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The doorbell rang shortly after eight o’clock.
The doorbell almost never rang. Certainly not so late in the evening.
From the kitchen, he heard the scrape of silverware against plates, the opening and closing of the refrigerator as Angela put the leftovers away in preparation for Michael doing the dishes. It was their usual, long-agreed-upon routine for nights when she cooked.
Then the doorbell rang. At first the sound was so small, so distant and surprising, that Michael decided he’d imagined it. An auditory hallucination. Maybe two glasses clanked against each other in the kitchen, and he just thought it was the doorbell.
But then the bell rang again. Two times in a row. An insistent ringing, a sound that said someone outside meant business about getting their attention.
Angela appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was pulled back off her face, and she held her hands away from her body as though they were wet or dirty.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Can you get it? My hands are dirty.”
“I’ve got it,” Michael said. He looked at his watch. Eight sixteen. “Probably a kid selling something.”
“A determined kid apparently,” Angela said as the bell chimed again. She smiled. “They must know who they’re dealing with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael held back a laugh as he said it. He knew exactly what Angela meant.
“They know you’re an easy mark,” she said. “You always buy from them. Candy bars, magazines. They love you.”
“Should you go answer, then?” he asked. “You can be the bad cop, and I’ll watch baseball.”
“I don’t mind what you do,” she said, smiling wider. “I like that these kids know how to push your buttons.”
“Admit it. You don’t mind eating the chocolate I buy.”
“Touché.”
Michael started for the door.
“Hey,” Angela said, stopping him. “Did you call your sister yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t forget, okay? This is a big deal. Lynn’s coming up on five years cancer free.”
“I know, I know. You sent flowers, right?”
“Yes. But you still need to call. It will mean a lot to her.”
“I will. I promise.”
Michael felt light as he walked to the front of the house. He looked forward to watching some of a baseball game or maybe reading a book. He felt encouraged as he reflected on the continued good news about Lynn’s health. Next week, he and Angela were going away, a trip to St. Simons Island, just the two of them. Summer was good. Languid. Less work. If they relaxed more, if they got the time away, maybe they’d finally have luck in their ongoing struggle to have a child.
If not, he wasn’t sure how things would play out. He and Angela were both feeling the strain, the weight it was adding to their marriage. He hated that sex had become a chore, a duty to be performed with the specific goal of producing a baby. Michael so wanted to get back to normal.
Michael entered the foyer and opened the front door. The sun was dropping, the horizon orange and hazy with the heat that brushed across his face. Someone was grilling, the rich odor of sizzling meat reaching his nostrils.
It took him a moment to comprehend the reality of the figure on his porch. She paced from one side to the other, a cigarette in her mouth, arms crossed.
He couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know the words.
So he just said, “What the hell?”
She stopped pacing, removed the cigarette. She looked scared, haunted. Her eyes wide and flaring. “I need you, Michael. I need your help.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you even here?”
She took a step toward him, gesturing with the hand that held the burning cigarette. Michael caught a whiff of the smoke, leaned back as the cigarette came closer to his body.
She dropped it on the porch. The ash sparked as it hit the ground.
“I just need your help, Michael.”
“You need to back up, Erica. You need to—you need to leave.”
“Michael. My daughter. Someone kidnapped my daughter this morning.”