About Books: The Jeremy Myles novels

 

Many years ago I heard about a boy who had been kidnapped. I don’t recall all of the details, only that he was taken when he was about 6, and there was never any ransom demand. He had simply vanished. There were no leads. His face on a milk carton didn’t produce any information. Then at age 12, he returned.

His tale was a harrowing one of kidnapping, abuse, both physical and sexual, and his eventual escape when the man who had abducted him came home one day with another 6-year-old, since a 12-year-old boy was no longer of interest for the pedophile kidnapper.

He determined that the little boy would not suffer as he had, and he made a plan to get them both out.

They even made a television movie about this kidnapping.

For some reason, I’m drawn to stories like this. I have my suspicions why, but suffice it to say I am curious about how people in such situations manage not to be crushed by their circumstances.

I didn’t research the actual kidnapping. In fact, I don’t even know the name of the boy this happened to. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t need that information. Considering how many children’s pictures end up on milk cartons every year, I’m sure there are other stories out there about similar kidnappings.

I wasn’t interested in writing a biography. I wanted to write a fiction story about someone in similar circumstances with different twists embedded in the story. However, when I tried to write the kidnapping story and the day-to-day life of the victim, I quickly became bogged down in the technicalities and had to shelve the idea for a few years.

When I came back to the story, I realized the tale I wanted to tell was about what happened after. People lose interest once a child is back with his parents, as if he could pick up his life and it’s as carefree as it was before the kidnapping ever took place. I doubt that’s ever the case.

I wanted to know what happened after; how did this character return to “normal”? Or did he? Could he be a civilized person able to cope with teenage stresses?

My story begins when the boy, Jeremy (not the real name of the real-life person) is entering junior year of high school at age 16. He has been home with his parents since he was 12, and it has taken that long to convert him from a nearly feral, frightened boy suffering PTSD from 6 years of physical, psychological and sexual abuse to being able to have some social interactions with his peers.

At various times since he returned home, sending him to school was attempted without success. As a newcomer, he was bullied or ignored, resulting in him melting down or lashing out.

Since he couldn’t go to school, he was tutored, although his father wanted him to return to school at some point before he was old enough to attend university. The family’s move to a new state when they inherit a home that had been owned by a relative provides a new chance at attending school. The fact that one of his cousins, with whom he is comfortable, also attends the school makes the transition a bit smoother than previous tries.

Once he appears to be adjusting to school, his father gives him a 3-strike rule: he can have 3 failures in behavior. At the third one, he must accept some distasteful chore to be completed as punishment without complaint in order to teach him responsibility.

His years of private tutoring have put him slightly ahead of his peers in some subjects, but he’s somewhat lacking in socialization. When he meets a girl at school who is friendly, he is determined that he will do anything not to lose her friendship. He even makes friends with some of the other boys with the help of his cousin.

Not everything goes smoothly, and he does eventually have his third strike. At that point, he decides to put his friendship with the girl to the test, and, swearing her to secrecy, lets her read a file that documents all that has happened to him. This also provides the reader with the information about the kidnapping without making the entire story about it.

Teenage alliances being fluid, there are betrayals and misunderstandings, and Karma takes its own time visiting.

This book was originally supposed to be a one-off novel. Of course, things are not always what they appear to be, and a second novel, which takes place in Jeremy’s senior year of high school, finally puts all of the pieces together.

Having found out who betrayed him in the previous novel, he believes everything will finally settle down to what other boys his age experience. After all, he has been assured that everyone involved with his kidnapping has either been arrested or killed, so he need never fear anything from those people.

Jeremy has a brother who has been out of the family’s graces since shortly after kidnapping through his own choice. His sister is the only one in contact with him. Believing he is the cause of the estrangement, Jeremy wants to try to heal the rift and get to know his brother, who is living in another state.

He does eventually convince his brother to meet him, and helps to try to reunite the family.

