Sin of Omission

Could I have done anything to have prevented it? Although I’ve been told that it wasn’t my fault-that it could have been anyone’s kid-I can’t help but blame myself. It’s not what I did that I feel guilty about, it’s what I didn’t do.

I was single parent. There was just the two of us, Scott and me. I was thirty-six, divorced-my wife had left us-and unemployed. Scott was twelve. I had been laid off and had about given up finding another job, spending my days either surfing the Internet or playing multiplayer computer games. I was so wrapped up in my own problems that I was paying little attention to Scott. He was a good kid, a little messy at times, but I guess all kids are. He got himself up and off to school in the morning. Because I usually stayed up late, I didn’t usually wake before he left for school. Sometimes I’d fix spaghetti or something simple for dinner, but often he’d pop something in the microwave for himself. Our tastes in food didn’t match too well. He liked pizza. I tried to avoid it. I liked vegetables. He hated them.

We each had our own computers-our own TV sets. He had a playstation II. My room was upstairs in the attic room in our old house. He either slept in his room downstairs or on the futon in the livingroom. Being a solitary individual, never socializing much, I never felt the need for people. I was happy to spend time by myself, either watching TV, reading, or playing games on my computer.

Taking after his mother, he was a social animal. His friends were always over at our house, one or more of them usually spending the night on weekends. I guess we didn’t have much in common. Other than taking him to the movie on the weekend, I didn’t spend much time with Scott.

“Dad...” I didn’t hear the rest of what he’d said. I was playing a game on my computer and had the TV on as well. He had begun talking to me from the bottom of the stairs as usual.

“Scott, I can’t hear you. Come up here, if you want to talk to me. Why do I always have to tell you?”

“Dad, I sold magazine subscriptions for the school today”

“Did you lose some of the money again?” I hated for the school to use the kids to raise money. One a prior occasion, Scott had lost part of the money he’d collected and I had to replace it. I’d sworn at the time that I’d never let him sell something for the school again, but had given into his pleas to be allowed to participate. “I told you that I didn’t want you to sell stuff for the school.”

“No, it’s not that...”

“Well, Scott. I’m playing a game-O.K.? How about leaving me alone until I finish?”

Walking away, he turned back toward me. “Dad...”

“What?” I said, harshly, angry that he was still bothering me.

“I...I love you, Daddy,” he said, then walked downstairs. I was briefly puzzled, but, engrossed in the game, didn’t pay it much attention. He hadn’t called me Daddy for years, and neither of us often said, “I love you.”

Feeling a little guilty, I guess, I walked downstairs later. He was sitting on the futon in the living room. Surprised that he TV set wasn’t on-he always had it on-I asked, “Don’t you want to watch TV?”

“Sure, I guess, he answered.

Normally, I would have let him turn it on himself, but the remote was on the stand by the TV, and I was standing there. “O.K., what channel?”

“Forty-three,” he answered-one of the kid’s channels.

After turning the TV to his channel, I asked, “I could fix some spaghetti. Do you want some?”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” I figured that he had microwaved something when he got home from school. I fixed myself something and went back upstairs-back to my computer. Later when I came back downstairs, he was laying on the futon. The TV was still on, but that wasn’t unusual. He always went to sleep with it on. Turning off the TV, I went back upstairs.

He was gone by the time I woke up the next morning. Letting his dog, Gizmo, out, I noticed that the dog hadn’t been fed. Damn-it...that was Scott’s job. Why did I always have to remind him? I kept threatening to get rid of the dog, if he didn’t take care of it, but he knew I wouldn’t. I, too, liked the dog-and Scott knew it.

I went downstairs after it was time for him to be home from school. He was sitting on the futon. The TV wasn’t on. I was angry because he hadn’t fed the dog. “I’m going to get rid of that damned dog if you don’t take care of it. I had to feed her myself.”

“Dad...about the magazine subscriptions.”

“I don’t want to hear about the magazine subscriptions, Scott. If you’re short some money, you’re going to have to make it up yourself. It’ll have to come out of the money you get for doing chores.” He got $10 a week for doing his chores. “You’d better start taking care of that dog.” I went back upstairs to my computer. Angry with him, I didn’t offer to fix him dinner. He could fix his own.

He didn’t feed the dog the next day either. When I went downstairs the next day after it was time for him to be home from school, he was again sitting on the futon. “If you don’t feed that dog, you’re going to be grounded. It’s your dog. She’s your responsibility.”

Since he didn’t feed the dog before leaving for school the next day, I was really angry, determined to ground him for sure. I didn’t hear him come in after school, but, when I went downstairs, he was sitting on the futon. “Damn-it, Scott. I told you to feed the dog. Well, since you didn’t, you’re grounded. I don’t even want you to go to the little store, and none of your friends can come over. If you want privileges, then you’re going to have to start behaving responsibly-and no TV tonight.”

“Dad-about the magazine subscriptions...”

“God Damn-it, Scott. I don’t want to hear about it.” I stormed upstairs.

He hadn’t fed the dog the next morning, either. After it was time for him to be home from school, I went downstairs. Scott wasn’t there. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw that the back gate was open. The dog sometimes pawed at it until it opened, but usually went to the front porch. She rarely strayed out of the yard.

