Молчаливая ночь [with w_cat]

[75] “Where’s Brian?” Michael asked as he returned from dropping the dollar in the singer’s basket.

[76] Startled from her thoughts, Catherine looked down at her son. “Brian?” she said blankly. “He’s right here.” She glanced down at her side, and then her eyes scanned the area. “He had a dollar. Didn’t he go with you to give it to the singer?”

[77] “No,” Michael said gruffly. “He probably kept it instead. He’s a dork.”

[78] “Stop it,” Catherine said. She looked around, suddenly alarmed. “Brian,” she called “Brian.” The carol was over, the crowd dispersing. Where was Brian? He wouldn’t just walk away, surely. “Brian,” she called out again, this time loudly, alarm clear in her voice.

[79] A few people turned and looked at her curiously. “A little boy,” she said, becoming frightened. “He’s wearing a dark blue ski jacket and a red cap. Did anyone see where he went?”

[80] She watched as heads shook, as eyes looked around, wanting to help. A woman pointed behind them to the lines of people waiting to see the Saks windows. “Maybe he went there?” she said in a heavy accent.

[81] “How about the tree? Would he have crossed the street to get up close to it?” another woman suggested.

[82] “Maybe the cathedral,” someone volunteered.

[83] “No. No, Brian wouldn’t do that. We’re going to visit his father. Brian can’t wait to see him.” As she said the words, Catherine knew that something was terribly wrong. She felt the tears that now came so easily rising behind her eyes. She fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief and realized something was missing: the familiar bulk of her wallet.

[84] “Oh my God,” she said. “My wallet’s gone.”

[85] “Mom!” And now Michael lost the surly look that had become his way of disguising the worry about his father. He was suddenly a scared ten-year-old. “Mom. Do you think Brian was kidnapped?”

[86] “How could he be? Nobody could just drag him off. That’s impossible.” Catherine felt her legs were turning to rubber. “Call the police,” she cried. “My little boy is missing.”

[87] The station was crowded. Hundreds of people were rushing in every direction. There were Christmas decorations all over the place. It was noisy, too. Sound of all kinds echoed through the big space, bouncing off the ceiling high above him. A man with his arm full of packages bumped a sharp elbow into Brian’s ear. “Sorry, kid.”

[88] He was having trouble keeping up with the woman who had his mom’s wallet. He kept losing sight of her. He struggled to get around a family with a couple of kids who were blocking his way. He got past them, but bumped into a lady who glared down at him. “Be careful,” she snapped.

[89] “I’m sorry,” Brian said politely, looking up at her. In that second he almost lost the woman he was following, catching up to-her again as she went down a staircase and hurried through a long corridor that led to a subway station. When she went through a turnstile, he slipped under the next one and followed her onto a train.

[90] The car was so crowded he could hardly get in. The woman was standing, hanging on to a bar that ran over the seats along the side. Brian stood near her, his hand gripping a pole. They went only one long stop, then she pushed her way to the opening doors. So many people were in Brian’s way that he almost didn’t get out of the subway car in time, and then he had to hurry to catch up with her. He chased after her as she went up the stairs to another train.

[91] This time the car wasn’t as crowded, and Brian stood near an old lady who reminded him of his grandmother. The woman in the dark raincoat got off at the second stop and he followed her, his eyes fixed on her ponytail as she practically ran up the stairs to the street.

[92] They emerged on a busy corner. Buses raced past in both directions, rushing to get across the wide street before the light turned red. Brian glanced behind him. As far as he could see down the block there were nothing but apartment houses. Light streamed from hundreds of windows.

[93] The lady with the wallet stood waiting for the light to turn. The WALK sign flashed on, and he followed his quarry across the street. When she reached the other side she turned left and walked quickly down the now sloping sidewalk. As he followed her, Brian took a quick look at the street sign. When they visited last summer, his mother had made a game of teaching him about street signs in New York. “Gran lives on Eighty-seventh Street,” she had said. “We’re on Fiftieth. How many blocks away is her apartment?” This sign said Fourteenth Street. He had to remember that, he told himself, as he fell in step behind the woman with his mom’s wallet.