Work Text:
Frank Connor wondered why he had waited so long to move to California.
It really was the Promised Land. Great weather. Friendly people. Just…one heck of a lifestyle. Nothing like Ohio. Why the hell would anyone stay in Ohio?
Frank had a great job as a pharmaceutical sales rep. He set his own hours and made good money. He had a forest-green Land Rover with two data ports and a custom-installed CD-changer. That was important, because he did most of his work on the road. Cruising down that California highway, the sun shining, business good, not a care in the world.
About six months after moving to Los Angeles, Frank met Christa. She was a medical assistant at one of the practices on his sales route. Christa was eleven years younger than Frank, but looked even younger. She could have still been in her twenties. Strawberry blonde. Pretty green eyes. Great smile. Wish they all could be California giiiiirls…
Frank flirted with Christa every time he went to see the doctors in that practice. Finally, he asked her out. Things got serious pretty quickly, and Frank was thrilled. He had all the other ingredients for the good life, now he just needed the family, too.
When Frank told Christa he’d been married before, she was cool about it. She asked him how long, and Frank easily shaved ten years off the time he’d been married to Elise. A divorce after ten years wasn’t such a big deal. A divorce after twenty years would have made him sound like a loser. Worse, it might have led to questions.
Christa asked if he and his ex-wife had had any children, and Frank did not hesitate for even a second before answering, “No.”
_____
Frank and Christa were married in June of 2002, a year after they met. They had a gorgeous outdoor wedding up in Sonoma, on the grounds of a former mission. The majority of the guests were Christa’s friends and family. Frank mostly invited colleagues.
They bought a house in Huntington Beach. Nothing special, but Frank loved it. It was bright and airy, with plenty of big windows on the first floor. Big windows to let in that good California sunshine. It was healthy, all that sunshine. Nothing could hide in sunshine like that.
Christa was pregnant by October. At first, Christa didn’t want to know the baby’s sex; she wanted to be surprised. Frank convinced her that it would be better to find out, so they’d know what clothes to buy and how to decorate the baby’s room.
The sonogram showed that the baby was a boy. Christa was excited. On the way home, all she could talk about was how she knew the whole “first-born son” thing was old fashioned and silly, but all the same, she’d really been hoping their first would be a boy. There was just something about having a son first, wasn’t there?
Frank watched the road and said nothing. He’d been hoping for a girl.
_____
Frank had an appalling nightmare that night, so bad that he woke up Christa. He couldn’t get back to sleep, so he went downstairs to his study and did some paperwork. He’d forgotten most of the nightmare by the time he was finished, and was able to go back to bed and catch another hour or so of sleep before getting up to go to work.
At breakfast, Christa asked, “Frank, who’s Casey?” and Frank’s entire body went numb. For a few seconds, he was sure he was having a stroke.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know anyone named Casey.”
“You kept saying that name in your sleep last night. Right before you woke up.”
Frank shrugged and smiled. “Dreams are weird things,” he said.
_____
Two weeks later, exhausted and almost hysterical from lack of sleep, Frank went to his doctor. He told him how stressed out he was, what with work and the baby on the way. The doctor sympathized and wrote out a prescription for sleeping pills. They worked like a charm—that night Frank got seven hours of solid, dreamless sack-time. He was grateful. This was no time to go fucking up the good life.
_____
The baby was born in July of 2003. When Frank saw him for the first time, the baby’s eyes were a murky shade of indigo.
“Maybe he’ll have blue eyes,” Christa said.
“All newborns have blue eyes,” Frank said, more sharply than he intended.
They named him Brendan, after Christa’s father. By the time he was three months old, it was clear that his eyes were going to be green, like his mother’s. Frank was relieved.
_____
The day before Thanksgiving was a gorgeous day. Sunny, just about 65 degrees out, with a nice breeze blowing in off the Pacific. Just cool enough to wear a jacket. Where else but in California could you enjoy a day like that, just before Thanksgiving? It was probably snowing in Ohio, for Christ’s sake.
