The Sunday Everyone Disappeared on Hickory Lane
Elmwood was the kind of place where people waved at mail carriers by name. The lots were half acre. The trees were mature maples. The HOA had a rule about birdhouse colors. Bill and Donna Foley had lived on Hickory Lane for twenty three years. Bill was a retired firefighter. Donna taught second grade at Elmwood Elementary. Their Sunday routine was carved in oak. Church at nine. Brunch at the Sunrise Diner by ten thirty. Afternoon nap. Grilled chicken at six. They had followed this routine for eleven years without a single interruption.
This Sunday, the interruption came at 7:12 AM. Bill woke to silence. No leaf blowers. No lawn mowers. No church bells from St. Luke’s. He went to the kitchen. The coffee maker was on but no coffee had brewed. The water line was dead. He checked the breaker box. Everything was on. He stepped outside. The street was empty. Not quiet. Empty. The Millers’ minivan was in their driveway. The Jacksons’ Labrador was in its pen. But no people. No sounds. Just a single newspaper lying in the Foleys’ azalea bush, thrown by a hand that had vanished.
Donna came out in her robe. “Where is everyone?” she asked. Bill walked to the Millers’ front door. Unlocked. Inside, the television was on. A fishing show. A bowl of cereal on the coffee table. The spoon was still wet. He checked the garage. Both cars were there. He checked the Jacksons’ house. Same thing. Toaster warm. Shower running cold. A half written grocery list on the counter. “Milk, eggs, kale, sympathy card.” Bill did not know what to think. He had fought fires for twenty seven years. He had seen car wrecks and house collapses and one very bad grain silo incident. He had never seen a whole street vanish into a Tuesday morning.
Donna started crying. “It’s the rapture,” she said. Bill, who believed in hose pressures and exit routes, did not know how to respond. He called the police. A recording told him to leave a message. He called his daughter in the city. The phone rang forty times. No answer. He called the firehouse. The line was dead. Not busy. Dead. He stood in the middle of Hickory Lane in his bathrobe and felt something he had not felt since the grain silo. Fear.
Then he heard a lawn sprinkler. Two blocks over. A rhythmic tick tick tick. He followed the sound. A man in cargo shorts was adjusting a sprinkler head. His name was Gary Phelps. He lived on Dogwood Circle. He was a high school gym teacher. Bill asked Gary where everyone was. Gary looked confused. “It’s Sunday,” Gary said. “The town wide block party. Moved to today because of the forecast. It’s at Elmwood Park. Starts at eight. Pancake breakfast. Bounce house. Donna’s school is running the face painting booth.” Bill stared. “What block party?” Gary pointed to a flyer taped to a telephone pole. Bill had walked past that pole yesterday. He had not looked.
He ran home. Donna was still on the porch. He showed her the flyer. Her face went from white to red. “The block party,” she whispered. “I signed up for face painting. I wrote it on the calendar. The kitchen calendar.” Bill went inside. The calendar was on the refrigerator. May 15. Block party. 8 AM. He had hung a fishing trip magnet over it. He pulled the magnet off. Donna laughed. Then she cried. Then she laughed again. They walked to Elmwood Park. Six blocks. Every lawn they passed was empty. Every house was silent. Every mailbox had a flyer. At the park, five hundred people were eating pancakes. The bounce house was fully inflated. Donna went straight to the face painting booth. Bill got in line for coffee. He drank it black. He did not sit down. He stood in the sun and watched his wife paint a butterfly on a six year old’s cheek. It was the best Sunday he could remember.
