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At least a hundred people are now hanging around the news truck. It’s incredible how catastrophes bring people out of their little worlds to hear the sensationalism of others’ lives. Turmoil and disaster sell. Carnal gratification sells more, but thank goodness, there are no naked sex scenes here.
After scanning the crowd again for Denny and seeing no sign of him, James and I duck across the playground, avoiding the fireman, Macho Al, and the news crew if they’re looking for interviews. I guide the boy as quickly as I possibly can up the walkway.
A shiny hair barrette under the swing catches my eye; I try to ignore it. Did you see it, also?
We don’t speak much; there are too many people passing us on their way to the crash site, too much noise and confusion. The few words out of my mouth are repeated twice that the unit we live in is “just around the corner.” We soon pass our gate and arrive at our front door.
“Wait here, please,” I point James to one of the patio chairs. Since I purposely never locked the door for Denny’s expected return, I turn the handle and enter our abode, leaving the door ajar. “I’ll be right back.”
“Denny?” I call out.
How I wish he would answer so we could shift back to our normal lives. I ponder whether I should let James enter or keep him waiting outside. Lately, my husband and I don’t let any strangers inside our home. Will it be alright if this boy, who may have a virus or germs, comes into our house? If Denny were here, he’d tell me what to do.
Silence once again responds. Oh, what’s the point? Let him get mad. The note I left on top of his cell phone sits untouched. I move it aside and notice the phone has a text message. I set my gear down beside the table, slip off my clogs under it, and retrieve my smartphone out of my pocket, putting it next to Denny’s.
“James, sorry.” He’s still standing in the same spot where I left him. “I wanted to see if my husband was around. He isn’t, but I’m sure he’ll be back any moment. Come on in.”
He doesn’t move but says, “Are you sure? I’m up to date on my vaxes.” Do you think his words are begging an entrance inside? I find no red flags in their tone, do you? I don’t think he is going to viciously attack me or infect me with a virus.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I motion him inside. “If you can believe it, I am one of the few who still hasn’t tested positive for any of the COVID strains, even though Denny—my husband—did and didn’t get super sick. I must have some special gene that keeps it away. But I’m sure if or when I do, it should be a mild case since I’m fully vaccinated and boosted.”
The boy follows me until he stops in the center of the great room. Without speaking, I retrieve two white hand towels from the nearby hall closet next to the bathroom and turn around to offer them to him.
“You sure?” he asks, his brow wrinkled. “These are clean; they’ll get dirty from all the ash and soot.”
I shake my head, not verbally answering his comment as I reflect on the truth of his statement. A stack of hundreds of bleached white towels can’t begin to scrub away the damage done to our memories of the plane crash.
Leading him to the bathroom, I explain, “You can clean up in here. Don’t turn on the fan—it’s broken and loud.” I add, “Oh, wait a sec; I have an idea.”
James stands in the bathroom doorway while I head down the hall to the utility room. Several of Denny’s clean shirts are folded on the clothes dryer; I pull a dark blue one with a white Zipper Cable logo off the stack and retrace my steps.
“My husband’s a consumer electronics sales rep.” I hand the shirt over. “He has at least three of these, so this one’s all yours. It may be a little big for you, but it’ll do for now.”
James thanks me as he steps into the room and closes the door.
Knowing it’ll take him a few minutes to clean up, I peruse the great room. No obvious changes. The broken Alexa remains in pieces by the fireplace, shaming me for my outburst. Sounds of running water emanate from the bathroom.
Maybe Denny ran out of the townhouse, was at the crash, and tried borrowing a phone to call his. But why wouldn’t he try calling me first? Only Mom called my phone.
I grab Denny’s phone from the entry hall table.
One text message.
Clicking the access button, I read: Call me now! on the screen. I note it came from his golfing buddy, John—the cop.
Denny and I have the same make and model of phone. He has grilled me about every feature on them, so I know exactly how they work. After entering his access password (yes, as husband and wife, we do share that private information between us), I click on John’s name and hit “Return” and wait for the phone to ring.
