When Jeff Comes Home

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prelude

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  Copyright © 1999 by Catherine Atkins.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any

  form without permission in writing from the publisher.

  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

  a division of

  Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  G. P. Putnam's Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.

  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Book designed by Semadar Megged

  Text set in Trump Mediaeval

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Atkins, Catherine.

  When Jeff comes home / Catherine Atkins, p. cm.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Jeff, returning home after

  having been kidnapped and held prisoner for three years,

  must face his family, friends, and school and

  the widespread assumption that he engaged

  in sexual activity with his kidnapper.

  ISBN 0-399-23366-0

  [1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Child sexual abuse—Fiction.]

  I. Title. PZ7.A862Wh 1999

  [Fic]—dc21 98-44016 CIP AC

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  First Impression

  About the Author

  CATHERINE ATKINS lives in a Gold Rush town in Northern California. She teaches elementary and high-school students in alternative settings. Her background includes stints as a radio news reporter and talk-show host. She loves animals, art, and theater. At the age of four, she appeared in a nationally broadcast Pepsi commercial. When Jeff Comes Home is her first novel.

  To My Grandmother

  Catherine Tuohy Bass

  PRELUDE

  Dad never believed me later, when I told him there was nothing he could have done. . . .

  "I'm so thirsty," Brian whined, flopping his skinny arms over the front seat of the Jeep and panting like a dog. My stepmother, Connie, peered back at him over her sunglasses, grinning. Dad drove on, hands firm on the wheel. I could see one individual drop of sweat sliding down the back of his neck. Even in April, California's Central Valley was hot and dry. We were fifteen miles outside Fresno, heading back to Wayne after spending most of spring vacation in San Diego.

  "I'm not stopping again," Dad said finally. "We just had lunch. We have to make time now. It's almost two o'clock, and Jeff's game is at six. As it is, we won't be home until close to five." Brian slumped down next to me in the second seat. He sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

  "Jeff," Dad called back to me, turning his head slightly, "you ready to pitch tonight?" The question was rhetorical. We both knew I was. We had done all the tourist things in San Diego—the zoo, Balboa Park, Sea World, a Padres game—but Dad and I had worked out every morning and he'd also caught for me in the park near our hotel.

  "Sure, Dad, no problem," I said, hoping Brian hadn't noticed how much warmer Dad's voice was when he spoke to me. I looked to the back of the Jeep to catch Charlotte's reaction, but only my sister's denim-clad knees were visible. Kneeling up on the seat, I leaned over to talk with her. Charlotte lay on her back, a book propped up against her knees.

  "You want something to drink?" I asked quietly. She rolled her eyes in Dad's direction.

  "Sure, why not? Dad," she called, "we had lunch two hours ago. I'm with Brian."

  Revitalized, Brian sat up. "Yeah! Let's take a vote. Jeff?" He looked at me eagerly, knowing my vote counted for more than his and Charlie's put together.

  Of the three of us, Brian was the only one who resembled Dad at all. Same brown eyes, same brown hair, same regular features. He did his best to act like him too, an eight-year-old version of a conservative, opinionated lawyer. Yet Dad was as indifferent to him as he was cold and disapproving to Charlie. Connie did not seem to notice. Her main interest was Dad and she spent most of her energy keeping him happy, though she worked too, as a sixth grade teacher at the elementary school we attended in Wayne. Charlie was in her class this year, while I was in eighth grade, about to graduate over to Wayne High.

  Brian waited for my answer, staring at me impatiently.

  "Yeah, I could use a drink." I turned to my stepmother. "Connie, how about you?"

  Before she could answer, Dad said, "It's up to you. Do we waste a half hour getting off this damn highway and finding some place because the kids are bored, or do we move forward in a disciplined manner?"

  Though Dad's tone was serious, I knew he had seen the humor in the situation. I leaned forward, hanging over the seat as Brian had done. Connie paused for effect, her light brown hair swirled high on her head in a ponytail, one finger holding her place in the latest Danielle Steel.

