Whoa! Didja get the numbers off that truck?!?

2001-08-22 - 5:57 a.m.

Nothing says Fear like not knowing where your kids are.

One of the parts of my morning ritual (besides feeding the dogs and letting them outside so they can bark at nothing... oh, and making coffee) is looking in on my kids. I cover them up if they need it or sometimes shoo a bed-hogging dog away.

This morning I can find no Son1. Sometimes he sleeps on the couch. Not there. Well he couldn't be in that little room in the basement. Nope. The garage? How far does he have to go to prove a point? No garage either.

Now I'm starting to worry. After our argument about BB guns and neighbors windows and respect, he hustled around the house wordlessly, morally indignant. I noticed his backpack on the radiator on the sunporch with his skateboard strapped to it. Parenthetically, this is the same backpack he had to have last spring, that I paid $65 for without question, that you could pack for a weekend trip for two in. It's skater chic.

So I call Spidey, woke her up. She's not seen him either. Now the worry dial is headed into the red, but we're not quite to eleven yet. She hears the doorbell, and goes to get it. While she's gone, I'm imagining a uniform at the door with awful news. How do those guys do that, I wonder...

It's Son1. He couldn't stand being here in this house under my fascist rule apparently. He got up early and walked over to her place. There isn't much I can do right these days. Apparently he's feeling the same way.

We need a detective at this place. The 90 year old lady next door (who is a chapter all her own) greeted me as I got out of the car last night. Let's call her $$ since that seems to be the focus of her life. Well, $$ has a BB gun hole in her back door window and alleges that my older son is the triggerman. It's a pretty tight case given the time and trajectory, but it's all circumstantial. I ask $$ if she saw the shooter. $$ says "look at that, who do you think did it?" Well not the fruit of my loins, you pathetic old hag. And close up that robe you dried up old bitch, it's like driving by an accident. I don't want to see what's inside.

Well I calmed $$ down, I'll fix her fucking window. The sheriff's auxilary stickers could almost hold it together anyhow. Let's note at this point also that $$ never had any kids of her own, so I tune out her parenting tips.

I know my son. I know how Spidey and I have both preached gun safety. He insists he's innocent, he has no ammo. And judging by his tone and his expression I believe him. But we certainly have the smoking gun here, don't we? His friend arrived at about that time on Monday too. My Intended brought up the possibility that maybe the friend could have done it, by accident. You know, the unknown round left in the chamber. I don't know. What bothers me the most is that if it was such a big damn traumatic thing, why didn't $$ mention it to me last night when she called? Why wait until today?

Well, Son1 feels accused even though I carefully did NOT accuse him. There's more than one smoking gun around here and Dad's alleged accusation is one of them.

If he wanted to stop my heart, he did it. No kid + no note = controlled panic.

I love you Son1.

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