He answers on the second ring. “John Malcolm.” His voice is deep and gruff.
“John, it’s Sarah. I saw you left a message for Denny. Have you heard from him?”
“No.” His voice shoots out like a dagger.
“Well, I don’t know where he is.” I can’t believe I’m saying that.
“I called to tell both of you to stay put,” John speaks, his voice softening. “The police department is on high alert over all the reports of missing people we’re getting recently. If you can manage it, don’t leave your house for at least the next couple of days. We got problems out on the streets. I got probs.”
“Missing?”
“Yeah. The Missing Person Reports are already starting to pile up.”
“Missing persons?” I swallow hard.
“It’s crazy,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe what happened to Carlos and me about a half-hour ago on a Code 10-54d, a possible dead body in Mission Hills.”
I’d like him to focus on finding Denny, but he keeps talking, “. . . male, late sixties, probable heart attack, lying on his bedroom floor.” He starts talking faster as if he’s reading a report to his sergeant. “Carlos gets out his cell and starts accessing our online portal to report it. I recheck the guy for a pulse. Right as I’m touching the deceased’s carotid artery with my gloved hand, I hear a very loud sound. And then—I still can’t believe it—the old man disintegrates right before my eyes.” Do you visualize him shaking his head in confusion like I’m doing?
John pauses and catches his breath. I wonder if he should be telling me about this police business. Do you think, like me, that he sounds like he’s making an urgent confession to a priest? Guess I am the only priest he can find.
“The dead guy is gone, Sarah. Right there, right while I had my hand on his throat, checking for a pulse—gone. His dentures and hearing aids were there, right next to my hand. Found a knee prosthesis and his wallet bulging from his empty pants.”
“No way.” Is John losing his mind? There’s no way this could’ve happened. Would you believe him? Is he telling us the truth? I question how the cop, a friend of ours, says these things so calmly. I’d be freaking out and rolled up in a ball under my bed covers. Wouldn’t you?
“Yep. It did happen. I saw it; I felt it.” He continues, “Stay home, Sarah. Hunker down until I call you again. As I said, things are weird out here. I gotta go. Bet there’ll be rioting next. Tell Denny what I saw.”
John clicks out of the call before I have a chance to question, retort, agree, or mention that I haven’t talked to Denny since dinner or that the plane crashed. I put the phone back on the table. What should I do or think next?
This is bizarre. The dead guy disappeared. Like those girls, maybe? And the fireman’s coworker?
What’s your opinion? What do you think happened? You’ve been with me all this time. You’ve seen all that’s been going on; do you have any ideas?
James stands in front of the opened bathroom door, wearing Denny’s oversized T-shirt that makes his posture look more deflated. Slung over his shoulder is the dirty orange polo. “Where do you want me to put these?” he asks without looking up, each hand gripping a soiled towel.
“Here, I’ll take them.” I return to the utility room and drop the dirty towels into the trash instead of the washing machine. Unlike my prior struggle with blood-soiled clothing from when the governor’s son was shot, this time I discard the items with acceptance and acknowledgment. The towels can be replaced, yet those who died in that airplane crash never will be.
I grab a recycled plastic grocery bag for his shirt from the cupboard.
The door into the garage is next to the dryer. Wondering if Denny went somewhere in his car, I quickly peek inside the darkened room. Nope. His gray BMW SUV and my yellow VW Bug are still parked side by side, safe from the outside world.
I retrace my steps down the hall to find James standing still, both hands deep in his pants pockets. Don’t you think he looks out of place?
Glancing up the stairs to the office door, I call Denny’s name again. No reply.
I explain to James that I haven’t seen my husband since before the plane crash and that we were not on the best of terms. Does it seem odd that I would tell him this? I’m hoping that divulging our marital tiff will break the ice that has refrozen between this boy and me. But it doesn’t seem to—he’s still silent.
