I was 14 and commuting to my high school in Manhattan when this story happened. Lennie was 10. He had been sick with an upset stomach for a few days and had stayed home from school.
On the day in question, I arrived home from school in the late afternoon only to find the house completely devoid of people. Lennie's bed linens were lying on the floor. Grandma had left a note to call her friend Lucy, who lived a couple of blocks away. When I called Lucy, she told me that something terrible had happened and that she couldn't talk about it on the phone. She instructed me to walk over to her house where she would tell me the terrible news in person.
I cried all the way to Lucy's house. What could possibly have happened to Lennie? I thought that he must be dead, chas v'shalom.
When I arrived at Lucy's house, she came running out of the house, threw her arms around me, sobbing, and told me that Lennie had had emergency surgery for appendicitis and was doing fine.
After that, I knew to take anything Lucy told me with the proverbial "grain of salt."
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