THE PHANTOM
Greg Chamberlin

Red ran off. That's what all the kids said.

Of course he ran off. Red always ran. He ran to the bus, from the bus into school, back to the bus, and from the bus back home. He ran for the pleasure of it, pure and simple.

The best times were when he ran after school, just flat out flying. We tried to keep up. He'd let us draw near, a whole pack of us, and run with him for awhile, maybe as far as the bridge, and then he'd pull ahead, smiling, really stretching out his legs while our footsteps slowed and our panting increased, and we stopped and hung our heads, bent over with our hands on our knees, and sucked the cool air into our hot lungs. He'd keep going, off of the road and into the woods. We'd catch glimpses of him, a flash of color against the gray trunks of hardwoods. Listening, we'd hear his footsteps pounding out a rhythm, a heartbeat of life pulsing through the woods.

Last fall we made up a game. The Phantom we called it. Red was The Phantom. He'd wrap himself in an old dark army blanket and run, the blanket flapping in the evening air like a superhero's cape. There was no real winner or loser in this game. It was all about the chase.

The game got better as the day grew dark. Red would run ahead, letting us draw near only to put on speed and vanish into shadows. He'd draw that blanket around him and vanish in the dark like a letter folded into an envelope and mailed away. We'd scurry to where we'd last seen him and scramble around rustling the fallen leaves, kicking up nothing but dust. Then he'd be among us, stepping out from behind a tree or springing up out of the shadows to kick one of us in the butt. We'd shout and give chase then, but with his speed and that blanket which blended so well with the darkness, we could never catch him.

His escape was delicious somehow. He was a fox slipping past the hounds, running on ahead, doubling back, ducking into darkness, and letting us run right past him. He must have laughed then, bundled into his blanket and wedged into the darkness so tightly that our eyes could not budge him loose.

When he disappeared, run off as folks said, I thought that he had put himself away somewhere dark, covered up, not to be seen. They'd searched and found nothing but his footprints in the melting snow leading to worry, disappointment, heartbreak. Their search expanded from our lakeside neighborhood north to the High Rollaways. There the land tossed and rolled, stopped and started, bunched up and spread out, the small swells like the distance between runners in a relay race. I joined the search there. We spread out in a line and walked the Rollaways, striking the two-tracks, which wound throughout the area like ribbons on a parcel.

For a while, I found myself searching next to Red's dad. He looked worried. He looked bad: red-eyed, unshaven, an almost too sweet smell like funeral flowers floating on the air around him.

"He's fast," I said, "We can't catch him." I was talking of our game, The Phantom, but his dad swiveled his head toward me and I saw panic.

"He lets us find him sometimes, though," I added. He would, too. Some night after chasing Red for hours, he'd slip in among us undetected and rise up off the ground and simply be there. We'd pause and wait for the chase to begin again, but he'd just stand there. Then we'd swarm him, throw our bodies on him and press him back to the ground. Lying atop him I could feel his blood hot in his body, coursing through him, riding a quick current through his limbs. His heartbeat with the intensity of hammer blows in his chest, as if it would beat its way through his ribs. He'd laugh as we pinned him and then tied his hands before him with our mother's laundry rope leaving a long leash to lead him to our stronghold.

It would be late by then, and as surely as he let us lead him away, one after another of our mother's would call for us. We'd untie him and trudge home empty-handed.

At sunset they called the search off for the day and we left the Rollaways without Red. They said they'd search the woods around Woodruff Lake tomorrow. Red knew that area, had hunted it with his dad. I thought I wouldn't go with them then. I thought chasing Red was for nothing if it wasn't for fun. This wasn't fun. There was no joy in this heavy-legged pursuit. I chased him every night and never caught him except for when he allowed it. They would never catch him, chase him all they wanted.

If they stood still, however, he might come to them. He might rise up in the midst of them like some fast-growing tree and spread his arms and let them dangle their relief from his limbs like Christmas ornaments.

© Greg Chamberlin 2004

Greg recently returned to writing after a hiatus of several years. He lives in Hopkins, Minnesota, with his wife and three children.

on to page 10   

back to the front page