Housebreaking (14 page)

* * *

ON THANKSGIVING AFTERNOON
he tied a big red bow around Yukon's neck and drove out to his old house in Granby. “Say hello to my date,” he said, presenting Yukon. The dog jumped all over Judy, then searched the kitchen and den and raced up the stairs with one of his old rawhide dog bones in his chops.

Judy asked, “Did you play football with your old pals this morning?”

“Gosh, no. We quit that for good.” It had been an annual tradition, he and a group of his high school buddies, getting together for a game of two-hand touch, rain or shine. Once it had been a crowded, heated, well-played affair. Over the years, the Thanksgiving-morning game had dwindled to a handful of diehards, some of whom brought along their teenage kids toward the end, along with their own tender hamstrings, delicate ankles, and bad backs. A couple of years ago, when one of the diehards ripped his Achilles tendon on the opening kickoff, they'd finally come to their senses and called off the game.

“I'm glad,” said Judy. “You used to come home hobbling for a week.”

“You don't forget much.”

“I was your wife. I don't forget anything.”

She led him through the house like a museum docent. Her three brothers were seated in the living room, Budweiser bottles in hand. Lou sat on the couch next to Chris, who had his feet up on the coffee table, without any ankle-bracelet gizmo, Benjamin noticed, his house arrest apparently served. They nodded at him, while Anthony toasted him from the love seat, with his arm around a peroxide blonde with a long, razor-thin nose. He introduced her as Linda, his latest girlfriend, apparently. Benjamin was surprised to see the brothers. In his excitement, he'd forgotten that Judy always invited them for holidays; sometimes they showed up, in part or in whole. This year they had come out in force, probably to give him a hard time, he figured.

Judy reappeared with a glass of wine and said, “Sit,” depositing him in an overstuffed armchair he hadn't seen before. The living room—the whole house, in fact—was looking more and more like a Restoration Hardware showroom. He wondered what she'd done with his old furniture, like his leather reading chair. He loved that chair, and he guessed he'd never see it again. She'd always liked throwing things out, a sort of recreation for her.

“Linda and I just got back from New Smyrna,” Anthony was saying. “The shark attack capital of America. The bastards like it warm and shallow. They'll tear you to pieces ten feet from shore. If not them, the jellyfish will get you. Best thing to do is stay out of the water.”

Sharks, college football, asbestos removal—Anthony had inexhaustible expertise about every topic he introduced into conversation. The other brothers sat across from him, raising their Budweisers and nodding their agreement. On his way to the bathroom, Lou paused by Benjamin's chair. “Sorry for dropping off your gear like that,” he mumbled. “Heat of the moment and all.”

“It's forgotten,” said Benjamin, taking the man's hand. He wondered if Judy had put him up to the apology. It certainly seemed that way, as the brothers were excellent at holding grudges. He'd never heard any of them admit to being sorry about anything. So, was Judy just ensuring that things went along smoothly? Or was she trying in some way to apologize herself, to signal that all was forgiven? He couldn't get a read on her as she rattled around the kitchen, refusing all offers of assistance.

When she came to refill his wineglass, she asked, “How's Leonard?”

“He's doing good. I stopped by the rehab center to see him a couple of hours ago. He and his lady friend were having turkey in the lounge.”

Judy rolled her eyes. “You sure she's not a gold digger?”

“Just lonely, I think. Where are the kids?” He felt almost nervous to face them; he hadn't seen David or Sarah since the end of August—before the blowout.

“In their rooms. Go say hi.”

At the top of the staircase, he glanced into his and Judy's old bedroom. The comforter was new, green and billowy. Judy's smell wafted into the hallway, and he felt his gut tighten with longing or nostalgia, probably a little of both.

He opened David's door and peeked in. His son was sitting at his computer, speaking into his cell phone. He looked up. “Not now, Dad.”

Benjamin said, “Sorry,” and backed out.

When he knocked on Sarah's door she called, “Come in!” But she too was talking on the phone, lying in bed with Yukon sprawled beside her. She held the phone away from her ear for a moment and said, “Is dinner ready yet, Daddy?”

