Sole Survivor

T-shirts, athletic socks, and a new pair of Nikes. He went strictly by the stated size, trying nothing.
        After leaving K-Mart, he found a modest, clean motel in Malibu, on the ocean, where later he might be able to sleep to the rumble of the surf. He shaved, showered, and changed into clean clothes.
        By seven-thirty, with an hour of sunlight left, he drove east to Culver City, where Thomas Lee Vadance's widow lived. Thomas had been listed on the passenger manifest for Flight 353, and his wife, Nora, had been quoted by the Post .
        At a McDonald's, Joe bought two cheeseburgers and a cola. In the steel-tethered book at the restaurant's public phone, he found a number and an address for Nora Vadance.
        From his previous life as a reporter, he had a Thomas Brothers Guide , the indispensable book of Los Angeles County street maps, but he thought he knew Mrs. Vadance's neighbourhood.
        While he drove, he ate both of the burgers and washed them down with the cola. He was surprised by his own sudden hunger.
        The single-story house had a cedar-shingle roof, shingled walls, white trim, and white shutters. It was an odd mix of California ranch house and New England coastal cottage, but with its flagstone walkway and neatly tended beds of impatiens and agapantha, it was charming.
        The day was still warm. Heat shimmered off the flagstones.
        With an orange-pink glow growing in the western sky and purple twilight just sliding into view in the east, Joe climbed two steps onto the porch and rang the bell.
        The woman who answered the door was about thirty years old and pretty in a fresh-faced way. Although she was a brunette, she had the fair complexion of a redhead, with freckles and green eyes. She was in khaki shorts and a man's threadbare white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was in disarray and damp with sweat, and on her left cheek was a smudge of dirt.
        She looked as if she had been doing housework. And crying.
        “Mrs. Vadance?” Joe asked.
        “Yes.”
        Although he had always been smooth about ingratiating himself with an interviewee when he had been a reporter, he was awkward now. He felt too casually dressed for the serious questions that he had come to ask. His jeans were loose, the waistband gathered and cinched with a belt, and because the air was hot, he'd left the Sports coat in the Honda. He wished he'd bought a shirt instead of just T-shirts.
        “Mrs. Vadance, I was wondering if I could speak with you-”
        “I'm very busy right now-”
        “My name's Joe Carpenter. My wife died on the plane. And my two little girls.”
        Her breath caught in her throat. Then: “One year ago.”
        “Yes. Tonight.”
        She stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
        He followed her into a cheery, predominantly white and yellow living room with chintz drapes and pillows. A dozen Lladró porcelains stood in a lighted corner display case.
        She asked Joe to have a seat. As he settled in an armchair, she went to a doorway and called, “Bob? Bob, we have a visitor.”
        “I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday night,” Joe said.
        Returning from the doorway and perching on the sofa, the woman said, “Not at all. But I'm afraid I'm not the Mrs. Vadance you came to see. I'm not Nora. My name's Clarise. It was my mother-in-law who lost her husband in the… in the accident.”
        From the back of the house, a man entered the living room, and Clarise introduced him as her husband. He was perhaps two years older than his wife, tall, lanky, crew-cut, with a pleasant and self-confident manner. His handshake was firm and his smile easy, but under his tan was a paleness, in his blue eyes a sorrow.
        As Bob Vadance sat on the sofa beside his wife, Clarise explained that Joe's family had perished in the crash. To Joe, she said, “It was Bob's dad we lost, coming back from a business trip.”
        Of all the things that they might have said to one another, they established their bond by talking about how they had first heard the dreadful news out of Colorado.
        Clarise and Bob, a fighter pilot assigned to Miramar Naval Air Station north of San Diego, had been out to dinner with two other pilots and their wives. They were at a cosy Italian restaurant and, after dinner, moved into the bar, where there was a television set. The baseball game was interrupted for a