Housebreaking

by Dan Pope

  All for nothing.

  “He might have been wearing gloves,” the guy explained. “But maybe not. It’s not so easy to leave a latent. It takes a firm press without any slip. Doorknobs rarely leave a good print because the hand slips when turning the knob.”

  The tech took a few photos of the footprints in the backyard. “Sneakers. Looks like a size nine.” He glanced up at the sky and exhaled deeply. “Nice working out here,” he said. “A nice change of pace.”

  Benjamin followed him to his car. “Do we clean up now?”

  The guy cleared his throat. “Oh, sure. I’m all done. If you have any problems with that powder, try Scrubbing Bubbles and 409.”

  It took Benjamin the rest of the day, battling the soot. He spent an hour in his dad’s bedroom alone, trying to get a dark splotch out of the carpet. He nearly called the department to complain, but he figured the tech guy was just doing his job, even if he could have been a little neater.

  That day and the next day, he expected the cop to get back to him, or Franky DiLorenzo to call, but he heard from no one.

  By Sunday, he decided to put the incident out of his mind.

  * * *

  THAT DAY he found himself missing Audrey Martin. He hadn’t seen her since the day before Thanksgiving. He left a couple of messages and texted her, without response. Finally, that evening, she got back to him. He could tell immediately that something was bothering her.

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” he said, trying to sound cheery.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry I’ve been out of touch. It’s been a rough weekend.”

  “The holidays can be brutal.”

  “I’ll say.”

  She was silent for a while, so he said, “Maybe a walk with the dog might help your mood. A real walk, that is. I’ve got an interesting story for you—”

  “No, not tonight. I can’t. Thanks for offering but—”

  “I understand. It’s getting late.”

  “It’s not that. Just give me a couple more days,” she said, and the line went dead.

  He sat there for a while with the phone in his hand, his head lowered. Five days since he’d seen her, and she’d hung up on him. He felt morally wronged—his Italian soccer player expression, as Judy called it. He nearly called Audrey back to hash it out with her, but no. He wasn’t supposed to pry, not after that meltdown of hers. What had she said that night? Don’t try to find out.

  He got on the Internet and did a search for “Audrey Martin.” A series of newspaper articles came up—the Hartford Courant, Greenwich Citizen, New Haven Register. Even The New York Times had followed the story and its aftermath. He raced through the articles, switching from one to the next.

  Daniel Martin-Murray, a seventeen-year-old senior at Greenwich High School, was driving home after school on a Wednesday in May 2006. He was alone in the car, a Toyota Celica, with his seat belt fastened, heading north on Wolf’s Den Road in Cos Cob. The other driver, a landscaper operating his employer’s truck, ran a stoplight at the Mulberry Avenue intersection and collided with the passenger door of the Celica. The impact of the crash hurled the Celica over the curb and against a brick retaining wall, causing the air bag to inflate and pushing the metal frame two feet into the driver’s compartment. Emergency personnel were unable to free the victim from the wreckage until firefighters arrived with special equipment. The landscaper was not harmed in the accident. He admitted to police that he had been talking on his cell phone and had failed to keep a proper lookout, and he was issued a summons at the scene for reckless driving.

  Police informed the boy’s mother, Audrey Martin, that her son had been involved in an automobile accident and that he was en route to the hospital. At the emergency room, the duty nurse told her that her son had broken his left femur. When she saw her son, Audrey Martin reported that he was alert and communicative, but he complained of pain in his back.

  Tests were ordered. At 5:22 P.M. X-ray technicians took images of Daniel’s neck, chest, leg, pelvis, and abdomen. The patient was examined by the admitting physician, a trauma surgeon, and an orthopedist. A CT scan of his head was performed at 6:05.

  At 7:18, the resident neurologist first examined the CT scan and was concerned with the image. He ordered an MRI, which showed extra-axial fluid collection in the fronto-parietal region.

  At 7:25, the orthopedist, who had been waiting two hours to set the patient’s broken leg, complained about the delay.

  At 7:34, a neurosurgeon was summoned. Ms. Martin heard the call over the intercom and inquired what that meant. All this time, since her arrival at the ER, she had been sitting with her son and the duty nurse, Vera Kovalenko, chatting and laughing with him. He was worried that he would miss his summer tennis league. Suddenly, Daniel Martin-Murray complained of a terrible headache and blurry vision. He began gasping for air. He called his mother’s name repeatedly. He heaved off the bed. Alarms sounded. Nurses and doctors ran in and out of the room, appearing frantic. The duty nurse tried to pull Ms. Martin away, but she refused to leave the room. “What’s happening?” she asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

  The duty nurse answered: “Come with me. We will pray together.”

  Daniel Martin-Murray was pronounced dead at 8:54 from an epidural hematoma. In layman’s terms, he’d bled inside his skull, crushing his brain and causing respiratory failure. Blunt injuries to the head often result from traffic accidents. Individuals who undergo immediate surgery to relieve the pressure inside the skull have a good chance of survival, but the chances decrease with each minute that the injury remains untreated or unnoticed.

