Tom took his eyes off his five-year old Sam for just a minute. He was distracted by another child’s screaming. He turned back to see Sam. Sam was gone. Tom ran through the park, yelling, “Duck, Duck, Duck.” Duck was Sam’s nickname. It was a Thursday afternoon.
For weeks, Tom and Sarah, his wife, searched for Duck. His family and friends searched. The police searched. They searched the park and turned the city upside down. No Duck. Finally Sgt. Finelly said, “We’ll keep looking, but I don’t think we’re going to find him. His fate is in the hands of God. All we can do is pray.”
“We’ve got to keep searching,” Tom said. And he kept looking. Any clue, he’d follow up on it.
It had been twelve months when Sarah said one Thursday, “It’s no use. We’ve been neglecting Cassie.” Cassie was their three-year-old daughter. “We need to get back to some semblance of normalcy.” Sarah had always been the practical one.
There was no way Tom was going to give up. He knew that Duck was waiting somewhere for Tom to rescue him. But where? He kept looking. So much so he lost his job as a corporate attorney. Sarah took Cassie and moved out. On a Thursday of all days. On another Thursday, he signed the divorce papers.
After another year, he’d gone through all his investments and savings. He found a one room apartment and a job washing dishes on the evening shift for a restaurant. That way he could spend his days searching for Duck.
He let his hair grow long and he grew a beard. They turned white. He got a job as a temporary Santa to fill in when the regular Santa was out sick or needed a day off. Maybe Duck would come up and sit on his lap and Christmas would be merry again. But he was such a sad, sad Santa. So sad no store would hire him. He had acquired a reputation.
And every Thursday, he came and sat on the park bench where he’d last seen Duck. For five, ten, fifteen, twenty years, he came to that bench. He came, even during the coldest days of the winter. And the young man who’d been a father and a husband had faded away into his past. If some angel had measured his tears, they would have filled Niagara Falls.
“God, it’s all my fault,” he kept praying.
For years, he had watched the giant oak across from the bench. The oak he took to calling “Frank..” In the winter, Frank was stripped of his leaves. Come spring, the leaves returned. In the summers, Frank was filled with leaves on every branch, leaves greener than the greenest green. Autumn came and the tree slowly surrendered his leaves to the earth again.
“How can you just let go like that?” he asked the tree.
The tree didn’t say anything back. Frank was silent. And content to fulfill his purpose of being the best oak he could be. Over the years, Tom had seen teenagers grab his branches and swing. Children danced around him. Families had picnics under his shade. Lovers kissed under his branches. The tree was a thing of life. No wonder the Druids thought of trees as holy things.
Over the years, Tom and Frank had become friends. Frank was the only one who listened to Tom’s pain and did not judge him.
Then one Thursday, Tom did not show up. And another Thursday went by. And still he was a no show.
A woman named Karen had passed Tom on her afternoon runs for several years. He was always on that bench on Thursdays. Now he wasn’t.
Karen stopped a policeman on one of his rounds. “What happened to the man on the bench? I mean, the man with the long white beard. He always made me think of Santa Claus.”
“Oh, you mean Tom. We found him in his apartment. He had a heart attack and died.”
“Who was he?”
“He was a legend in the department. The man who never gave up.” The officer told her Tom’s story.
“It’s too bad he never found his son,” she said, then continued on her way.
But Frank knew different. No matter what had happened to Duck, Tom would see him again.
Uncle Bardie's Stories & Such 