Once and for All(35)

Two hours into the event, I had to admit my mom had, again, been right. He was a fast learner, with the charm that initially bugged me actually being an asset at times like this. If you’re going to come between someone bold enough to jump the line and the prime rib, you have to do it with a light touch, and Ambrose had that in spades. So I’d let him do the heavy lifting while I kept the lines of people who were actually supposed to be eating moving smoothly. Half the room down, half to go. This was me being optimistic, I realized, taking note of it for once. And just like that, the universe noticed as well.

“Excuse me.” I turned to see a woman in a red dress approaching, a toddler with pigtails on her hip. She was thin and angular, with black-framed glasses you just knew cost a fortune. “Have you seen my son? He’s the ring bearer?”

“Ira?” I asked. She nodded, switching her daughter to her other side. “I haven’t seen him since the wedding party came in.”

She turned. “I thought he was with his cousins, over there at the kids’ table, but they haven’t seen him either. Where is he?”

I scanned the room: no sign of a kid in a tight-fitting tux. “Let me check the lobby. Maybe he went to the bathroom?”

“Not by himself,” she replied, gesturing to what I assumed was her husband, a heavyset guy at the nearby bar. Now, she mouthed, and he started over.

“People are hungry,” Ambrose said as he walked back up to me. “I just almost came to fisticuffs with a woman. She was clutching a plate and prepared to use it.”

Normally I would have questioned the use of “fisticuffs”—sometimes I wondered what era Ambrose actually came from—but there was no time. “Have you seen Ira?”

“Little dude?” I nodded. “No. Why?”

“He may be missing.” I said this in a low voice: the last thing we needed was unnecessary panic. “I’m going to check the lobby. You take outside.”

“Ira!” the mother yelled. So much for staying calm. “Has anyone seen my son?”

I walked quickly to the lobby, Ambrose right behind me. As I turned down a nearby hallway, he headed for the outside doors. Older couple, clump of teenagers probably up to no good, staff member pushing a laundry cart. No Ira. Outside the men’s bathroom, I knocked, hard, then pushed open the door. “Ira? Are you in there?”

“Who?” someone yelled back.

“A kid in a tux. Do you see him?”

A pause. “Nope. Just me, as far as I can tell.”

I let the door drop, regrouping, then pulled out my phone. RING BEARER MISSING, I texted my mom and William. IN LOBBY LOOKING. Then I headed back toward the ballroom, scanning around me as I went. Outside, I could see Ambrose in the parking lot, his hands cupped to his mouth.

“Ira!” I recognized William’s voice before I took a corner, almost crashing into him. He said, “Definitely not in the ballroom. Mom’s starting to freak.”

“Bathroom’s clear. I’ll go help Ambrose look outside.”

“Your mom’s sweeping the kitchen. I’ll ask at the desk and do another pass through here.”

We broke, neither of us running. Yet. As I pushed open the heavy glass doors to the parking lot, I could hear Ambrose. “Ira! Buddy! You out here?” Somewhere, a dog barked.

I heard my phone beep and grabbed it: my mom, to all of us. NO SIGN YET. ANYONE?

Shit, I thought, just as a big truck rumbled by on the street outside. Hearing a voice behind me, I swung around, but it was only a couple in formal wear, obviously late, hurrying toward the front entrance. “Ira!” I called. The dog barked again.

“He’s not in this lot,” Ambrose reported, jogging toward me. “I’ve cased the whole place. Twice.”

“Mom says he’s not anywhere they’ve checked either,” I said. “This could be bad. Ira!”

Another dog bark. Ambrose turned toward the sound. “Ira!”

Bark.

“Ira!” I called. Bark.

“This way,” he said, starting to walk again. I followed him, checking between cars—God forbid—as I went. My phone beeped again. MOM WANTS POLICE, William reported. Uh-oh.

“Ira!” I called again, hearing a subsequent woof as I followed Ambrose’s blue shirt around some hedges to a loading bay bright with floodlights. Now I was running, my flats slapping the pavement. We passed a Dumpster and some smelly garbage cans before I spotted Ambrose’s dog, tied to a drainpipe. Beside him was Ira, patting his back.

“Oh, my God,” I said, slowing to a walk as I pulled out my phone. FOUND HIM, I texted. “Ira! What are you doing all the way out here?”

He turned, looking at us. The dog, seeing Ambrose, immediately got to his feet and began wiggling. “I saw a dog,” Ira explained. “I love dogs.”

“Of course you do,” I replied, walking over to a nearby door and pulling it open, startling a table of people talking just on his other side. I scanned the ballroom until I found my mom, then gave her the high sign. As she started hurrying over, Ira’s mom in tow, I said, “You hungry? There’s mac and cheese.”

Score: his eyes widened. I stuck out my hand, he took it, and I led him inside.

“Ira! Where have you been? You scared Mommy to death!” his mom shrieked when she saw him. “Come here!”