The intermittent rain began to fall again as Aaron knelt down and touched the grass over his mother’s grave. His knees sank into the muddy ground as he placed the stone, and whispered, “Mom, I so wish you had lived to see the kids. The boys are finishing the first grade and kindergarten. Danielle is a little actress already. I can just see her in a dozen years auditioning for one of the plays you’d be directing at Columbia.”
He smiled, thinking of what his mother’s response would be. “Aaron, you’re a dreamer. Do your math. By the time Danielle is in college, I’d have been seventy-five years old.”
“You’d still be teaching and directing and you’d still be full of spunk,” he said aloud.
4
O n Monday morning, carrying the note Mack had dropped in the collection basket, I set off for the District Attorney’s office in lower Manhattan. It was beautiful out, sunny and warm with a balmy breeze, the kind of weather that would have been appropriate for Mother’s Day instead of the cold, wet day that had spoiled any hope of outdoor gatherings.
Mom and Uncle Dev and I had gone out to dinner Sunday night. Obviously the note that Uncle Dev handed us sent Mom and me into a tailspin. Mom’s initial reaction was to be thrilled that Mack might be so near. She has always been convinced that he is far away in Colorado or California. Then she became fearful that my threat to find him had put him in some kind of jeopardy.
At first I simply didn’t know what to think about it, but now I had a growing suspicion that Mack might be head over heels in trouble and trying to keep us away from it.
The lobby at 1 Hogan Place was crowded, and the security was as tight as it gets. Even though I had plenty of identification, without a specific appointment to see someone, I could not get past the guard. As the people on line behind me began to get restless, I tried to explain that my brother was missing, and we might finally have something to indicate where we could begin looking for him.