Page 31 of Into the Dark, We Go
"They weren’t dating, honey," her husband advised, nodding toward me. "He was dating Natalie."
I hesitated to correct him again.
She regarded me as if seeing me for the first time. "I see." Then she returned the phone. "Never seen her. What’s that gotsta do with Lucas?"
"We’re trying to figure that out, ma’am."
"Alright then."
Her face suddenly contorted in a grimace that she hid behind her hands.
"Excuse me," she said and hurried out of the room.
Mitchell’s face fell. "We’re terribly sorry," he offered, sounding genuinely apologetic. "We didn’t mean to upset you."
"Excuse me for a spell, would ya?" Mr. Whitman trailed after his wife.
A large grandfather clock ticked loudly, its steady rhythm filling the silence. Mitchell took a sip of his iced tea. I stood up, too anxious to stay seated, and began pacing the room. I was mad at him. We had upset Lucas’s parents and found nothing useful.
I studied the photographs of my boyfriend in mismatched frames, following the visual story of his life—childhood photos on the left, gradually giving way to more recent ones towards the right. In one photo, likely taken before prom, he stood with a girl. A sharp pang of jealousy struck me, and my thoughts wandered to rumors of him cheating—maybe with his high school ex.
I quickly pushed the idea away.
In a couple of photographs, he was pictured with a friend at different ages. The most recent snapshot showed them on a backpacking trip. They were deep in the woods, grinning at the camera with their gear slung over their shoulders. The friend’s darker hair and sharper features made him appear slightly older than Lucas. I picked up the frame and flipped it over. On the back of the photo, a message was written in neat cursive:Lucas and Duane, senior year.
Mitchell stepped up beside me, sensing that something had caught my attention. I pointed to the picture without a word.
"We should talk to this Duane guy," he said, taking the photo from my hands and examining it briefly before returning it to the shelf. I adjusted it slightly, restoring it to its original position before noting the football trophies from his school days.
"Lucas was as talented a receiver as I ever did see, God rest his soul."
I hadn’t noticed Mr. Whitman return, and his sudden presence made me jump. Then the gravity of his last words hitme, and I fought a wave of nausea. Lucas’s own father deemed him dead.
"He got himself a football scholarship, did ya know? My boy, he was somethin’ else." He approached the shelf, picked up one of the awards, and studied it with a sense of pride.
"He earned this one after that game against Oakdale High." He grew quiet, lost in a rush of memories. "I was so proud, I could’ve burst when they presented it to him in front of the whole school." He gently placed the plaque back on the shelf, his hands trembling slightly.
"I miss him, too," was all I could say.
We tried askinga few more questions about Lucas’s whereabouts during his last visit, but his father struggled to recall much of it. He said everything seemed normal. Lucas spent time with family and caught up with friends before heading back to Minneapolis.
Disappointed, we didn’t want to tax their hospitality or stir any more sorrow and made our way out. I felt weirdly hollow. I hadn’t expected to uncover any major revelations, but the complete absence of new leads was more frustrating than I’d anticipated. Of course, I could still try to talk to Lucas’s friend, Duane, before wrapping up here and heading to my mother’s.
Thankfully, Mr. Whitman had Duane’s old residence and phone number scribbled in his address book.
"Used to pick Lucas up there when they were young’uns," he explained. "He’s probably still there. Didn’t leave like Lucas did. When his daddy passed on, he got the house."
He held open the door for us to exit. "I appreciate y’all tryin’ to do somethin’. We’re gettin’ on in years and have learned to accept what we can’t change."
"We’ll make sure to give you an update if we find something, sir," Mitchell said, his posture straight as a soldier.
"Bless you, son," Mr. Whitman replied, as he gave Mitchell a firm handshake and me a warm hug.
His wife didn’t come out to say goodbye, but I saw a curtain twitch as though she were watching.
"See, it wasn’t so bad,"Mitchell said, starting the car and pulling away from the Whitmans’ house.
I gazed out the window, watching Mr. Whitman wave from the porch before settling back into his chair, picking up his unfinished figurine and carving knife. Responding to Mitchell or pretending to stay calm felt like too much effort, so I remained quiet and tried to let it go. It wasn’t his fault the Whitmans couldn’t tell us anything.
