Cally had thought, I wish I looked like that. She’s about my age and my size and we have almost the same color hair. Well, maybe by next year I can afford pretty clothes for Gigi and me.

Then she’d turned her head to catch a glimpse of the Saks windows. So I didn’t see her drop the wallet, she thought. But as she passed the woman, she’d felt her foot kick something and she’d looked down and seen it lying there.

Why didn’t I just ask if it was hers? Cally agonized. But in that instant, she’d remembered how years ago, Grandma had come home one day, embarrassed and upset. She’d found a wallet on the street and opened it and saw the name and address of the owner. She’d walked three blocks to return it even though by then her arthritis was so bad that every step hurt.

The woman who owned it had looked through it and said that a twenty-dollar bill was missing.

Grandma had been so upset. “She practically accused me of being a thief.”

That memory had flooded Cally the minute she touched the wallet. Suppose it did belong to the lady in the rose coat and she thought Cally had picked her pocket or taken money out of it? Suppose a policeman was called? They’d find out she was on probation. They wouldn’t believe her any more than they’d believed her when she lent Jimmy money and her car because he’d told her if he didn’t get out of town right away, a guy in another street gang was going to kill him.

Oh God, why didn’t I just leave the wallet there? she thought. She considered tossing it in the nearest mailbox. She couldn’t risk that. There were too many undercover cops around midtown during the holidays. Suppose one of them saw her and asked what she was doing? No, she’d get home right away. Aika, who minded Gigi along with her own grandchildren after the day-care center closed, would be bringing her home. It was getting late.

I’ll put the wallet in an envelope addressed to whoever’s name is in it and drop it in the mailbox later, Cally decided. That’s all I can do.

Cally reached Grand Central Station. As she had hoped, it was mobbed with people rushing in all directions to trains and subways, hurrying home for Christmas. She shouldered her way across the main terminal, finally making it down the steps to the entrance to the Lexington Avenue subway.

As she dropped a token in the slot and hurried for the express train to Fourteenth Street, she was unaware of the small boy who had slipped under a turnstile and was dogging her footsteps.

2

“God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay …” The familiar words seemed to taunt Catherine, reminding her of the forces that threatened the happily complacent life she had assumed would be hers forever. Her husband was in the hospital with leukemia. His enlarged spleen had been removed this morning as a precaution against it rupturing, and while it was too early to tell for sure, he seemed to be doing well. Still, she could not escape the fear that he was not going to live, and the thought of life without him was almost paralyzing.

Why didn’t I realize Tom was getting sick? she agonized. She remembered how only two weeks ago, when she’d asked him to take groceries from the car, he’d reached into the trunk for the heaviest bag, hesitated, then winced as he picked it up.

She’d laughed at him. “Play golf yesterday. Act like an old man today. Some athlete.”

“Where’s Brian?” Michael asked as he returned from dropping the dollar in the singer’s basket.

Startled from her thoughts, Catherine looked down at her son. “Brian?” she said blankly. “He’s right here.” She glanced down at her side, and then her eyes scanned the area. “He had a dollar. Didn’t he go with you to give it to the singer?”

“No,” Michael said gruffly. “He probably kept it instead. He’s a dork.”

“Stop it,” Catherine said. She looked around, suddenly alarmed. “Brian,” she called “Brian.” The carol was over, the crowd dispersing. Where was Brian? He wouldn’t just walk away, surely. “Brian,” she called out again, this time loudly, alarm clear in her voice.

A few people turned and looked at her curiously. “A little boy,” she said, becoming frightened. “He’s wearing a dark blue ski jacket and a red cap. Did anyone see where he went?”

She watched as heads shook, as eyes looked around, wanting to help. A woman pointed behind them to the lines of people waiting to see the Saks windows. “Maybe he went there?” she said in a heavy accent.

“How about the tree? Would he have crossed the street to get up close to it?” another woman suggested.

“Maybe the cathedral,” someone volunteered.

“No. No, Brian wouldn’t do that. We’re going to visit his father. Brian can’t wait to see him.” As she said the words, Catherine knew that something was terribly wrong. She felt the tears that now came so easily rising behind her eyes. She fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief and realized something was missing: the familiar bulk of her wallet.

“Oh my God,” she said. “My wallet’s gone.”

“Mom!” And now Michael lost the surly look that had become his way of disguising the worry about his father. He was suddenly a scared ten-year-old. “Mom. Do you think Brian was kidnapped?”

“How could he be? Nobody could just drag him off. That’s impossible.” Catherine felt her legs were turning to rubber. “Call the police,” she cried. “My little boy is missing.”

The station was crowded. Hundreds of people were rushing in every direction. There were Christmas decorations all over the place. It was noisy, too. Sound of all kinds echoed through the big space, bouncing off the ceiling high above him. A man with his arm full of packages bumped a sharp elbow into Brian’s ear. “Sorry, kid.”

He was having trouble keeping up with the woman who had his mom’s wallet. He kept losing sight of her. He struggled to get around a family with a couple of kids who were blocking his way. He got past them, but bumped into a lady who glared down at him. “Be careful,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Brian said politely, looking up at her. In that second he almost lost the woman he was following, catching up to-her again as she went down a staircase and hurried through a long corridor that led to a subway station. When she went through a turnstile, he slipped under the next one and followed her onto a train.

The car was so crowded he could hardly get in. The woman was standing, hanging on to a bar that ran over the seats along the side. Brian stood near her, his hand gripping a pole. They went only one long stop, then she pushed her way to the opening doors. So many people were in Brian’s way that he almost didn’t get out of the subway car in time, and then he had to hurry to catch up with her. He chased after her as she went up the stairs to another train.

This time the car wasn’t as crowded, and Brian stood near an old lady who reminded him of his grandmother. The woman in the dark raincoat got off at the second stop and he followed her, his eyes fixed on her ponytail as she practically ran up the stairs to the street.

They emerged on a busy corner. Buses raced past in both directions, rushing to get across the wide street before the light turned red. Brian glanced behind him. As far as he could see down the block there were nothing but apartment houses. Light streamed from hundreds of windows.

The lady with the wallet stood waiting for the light to turn. The WALK sign flashed on, and he followed his quarry across the street. When she reached the other side she turned left and walked quickly down the now sloping sidewalk. As he followed her, Brian took a quick look at the street sign. When they visited last summer, his mother had made a game of teaching him about street signs in New York. “Gran lives on Eighty-seventh Street,” she had said. “We’re on Fiftieth. How many blocks away is her apartment?” This sign said Fourteenth Street. He had to remember that, he told himself, as he fell in step behind the woman with his mom’s wallet.