  Twelve months after the accident, Daniel Martin-Murray’s family recovered an undisclosed settlement from the hospital for negligent treatment of their son. The state Department of Public Health ordered an investigation of the incident. A 105-page report was issued, identifying numerous protocol lapses at the hospital, most significantly, the failure to read CT scans in a timely fashion.

  Andrew Murray stated publicly that the lawsuit filed on behalf of his deceased son was intended to make hospitals accountable and institute policy changes to prevent similar delays in reading and interpreting imaging scans. Audrey Martin was unable to speak to reporters about her son without sobbing. She revealed that she’d had trouble sleeping ever since that terrible day.

  Sixteen months after the accident, the hospital posted a framed photograph of Daniel Martin-Murray in the emergency room waiting area. The hospital spokesman said that gesture was intended to make amends for its role in the Martin-Murray family loss. “It’s healing for them,” said the spokesman, “and it’s healing for us.” The Martin-Murray family did not attend the ceremony.

  Benjamin turned off the computer.

  * * *

  AFTER A few minutes he picked up the phone and called his son.

  “David?”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “I thought I’d get your voice mail, like usual.”

  “That’s because you usually call when I’m in class.”

  Benjamin could hear background noise—some music and voices. “Where are you?”

  “Student center.”

  “How was your flight back?”

  “Fine. I just got in. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Did Grandpa die?”

  “God, no. He’s fine. He’s better. He’s coming home from the rehab center in a few days. Why did you think that?”

  “Because you sound stressed. What’s going on?”

  Benjamin took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. “Listen, David, I’m sorry about everything. All those arguments with your mom. I’m sorry for screwing things up. It was my fault, all of it. Not your mom’s. The whole thing was my fault.” There was a silence on the other end. “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

 
“I don’t want to lose you. You and Sarah mean everything to me. You know that, right?”

  “Dad, I’m eating a tuna sandwich.”

  “I’m serious. I want you to know, I love you, David. Whenever you need me, I’m here. I don’t care what time—”

  “Okay, Dad. I hear you.” His son lowered his voice, the phone close to his mouth. “I’m sorry too. I can be a dick sometimes.”

  Benjamin laughed. “No, you’re not. You’re the best son anyone could have. I mean that.”

  “Listen, Dad. This is pretty weird.”

  “I know. Don’t mind me.”

  “I should probably get back—”

  “Your tuna sandwich, right. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”

  “But I appreciate the call, Dad.”

  Benjamin recalled what Audrey had said that night. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it. Of course not. How could she get over the death of a child? How could she forget the last hours of his life, her sitting beside him, helplessly? He couldn’t imagine the loss, a life without his son. The emptiness, so immense. Poor Audrey. How could he possibly help her? He couldn’t even tell her he knew, since she’d asked him not to find out. How could he unknow? How could he look at her now without this terrible knowledge showing in his eyes?

  * * *

  MONDAY WAS the big outing. Leonard Mandelbaum had been looking forward to it. It was about time he got out of this place, if only for the afternoon. But he didn’t like this wheelchair business. He didn’t like looking like an invalid. The doctors had told him to walk as much as possible, hadn’t they? So why not let him use his own two feet?

  “They have their rules, Len,” said Terri Funkhouser. “Who knows why? Once we get outside, we can do as we please.”

  “If we get out.”

  Getting past the front desk was an ordeal. The nurse behind the counter where they kept the controls couldn’t be reasoned with. He would approach her and say, “Excuse me, Nurse, I’d like to step outside for a breath of fresh air,” and she would stare at him as if he’d babbled in Chinese. He had no rights in this place. But if Terri Funkhouser talked to her and signed her clipboard, then they would let him out; they’d press the buzzer and the front door would open. Thank God for Terri Funkhouser. Otherwise, Leonard was a prisoner.

  Outside, he squinted into the sky, his hand blocking the sun. He wasn’t used to such bright sunlight. Terri Funkhouser pushed his wheelchair down the front ramp and along the sidewalk.

  “Upsy-daisy, Len,” she said when they came to her car.

  “Gladly,” he said, throwing the blanket from his lap, rising stiffly. He stamped his right leg to get the blood going again.

  “Stand back.” She folded up his wheelchair and hoisted it like a man, stowing it in the trunk of her car. “I packed a picnic basket. Egg salad sandwiches and yogurt. We’ll take a drive to the park. Get in.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Of course it’s allowed.”

  Her car, the Cutlass, smelled of cigarette smoke and gasoline. She must have a leak in the fuel line. Her perfume didn’t bother him anymore; he barely noticed it, except when she arrived each day, that first aromatic blast.

  “Put your seat belt on,” she said, starting the motor.

  The whole sedan shook, like one of those old-time hotel beds where you put in a quarter. No wonder Dickie wanted a new car for her. This one was ten years old, at least. It had engine knock. It needed a tune-up and bodywork; every panel looked dented.

  “Knocking,” said Leonard.

  She wheeled out of the parking lot, hitting a pothole. A pair of sunglasses dropped from the dashboard into his lap.

  “Who’s there?”

  He frowned. “The car’s knocking.”

