flashquake Fiction

A Minor Break-in
by Beverle Graves Myers

He called 911 right after he'd stepped through his front door and tripped over the upended credenza. The cop car pulled up in twelve minutes, just enough time for the white-haired man to sink painfully to his knees and gather the letters and photos scattered over the worn carpet.

Louise had stored the mementos in a deep drawer, always planning to put them in albums and scrapbooks, and of course, never getting around to it. After her last chemotherapy, she'd made an effort to at least label the old photographs.

"The kids won't know who some of these people are if I don't get names on 'em," she'd said, shaking the bald head that she'd wound up in a bright pink scarf.

Louise always did have a knack for eye-popping headgear, the old man thought as he reached into the pile of photos that looked like they'd been marched over by a platoon of soldiers in muddy boots. Here she was in a snapshot from their wedding day, the only wedding photo he possessed.

With orders to ship out for Korea in his pocket, there hadn't been time to plan a white glove wedding. Instead, Louise went downtown to the old Stewart's Department Store and bought the grandest hat they had on display. Her mother said it looked like a sailboat about to capsize, but true to form, his bride wore it with style when they said "I do" before a justice of the peace.

He kept that photo clutched to his chest while the officers helped him up from the floor and guided him through the rest of the house. In every room, the intruders had slung drawers against walls and smeared the drapes and upholstery with ketchup and chocolate sauce they must have found in his own refrigerator. Nothing seemed to be missing (thank the Lord he’d given Louise's jewelry to their daughter when she came in from California for the funeral), but destruction was everywhere.

In the dining room, he found Louise's pride and joy, a silver tea service that had belonged to his grandmother, stomped to twisted bits of metal. Who would do such a thing, he thought, and how did they get in? He realized he'd asked the last question aloud when one of the officers answered.

"Well, sir, you have dead bolts on both doors, and iron grilling over the first floor windows. Good ideas, but if thugs are determined to break in, they can usually find a way. We'll have to climb up and see, but it looks they might have pried up the skylight in the sunroom."

"They? Who do you think they are?"

The officer shook his head. "Can't say for sure, but there's a gang of teenagers who've been breaking into houses in this neighborhood. They usually just vandalize, cause minor damage like this. Of course, you'll need to tell us if anything's missing."

The old man turned back the bedroom and stared at the remains of the TV he watched to lull himself to sleep every night. It looked like a size twelve boot had crashed through the screen. Doesn't really matter, he thought.

His daughter had been bugging him to move into a retirement home in California, but he'd always said no. The neat Cape Cod rimmed by Louise’s rosebushes held too many memories — moving away would be like turning his back on Louise herself. He realized his daughter was about to get her way. He couldn't stay on now; he'd never get a wink of sleep knowing punks could break in whenever they wanted.

The polite young officer was standing at his elbow with pen and notebook ready. "I still need to make a list of any missing items."

"Missing items?" The old man repeated the officer's words like a sleeper just waking from a powerful dream.

"Yes, sir. If you could just tell me if anything was taken?"

He looked around his ravaged living room, then down at the wrinkled, mud-stained image of his wife in her jaunty wedding bonnet.

"Anything taken?" A film of tears covered his pale blue eyes. "But officer, don't you see?" he answered slowly. "They've taken everything."

Copyright 2002 by Beverle Graves Myers

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