Last Thursday evening my wife and I drove to Ohio, where we both grew up. En route, we listened to radio dramatizations of the adventures of Max Carrados, the blind detective invented by Ernest Bramah. Bramah is almost as well known for his tall tales of Kai Lung, much prized for an artificial mock-Chinese style of the most punctilious politeness and irony. The performances, starring Simon Callow, were excellent. Punch Production. Chesterton, so this seemed more than likely.
On Friday morning I said goodbye to my wife in Youngstown, where she would be helping her sister clean their childhood home before putting it on the market, then drove to Lorain to visit my mother, who has been living in a nursing home. Since this Ohio trip was a last-minute idea, my mother practically choked on a mouthful of chicken sandwich when I unexpectedly appeared at her door.
As I sat down to talk to her, she insisted that I phone my sisters Sandra, Pamela, and Linda to tell them I was in town.
Only the last answered her phone, and the first thing Linda said was something about terrible killings in Colorado and was that anywhere near where my son Chris lived. I called him. No answer. I left a message asking him to communicate as soon as possible.
I called my wife. No answer, so I left her a message asking her to try to reach Chris. By this time, my mother was starting to tremble with fright and worry. I was relieved. His mother, with her usual sang-froid, had figured he was okay all along. His grandmother, however, broke down in tears, and it took a while before she recovered her composure. I reprimanded Chris for not letting us know he was safe sooner.