“Not quite.”

“Call me when it is, please.”

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, exactly—forgiveness, anger, or some combination of both—but mostly he was ignored by Judy, her brothers, and his children. His son endured the meal as if it were a sentence to be served, bored and monosyllabic. He fiddled with his cell phone under the table, texting, paying no attention to Benjamin's instructions to put it away. He and Sarah seemed to perk up only when he related the story of Leonard's illness. Sarah wanted to go visit him
right now
, and David kept saying, “But he's okay, right?” When Benjamin assured them that Leonard was fine, that they could visit him over Christmas break, they both returned to their gadgets. Meanwhile Judy occupied herself with cooking, serving, and cleaning up, not standing still long enough to utter a full sentence.

As the brothers argued about the war in Iraq, Benjamin found himself wondering what Audrey Martin might be doing at this moment. Would she have finished with the meal already? Would she and her husband and daughter be sitting in the old farmhouse den, flipping stations? Or would each have retired to a separate room, separate laptop, separate
screen? Either way, the vision seemed lonely, and he felt strangely glad to be sitting at this noisy table, back in his old home, the head of the family again. Well, he wanted it to be another family Thanksgiving, like nothing had changed, but everything felt off-kilter, his kids distracted, his wife aloof, his brothers-in-law overly polite. Even the dog acted like a stranger. “Come, boy,” he said, but the dog backed away as if sensing a trap and sat next to the ex-con on the other side of the table.

During dessert, the kitchen phone rang and Judy rushed to answer. As they listened to her lowered voice in the next room, Anthony announced, “That would be the new one.”

“New one?” said Benjamin, glancing up. “New what?”

“The new Jew, and this one's got more money than you even.”

“What does he do?” Benjamin tried to keep his expression unchanged.

Anthony took a gulp of beer and wiped his lips before answering, evidently enjoying the moment: “Divorce lawyer.”

So that was it. A boyfriend. This explained her lack of anger, her new tolerance of him.

After dessert, Judy produced a camera and said, “Okay, smile, everyone,” but Anthony's girlfriend turned around.

“No fucking way,” she said.

Benjamin realized it was the first time he'd heard her voice the entire night. He was surprised—first by her crudeness, and then because she looked like she'd spent hours in front of the mirror with her makeup. One of the brothers started to laugh, but it was clear by her expression that she wasn't kidding.

“You look great, babe,” Anthony assured her, but she shook her head.

“They used to photograph me when I was a kid,” she said. “I don't like it. I never liked it.”

In the long silence that followed. Judy lowered the camera and said, “I'm sorry.”

I'm sorry.

She said those same words to Benjamin an hour or two later when he was putting on his sports coat to leave.
For what?
he nearly asked. For tonight? For her brothers' boorishness? For his children's apathy toward him? Or for her own newfound happiness?

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Me too.”

* * *

BACK AT
his father's house he clicked the garage door remote, sending its ancient gears groaning. It hadn't worked properly for months, and he'd meant to call the repairman. He still had so many things to do to prepare for his father's return from the rehab center. He hadn't yet arranged for a home aide, or cleaned out the clutter from the guest room, where the aide would sleep; nor had he looked for an apartment in Wintonbury Center for himself.

The garage felt bare without Leonard's Cadillac. A few days earlier, Benjamin had taken the car to the dealership for maintenance—at least he'd gotten that task done—but the empty space, like the dark house, depressed him. Why couldn't he remember to leave on a light or two?

He released Yukon from the backseat, and the dog rushed past him, nose to the kitchen door, fur bristling. “Take it easy, boy,” Benjamin said, thumping the dog's side. The visit had put Yukon out of sorts. All that attention—David and Sarah hugging and kissing him, feeding him turkey and potatoes under the table—was a rare indulgence.

As Benjamin opened the door, the dog raced ahead of him into the kitchen. The house was drafty and ice cold. He flipped the light switch and saw that the back door was wide open. His mind whirled. Had he left it open? No. He hadn't been in the backyard in a month, not since the last warm days of October.