  "Drinks," she said finally, holding back a smile. Dad groaned, and we cheered.

  "Okay. This has to be quick. I'm not getting off in Fresno, so look for something right off the highway."

  We had been passing ugly, blighted-looking fields of yellow weeds for miles, but billboards for businesses in Fresno had started to appear.

  " 'Rest area ahead,' " Dad read off one sign. "That's us. We'll pull in, find a vending machine, and leave."

  He waited for objections and heard none. I couldn't wait to get out just to stretch my legs.

  Tall hedges lined either side of the driveway into the rest stop, curving around in an upside-down U shape that led back to the highway. Dad cruised by a Winnebago, the only other vehicle in sight, and pulled into a shady spot near some picnic tables and a stand of scrub oak trees. The vending machines and bathrooms were a football field's length away across an artificial-looking green lawn bisected by concrete walkways.

  "Dad," Charlotte moaned, "can't you park any closer?"

  "The walk will do you good," he said briskly.

  "Yeah, the walk'll do you good," Brian echoed, turning back to grin at her.

  "A walk will do us all good," Connie said, stepping out of the Jeep.

  I jumped out and began jogging in place. The air held a yellow haze from the factories around Fresno, and I could smell the carbon monoxide from the thousands of cars passing by on Interstate 5. I took a deep breath anyway, shaking my hands out, then stretching my arms far back over my head.

  "You can't wait, can you?" Dad stood next to Connie by the driver's side door, watching me, smiling.

  "For the game? Yeah, I wish it was starting now. I feel ready." I was pitching the season opener for my Little League team, the Bobcats, against our division rivals, the Eagles, at Standard Field that night. My best friend, Vin Perini, was catching and I wanted to call him before the game and talk strategy.

  Brian tugged at my arm. "Come on, Jeff, race you!"

  I laughed. "Wait a minute, let's find out what everyone wants."

  "I'll take a Diet Pepsi or Coke, whichever they have," Connie said, leaning back against Dad. He put his arms around her waist and smiled.

  "I'll take anything with caffeine," he said. "Come on, Con, let's check this place out." Dad and Connie walked off together toward the picnic area.

  "
Okay, Brian," I said, "I'll race you. You get a five-second head start. Go!"

  Brian took off like he had been shot out of a cannon. Charlie and I grinned at each other and started counting out loud.

  By the time we reached five, Brian was a third of the way to the vending machines. I sprinted after him, my legs eating up the ground. I caught my brother in an instant, stayed even with him, then ran on ahead. I stopped, barely winded, at the entrance to the redwood and concrete enclosure that housed the vending machines.

  "You're too fast," Brian puffed, when he pulled up a few seconds later.

  I ruffled his hair. "You had me going there for a minute, though," I told him. "What do you want?"

  There were two drink machines, one filled with sweetened teas, the other with soft drinks.

  "Mountain Dew!" he exclaimed, dropping four quarters in the machine and punching the button. The chilled can plunked down and Brian grabbed it, holding it against his forehead.

  "Charlie will want one too," I said, dropping four more quarters in for her drink.

  "She shouldn't have that. It's fattening," he said, so primly I had to laugh. I glanced up. Charlie was taking her time, stopping to read a plaque mounted on a concrete block in the grassy area we had just crossed.

  "What's it to you?" I asked Brian, who looked blank. " 'It's fattening'—what the hell are you talking about?"

  "That's what Dad said. He told Mom to stop buying Mountain Dew, because Charlie's getting too fat."

  "What Charlie wants to drink is her own business. Leave her alone about that, okay?"

  Brian looked down. "Sure, Jeff. Sorry."

  I touched his hair again. "Don't worry about it. She's got Dad on her back enough. She doesn't need us bugging her, right?" I deliberately threw in "us/' thinking that would impress him more.

