When God Was a Rabbit

I sat on the roof as the light faded. No more remnants of summer. The murmur of the television rose from below. I felt so cold. I wrapped an old picnic blanket around me; it was my parents’ and I’d never returned it because I never knew when I might need it. It smelt of grass and damp wool. It smelt of Cornwall. I remembered again the silence of the call with them, when the numbing possibility descended upon their thoughts, when I told them, Your son can’t be found.

I tried to get on a flight, but most were grounded or diverted to Canada. A couple of days and then back to normal, the operator said. That word again. I put my name down on the reservations list. I’d be first out, I’d be there to see for myself, because I couldn’t go back to my parents without something to shatter their silence at least. Either a scream or a smile.

I finished another glass of wine. Waited for the phone call he’d promised to make. I watched the trucks arrive and park, heard the soft drone of the engine feeding the refrigeration. I poured out more wine; emptied the bottle.

It had been hours, must have been. I looked at my watch. He’d said he was heading to Joe’s house, the police had cordoned off below 14th street, but he’d get there, he’d said, just to check. The smell, Elly; that was the last thing he’d said to me. The smell.

My phone rang. The battery was low. It was him at last.

‘Hey,’ he said, his voice thin and empty.

‘How are you?’

‘OK.’

‘What is it, Charlie?’

‘I found his diary,’ he said, his words barely audible. ‘It puts him there.’