by Dan Pope
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.”
“You’ll call him now? The tech guy?”
“He’s not on duty 24/7. He comes in at eight tomorrow morning. In the meant
ime, you’ve got some printable surfaces there. The beer bottle, jewelry boxes, glass figurines, the dresser drawers, the door. He’ll want to print the POE—point of entry. Don’t disturb those areas. But you can clean up the rest. He’ll also want to check those muddy footprints.”
“To make a mold?”
The cop laughed. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows. No, to photograph the footprint with a ruler next to it, to get an idea of shoe size. Then we can check your delinquent pal, get a look at his feet.”
“So you’re going to talk to my neighbor?”
The cop checked his watch. “It’s a little late tonight. His house looks dark. But I’ll have a chat with him tomorrow. And I’ll canvas the neighborhood now, to see if anyone’s out and about.”
“I see,” said Benjamin. “Well, thanks for all the help. I’ll be expecting this tech guy tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah. He’ll be here first thing.”
After the cop left, Benjamin began cleaning up.
* * *
HE SLEPT POORLY, plagued by nightmares.
It was the day after Thanksgiving, “Black Friday,” which meant a busy day at the dealership—they’d been gearing up for this sale for weeks. But he had to wait around for the tech cop. By 10:00 A.M. there was still no sign of him. Benjamin grabbed the bedside phone and called the number the cop had left him but got his voice mail. Then he called his secretary to tell her he wouldn’t be coming in for a while.
After that, he dialed Judy. She answered, sounding tired: “I’ve been cleaning the kitchen all morning. You ever try scrubbing turkey grease? No, you haven’t.”
“Actually, I have. And it was a terrific meal.”
“Isn’t this your big sale day?”
“I didn’t go in yet.”
“Why not?”
“I had a lousy night.”
She had that flat tone, again, unconcerned. Her new-boyfriend voice. It annoyed him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating your divorce lawyer? Your brother had to tell me? And I’m not sure that’s even kosher. Legally, I mean.”
“You call at ten in the morning to interrogate me? I thought we’d gotten past—”
“Hey, take it easy. It surprised me, that’s all. We’re still married, technically. And ten o’clock’s really not all that early.”
She sighed. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to know about my love life.”
“We’re grown-ups.” He heard a commotion in the background—the dishes clattering in the sink. “We should be able to discuss things.”
“In that case, yes, I’m seeing a man,” she said. “He’s not my divorce lawyer, but they work together. And yes, I’m sleeping with him.”
He winced, imagining them together, the man’s hairy back. “How old is he?”
“He’s your age, maybe a little older.”
“How much older?”
“Never mind. I can see where this is going.”
“I simply asked the man’s age.”
“And next you’ll want to know his name, his income, the size of his dick, and whether he’s good in bed.”
“Is he?”
She didn’t respond.
“I just need a little time to get used to the idea of you sleeping with someone else,” he said.
“Fine,” she said. “Get used to it. I won’t ask what you’re up to. I can only imagine.”
“I’m not up to anything.” It was an old habit, avoiding any mention of women to Judy.
“Oh, right. While we’re married you chase everything in a skirt. But now that you’re single, you’re a monk.” There came the slamming of pans, more water splashing.
“Can you leave the dishes for a minute?”
“I know when you’re lying, Benjamin. Your voice goes up a half octave. It’s your squeaky little liar’s voice. So, no, I don’t want to leave the dishes if you’re going to feed me a load of horseshit.”
Benjamin sighed. “I’ve had a few dates, if you must know.”
“Dates? With the same woman, or different women?”
“Same.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s no one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Does it matter?”
“If it doesn’t matter, then tell me.”
He paused. “Her name is Audrey.”
Judy said, “Didn’t you know an Audrey in high school? Audrey so-and-so with the terrific ass.”
“How do you remember that? That’s really weird.”
“What’s weird is a married man going around for years talking about some high school girl’s ass. I can’t believe there are that many Audreys floating around. Jesus—is this the same one?”
Before he could respond, Judy uttered a noise of disgust—something between a bark and a cough. “What did you do? Call her the minute you left me? God, that’s so pathetic.”
He had forgotten how well she knew him. “It’s Aubrey,” he said.
“What?”
“The woman I’m dating. Her name is Aubrey. With a b.”
“What kind of name is Aubrey?”