She wasn’t on the front porch. Walking out onto the sidewalk, I looked up and down the street. Looking one way, I saw nothing, but when I looked in the other direction, I saw the dog-and Scott. They were walking away-down the street. “Scott,” I yelled. “Come on back. You’re grounded. You can’t go anywhere.” He kept walking.

“Scott. Get your butt back here.” I began walking after him. “God Damn-it, Scott, you’re going to really be in trouble.” Ignoring me, he kept walking. I called the dog. She looked back at me, then at Scott, but kept following him. Becoming really angry, I began running after him. He ran.

I couldn’t catch up to him. I could keep pace with him, but couldn’t narrow the distance between him and me. Gizmo ran at his side. If I slowed, so did Scott. If I sped up, so did he. It continued until we were about four blocks from our house; then I saw Scott and Giz go around the side of a house into its back yard. I followed them.

He waited at the entrance to the crawl space under the house until I rounded the corner, then crawled into it. Following him, getting on my knees, I looked inside. Although it was dark, there was some light coming in though the vents around the foundation. Gizmo was there-digging and barking. I couldn’t see Scott anywhere; then, hearing something behind me, I looked. A man was standing there. “Hey,” he said, “what are you doing?”

“My kid is under there. My kid is under your house.” At least, I supposed that it was his house.

A strange look came over his face-fear or worry, I couldn’t tell. “There’s no kid under my house. Go on-get out of here.”

Giz was still barking-and digging. “Yes he is. I saw him go under there, along with my dog. That’s her barking.”

“Well, get her out of there-and get off of my property, or I’ll call the police.”

“That’s a good idea. Let’s call the police. Something’s screwy here. I saw my kid go under there. Now, I don’t see him. Where’s my kid?”

“I don’t know anything about your kid. You’re crazy. Get that dog out from under my house.” Coming at me, he grabbed me. Twisting out of his grasp, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket-dialed 911. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m calling the police.” He started toward me, but stopped when I raised my fist. With a look of sheer panic on his face, he turned and ran for his car, then drove away.

Crawling partly under the house, I looked around, but couldn’t see Scott anywhere. Gizmo was still digging-and barking. I decided to wait for the police. After about fifteen minutes a police car arrived. “What’s going on here?” the cop asked.

“My kid went under this house. Now, I can’t find him.”

“Is this your house?” When I said that it wasn’t, he asked, “Where’s the owner?” I described what had happened, how he had driven away. Going to the crawl space entrance, he knelt down. “Is that your dog?” When I answered that it was, he said, “Call her out, will you?”

I had difficulty getting her to stop digging-to come out. Finally, I had to raise my voice, saying, “Giz-get out here!” She came, but continued to whine.

“Aren’t you going to look for my kid?” I asked.

“When did you see him last?”

“Just a few minutes ago. He was just here. He went under the house-then just disappeared.” The cop knocked at the back door to the house, but no one answered.

“Let’s go in,” I said. “He must be in there somewhere.”

“We need a search warrant to enter the house.” He spoke into the microphone he had attached to his shoulder. “I’m going to my car. You should probably come with me.” Holding Giz by her collar-she kept trying to go back under the house-I followed him to his car. “Wait here,” he said, indicating the front of his patrol car, then sat down on the front seat, closing the door. He spoke into the microphone of his car radio, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. After what seemed to be an interminable time, but which was probably only a few minutes, he opened the door and stood, leaning on the partly opened door. “There’ll be a team coming out with a search warrant to search the house-and the crawl space.”

“The crawl space?” I said, “but I looked. I didn’t see him under there.”

“Couldn’t you smell it?” he asked.

I guess that I had, but hadn’t thought much about it. I guess I assumed that Giz had found a dead rat under the house.

They found him under the house-buried where Giz had been digging. They told me that he had been dead for days-but I had seen him. He had been at home each night. I had followed him to the house-to the crawl space. In a jar in the back of a closet in the house, they found Scott’s severed genitals. The sick bastard had raped him, castrated him, then killed him, burying him in the crawl space beneath his house. When I told the police that I’d seen Scott, they tried to console me, apparently thinking that I was cracking under the strain of losing my child-but I had seen him.

Was it Scott-or his ghost-trying to tell me, to show me, what had happened to him? I guess that I’ll never really know, or understand what happened, but I do know that, somehow, he led me to where he was buried-led me to his murderer. He kept trying to tell me, kept bringing up the magazine subscriptions-he must have gone to his killer’s house to sell them-but I wouldn’t listen. I kept cutting him off, thinking that my computer games were more important than what my son was trying to tell me, assuming that I knew what he was going to say rather than listening to him. Finally, he had to lead me there.

Could anything I could have done have changed things? I don’t know-possibly not. He was twelve years-old. I couldn’t have gone around with him to sell the subscriptions. It would have embarrassed him to have me along. But, my sin was not being a better father to him while I had him-not spending more time with him-not telling him more often that I love him.

My life without Scott hasn’t changed much. I still spend most of my time alone, on my computer, watching TV, or reading, but one thing has changed. For the first time in my life-I am lonely. Until he was gone, I hadn’t realized how much I loved him-or needed him.