It was too nice out to work all day. Frank wrapped up his calls a little early so that he could spend a little time on the Santa Monica Pier. Right before the holiday, it wasn’t too crowded. It was perfect for a stroll by the ocean.
The coming holiday made him think of things to be thankful for. Living in California, for one. And his good job, of course. His nice, bright home. His pretty, sweet-natured wife. And his son. His beautiful, healthy, green-eyed son. So many things to be thankful for. Ohio had been some sort of fluke. This was the life Frank had been meant to have. This good life.
A few clouds had begun to roll in off the ocean by the time Frank got down to Bay Street. He was about to turn around and head back the way he’d come when he saw him.
He was down at the end of the street, by the public restrooms. It didn’t look like there was anyone with him.
It's not him, he's too old.
Frank’s brain did an instant calculation. Bullshit, he’d be 21 by now.
He couldn’t even get out of bed by himself, it’s not him.
Maybe he’s gotten better. A little better.
It’s not him. Look at him, for Christ’s sake.
Frank looked at him. He was a block or so away, but Frank’s eyesight was good. The boy was maybe a little taller; his hair was longer than it had been the last time Frank had seen him, and looked darker. He was even skinnier, if that was possible. His face was bony, his complexion a very un-California shade of pale. He was floating in a green army-style jacket, but he still looked cold. There was an unwholesome air of vagrancy about him.
It’s just some kid, some panhandling kid. It’s not him. Frank liked that voice. It was the voice that had made the good life possible, after all the shit that had gone down in Ohio. That voice had saved his life.
“It’s not him,” Frank said aloud, and started to turn away. But the kid turned his face in Frank’s direction, and even from this distance, Frank could see the eyes. Blue, bluer than the sky above him. Blue, huge, girlish, although Frank had never said that he thought so. Elise had loved Casey’s eyes.
Frank had been starting to turn; momentum carried him. Momentum and something like panic got his feet moving in the opposite direction.
For God’s sake, go back! his head screamed, not with the good voice that he liked, but Frank listened to it anyway.
The kid was gone. Frank broke into a run. He barged into the men’s room, calling Casey’s name. He ran up and down Bay Street, doing the same. For the next two hours, Frank searched for that kid in the green jacket, who looked so much like his son, his first-born son. Casey.
He must have looked like hell, because a cop stopped and asked him if everything was all right.
“My son,” he panted, “My son…”
The cop started asking questions. He thought, of course, that Frank had lost track of his son, a little boy.
“No,” Frank stammered. “He’s 21…21 now…he’s been missing…”
He looked into the cop’s confused face and he couldn’t talk anymore, couldn’t tell the story he’d tried so hard to forget. A blanket of calm fell over him.
“My son…ran away, years ago. I thought I saw someone who looked like him…but it wasn’t. I’m sorry, officer.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry about your son.”
“Yes, officer,” Frank said. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”
Frank got in his Land Rover and drove home. Halfway there, he had to pull onto the freeway shoulder because he was crying too hard to see. It was the smart thing to do. He got it out of his system.
“It wasn’t him,” Frank said. He stepped on the gas and eased back into the traffic.
_____
Thanksgiving was wonderful. Christa was a terrific cook. They had a houseful of her relatives over, and everyone stuffed themselves and watched the parade, then football. A perfect day, with so much to be thankful for.
It was November 27. Four years before, Frank had seen his first son for the last time. But that had been Ohio. It was behind him. It had nothing to do with this bright, sunny place, this perfect day, this good life.
_____
Frank bought Brendan a tiny football for his first Christmas. Brendan slobbered on it.
“Next NFL superstar,” Frank said, and Christa laughed. It was a good Christmas, a bright, sunshiny California Christmas, and if there was a shadow over it that even the California sun shining through the big windows couldn’t chase away, Frank refused to see it. It would go away, soon enough.
Nothing could hide in the California sun. Shadows had no place in this good life.