Sure, I text back. I can imagine Harmon saying, At three in the morning, Tess? You don’t even know where he is. But what does that matter? If he texted me from California I’d get in the car and start driving.
Where are you? I text.
I wait as the three dots pulse at the rate of my heartbeat. The police station? The hospital? A ditch by the side of the road? Where has my wayward son found himself tonight?
SP, he types back.
The safe place.
It was a code we came up with when Rudy was four. If things are bad, go to the safe place and wait for me there; I’ll come get you. We haven’t used the code in years. Haven’t had to. What’s happened that Rudy has to use it now?
OMW, I type back, which the phone transforms into an overly cheery On my way!
WHEN I GET out of the bathroom I notice Harmon isn’t in bed. No doubt he’s gone to the guest room, where he often goes when I’m restless. Rudy isn’t the only one who has nightmares.
I’m glad now that I don’t have to answer any questions. Harmon will be sympathetic but I don’t think I can bear the look of disappointment on his face. The what’s-Rudy-gotten-himself-into-this-time look.
I dress quickly and warmly: jeans, turtleneck, sweater, wool socks. It’s been mild for the last few days but the Maine winter hasn’t let go of the nights yet, even in late May. Rudy won’t be dressed for it. Downstairs, I grab a folded sweatshirt from the top of the radiator in the mudroom. I left it there for Harmon so it would be warm for his morning run, but he and Rudy wear the same size and I’ve long since lost track of which XL purple and gold Haywood Academy sweatshirt belongs to whom. I’ll replace it when I get back before Harmon wakes up.
The clock above the stove tells me it’s 3:06. Almost twenty minutes have gone by since Rudy’s first text. Twenty minutes he’s spent sitting in the cold.
When I get outside I see that it’s not only cold, it’s foggy; a thick white blanket obliterates the village and bay. The coast road will be dangerous to drive. But except for a footpath that cuts across campus there’s no other way to get to where Rudy is. I feel better when I slide into the Subaru Forester’s heated seats, grateful for the warmth and the solid bulk of the car as I navigate down our steep driveway and out onto the coast road.
Although I can’t see more than ten feet ahead of me, the reflective markers on the median guide me to the flashing red light before the bridge that connects the village to the school grounds. As with much of coastal Maine the land here is broken up by waterways and pieced together by bridges and causeways like a tattered garment that’s been darned. Like me, I sometimes think, like the life I’ve pieced together for Rudy and me. No wonder Rudy doesn’t trust it; no wonder he’s prone to outbursts. When I get really mad, he told me once, everything goes black.
The thought of Rudy lost in that darkness had caught at my heart. We came up with a strategy. We agreed that whenever he felt angry he’d just walk away. Go someplace where he could be alone and cool down. That must be what happened tonight. He’d fought with Lila and then walked away to the safe place and waited for me. Because that’s what I’d always told him to do. I made a promise to Rudy once that I’d always come find him in the safe place. I’ve broken many promises over the years but never that one.
Through the fog I can make out a blaze of light coming from Duke Hall. The percussive boom of rap music and a high-pitched scream make me wonder if I should call Jean Shire and alert her to the after-hours partying, but then I’d have to explain what I’m doing on the coast road at three-fifteen in the morning. Besides, last night was the cast party for The Crucible. And it’s finals week. They’re just letting off steam.
Duke’s a horrible party dorm, Lila had complained, I’m so glad I can hang out here.
I had been thrilled she wanted to hang out at her boyfriend’s parents’ house—even though