Memoir, from just outside the box
Ode to Billie Joe
“...I saw him at the sawmill yesterday on Choctaw Ridge,
And now you tell me Billie Joe’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge…”
Suddenly, life goes haywire. All circuits are sparking and crackling. The acrid, metallic odor of ozone contaminates the air. Code Red.
At the center… a father, a mother and their five young sons.
All of us in our large extended family were swallowed up by the act of one young man, an act that remains… a mystery.
In late 2011, I was living in New Mexico. I received the following email from my sister-in-law Megan who lives in Seattle.
Early on Wednesday, November 16, my sister’s oldest son, Henry, gave one cherished keepsake to each of his four brothers.
“I’m trying to pare it down,” he said. “I want to move out and get my own place.”
In the late afternoon, Henry called his father at work and asked if he could take the old Jaguar downtown.
His father said no. “The Jag has a gas leak.”
Henry took the car anyway. He left his beloved backpack behind. He took only his driver’s license and his phone.
He drove into downtown Portland to meet up with his new friends.
Henry was wearing a blazer. One of his new friends said, “Nice jacket. Why are you so dressed up?”
Henry wanted to give him his jacket but the new friend said, “No, no. I was just giving you a compliment.”
Henry’s father came home after work and saw that the Jaguar was gone. He was angry. He called Henry.
Henry picked up. His father chewed him out.
Henry said, “I’m on the Hawthorne Bridge, on the scaffolding. I can’t find the car. I have to die.”
His father said, “I don’t give a fuck about the car! Where are you, exactly?!”
Henry was silent. His father could hear the wind and the traffic on the metal bridge deck, sounds that became louder as Henry climbed down the repair scaffolding.
His father asked, “What can you see?”
Henry sounded confused. “The Marriott?”
“I’m driving to the bridge right now!”
Henry hung up. His father called 9-1-1.
At the same time, a bicycle commuter called 9-1-1 and reported a kid in white shoes climbing down the scaffolding on the bridge.
It was dark when Henry’s father arrived on the scene. The police had stopped traffic. They were scanning the surface of the water with powerful spotlights.
Henry was not on the bridge walkway or under the bridge on the scaffolding.
Two police boats sped downriver, turned, moved slowly upriver and used their spotlights to scan the current near the shore.
Henry was never seen again. He was gone… just gone.
On Thursday, November 17, my youngest sister Trish called me at dawn. She was hysterical. Ron and I picked up my parents and the four of us made the three-hour drive from Seattle to Portland.
At the house we found twelve relatives, with more on the way.
The police continued to search the river. They checked the airport and the bus and train stations.
We made large signs and stood on the Hawthorne Bridge walkway at rush hour, the same hour Henry had been seen on the bridge.
It was a crowded rush hour, with many bicycle commuters. Traffic was slow… bumper to bumper.
Only one call at dusk on November 16? This makes no sense. If someone is on the bridge threatening to jump, 9-1-1 usually gets 100 calls.
Henry was a strong swimmer, a lifeguard. He was a musician and a talented artist. He was physically fit. He practiced yoga and ate organic food. He was all about improving his body and mind.
That weekend, small groups of family members wandered downtown Portland looking for Henry and passing out flyers.
At random some of us would fall apart and start crying.
Henry’s parents, my sister and her husband, were stunned and exhausted. Their cries were guttural, like a wounded animal.
Henry’s four younger brothers never cried. They never even teared up. It was their belief that Henry had disappeared on purpose, choosing to live life his own way.
More relatives arrived. We shared many big meals together, hanging out at the house, comforting each other, playing board games, working on jigsaw puzzles, playing the piano, laughing, crying and reconnecting.
We were given the keys to three nearby homes, but nobody wanted to leave. All of us stayed at the house, sleeping in beds, on couches and on the floor in sleeping bags.
A section of the ceiling collapsed and landed in the kitchen sink… and that was just the beginning of the woo-woo.
I had a dream about Henry. He was floating underwater in the river, in fetal position like a baby in the womb.
Twice in one night, Henry’s cousin was awakened by a sharp poke in the arm, but there was no one there.
No one slept in Henry’s bedroom. We kept the door closed. One evening, the family dog Jake, his tail wagging, walked down the hall and started barking at the door of Henry’s bedroom. When we opened the door and turned on the light, Jake rushed in and jumped up on the bed, but there was no one there.
Accident? Suicide? The elaborate plan of a gifted runaway? We had no idea. The family is a mess, but we’re hellbent on pulling off a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. There will be a place setting for Henry, an empty chair, the missing man formation.
Epilogue: After Thanksgiving, when all had returned to their homes, Henry’s father bought a small powerboat and searched the banks of the Willamette River himself. He found a body, but it was not Henry. The police found two other bodies, but they were not Henry. I found myself siding with Henry’s brothers. I too believe, even thirteen years later, that Henry is still very much alive, and still very much the artist, the singular free spirit that he has always been, his days unfolding far outside the box, in a world of his own creation.
This is a very touching and heartbreaking story.