JACK WOKE AT ELEVEN A.M., head throbbing. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed full of socks. He stretched out his arm, but the other side of the bed was empty. He had a vague recollection of Michelle getting up early and kissing him goodbye.
Should he get up? He didn’t have to work today; if he wanted to, he could spend the rest of the morning asleep. He rolled over; memories of the night came back and he smiled. Until more memories returned.
He sat up, listening. Usually, at this time of day, Mr. Gardner would have the radio on loud in his kitchen.
Silence.
He got out of bed, pulled on some boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Heart knocking, he opened his apartment door. The hall light was still on. Mr. Gardner turned it off without fail at sunrise every morning.
He stood still and listened carefully: no sound from Mr. Gardner’s apartment upstairs. Maybe he just went out. Jack told himself.
He returned to his apartment and stepped into a pair of pants. He went back to the front hall. “Mr. Gardner?”
Silence. Motes of dust settled over a big plastic plant in the corner.
Gingerly, he climbed the stairs.
He paused outside the door. No sound within. He knocked softly.
No answer. The old guy was pretty hard of hearing. He rapped on the door again.
“Mr. G.?” he called out. “It’s Jack.” No point in giving the man a heart attack by sneaking up on him.
I’ll call, he thought. Maybe he’s just in the back and didn’t hear the door.
Ignoring his own aching head, he jogged downstairs. After he dialed the phone, he heard it ring upstairs. One ring, two rings…Six rings…Nine.
Panic sheeted his heart. He went out and climbed the stairs again. “Mr. Gardner?” he shouted. He tried the doorknob. It turned easily and the door opened. His stomach dropped. Mr. Gardner would never have gone out and left his door unlocked.
Tensing, he pushed the door fully open.
The kitchen was empty. The air inside was stuffy and warm; the apartment smelled old. He looked around carefully, as if entering a crime scene. There was the massive stove, there was the lazy Susan with the butter cookies, the Tupperware container with the grocery coupons—but there was no sign of the old man.
He stood in the doorway to the back hall. “Mr. Gardner?” His voice sounded hollow and weak.
No answer.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he called out. “It’s Jack.”
Halfway down the hall, he peered into the living room. There was the giant old TV, the same one that Mr. Gardner and his wife had probably watched The Jack Paar Show on decades before. A flattened pair of leather slippers lay on a throw rug in front of the La-Z-Boy. No Mr. Gardner.
Holding his breath, he turned down the hall toward the bedroom. The house was so quiet he could hear the kitchen clock ticking behind him. He pushed the half-open bedroom door. The dry hinges creaked.
Mr. Gardner was on the floor, half lying, half sitting, propped against the edge of the bed. He had pulled a quilt off the bed and it was clenched in his left hand. His head shifted an inch. He opened an eye and stared up at Jack. He was trying to say something but one side of his face wouldn’t move.