Home Front(43)

“Hi, Michael,” his mother said. “I’m sorry to call you at work, but I just got a flat tire. I’m out by the Tacoma Mall for that gardening gift show. There’s no way I can make it home in time to pick up Lulu and be at your house in time to meet Betsy.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Fine. Just waiting for AAA. Sarah Wheller is doing carpool today—she’ll drop Betsy home after track practice. About five o’clock. And Lulu needs to be picked up by four thirty.”

He looked at his watch. It was 3:33. The next ferry left in twelve minutes. If he missed it, Betsy would come home to an empty house—a no-no according to Jolene’s über list. Although, honestly, why a twelve-year-old needed someone to welcome her home was beyond him. “Okay, Ma. Thanks.”

“Sorry to do this to you. Oh, darn, my phone is beeping. Does that mean my battery is going out? Michael? Did you hear me?”

“I’m here, Ma. No problem. Thanks.” He flipped his phone shut, gathered up what work he would need, and left his office. “I left some dictation on my desk for you. And try Keller’s father again, remind him I really need to speak to his son,” he said to Ann as he passed her desk. “I’ll be on my cell if you need me.”

“Your four fifteen appointment—”

“Cancel it. I have to leave right now,” he said over his shoulder and kept walking.

Outside, a steady rain drizzled from a low-slung sky. Car headlights glowed in the falling rain, looking like an endless stream of fuzzy yellow balls inching down wet streets. As he drove away from his office, blurry neon signs attested to the city’s rough-and-tumble past—gun shops and X-rated bookstores and dark, seedy bars. He followed the stop-and-go traffic to the ferry terminal, cursing at every red light, checking his watch.

He knew he was in trouble when he saw the ticket line. All at once he remembered that today was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. The tourists were out in droves, already heading to Bainbridge Island and the beautiful Olympic Peninsula. Tapping his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel, he inched forward, following the car in front of him until it was his turn to buy a ticket. “Which ferry?” he said tightly.

“Six twenty.”

“Shit.” Michael calculated quickly: if he waited for the ferry, he wouldn’t get home until at least 7:20.

But he could drive around; although the Kitsap Peninsula was only a thirty-five minute ferry ride from downtown Seattle, one could also drive through Tacoma and come into Poulsbo from the mainland. He could drive home in a little under two hours. And it was only three forty-five. He’d be through Tacoma before the rush-hour traffic hit.

“Thanks.” He pulled out of line and drove back through the city. In less than ten minutes, he was rocketing onto I-5 South. He flipped open his phone and called his mom, who didn’t pick up. Her battery had probably gone dead. Then he called the day care and told the teacher that he’d be late picking up Lulu.

Four o’clock.

And yes, he wouldn’t be home when Betsy got there.

He knew what Jolene would say, the disappointed look she’d give him, but he would only be a few minutes late—fifteen or twenty. Betsy was twelve years old, for God’s sake, she could be home alone for fifteen minutes. Thirty at the most.

He cranked up the music—a U2 concert album—and concentrated on driving through the now pouring rain. He was making good time until he came to the Narrows Bridge. The soaring green stanchions looked like huge ladders in the falling rain.

And the traffic was stopped. Up in the distance, he could see the flash of red ambulance lights.

“Damn it,” he cursed, opening his phone. He dialed home, left Betsy a message: “I’m stuck in traffic, Betsy. Just sit tight. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Six o’clock at the very latest. Call me if you want. I’m on my cell.”

He sat … and sat … and sat in the middle of a clog of cars, with rain blurring his windshield. All the while, he felt his blood pressure rising, but there was nothing he could do about it. At 5:40, he called home again. “Damn it, Betsy, pick up.” When she didn’t, he snapped the phone shut and dialed his mom at home. She didn’t answer either, so he left another message.

It was almost 6:20 when the barricades were cleared and traffic started up again. Michael hit the gas—too hard—and gunned for home. He had a pounding headache by the time he pulled into the day care parking lot. Inside the small well-tended house, he found the teacher waiting for him. “I’m sorry,” he said, raking the hair back from his face. “There was an accident on the Narrows. Ugly. I got here as quickly as I could.”

She nodded. “Things happen. I know. But Lulu’s upset.” She stepped aside.

Through an open door, Michael saw Lulu sitting all alone in a brightly colored playroom surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals.

“You’re late,” she said, looking up at him. “All the other mommies were already here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He helped her into her coat, said good-bye to the teacher, and carried her out to the car.

Lulu didn’t talk to him all the way home, but to be honest the last thing he had to worry about these days was pissing off a four-year-old.

In the house, he patted her butt and told her to be good. “Betsy! I’m home,” he yelled, closing the door behind him. “I know you’re pissed, but come down and talk to me.”