Meanwhile, a chance vacation at the shore brings Jeremy face to face with someone he thought was long dead. Panic, police investigations and U.S. Embassy inquiries ensue to try to flush out the last person involved in the kidnapping, who has, so far, escaped justice.

Jeremy’s life is kept off-balance while the professionals try to figure out what went wrong. But Karma finally does prove she can be a bitch in the right circumstances.

Both novels take place in Yardley, Pennsylvania, Princeton, New Jersey and many points in-between.

 

The Thrill of Pretty Things

The scene: Philadelphia in spring or summer. My mother, my aunt, my cousin and I were in the city for a day, but the reason escapes me. My cousin and I were 10 or 11.

We spent the day shopping, I suppose. I don’t recall going to the city for any other reason as a child before malls had been invented. I liked the idea of shopping, but the reality was headache-inducing, what with overheated stores, crowds and standing in line.

Then there was outside. A rural girl, I found cities gritty, and sidewalks tiring on the feet that, in those days, had to be in dress shoes for any excursion. I had yet to own my first pair of sneakers.

Despite the negatives, I found department stores magical; the window displays a thing of beauty.

But whereas I felt the internal wonder of it all – an emotion inexpressible in words but easily seen on my face – my cousin was exuberant. Experience had taught me that verbal expression of my joy led only to ridicule, from cousins as well as peers.

“You like that?”

“You still believe in that?”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’re a baby.”

“You’re weird.”

My cousin had, apparently, never met with those experiences, so she didn’t hesitate to say, “Oh, that’s beautiful! I love that! How pretty!”

I would nod, enjoying my internal experience, but apparently not showing it enough on my face. My cousin had, at every turn, beaten me to the punch.

The intersection of, “I’m tired and my feet hurt,” and the thrill of pretty things was face-in-neutral.

Face-in-neutral is apparently interpreted by extroverts as boredom.

Yes, I am an introvert. I can hold my own and more in a conversation if it’s something I’m interested in. But starting a conversation with a stranger or someone I don’t know well is something the other person needs to do. I can no more get beyond, “Hello. Nice weather,” than my non-artistic mind can find the horizon line on a blank canvas.

When someone isn’t having a conversation with me, but enthusing over the sights and sounds of the environment, what is there to do beyond nodding and saying, “Yes” ?

Perhaps the reason I don’t remember much about the day is the one memory of it that did stick out: my mother scolding me in the train station – in quiet but deadly “mom voice” – after my cousin and aunt had departed. “Why can’t you be like your cousin? She, at least, enjoyed this trip.”

Wait a minute. I enjoyed the day enormously. I got to ride the train, see the sights, and enjoy the wonder and beauty in my own way. We even ate lunch at Horn and Hardart’s automat, my absolute favorite restaurant at the time, where I put the coins in the slot and took out my favorite, beef pot pie, from behind the little glass door. My cousin hadn’t even liked hers. Why was I expected to repeat every rapturous thing she said? What’s the point of that?

My mother destroyed the day with her admonishment. Now I understood: my mother wanted a daughter, but I wasn’t the one she wanted.

I was well-mannered and smart and inventive, and did what I was told. But somehow I was lacking.

Admittedly, my social skills have always been in negative numbers. I spent my childhood waiting for friends to happen, and never quite understood the odd looks or social cues or whatever they were that were directed my way. Unfortunately, that is still the case.

I liked my cousins. I always liked the idea of visiting them, but the visits never met my expectations.  No, not expectations; my hopes and dreams of what it would be like to have someone to play with.

Any of my cousins my age or near it could run faster than I, climb trees better, and generally disappear so I couldn’t find them. They were good at grabbing my shoes so I’d have to chase after them in my bare feet, and when I wouldn’t, they’d toss the shoes into a nearby rose hedge where the thorns would tear at my skin as I retrieved the shoes.

They wouldn’t discuss books or invent stories or jump rope or anything I was good at. The trip to Philadelphia fit right into the same mold.

Which is why I travel alone. And wear sneakers.