A Different Blue(25)

extremely heavy, and I ended up dragging it behind me. The muscle-bound police officer had

lifted Icas from the passenger side, and was looking at him with a furrowed brow. He looked at

me as if he wanted to speak, thought better of it, and laid the dog gently in the back of his

cruiser.

“What in the world . . .” The skinny officer, whose name I learned was Izzard – like lizard

without the L – tried to lift the duffel and didn't put enough heft into his effort. “What've

you got in here?”

“Tools,” I clipped. “And I'm not leavin' 'em.”

“Okaaaaay,” he hedged, looking at the other officer.

[page]“Come on Iz. Just put them back here with the killer dog.”

They both laughed, like it was a big funny game. I stopped and stared at them, glaring from one

man to the other, thrusting my chin up and out, daring them to continue. Amazingly, their

laughter died off, and Izzard lifted the tools in beside Icas.

I rode in the front of the car with Mr. Muscles, also known as Officer Bowles, and Officer

Izzard followed behind us. Officer Bowles radioed a message to someone, telling them about the

vehicle and saying some numbers I didn't understand. It was obviously a code for “what do I do

with this crazy kid?”

I was able to show them where our camper was. It was just a straight shot back up into the

hills. I hadn't turned right or left coming down from the canyon because I was afraid I wouldn't

remember how to get back. But Jimmy had not miraculously returned in my absence. My note lay on

the table where I had left it.

They ended up calling in some guys they called search and rescue. That sounded good to me –

searching and rescuing – and I felt hopeful for the first time in days. They asked me for a

description of my dad. I told them he wasn't as tall as Izzard but was probably a little taller

than Officer Bowles, just not as “thick.” Officer Izzard thought it was funny that I called

Officer Bowles thick. Officer Bowles and I just ignored him. I told them he had black and grey

hair that he always wore in two braids. When I reminded them that his name was Jimmy and asked

them if they would please find him, I had to stop talking for fear that I would cry. Jimmy never

cried, so I wouldn't either.

They did search. They searched for about a week. I stayed at a house where there were six other

kids. The parents were nice, and I got to eat pizza for the first time. I went to church three

Sundays in a row and sang songs about a guy named Jesus, which I rather enjoyed. I asked the

lady who led us in singing if she knew any songs by Willie Nelson. She didn't. It was probably

good that she didn't. Singing Willie songs might have made me miss Jimmy too much. The house

where I stayed was a foster home, a house for kids who didn't have anywhere else to go. And that

was me. I didn't have anywhere else to go. I'd been questioned by a social worker, trying to

figure out who I was. I hadn't known Jimmy wasn't my father at that point. He had never

explained it to me. Apparently, my identity was a mystery.

“Can you tell me anything about your mother?” The social worker had asked me. The question was

gentle, but I wasn't fooled into thinking I didn't have to answer it.

“She's dead.” I knew that much.

“Do you remember her name?”