Maegan Poland
Back then, I couldn’t tell the age of adults. Now, I picture his face waxy like a Ken doll. A memory or a fabrication, I’ll never know. He asked me to come closer. “I just want to pet her.” He reached for me, the white hairs of his arm, grotesque against red, chapped skin. Marcy strained at the leash, eager to plunge into tall grass and disappear in the overgrown lot. Back then, the neighborhood was a grid of streets scarring a sea of weeds, with more skeletons of framing lumber than lived-in homes.
“Come here,” he’d said. “Don’t be like that.”
The way he pleaded, the way he seemed starved for my answer, made me step away from the white van.
His door cracked open, a ruddy arm shot out, and I ran. He hollered a word I’d never heard before. Wheels squealed as the van spun around the cul-de-sac, the dead end sparing me. I bolted across the field, the barbed nettles scraping my shins. Marcy ran beside me, tongue lolling, tail wagging, clueless. I thought of after-school specials warning of stranger danger. Run to a cop. Run to a woman. Run to the nearest house and knock on the door. Tell this new stranger to save you.
But running in the tall grass, I knew the nearest house was empty. And the next one, and the next. I ran all the way to my house—it was empty, too, but I had a key—and I could see he was close now, see him swerve the van up and over the curb. The rooster mailbox toppled as I cut a diagonal to the front door and prayed I’d pick the right key on the first try.
In slipped the key and when I turned to swing the door shut, I saw him stop. He stood there by our maple tree, tall and lean and suddenly still, his Ken face realizing I’d made it home, that I really did live here. I turned the lock and watched through the stained-glass window, through filters of yellow, then blue, then red, as he leapt into his van and drove away.
I called my mom and she called the police and sped home. They asked questions I couldn’t answer. What was his license plate? What was the make and model of his van? What color was his shirt? Plaid, I told them, but I couldn’t remember the color. For months, my mom would speed after any white van, trying to get a good look at the driver, hollering at the backseat, “Is that him?” I always said no. But maybe one of them was. How could I be sure?
It’s been years now, decades—long enough to realize how twisted it was to put photos of missing children on milk cartons: Here, kid, eat cereal and imagine if that were you. Back then, I didn’t know how rare it was to be abducted by a stranger. That almost never happens. Almost never.
When I watch my daughter leave for the bus stop, her laces already unraveling, I want to say, “Be careful.” Because I’m afraid. But I say, “I’ll be here when you get home.” Because I want her to feel safe.
It’s been long enough to see white in my hair. Last night, my husband climbed into bed wearing new pajamas. As he leaned in to kiss me, I noticed the flannel sleeve and finally remembered the plaid pattern. Green and dark blue, almost midnight. Such a contrast to his pale, ruddy skin. Those spider veins reaching beneath the surface.
Did it happen? I know it did. But it also didn’t. He never caught me. But who did he catch? They echo through me and sometimes I feel like an empty house in a large field, waiting for someone to knock.
Maegan Poland’s debut short story collection, What Makes You Think You’re Awake?, was selected by Carmen Maria Machado to win the Bakwin Award and was published in 2021 by Blair Press. Her fiction has been published in Mississippi Review, Pleiades, Beloit Fiction Journal, Juked, Ghost Parachute, and elsewhere. She has received a Special Mention in the Pushcart Prize anthology, a Tin House scholarship, and a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation. She teaches at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. You can find more information at www.maeganpoland.com.
Photo by Will Roberts on Unsplash