“You look better.” I hand him the plastic bag and invite him to use it for his shirt. “Want something to eat or drink? A La Croix or water? Gatorade? Sorry, no Coke or energy drinks are allowed in this house since we think they’re too toxic. I do have some leftover lasagna.” Is it obvious that I am talking too much, possibly out of my own nervousness?
“A La Croix would be fine, ma’am. Thanks.”
“Great. We have orange and berry. Which one?”
After he makes his selection, I suggest, “Why don’t you come sit down over here?” And offer him a stool at the kitchen island. He tucks his shirt in the bag and loops it over the metal back of the chair. I move my closed laptop to the far end of the counter by the other stool.
“Your parents should be here shortly. It’s been at least five minutes since you called.”
“You mean my mom and her husband,” he corrects me with a more determined tone. “She divorced Dad two years ago and married him last February. He’s okay, I guess. A Black guy who’s trying hard to have a White stepson.” I sense pain in his voice when he adds, “None of them really wants me.”
To avoid looking directly at him, I power up my laptop so I can send the videos over to Carl. While the device starts to synchronize, I grab a tumbler from the cupboard next to the sink.
“Hey,” he asks, “do you mind if I use your phone again—check my email, post a comment on Instagram, to tell everyone I am okay?”
“Of course not.” I know today’s teens are into instant communication, and I feel sorry that James has lost his main connection to his social life and the entire galaxy. “But let’s have you do it on my husband’s phone.”
You’d do the same thing for this kid if you could, right? It’s not like he’s going to steal any of our personal information.
I retrieve Denny’s phone, enter its password, and hand it over to James, and he thanks me again. His lifeline restored, he slides back onto the stool and starts clicking away on the phone. I occupy myself by filling the plastic cup with ice from the refrigerator door, popping open the can, and pouring the drink.
When I deliver the beverage, complete with a coaster, I grab a glance over James’s shoulder to see what’s absorbing his attention. It’s a Twitter account. He looks like the typical teen, safely sheltered in his online world.
“Also, feel free to check your email,” I tell him. “I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
He thanks me for the drink, using the “ma’am” word again. After taking a couple of gulps, he repeats a “thank you” for the use of the phone.
I go back to the table by the front door and pick up my phone again. I must tell Carl I’ll be uploading the pics and videos in minutes. I know I’ve got great shots and film. The still of James’s hand caught mid-wave should get me the praise I deserve.
A voice message and two text messages appear on the phone’s screen. Another call from Mom. This time, she left a message, but I’ll listen to it later.
Tapping the screen to see who the texts came from, I notice one is from my friend, Zoey. It reads: Date left me hanging. I bet she’s got a tale to tell about this new guy she met on an online dating site; he must’ve stood her up. I’ll respond when I have time. Jeremy texts, What’s going on? I ignore that one, too.
I give Carl a call but get the office’s primary answering system. Voicemail? Their phone lines must be swamped. As I wait for the automatic message to complete, I think about how the Internet has switched newspapers to online and audio, but someone, somewhere, still likes to read a physical paper. I’m glad Carl had the foresight years ago to merge our news with the interactive website so it could stay in business.
After hitting four numbers to access Carl’s voice mailbox, I leave the message: “Carl, Sarah. Uploading ‘wow’ footage of the plane crash in a few minutes. One survivor. Check out the hand waving. Call or text when you can.”
I consider calling Mom back but wait. I’ll first get James out of the house and upload the photos. If everything has gone as wacky as John says, I don’t need to listen to one of her panic attacks. Like many moms, she can go off the deep end if there’s even a minor medical emergency. If a few people are missing, she may be panic-stricken by now.
And you would think by now that Denny, if he had a brain, would contact his wife somehow, some way, and tell me he is okay, wouldn’t you? Ugh. That man!
Plus, I’m surprised Aunt Amy hasn’t called with another one of her told-you-so doomsday reports.
Ah, yes, maybe this is the end of the world as she’ll claim it to be.