of clothes for Lucas. A little bit of cash I had been saving for a new pair of shoes, and a low-limit credit card stashed in Tom’s sock drawer, our “emergency” card, that had never been used. I couldn’t remember the last time we went somewhere, where I might have stored our large suitcase, the barn maybe? So, I grabbed what was closest, a large green garbage bag kept under the kitchen sink and threw everything into it. I loaded Lucas and the bag into the cab and drove a hundred miles away, to the nearest city and the cheapest motel I could find. The plan back then was to never return, to start fresh, and safe, and never be hit again.
That was the second time. The time I realized I was trapped. No skills, no money, no family--and so, the third, fourth, and following times were not as dramatic. Eventually, I gave in. I knew when I was beaten and focused on doing everything I could to keep the peace.
What, exactly was my version of peace? Protecting Lucas, of course. When Tom came home quiet and sullen, I would order Lucas to his room for an early bedtime, and when Tom was in an explosive mood I would send Lucas to the store, or to a friend, or to any place but home. My beautiful little boy would not pay for my mistakes, my weakness. I don’t know how much he really saw or took in during his early years, but kids are perceptive, and by the time he was in grade school, he seemed to know when it was safe around his father, and when to avoid him. I always did everything in my power to make sure I took the brunt of the beatings, but sometimes I was gone, and Lucas had to fend for himself.
PART THREE:
The police have come back several times, always with the same questions, “What time did Lucas stop by that day? Did he say where he was going next?” And finally, “You realize, right? What we are asking you? What we are saying? At this point in our investigation, you were the last person to see him before he disappeared.”
And now, the police are here again, but this time, there are two cars; both with lights flashing blue and red and blue again, warning there is something drastic to come. My heart sinks and my body leans to the right, an arm outstretched toward the hall console in case I need to brace my fall. Do they know where Lucas is? My mind races and a scene comes back to me: a one-year-old, wailing in his car seat as I fight to control a truck that could go into the ditch at any moment. I see him at five years old, cowering in the corner of his small bedroom as his father, fist curled and ready to strike, stands over him. So many scenes pass before me of Lucas and the violence he faced. I don’t know how much he’s told Tana, or how much I should tell her.
I have visited her often since she reported him missing. Each time she reaches forward to pick up her teacup, I watched her shirtsleeve slide up to reveal the inside of her delicate wrist, the bruise turning from a deep purple to a harsh green, and then a fading yellow. Fresh two weeks ago, the bruise slowly disappears with time. I know why she holds her belly the way she does, as though she’s trying to shield the life inside her from what is sure to come on the outside. What I have done is for her, too.
I can see them coming to the door, search warrant in hand. They will find him, stiff and cold in our root cellar, where I have chained him, and it will be too late. Too late for Lucas, my beautiful little boy, but not too late for my grandchild.
Georgie Popovitch is a retired weekly newspaper reporter, farmer, and mother of three from Alberta, Canada. Always a reader, sometimes a writer, she is using her newfound time delving into the dark and emotional side of the human experience through contemporary fiction.