  "Okay, Jeff," he said, smiling up at me.

  As Charlie reached us, I asked her casually, "Mountain Dew okay?"

  "Yeah, thanks," she smiled. On a ninety-degree day, Charlie was dressed in a baggy purple T-shirt and jeans, the better to hide her body. She thought she was enormous, while I told her "chubby" was stretching it. I didn't give a damn either way. To me she was just Charlie, my sister with the same blond hair, green eyes and full mouth I had.

  I got a root beer for myself, then patted my pockets. "That's it, I'm out of change. Brian, do you have any?" He shook his head. "Charlie?"

  "No, I spent all my money on magazines in the hotel gift shop this morning."

  "Damn," I muttered. "We should have gotten their drinks first. You guys go back and see if Dad or Connie has any change. I'll wait for you."

  As Charlie and Brian took off, I popped my drink open and took a swig. The root beer was ice-cold and sweet, and I drank deeply, tilting my neck back.

  An arm around my waist, a firm man's body behind mine, the sudden, close odor of tobacco and sweat, my head tilted farther back, cold metal pressed against the pulse point of my neck, the root beer dropped, thudding onto the concrete floor, rolling, its contents gurgling out in a steady flow. I struggled instinctively, thrashing my arms, then froze as I felt the metal advance against my skin.

  "Yeah, you have a knife at your throat." The very calmness of the man's voice made it more frightening. "Listen now. Do what I tell you."

  I didn't move or speak, but he applied more pressure to the knife. A small noise escaped me as I felt its point enter me, and he laughed softly. I raised my hand slowly back to touch my neck, and felt a tiny amount of sticky blood.

  "Walk with me."

  When I remained frozen, fingers spread over the tiny wound, he tightened his arm around my waist.

  "We can always wait for the kids to come back. But you're the only one I want, so I'd have to kill them."

  The man turned me around and marched me out of the redwood gazebo, opposite the way Brian, Charlie and I had come in. Only a short concrete walkway separated us from a side parking lot that was empty except for a late model blue van. The van's side panel was open a crack and I wondered if someone else was inside. More scared of what was coming than the knife now pressed against my bare stomach, I stopped walking. The man banged into me, cursing. Then he laughed.

  "Please ..." I managed to choke, stopping when he laughed again.

  "No!" he said mockingly, releasing me briefly and shoving me forward. I tripped on the uneven sidewalk and would have fallen had he not caught me. With one arm still wrapped around my stomach, he slid the van door all the way open. The sound was shockingly loud in the deserted lot. The van's interior was empty except for a pile of blankets and a green plastic garbage bag.

  "Get in," he ordered, the sarcasm gone now from his voice. I looked back for my family as the man gave me a final shove into the van and climbed in after me.

  1

  I don't know how long we sat there, after. I thought we might be in Wayne, near the street where I used to live, but I wasn't sure. Ray hadn't had much to say during the trip, and I knew better than to watch the road or ask too many questions.

  He took a long drag off his Marlboro, held it, then exhaled a cloud of smoke that mingled with the visible puffs our breaths made in the icy air. The silence was broken only by the patter of rain hitting the car. Suddenly he sighed, then rolled his window down and tossed the cigarette out. Leaving the window open, he clasped the steering wheel with both hands.

  "Well?" Ray hadn't talked for a while and his voice was froggy. Clearing his throat, he turned his head and spat out the window. I willed my hands steady on my thighs and chanced a look at him.

  "Yes sir?"

  Ray faced me, lip curled in a half sneer. I could barely make out his features in the half-light provided by a streetlight a quarter block away. Whoever had put the light in was planning ahead; there was nothing but a field and a half-cleared lot on the asphalted road where we were parked.

  "You're here. 'Home.' Now get out."

  "I. . . "

  "Get out."

  I reached for the door handle, but continued to watch Ray. I pushed the handle down and cracked the door an inch. The interior light came on. Moving deliberately, I pushed the door another inch. Rain spattered my hand and wrist.

