Jeanne Genis
Jake didn’t own a car or a bike, but he lived in a smallish town and could walk to work and most of the places he wanted to go. Otherwise, he could take a bus, schedule a ride, or rent a car. Normally, this would be fine, and people wouldn’t remark upon it. But Jake was a man who young children liked to follow and that was strange. He moved to the town for work, and after a few weeks, he realized that small children were following him. He started to avoid parks and crossed the street when he knew there was a school on the next block. He stopped whistling while he walked. He’d wave to adults but never children. But his preemptory actions did little to dissuade his small admirers.
No matter his route, children would notice Jake and follow him. Toddlers would have to be picked up and carried away from him or older children led, protesting, by the hand. If Jake was on the opposite side of a fence, they’d follow him as far as they were able and then watch until he was out of sight. If the fence was low enough and the children agile enough, they’d climb over to continue their pursuit. They’d abandon their yards and toys and older siblings—for whom Jake held no allure. Babies would crawl towards him or lean in their parent’s arms to get closer to him. Once, a child took her first steps in an effort to reach him. Her parents’ excitement turned to dismay as she turned from their outstretched hands, fell heavily, and began to cry—not from injury—inconsolable that Jake was too far away for her lurching steps to close the gap between them.
Jake didn’t especially like children, but he didn’t dislike them either. If you’d asked, he would have described himself as indifferent to children; they were fine, but not his preferred company. Even as a child, he’d been known to seek out adults over his peers.
But in the small town, he’d started to get a reputation as catnip for kids. “Kidnip Jake,” people would say when they saw him, children trailing in his wake. The joke was much too close to “kidnap” for Jake’s comfort. And parents began to wonder about him, was he good or bad, benevolent or dangerous? Why were children obsessed with him? Was he a high railing that practically begged to be climbed despite the danger of falling? They’d ask their kids what was so fascinating about Jake, but the children would give them blank stares and shrug their shoulders. Older kids said that it was a little kid thing and or pretend to think about the question but ultimately admit they just didn’t know.
None of the discussion mattered to the children. They followed him. They offered him their precious items: a fossilized seashell, a superball, a lump of iron pyrite, a jawbreaker, a train-flattened penny, a half-eaten cookie. At first, Jake waved their tributes away, but seeing their dejection, he felt a little sorry for them and began to pocket the items with the thanks of a small nod and tightened lips. This unenthusiastic response would delight each and every child.
When he’d get home, he’d empty his pockets. He’d pile the non-perishables on a wide entry table opposite the door and throw the snacks and candy into the kitchen garbage. The children who’d managed to follow him all the way home would wait in his front yard for ten minutes or more, sitting on the curb or on the grass of the easement, talking quietly to each other. A few would stare off into space, chewing on their nails or hair or long stems of grass that were going to seed. If Jake stayed away from the windows or drew the curtains, eventually the children would give up and go home or back to the park or to wherever they’d been when they’d spotted him and began trailing in his wake.
For a couple months, the pile on the entry table grew taller and wider by the day, sometimes by more than a dozen items at a time. Jake thought of it as a bizarre diorama or museum collection; something to be kept, even though he had no use for the things and wasn’t interested in their curation. In front of his house, the grass by the street grew worn and thin. He began leaving the front curtains closed even though he loved watching the late afternoon light move across the pine floor. He tried walking home through the alleys but quickly discovered that children love alleys; for the few days he took those routes, he came home with his pockets bulging with gifts.
No one over the age of nine noticed when Jake disappeared. Parents, seeing their kids staying close to home or more inclined to play with their friends, felt relieved that the “kidnip” infatuation seemed to have run its course. Babies on his block seemed to settle down more quickly to their naps. His neighbors thought he’d gone on vacation or perhaps moved away. But the children on his regular routes knew that was not the case. They were quietly bereft. If possible, they made their way to Jake’s house and stood outside for a few minutes looking at the closed curtains. The grass in front of the house started to grow back.
