Curtains unmoved.
By seven, my stomach felt like a clenched fist.
When it cooled, I carried it next door and knocked.
“Jack?” I called.
“It’s Mrs. Doyle. I brought pie.”
Silence.
I knocked again.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to open,” I said.
“Just say something so I know you’re okay.”
Nothing.
Just a closed door.
I went home, set the pie on my table, and stared at it.
By morning, I’d made up my mind.
I called a taxi and went to the police station because I don’t drive anymore, and frankly, at ninety-one, I shouldn’t.
The officer at the front desk looked about 12 himself.
“Ma’am, can I help you?” he asked, standing up.
“I hope so,” I said.
But if I’m right and say nothing…”
He nodded and grabbed a clipboard.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Helen. I live on Maple.”
“Jack. He’s 12.
Lives next door. I don’t see any adults there much.”
I told him about the crying on the porch. The dark house.
The unanswered door.
He didn’t laugh or tell me I was overreacting.
“You did the right thing coming in,” he said. His badge said LEWIS. “Let me get Officer Murray.
He handles welfare checks.”
A few minutes later, another officer came out. Older. Calm.
The kind of man who makes you feel like things might work out.
He shook my hand.
“Helen? I’m Murray,” he said. “Tell me about Jack.”
So I did.
Again.
He listened. Jotted notes. Didn’t interrupt.
When I finished, I twisted my hands in my lap.
“I know I’m just the old lady next door,” I said.
“But if something happens to that boy and I sat on my hands…”
“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he said. “You’re someone who noticed. That matters.
I’ll stop by this afternoon. Would you like to be there?”
“Yes,” I said, without thinking.
“Alright then,” he said.
That afternoon, his cruiser pulled onto our street. He came to my door first. Continue reading…
