My One and Only(87)

Nick had been checking in with the nursing home and cops every fifteen minutes. Apparently, there’d been a few reports of a man matching Mr. Lowery’s description, but none had turned out to be the real deal.

I myself was sticky, dirty and getting more and more anxious as the day wore on. And starving—my last meal, for lack of a better word, had been a pack of pretzels on the airplane. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor for Coco while Nick was on the phone, but only had enough cash for one. I carried Coco now, concerned about the effects of asphalt on her little paws, and my arms were aching. She may have weighed only eight pounds, but she felt like an unconscious Great Dane at this point.

It was hard not to picture the worst-case scenario…poor Mr. Lowery wandering onto the West Side Highway or falling into the East River or being hurt by an evil thug. My heart ached for Nick—such a devoted son, despite his father’s shortcomings.

Jason had called; apparently he was at a casino in Vegas and had no suggestions on where to look for his adoptive father. Chris was still out of reach, though Nick left him another message.

“We’ll find him,” I said, not at all convinced of the truth of that statement. Nick nodded, clearly disheartened.

Then his phone rang. “Nick Lowery,” he answered. His expression changed. “Where? Okay. We’re on our way.” He hung up, grabbed my hand and started running for the street. “You were right about the horses,” he said. “Someone spotted a guy with no pants down by the carriages and called it in. Taxi!” A yellow cab veered out of traffic and Nick opened the door. I slid in, Coco in my arms, more grateful than I could say at getting off my feet.

“Fifth and Fifty-Ninth,” Nick told the cabbie, then turned to me. “By the time the cop got to the spot where the guy had seen him, Dad was gone, but someone maybe saw him heading down Fifth, so…” His voice was hopeful, his knee jiggling with nervous energy.

It was clear the cops were on the job, because there was a glut of black-and-white cruisers there on Fifth where horse carriages lined the sidewalks across from the Plaza Hotel. Nick’s phone rang again. “Yeah? Okay. Okay, sure.” He clicked off. “Another possible sighting by St. Pat’s.” He knocked on the Plexiglas divider. “Keep going down Fifth, okay?” he asked. “Real slow. I’m looking for my dad.”

We passed FAO Schwartz and CBS, Bergdorf Goodman and Tiffany’s, as well as places that hadn’t been there when I’d lived here—Niketown and Abercrombie. There was Rolex, Cartier Jeweler’s, St. Thomas, the beautiful Episcopal church with the blue stained-glass windows and white marble altar, a place where I’d sought refuge from the heat one summer day. Midtown was packed, as it was now well into rush hour.

“You’d think someone would stop an old guy without pants,” I murmured, looking out my side of the window. Then again, this was New York City.

“Yeah,” Nick said, gnawing on his thumbnail. At St. Patrick’s Cathedral, his phone rang again, just as we were pulling over. “Shit. Where? Okay.” He hung up. “Keep going, okay?” he asked the cabbie.

“Whatever you want, mister,” the driver answered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“They got a call from someone who might’ve seen him farther downtown,” Nick informed me, looking out the window. “The cops are all over St. Pat’s, but nothing yet.”

Half a block farther, Nick lurched forward. “Stop! Pull over! There he is,” he said, pointing.

And sure enough, Mr. Lowery—though I wouldn’t have recognized him—was shambling along in front of the flag-bedecked building that was Saks Fifth Avenue. Still no pants, I noted. Traffic was thick, and Nick didn’t bother waiting for the driver to make it to the curb. He threw a few bills at the driver and was out of the car before it stopped. A good number of horns blasted as he dodged through the heavy traffic to the sidewalk. “Be careful!” I shouted.

The cabbie pulled over—on the opposite side of the street from Saks, alas, but traffic was like a solid wall. “Good luck,” he said as I got out with Coco.

“Thanks,” I called. Dang. I couldn’t see Nick or Mr. Lowery—wait, there was Nick, just disappearing into Saks. Surely the security guards would grab Mr. Lowery.

Clutching the ever-heavier Coco to my chest, I ran to the corner to cross the street with the light, dodging people, bumping into more than a few. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, waiting impatiently for the light to change yet unwilling to defy death by crossing against it.

Then I saw Mr. Lowery. He wasn’t in Saks…he was across the street in all his pantsless wonder, sport coat still on, scratching his, um…okay! Where was a cop when you needed one? And of course, Nick was inside the store.

At least now Mr. Lowery was getting some attention; passersby stared, grabbed their kids and steered well clear of him as he crossed the intersection, looked up at the store on the corner, and went inside.

It was American Girl Place, that bastion of juvenile femininity. Dolls. Dress-up clothes. Tea parties. And now, a half-naked old man.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered.

Then the light changed, and I flew across the street and into the foyer of the store, which was packed with, oh, hell, dozens of girls and their parents, red-and-white bags everywhere. Holding Coco tightly as she wriggled in excitement, I stood on tiptoe and peered in each direction. No Mr. Lowery. Come on! Where’d he go? He hardly blended in here.