“Like the song. Her parents named her after the song. It was their wedding song.”
“What song?”
“The song by Bread. Don’t you remember?” He sang the verse for her: “And Aubrey was her name. A not so very ordinary girl or name. Et cetera.”
“That song came out when, 1975?”
“ ’Seventy-seven.” In truth, he had no idea.
“So that makes her, what, thirty years old?”
“Twenty-nine,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.
“You’re dating a twenty-nine-year-old?”
“Not dating. We went out a few times.” Somehow it always happened like this with Judy. He would tell one lie, then another, trying to get out of trouble but just ending up deeper, the whole thing a house of cards. “It’s no big deal.”
“Right,” she said. “Let me decipher that for you. Let me tell you what you just told me. It means you’re fucking this woman Aubrey and couldn’t care less about her.”
“Did I say that?”
“In so many words, yes, you did. Maybe she doesn’t spoil you like I did. Maybe she doesn’t drop to her knees every time you ask. Maybe now you can appreciate what I did for you—”
“Listen, Judy, I don’t know how we got started on this—”
“We got started on this because you have the nerve to persecute me for moving on with my life. You’re trying to suck me back in, in your own stupid way, and I’m not falling for it, okay? It would just turn out the same way. Besides, you don’t want to come back, not really. You’re just sick of living alone in Leonard’s house and making yourself peanut butter sandwiches for dinner.”
“That’s not it at all.” Actually, Benjamin thought, that’s pretty much it exactly. Judy always knew when he was lying to her, to himself. Yes, he lied to her. But was there any other way to sustain a marriage? Wasn’t lying to someone you loved sometimes the right thing to do? Who could bear to know the truth of what went on, day in, day out, in the other’s mind? You’ve gained weight. You say the same things over and over. You’re looking older. No, you didn’t say those things. But Judy always knew, somehow, what he was hiding. Or maybe he gave her reason to know. He would lead her toward the place where she would find his secret. To enrage her, to punish her, but for what? Why had he always pushed her, prodded her, beat her with his own failings?
“Listen to me for two seconds, will you? I called to tell you that someone broke into the house last night.”
“What?” she screeched. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“Did the cops catch him? What did he take? Wait. Start over. What happened?”
He told her. She didn�
��t interrupt. She had always been a good listener, at least up until the last couple of years. “Franky DiLorenzo thinks it’s some kid who moved into the neighborhood,” he said. “The kid’s been arrested before.”
“Franky should know. He watches that neighborhood like a hawk. You should get an alarm system before Leonard comes home.”
“I probably should.” It felt good to be agreeing with her.
“Speaking of Leonard, did you call the Polish ladies?”
“Not yet.”
“Typical. Always waiting until the last minute. You’ll never change, Benjamin. But it’s not my problem anymore.”
She hung up, and Benjamin remained in bed. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He tried the police department. He was transferred twice and put on hold for ten minutes before getting the tech guy, who said he’d be there at noon. Benjamin hung up and stared at the ceiling. It was a Friday morning, but because of the holiday, it felt like a Sunday. Sundays were for hanging around the bedroom, reading the Times. His lazy day. It was a tradition of Judy and his, since the early part of their marriage: Saturday night was hers—to choose a restaurant or movie or anything she wanted to do, or issue instructions for any servile tasks she could think up for him to do—and Sunday mornings were his. Judy used to bring him a tray in the bedroom—waffles, bacon, a glass of orange juice—and, yes, she would spoil him in bed, whatever he asked. That indulgence was gone too. Gone for good. That fact seemed inarguable now. For some reason their divorce had not felt definite to him, even after the meetings with lawyers, the negotiations, the signing of documents. But his wife fucking another man—now that was divorce.
* * *
THE TECH GUY was a civilian, dressed in a utility-type outfit, dark blue coveralls, same color as a police uniform, but no gun. He snapped on some latex gloves like a doctor and took photographs of the back door. Then he followed the route of the burglar through the house—kitchen, den, living room, Leonard’s bedroom. He used a brush—like a woman’s makeup brush, only larger—to paint a fine black powder, like soot, over small patches throughout the house—doorknobs, drawers, light switches. Each time he powdered an area, he would study the result with his head cocked at an angle, using a flashlight. As he moved through the house he jotted notes. “For my report,” he explained to Benjamin.