He looks exceptionally handsome in the photograph they printed alongside Harriet’s story, in a smart blue suit with a tie that brings out his eyes. I imagine it was Annie who took it, sitting on the front porch of their house at 119 Albemarle Road. Four bedrooms on six acres with a newly renovated chef’s kitchen and a first-floor master, cost them $835,000. I found the real estate listing—photos and all—after Harriet’s editor proved himself eager to print Sam’s home address, where his new wife Annie is living alone now, no man around to protect her.
I take the scissors from the drawer and take a seat at the kitchen table, wondering what Dr. Annie Marie Potter would think if she knew about the overdue credit card bills her missing husband appears to have been hiding from her. Why else would he keep them stashed in his office, inside the pages of a novel, if not to keep them from her? I’ve been going through the line items, and I’m dumbfounded at what he was willing to spend on things.
Truth be told, I’m more than a little hurt that Sam didn’t tell me about his situation. That’s absurd, I know. Being trapped under $120,000 of debt is far too unhappy a topic for happy hour, but I could have helped him process what got him into this situation and devise a plan to tackle it. (On the other hand, I also have to admit to feeling a smidge better about things. Sam’s coldness these last few weeks wasn’t because of anything I did. He was worried about the debt!)
I’ve just finished cutting out the article when a flash of color passes by the window. I rise from my chair for a look. It’s the Pigeon. I consider slipping into the bathroom and waiting for her to leave, but it’s too late. She’s waving at me through the window. I put the scissors away, walk calmly to the door, and fix on a smile.
“Did you see the article?” she squawks the second I open the door. “About Sam?”
“I was just reading it.”
“I’m a wreck.” She squeezes her eyes shut and then does the last thing I would expect: she reaches out for a hug.
The last time someone touched me: A list
March 4, seven months ago, the day I left Albany.
Xiu, the oldest of the four girls whose parents owned Happy Chinese on the first floor of my building. I watched her and her sisters grow up in that restaurant, working behind the counter, taking turns accepting the two-dollar tip they knew was coming when they handed me the plastic bag of food—chicken-fried rice on Mondays, barbecue spare ribs on Fridays, every week for six years.
Xiu was sitting on the floor in the foyer near the mailboxes, chewing the end of her ponytail and reading The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. She asked me where I was going with such a big suitcase, and when I told her I was moving and wouldn’t be back, she stood up and hugged me goodbye. I couldn’t believe it, a gesture so sweet it brought tears to my eyes that persisted an hour into the Greyhound journey toward Chestnut Hill, New York. (Coach seats on Greyhound. I’d just deposited a check in my name for more money than I could have ever dreamed of and yet there I was, in seat 12C, staring down six more inches of leg room and a reclining seat three rows in front of me, just $29 more.)
“Saw the police stopped by your place, too,” the Pigeon says, finally letting go. She lowers her voice, as if she’s afraid the dog might hear. “What’d you tell them?”
“Oh, you know. That I saw Sam leave for the day, dashing to his car, probably hoping to beat the storm.”
“I saw him drive by, too. He was crazy for driving in those winds. A friend of mine got a tree through her roof, and most of the town lost power.”
“I heard.” I was up early, with local meteorologist Irv Weinstein, who could hardly contain himself on the 6:00 a.m. news (Hundreds of downed trees! Electricity out in the eastern part of the county!).
“Poor Annie,” Sidney says.
“She must be worried sick,” I agree.
“I saw them together, a few weeks ago, at a thing. They seemed happy. Still can’t believe someone pinned that guy down.” She pauses. “Sam and I dated, you know.”
“No, Sam didn’t mention it.”
She laughs. “Why would he? It was a long time ago. And brief. Anyway”—she takes a folded piece of paper from her back pocket—“I came to tell you there’s going to be a search. Some guys from our class are organizing it. Everyone’s meeting at the bowling alley in an hour.”
I take the flyer. “‘Community search for Sam Statler,’” I read.
“Well, for his car, I suppose. Chances are he was in an accident, right?”