  “Okay.” She turned to him, grinning. “The car, who?”

  “This car. The car you’re driving.”

  She laughed loudly, he didn’t know why. “I’m playing fun, Len. You know, like ‘Who’s on first?’”

  What was she talking about? “You got engine knock. You need a new car, is what you need.”

  “Don’t get all worked up. I’m just ribbing you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I already told you. Picnic in the park.”

  It sounded like a song: picnic in the park. “MacArthur Park” was Myra’s favorite song. She would listen to the forty-five rpm over and over, playing it five times in a row. He would find her in the den, a drink in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks, makeup ruined. That Irish actor, the drunkard. What was his name? Not Richard Burton, the other one, the redhead. He sang it. The song touched something deep inside her, some wanting unfulfilled, something Leonard couldn’t reach. What is it, Myra? What’s wrong? But she would turn on him, defiantly, her brown eyes aflame. Go away! Just leave me alone! A complicated woman, his Myra. He’d done his best to make her happy.

  “Did you bring a cake?”

  “I brought egg salad sandwiches, like I told you.”

  Someone left the cake out in the rain. Did that make sense? Why would anyone leave a cake outside? Because it was a picnic. Picnics were held outside.

  “Is it raining?”

  “No, Len. It’s a beautiful day. Stop worrying so much. Terri’s got everything under control.”

  “Who’s Terri?”

  “Jesus Christ, Len. What did they put in your cereal today?”

  “I had eggs and biscuits.”

  She pulled into the park and directed the Cutlass over the rutted road. “Let’s walk to the rose garden. It’ll clear your head. See how nice it is? You’re not cold, are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Better.”

  The fresh afternoon air. He got out of the car and took a few deep breaths, opening his arms the way they’d taught him in the Navy.

  “Look at you, Len, doing exercises. Pretty soon you’ll be back in your house, back to normal. You won’t need me anymore. You’ll forget all about silly old Terri.”

  “They won’t let me out. They got me locked up.”

  “Naw, Len, they’re letting you out in a couple of days. Don’t be so suspicious. This is America. They can’t do anything bad to you. You have your civil liberties.”

  “That’s what you think.” She didn’t know what they did when she wasn’t around. They came into his room at night like it was Grand Central Station. They stuck him like a pincushion with needles and tubes. Benjamin said they were just doing their job; they had to give him medication, check his blood pressure. But in the middle of the night? What was the sense of waking a man to check his pulse?

  “Look at the trees, Len. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  He shaded his eyes against the sun. What time of year was this? He didn’t know. Well, he knew, but he couldn’t think of it at the moment. They’d celebrated a milestone recently, a special meal. Terri Funkhouser had brought dinner and they’d eaten together in the lounge, turkey and gravy. Turkey. Of course, Thanksgiving, it was fall. The trees were bare, mostly. A few still had a shading of dry color. The fallen leaves were underfoot, crunching like peanut shells, as they crossed the wooden footbridge over the pond. Some ducks stood on the grass by the edge of the water. When he and Terri passed by, the ducks turned their heads in unison and looked the other way, as if insulted.

  Terri Funkhouser clutched his arm, leading him down the gravel path through a series of vine-covered trestles. Up ahead, at the center of the rose garden, stood the wooden gazebo, the silver roof shimmering in the sunlight. Leonard exhaled heavily, feeling winded. The gazebo seemed far off.

  “What’s the matter, Len? Your leg hurt?”

  “Looking at the trees.”

  “Aren’t they pretty? Dick Senior loved fall. That’s why he made us live in Connecticut all this ti
me, why he wouldn’t go to Florida like everyone else. He liked the change of seasons. Fall is a time for reflection. I can still hear his voice. He was like you, Len, always saying the same things over and over.”

  “I always liked Dick Senior.”

  “See what I mean? Whenever I mention Dick Senior, you say, I always liked Dick Senior.”

  “He was a good man. I always liked him.”

  She cackled, startling him. That big laugh, you could hear it coming all the way up from her stomach. He’d say something, not expecting to be funny, and she would roar.

  They ascended the wooden staircase to the center of the gazebo.

  “Sit.” She tapped the bench next to her. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Rosebushes, all around. Myra used to love coming here during the season. Red roses, they all looked the same to him. But Myra knew all the different names and where they came from. Climbers, tea roses, hybrid roses, big-headed English roses. She made them all grow. Her garden had been the envy of every woman in the neighborhood. Betty Amato, on the south side of the street, could manage only hostas and ferns. Stella Papadakis, next door, had a fenced-in garden, built on raised ground at the rear of her yard, but she grew only vegetables—tomatoes and cucumbers, beets and carrots—for her four children to gobble. A functional garden. But once her children grew and moved away, she gave it up; the patch lay abandoned, the fence broken in places, weeds growing three feet high. Not so with Myra. She’d made her garden every spring; even when she got sick, she had high school kids do the weeding and planting, giving orders from her lounge chair like a foreman.

  “Len, I did it. I signed the house over to Dick Junior. What the hell, I figure. No use hanging on until the bitter end. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

  “You changed your mind.”