said, “Tell me what he looks like, and I’ll just casually turn around and get a look at him.”
“He’s got black hair, he’s wearing a brown jacket. He’s eating Chinese food. Right now, he’s eating an egg roll. He looks like a younger version of my dad, an older version of Todd, I’m telling you.”
I swiveled slowly on my backless chair, made like I was taking in the various food kiosks, thinking about going to get something to eat. I saw him, catching some sprouts with his tongue that were falling out of the half-eaten egg roll. I’d seen a few pictures of Todd from Cynthia’s shoebox of mementos, and I suppose it was possible that had he grown up to be in his late thirties, early forties, he might look a bit like this guy. Slightly overweight, a doughy face, black hair, maybe six foot, although it was hard to tell with him sitting down.
I turned back. “He looks like a million other people,” I said.
“I’m going to get a closer look,” Cynthia said.
She was on her feet before I could protest. “Honey,” I said as she walked by me, making a halfhearted attempt to grab her by the arm and failing.
“Where’s Mommy going?”
“To the washroom,” I said.
“I’m going to have to go, too,” Grace said, swinging her legs back and forth so she could catch glimpses of her new shoes.
“She can take you after,” I said.
I watched as Cynthia took the long way around the food court, heading in the opposite direction from where the man sat. She walked past all the fast-food outlets, approaching him from behind and to the side. As she came up alongside him, she walked straight ahead, went to the McDonald’s and joined the line, glancing occasionally, as casually as possible, at the man she felt bore an amazing resemblance to her brother Todd.
When she sat back down, she presented Grace with a small chocolate sundae in a clear plastic cup. Her hand was shaking as she put it on Grace’s tray.
“Wow!” said Grace.
Cynthia showed no reaction to her daughter’s expressions of gratitude. She looked at me and said, “It’s him.”
“Cyn.”
“It’s my brother.”
“Cyn, come on, it’s not Todd.”
“I got a good look at him. It’s him. I’m as sure that’s my brother as I am that that’s Grace sitting there.”
Grace looked up from her ice cream. “Your brother’s here?” She was genuinely curious. “Todd?”
“Just eat your ice cream,” Cynthia said.
“I know what his name is,” Grace said. “And your dad was Clayton, and your mother was Patricia.” She rattled off the names like it was a classroom exercise.
“Grace!” Cynthia snapped.
I felt my heart begin to pound. This could only get worse.
“I’m going to talk to him,” she said.
Bingo.
“You can’t,” I said. “Look, it doesn’t make any sense that it’s Todd. For Christ’s sake, if your brother was just out and about, going to the mall, eating Chinese food in public, you think he wouldn’t have gotten in touch with you? And he’d have spotted you, too. You were practically Inspector Clouseau there, wandering around him as obvious as all hell. It’s just some guy, he’s got some passing resemblance to your brother. You go over to him, start talking to him like he’s Todd, he’s going to freak—”
“He’s leaving,” Cynthia said, a hint of panic in her voice.
I whirled around. The man was on his feet, wiping his mouth one last time with a paper napkin, crumpling it in his hand and dropping it onto the paper plate. He left the tray sitting there, didn’t take it over to the wastebasket, and started walking in the direction of the washrooms.
“Who’s Inspector Cloozoo?” Grace asked.
“You can’t follow him into the can,” I cautioned Cynthia.
She sat there, frozen, watching the man as he wandered down the hall that led to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. He’d have to come back, and she could wait.
“Are you going into the men’s room?” Grace asked her mother.
“Eat
“He’s got black hair, he’s wearing a brown jacket. He’s eating Chinese food. Right now, he’s eating an egg roll. He looks like a younger version of my dad, an older version of Todd, I’m telling you.”
I swiveled slowly on my backless chair, made like I was taking in the various food kiosks, thinking about going to get something to eat. I saw him, catching some sprouts with his tongue that were falling out of the half-eaten egg roll. I’d seen a few pictures of Todd from Cynthia’s shoebox of mementos, and I suppose it was possible that had he grown up to be in his late thirties, early forties, he might look a bit like this guy. Slightly overweight, a doughy face, black hair, maybe six foot, although it was hard to tell with him sitting down.
I turned back. “He looks like a million other people,” I said.
“I’m going to get a closer look,” Cynthia said.
She was on her feet before I could protest. “Honey,” I said as she walked by me, making a halfhearted attempt to grab her by the arm and failing.
“Where’s Mommy going?”
“To the washroom,” I said.
“I’m going to have to go, too,” Grace said, swinging her legs back and forth so she could catch glimpses of her new shoes.
“She can take you after,” I said.
I watched as Cynthia took the long way around the food court, heading in the opposite direction from where the man sat. She walked past all the fast-food outlets, approaching him from behind and to the side. As she came up alongside him, she walked straight ahead, went to the McDonald’s and joined the line, glancing occasionally, as casually as possible, at the man she felt bore an amazing resemblance to her brother Todd.
When she sat back down, she presented Grace with a small chocolate sundae in a clear plastic cup. Her hand was shaking as she put it on Grace’s tray.
“Wow!” said Grace.
Cynthia showed no reaction to her daughter’s expressions of gratitude. She looked at me and said, “It’s him.”
“Cyn.”
“It’s my brother.”
“Cyn, come on, it’s not Todd.”
“I got a good look at him. It’s him. I’m as sure that’s my brother as I am that that’s Grace sitting there.”
Grace looked up from her ice cream. “Your brother’s here?” She was genuinely curious. “Todd?”
“Just eat your ice cream,” Cynthia said.
“I know what his name is,” Grace said. “And your dad was Clayton, and your mother was Patricia.” She rattled off the names like it was a classroom exercise.
“Grace!” Cynthia snapped.
I felt my heart begin to pound. This could only get worse.
“I’m going to talk to him,” she said.
Bingo.
“You can’t,” I said. “Look, it doesn’t make any sense that it’s Todd. For Christ’s sake, if your brother was just out and about, going to the mall, eating Chinese food in public, you think he wouldn’t have gotten in touch with you? And he’d have spotted you, too. You were practically Inspector Clouseau there, wandering around him as obvious as all hell. It’s just some guy, he’s got some passing resemblance to your brother. You go over to him, start talking to him like he’s Todd, he’s going to freak—”
“He’s leaving,” Cynthia said, a hint of panic in her voice.
I whirled around. The man was on his feet, wiping his mouth one last time with a paper napkin, crumpling it in his hand and dropping it onto the paper plate. He left the tray sitting there, didn’t take it over to the wastebasket, and started walking in the direction of the washrooms.
“Who’s Inspector Cloozoo?” Grace asked.
“You can’t follow him into the can,” I cautioned Cynthia.
She sat there, frozen, watching the man as he wandered down the hall that led to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. He’d have to come back, and she could wait.
“Are you going into the men’s room?” Grace asked her mother.
“Eat
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