by Dan Padavona
“I wrote it.”
“You what?” I asked.
“It’s not hard.”
“I thought you said you were…you know…”
“Homeless?”
“That.”
“Not forever. I spent better than a decade in foster homes, all of them bad news. Except for one. He was a professor at Cornell University, really into computer programming. He taught me how to write my own applications, and the rest I figured out through trial and error. Good guy. The world needs more people like him.”
“It sounds like you really liked him.”
“I did,” she said. Her eyes glazed over, and she feigned blowing her nose to cover a sob.
“Why aren’t you still living with him?”
“He died.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was old and led a full life. And I still have him here and here.”
Becca touched her heart and head. It was quiet except for the hum of the computer fan as she clicked around Lin’s profile, filling the uncomfortable void of conversation.
“Anyway,” she said, dragging the tissue across her nose as though irritated with herself for showing signs of frailty. “My application grabs data from four different social media websites based on what I program it to search for. So now I’m searching for keywords like vacation and Disney and cruise, and cross-referencing with small towns between Philadelphia and Fredericksburg.”
“Heading south?”
She shrugged.
“I guess so. Sometimes I go a few days between finding places to stay, and it’s getting too cold up north. If I got stuck outside in January, I’d rather sleep under a Florida beach pier than on a park bench in New York.”
My throat constricted. I’d only just met Becca, easily the most fascinating person I’d ever encountered, and already she prepared to disappear.
We made small talk for a while before she yawned and stretched. I eyed the blanket and pillow on the floor. The carpet was plush and soft, but not enough to prevent me from putting a crimp in my back overnight.
“Goodnight, Steve. Remember we’re safe here. See you in the morning.”
I sat on the floor and watched the rises and falls of her chest turn gentle. A few minutes later I realized she was already deep asleep.
I dozed for an hour and awoke with a gasp.
Noticing my full bladder, I left for the bathroom.
Halfway up the staircase, I knew something was wrong.
A light was on in the living room.
I froze at the top of the stairs.
A cold and scaly snake curled around my heart.
I backed down the stairs until my shadow receded from the hallway wall and listened.
Something scraped along the wall. It sounded as if it came from the living room.
Heart thundering into my throat, I edged down the staircase.
Then Becca’s voice spoke inside my head.
We’re safe here, Steve.
Take a deep breath.
I did.
My pulse stopped racing. With relaxation came clarity.
The light was on a timer to keep away thieves and trespassers. To deter people like us.
I climbed the stairs and jolted at the sight of my own shadow growing monstrous against the white wall. Next, I crept toward the living room, eyes fixed on the huge LCD screen reflecting an image of the room. From this vantage point, I could see if anyone hid inside the room. Could an intruder see me?
The mirror image of a long leather couch and two matching chairs filled the screen. A glass table fronted the couch, while a bookcase consumed most of the back wall.
No sign of someone hiding.
When I reached the end of the wall, the scraping sound came again. Like nails on a chalkboard.
Why did I listen to you, Becca?
I imagined my childhood terrors waiting for me around the corner: Hannibal Lecter, Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, or some black, slithering entity out of a repressed nightmare.
Just as quickly I heard Becca’s reassurance. How had she come to have such a profound effect on me when I barely knew her?
I crept around the corner and saw the misshapen claw of a tree limb scrape the window.
You’re a paranoid idiot, I told myself.
I stood giggling at the threshold, then resumed my climb to the bathroom.
After I finished, I explored the bedrooms. The teenage boy’s room looked extraordinarily neat. The computer was off, and on the desk lay two pens and a pencil perfectly arranged around a notebook, almost like a classic table setting of dinner plate and silverware. The clothes drawers were drawn shut, with no hint of sock or underwear hanging out. The bedspread and blankets were drawn tight, making the bed appear made of stone. I got the impression Ji Lin ran a tight ship, that the son was a young clone of his father.
The girl’s room wasn’t so neat. Whereas the previous room’s walls were bare, this room held a poster of a grinning boy band I didn’t recognize. I bet that poster caused a fair amount of consternation with Ji Lin. One of the drawers was overstuffed. I pulled it open. Inside were t-shirts, most of which would cling tightly when worn. The shorts were small enough to be considered swimming trunks. I pushed the overstuffed clothing down so the drawer closed properly.
The exploration exhilarated me, searching through personal belongings and vicariously living their lives. I knew it was wrong, knew I’d broken more laws in one evening than I had in a lifetime. But a part of me wanted more, wanted to push the limits. I never realized privacy invasion could be so enticing.