When Jake didn’t pay his rent on time and didn’t return calls for a week, his landlord went to the house. He found a key in the front lock and the door unlocked and ajar. When he knocked there was no answer. He pushed the door open a crack and felt a bit of resistance. When he opened the door wide enough that he could see inside, he could see it had pushed a stack of envelopes and flyers gathered on the floor under the mail slot. It was at least a week’s worth of mail, maybe more. He called Jake’s name but there was no response.
After a few more silent minutes, the landlord went inside, stepping over the stack of mail and shouting, “Jake? You home? You forgot the rent!” There was still no response. He thought the air smelled stale. “Jake? You okay? Jake?” He picked up the pile of envelopes and flyers and put them on the empty entry table.
He took the few steps through the foyer and poked his head through the living room doorway before walking into the room. Childish tokens were scattered everywhere. The landlord had no idea what the items were, and he wandered around looking and shaking his head at what he thought was junk. There were sparkling rocks and keychains, army men and doll heads, and gumball machine treasures of every kind. The items were placed on tabletops, the seats and arms of chairs and the couch, the mantle, and the kitchen counters. The tiny flotsam and jetsam of childhood balanced on the edges of sinks, windowsills, and even the top of the toilet tank. Each item had a small slip of paper tucked underneath or nearby with a child’s name written in varied childish handwriting. There was a pile of names in the otherwise empty kitchen garbage can.
It was a little house with two bedrooms, no attic, and no basement. The door to the first bedroom was open and the landlord could see that it was set up as a home office. There were small objects and children’s names scattered across the desk and chair, bookshelves, and printer. On the desk, next to a laptop, there was a photo of Jake with an older couple. A blue and orange hair tie was stretched over the frame and a slip of paper with a girl’s name twisted into the elastic.
The door to the other bedroom was closed. The landlord knocked, said Jake’s name, waited for a response, and then cautiously opened the door. Jake wasn’t there. His bed was made, somewhat neatly, and a jean jacket was thrown over the back of a small easy chair. The closet door was open and the landlord could see shirts on wire hangers and a half-filled laundry basket on the floor. The dresser drawers were closed but a few toiletries and a comb were scattered across its top. There were no toys or stones or scraps of paper strewn throughout this room. It looked undisturbed, though slightly dusty, as if Jake had left and might soon return.
But he didn’t. After a few more days with no sign of Jake, his landlord called the police. They asked around and since none of the neighbors had seen him for weeks, it was decided Jake might actually be missing. The police contacted the few relatives and friends in Jake’s address book but no one had seen or heard from Jake for at least a month or two. They found out Jake’s parents had died in a car accident a few years before and that he had no siblings. He had no close family and no friends living nearby enough to miss his daily presence. Jake’s boss said it was their slow season, and Jake had taken a vacation. He was expected back at work on Monday. But Jake didn’t show up on Monday.
There were no leads. When police officers asked the children about their possessions and the paper slips found in the house, the children responded with blank-eyed stares or crinkled foreheads but no answers. The inquiries went nowhere. The fields and the woods were searched and the pond was dragged, but there was no sign of Jake. It was a cold case. From time to time the officers would look through the evidence boxes and talk to each other about Jake, but with no new information or leads, there was not much they could do.
After the search for Jake was called off, the children made up a game and played it after school and on weekends. One child would walk the sidewalks and alleys, accepting rocks and acorns and the like from other children, and would carry a small, white whistle in their hand but never play it. The whistle was plastic or maybe carved out of wood. Or bone. As weeks went by the nature of the event changed: the children threw pinecones and chased the whistle-bearer—who ran in front of the pack shouting Jake’s name until the others caught up and tackled and buried him or her in sticks and fallen leaves. Then another child would take the whistle and lead the rest. The pursuit would go on until dusk. But near the end of autumn, the whistle was lost. Maybe it was broken, the shattered pieces hard to locate. Maybe it was buried in a pile of leaves. The whistle’s disappearance—and the waning interest of the children—meant the game was finally over.
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Jeanne Genis is a writer and editor living in Chicagoland. She won the 2016 Illinois Emerging Writers Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award and was the 2023 Daisy Pettles House Writer in Residence. She is currently working on a novel and a collection of poems.