8:31 p.m.
The Man in the White Shirt was the last one off the bus. As he stepped down to the street, he turned back to the driver and nodded.
“Have a safe night,” he said.
“Um, yeah,” the driver mumbled. “You too,” he added, a little more brightly.
The driver waited for him to cross in front of the bus before pulling slowly away from the curb and heading off in the other direction. Before long, the bus rounded a curve and vanished from sight.
The Man in the White Shirt was surprised by how quiet it was, so close to the center of town. The streets were empty, the restaurants closed. Then he realized why: everyone had gone home.
As he turned down a lane full of small, tidy houses, he could see lights on in every window, and people sitting in those windows, looking up and down the street. Neighbors huddled in small groups on the sidewalk. Old men sat on their porches. He felt their eyes searching him as he passed, trying to place him, to see if they knew him.
Everywhere he looked people were watching, waiting.
Sitting vigil.
Mac sat on his porch stoop, nursing a mug of coffee that had long ago gone cold. Beside him sat the model plane he’d been flying that afternoon. He idly spun the propeller as he glanced up at the street corner.
Still nobody there.
Then he heard footsteps, coming from the other direction.
He leaned forward. The street was darker at that end, and he squinted into the shadows. He could just make out the silhouette of a person, coming closer. But as they passed in front of his house, he saw it was a woman, the lawyer who lived four doors down. She waved. He waved and forced a smile, trying to hide his disappointment.
Then he settled back on his elbows again to wait.
Alex pushed the curtains back and peered out the front window again.
Still nobody.
Behind him, Radar whimpered. Alex watched him circle the big lounger again, sniffing at it furiously and whining in frustration. He’d been calm after dinner, but now he was agitated again, pacing and whining constantly.
“I told you, that’s Dad’s chair.”
Alex started toward the living room, ready to defend the chair again, but Radar pushed past him and hurried to the front door. He pawed the door and scratched at the frame, still whimpering like mad.
“Ohhhh. Gotta go, boy?” Suddenly, it made sense.
Radar whimpered again.
Alex unlocked the door and swung it open for Radar to go do his business.
The second the door opened, Radar bolted.
“NO!”
Alex took out after Radar, but the dog shot away like a rocket. He bounded across the yard at top speed, jumped the neighbor’s hedge, then hit the ground and kept on going. Alex chased him to the corner, but Radar was already long gone, blocks away and out of sight.
Just like that.
“Radar. RADAR!!”
No way, thought Alex. What happened?? It can’t be over. I can’t lose him, just like that. He looked back at the house, where he could see the light from inside spilling out his front door. He couldn’t just let Radar go. But he couldn’t leave his sister alone.
“RA - DARRRR!!!”
Alex stood on the corner, listening for a bark, a whine, anything. He listened until his shout died off into echoes.
And then there was nothing. Silence.
Radar was gone, vanished into the darkness.
The Man in the White Shirt detoured into the big city park. He figured the shortcut would save him nearly a half-hour.
What he hadn’t counted on was that it would be so dark. Usually, there were ball games out here under the lights; but tonight, the fields were empty, the lights out. He didn’t want to admit it, but halfway through the park, he got a little spooked.
He was crossing the baseball field at the edge of the woods when he heard something moving through the brush. He froze, listening.
Ten yards away, he saw a figure emerge from the woods.
A dog.
No collar. Probably a stray. The Man in the White Shirt didn’t move a muscle. The dog saw him anyway. It paused, staring back. It was big and had some kind of bandage on its ear. It cocked its head, watching him, then loped away.
The Man in the White Shirt breathed a sigh of relief, chuckling at his own jumpy nerves, and continued on his way.
Alex felt numb. He still couldn’t believe that Radar was gone.
So he tried not to think about it and got busy cleaning the kitchen. He wiped down the table and vacuumed under Nunu’s chair. He dried the dishes and put them away in the cabinet. He scooped the leftovers into a plastic bin and opened the refrigerator to stow them inside.
And came to a complete halt.
There, on the bottom shelf, sat his birthday cake. The one his mom had made for tonight. “Tower to A-Dawg,” it read, in green icing, “Happy Birthday!!!”
Alex had been told a zillion times not to stand there with the refrigerator door open, but he couldn’t help it. He stared at the cake as an idea slowly took shape in his mind. When he was sure what he wanted to do, he slammed the door and headed off with purpose.
He was a man with a plan.
He hurried to the pantry and found the bag of birthday decorations his mom had bought. He grabbed some scissors and tape, dumped the decorations on the kitchen table, and got to work.
Twenty minutes later, the job was done. The banner was complete.
He carried the banner into the living room and stood on a kitchen chair to pin it to the drapes. When it was hanging straight, he stepped back to examine the finished product.
Behind him, a key slid into the front door.
Alex spun around.
The door swung open.
And there stood his mom.
She took two steps into the room, then stopped short, taking in Alex and the banner and the TV news in the background, and she knew he knew everything.
“Oh, Alex,” she said, as she pulled him into her arms and started to cry.
The Man in the White Shirt kept up a steady pace now as he crossed the tall bridge that stretched over a railroad yard and a narrow river. He paused briefly in the center, the highest point, where he could see all the way to Manhattan, glittering like a jewel right down to its southern tip, which remained dark, and empty.
Then he lowered his head and pushed on.
Mac paced the living room, clutching the remote tightly in his fist. The walls flicked from black to blue to black to blue as he ticked through the TV channels, one after another after another.
But the story was always the same.
Alex’s mom sat on the sofa, the light from the muted TV flickering on her face. She was still in her nurse’s uniform; she hadn’t even bothered to change. After checking on Nunu, who was still asleep, she had collapsed on the couch with her arm around Alex. They hadn’t said much since she’d been home. They’d just held onto each other.
“Mom?”
She thought he’d fallen asleep.
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She paused a long time before answering. Then she told him the truth.
“I didn’t think you could handle it.”
She looked around her, at the dishes drying in the kitchen, the banner hanging on the curtain, the door to the bedroom where Nunu was sleeping, safe and sound.
“I guess I was wrong.”
The Man in the White Shirt was close now. A car zoomed past him and stopped hard in front of a house up the block. A man in his fifties jumped out of the car with the speed of a guy half his age and ran to the front porch, taking the steps two at a time as someone inside flung open the front door, bathing him in golden light.
The Man in the White Shirt smiled to himself, knowing he would be there soon.
Mac picked up the phone and dialed again. Someone once told him the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. But Mac knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t keep trying.
So he dialed again and put the phone to his ear, waiting to hear his son’s voice.
The Man in the White Shirt saw the street sign lit up by the street lamp on the corner, and his heart jumped into his throat.
He turned the corner and picked up his pace.
Then he broke into a run.
Alex and his mom slumped on the sofa, leaning into each other like two poles of a teepee, holding each other up, both asleep.
The Man in the White Shirt sprinted across the lawn and up onto the porch. He tried the door, but it was locked. He searched his pockets. He’d lost his keys.
The Man in the White Shirt laughed to himself: all this way, and he was locked out of his own house. He lifted his arm and knocked sharply on the door.
Mac stood up and crossed to the front door. He pulled the door open.
And then he peered out into the empty night. He took a step onto the porch and looked up toward the corner again. But there was nobody there.