Someone's home
, he thought.

He had the odd sensation that he had entered the wrong house. The dog's bowl was overturned, water pooling across the linoleum floor. A half-empty beer bottle was perched atop the counter, one of his Coronas, but Benjamin hadn't left it there.

“Who's there?” he called out. His voice reverberated in the kitchen, sounding awkward and rehearsed.

Yukon inspected his upside-down bowl and licked the water off the floor. Then he ran from room to room, sniffing and whining. When he reappeared in the kitchen, he darted toward the back door, but Benjamin grabbed his collar before he could get away. “Stay here,” he told Yukon, but the dog was too agitated to sit.

Benjamin examined the back door. The latch was torn from the wall, the wood splintered. He had been
robbed.
This fact didn't seem to register until he touched the broken door with his fingertips.

“Shit,” he said aloud.

* * *

THE PATROL CAR
roared into the driveway. The cop—a squat man with a crew cut—scribbled on his pad with his head lowered, listening to Benjamin. “Okay,” he said. “Wait by the cruiser. I'm not going to call for backup because I'm pretty sure he's long gone by now. But stay here anyway, just in case.” The man went around to the backyard, pointing a short black flashlight that emitted a bright beacon. A few minutes later he reappeared and went into the kitchen through the garage door. From the driveway, Benjamin watched the lights go on inside, room by room. He stood next to Yukon, starting to shiver in the cold night air.

Finally the cop opened the front door and gestured to Benjamin. “No sign of the perp,” he said. “Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

The officer scribbled in his well-worn pad. “All right,” he said, tucking the pad into his jacket pocket. “Let's go through the house. See if we can figure out what he took.”

The den and dining room had been ransacked: pulled-out and overturned drawers, the empty silverware box on the rug, broken crystal figurines on the den floor.

“There's more upstairs,” said the cop.

Benjamin's bedroom was untouched, as far as he could tell, but his dad's room had been trashed. His mother's jewelry box lay on the floor. Benjamin noticed a white duffel bag by the bedside, filled to bulging.

“That's not mine,” said Benjamin, pointing.

“That's not your laundry bag?”

“No.”

The cop hoisted the bag and emptied it onto the bedspread. Myra's jewelry tumbled out, as well as her silverware, and a pile of DVDs. “Do these items belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you notice anything missing?”

“I have no idea,” said Benjamin.

The cop nodded. “If you do notice anything, just make a list, after you have a chance to go through the house. You can give me a call anytime,” he said, passing over his card, “or ask for the detective if I'm not there.”

“Okay.”

While the cop looked out the window, shining his flashlight around
the backyard, Benjamin wondered what would have happened if his father had been home. The robber might have frightened him into another stroke, and for what? A bunch of junk.

Benjamin followed the cop out the back door and across the yard, where the man pointed out muddy footprints. At the far end of the yard, the tracks led to the fence and off toward Juniper Lane. “He was on foot.”

Benjamin told the cop what he'd heard from Franky DiLorenzo—that a kid with a police record had moved into the neighborhood. “Apparently he's some sort of delinquent.”

The officer nodded, his expression blank. “But you didn't see anyone, is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“And you don't know this individual personally?”

“Like I said, I heard it from my neighbor. He knows all the details. You should talk to him. He lives right next door,” said Benjamin, nodding toward the house.

The cop scribbled a word or two on his pad, and Benjamin suffered an odd sense of guilt, as if he himself were under suspicion. Perhaps he was. Perhaps some homeowners staged robberies to collect insurance premiums. Was that why the police officer eyed him so coldly? Or was it just the way this man looked at the world after spending years listening to lies, seeing the domestic disturbances, the bloodstained rugs and rifled closets?

“Well, that's it, then,” said the cop, opening the cruiser door.

“Aren't you going to take fingerprints?”

“I'll put a call out for an evidence tech. It's a good burglary. Looks like he ran off pretty quick. I'd bet he heard you drive in, or maybe something else spooked him.”