The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema Read Free Book Online

find him washing
dishes.
    â€œThought I’d get a head start,” he explained. “Lots of
coffee cups. Did you talk with Dean Owens? He said he was
going to wait for you.”
    Jeff nodded, not really aware that he was doing so. He
felt himself moving as if within a bubble, distant somehow
from the events of his own life.
    John watched him for a moment, then dried his hands
and led him toward the kitchen table. “Why don’t you
set a minute,” he said. “Take a load off. I’ll get you a little
something.”
    â€œDiane?” Jeff asked as John rattled in the kitchen
cupboards.
    â€œLast I checked she was up in your boy’s room,” John said.
“It seemed like she wanted to be alone. Oh, and Jim Kelly left
that for you,” he added as he returned to the table, moving a
folded piece of paper toward Jeff as he set a bottle of rye and
two glasses down. “He said he thought you might get a kick
out of it. Seemed like he’d been into the rye a bit himself.”
    Jeff nodded again, his gaze resting on the bottle. He
watched it as John unscrewed the top, poured healthy
measures into both glasses. He left the metal cap sitting on
the table next to the bottle when he set it down.
    â€œThis’ll help take the chill off.” John pushed one of the
glasses toward Jeff.
    Jeff took a small sip, then a larger swallow, staring into
the amber liquid in the glass as the sweetness burned down
his throat.
    It seemed to cut through some of the fog.
    He unfolded the paper, keenly aware of John Joseph
looking over his shoulder.
    â€œWhat . . .”
    It was a photocopy of the front page of the March 21,
1975 issue of the Henderson Herald. The banner headline
read: “Lost and Found,” with a large black and white
photograph underneath. Jeff recognized himself with a
shocked immediacy, though he had to read the caption for
the names of the men he was standing between.
    â€œDonald TeBrink and Charles Ellroy with Jeffrey Page,
who was missing in his family’s woods for more than
twenty-four hours.”
    John gave a short chuckle and wandered back to the sink.
    Jeff skimmed the article, but his eyes kept drifting back
to the photo. He wouldn’t have recognized Charlie without
the write-up: the “Charles” in the photograph had all of his
hair, and was wearing it more than a little long, with an
open collar and a beaded necklace. He had a broad grin that
showed just how pleased he was that someone wanted to
take his picture for the paper.
    His own expression was harder to read. At first, his
eleven-year-old face seemed a little scared and a little
relieved, as you might expect from a little boy rescued from
the woods. Looking at it again, though — studying it — Jeff
wasn’t so sure. He thought his eleven-year-old self looked
almost sad. Not scared, but close to tears.
    As he shifted the paper, hoping a different angle would
help him puzzle out his expression, Jeff noticed, for the first
time, the faces crowded around behind the three figures
in the foreground. The rest of the searchers, he assumed,
milling around, only half-interested in the photographer,
not meriting, for whatever reason, having their names on
the front page of the local paper.
    Most of them were out of focus, but one face, just over his
younger self’s right shoulder, was instantly recognizable.
John Joseph wasn’t looking toward the camera, but the
lens had found him nonetheless.
    When he looked up, John Joseph was staring at him,
holding his own glass close to his lips.
    â€œBut I don’t . . . I don’t remember. I don’t remember any
of it. I look at this” — he tapped on the photocopied page —
“and I know it’s true, but I don’t remember. . . .” He barked
out a sharp, desperate laugh. “’Least you could have done
was tell me you were part of the crew that rescued me.”
    John chuckled. “I seem the type