  As I had expected, Ray lunged across the seat for me. I stayed absolutely still, forcing myself not to flinch as he clasped me in an awkward embrace. I closed my eyes and retreated. Time meant nothing. I concentrated on the small sounds—the squeak of my leather jacket as Ray shifted, his quick harsh breaths, my own calm, measured breathing. I only hoped he couldn't feel how fast my heart was pounding.

  Ray squeezed me hard, once, and brushed his lips across my hair. "Love you," he whispered. I kept my eyes closed, hands in my lap.

  "I love you, Ray," I said. He pushed me back and put his hand under my chin. Opening my eyes, I smiled at him. Ray's face held its familiar mix of need and cruelty. His fingers pinched. "I don't have to go," I told him. "Are you sure you want me to?"

  He dropped his hand. "It's what you want, kid. You can stay, I told you that." Ray pushed back his thick black hair. "It's not too late for us to drive away. Hell, we could go anywhere."

  I kept smiling. It was impossible to know what Ray wanted me to do, or what he would allow me to do. "Um ... is this Wayne?"

  "Yeah, it's Wayne."

  "I didn't think—"

  "You didn't think what?"

  I glanced out the window. I could see a row of darkened houses across the field to my left. I knew now one of them used to be mine. "I didn't know you knew where my family lived, or ... I mean, we never talked about it."

  Ray snorted. "There was a profile of your family in Time magazine, I saw your father on TV a couple times, it wasn't hard to find out." This was news to me, but I was careful to show no reaction. "You saw that poster outside Palm Desert," he added.

  I could still recall the shock of seeing my face on the mini-mart window the first time Ray took me out with him. He had sworn and peeled out of the lot. I pretended I hadn't seen anything. But he didn't l
et me outside again for months.

  "That was a long time ago," I said carefully.

  "Look, I'm not about to convince you. You want to go, go. You don't, then let's get out of here." The harshness of his words was belied by his steady, measuring gaze. He shook his head slightly and reached out for me again. Quickly he kissed the side of my mouth, then pushed me toward the door. "I think you should go."

  Outside, I looked back into the car. The rain darkened the windows and the streetlight threw odd shadows on the glass. I couldn't make out Ray's face. I raised my hand in a half wave, then started walking, using the streetlight as my guide. My legs were cramped from sitting so long, and I moved awkwardly, consciously keeping a slow pace so he wouldn't feel I was running from him. I resisted the temptation to look back.

  The rain plastered my hair to my forehead and cheeks in long tangles and I realized how cold and uncomfortable I was. I unzipped my jacket and checked the inside pocket. The Dodgers' cap Ray had pressed upon me was still there. I pushed my hair back and put the cap on. As I hesitated, I heard Ray put the car in motion. I began walking again, not hurrying, and soon I saw the sign. I remembered what was on it before I was close enough to read it: Sunnyvue Avenue—the road I'd just come from, and Woodglen Drive—my old street. Ray trailed me, about a hundred yards behind, headlights off. I turned the corner and took a deep breath. My house, the white house where I had lived for three years before Ray took me, stood just beyond the grassy vacant lot where my brother and sister and I had played football and Frisbee. I walked through the lot, ignoring the sopping wet weeds that pulled at my jeans. Moving closer, I saw the house numbers, 3064, gleaming in polished brass. I had put those numbers up myself, under Dad's direction, the summer I turned thirteen.

  I walked across the lawn, stopping when I reached the walkway. I couldn't imagine walking up those four steps to the porch. What then? Walk in? Knock? And say what? What if Ray followed me inside? Briefly I considered the unimaginable picture of my dad and Ray in the same room.

  Ray tapped his horn lightly, so lightly I could barely hear it, but I jumped. He flicked the lights at me three times. I backed a step toward the house, but couldn't force myself any farther. After a moment, I heard a car door slam.