When I returned downstairs, I sat and watched Becca a little longer.
Still the voyeur.
She’d cocooned herself in the blanket with only her head visible. Worry creased her brow, making me wonder if she was in the middle of a bad dream. Her eyes flicked open momentarily. She appeared stunned to see someone in the room with her. Then she closed her eyes contentedly and snuggled into the pillow.
Fluffing my pillow, I pulled the blanket over me and lay staring at the ceiling of a stranger’s basement. I never believed for a moment that I’d get a wink of sleep.
But the next thing I knew it was morning.
Riley came within an eyelash of a mental breakdown when I told him about Becca.
“That might be the craziest story I’ve ever heard. You’ll both end up in jail.”
The late afternoon lull between the lunch rush and after-work crowd meant we had the back of the Rainbow Pub to ourselves. I was nervous the two overweight truckers sitting at the bar would overhear.
“I know,” I said, running a hand through my hair and silently willing the bartender not to look our way. “But it’s like I said. She’s real careful about where she stays and knows to get out before the owners return.”
“Listen to yourself, man. You’re actually justifying it. What would your reaction be if you discovered someone slept in your bed while you were on vacation?”
“Probably that it was the most action my bed had seen since I was seventeen. You remember Mary Beth Pierson?”
“Har-har.”
I knew I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. It was inevitable Riley would flip out. Who wouldn’t? At least, I’d kept secret the neighborhood Becca had targeted.
“And in the middle of town. I wouldn’t hazard to guess where you did this.” He stopped and shook his head vehemently. “No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”
A waiter with a dripping sweat stain at the armpit pushed through the kitchen’s double doors. He held a box of condiments under one arm. I waited until he was beyond earshot.
“Good, because I’m not telling you where.”
“All it takes is one nosy neighbor and both of you are toast.”
The front door opened, drawing in car motors rumbling down Main Street. A young couple sat down at the end of the bar.
I thought about the Lin residence, set off from its neighbors and shielded from the street by trees
. The house was well-hidden, but what if the mailman tried to deliver a package or Buster got off his leash and ran into the yard?
“It’s not like I’m going to do it again.”
Of that, I wasn’t so sure. Already, I began to ache, wondering what Becca was doing at that very moment. My insides tingled. I’d acquired a taste for our voyeuristic adventure and wanted more.
“That’s a relief,” Riley said in between cheeseburger bites. A blob of ketchup hung from the corner of his lip. “I’ll give her credit. Talk about resourcefulness! Though I can’t imagine she’s the first person to ever do something like that.”
“You think other people break into vacated houses?”
“Sure. And I’m not just talking about people who have a need. What about deviants? I’ll bet there’s a secret underbelly of people who get their kicks by sneaking into other people’s houses, thumbing through personal stuff, opening up the underwear drawer. Sick shit like that.”
I pictured myself sifting through the Lin daughter’s dresser and felt a little sick.
“Why would someone take that much risk for kicks?”
“Probably because it’s easier to get away with than most people would believe. Was it difficult for you?”
“Well, no. I mean I really didn’t do much of anything. She did all of the work, though it didn’t require much effort.”
“Exactly. So if you two think you’re the only ones pulling these stunts, think again.”
I tried to imagine someone breaking into my apartment and looking through my belongings, reading credit card statements, checking to see what was in my refrigerator and who my acquaintances were.
Sleeping in my bed.
Hadn’t I come home on occasion and felt a creeping sensation that a personal item was in a different place than I’d left it? Missing items—a favorite CD mysteriously vanished, a few dollars taken from my wallet, the level of milk in the jug lower than I’d remembered.
Donna.
I pushed the thought away.
One of the truckers looked over at Riley as he chewed on a greasy hamburger. Riley averted his eyes and cupped a hand beside his mouth so only I would hear.
“Anyhow, if I were to try…and don’t get any bright ideas…I’d pick a place out of town where I didn’t have to worry about neighbors.”
“Such as?”
“A foreclosure,” Riley said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Think about it. I’d want a place where I didn’t have to worry about the owner cutting vacation short and showing up while I’m dancing around in my underwear.”
“Thanks for the visual, Tom Cruise.”
“Better my underwear than yours.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick. I don’t know of any foreclosed properties in town. Think they’re easy to find on the Internet?”
“Who needs the Internet?” Riley raised the beer to his lips and watched me over the rim. “There’s an old two-story out on Myers Road just west of town that foreclosed last year. The notice is still taped to the door.”
I knew the location. The house stood on a hill in the middle of nowhere. I passed it sometimes when I traveled to the lakes, but I’d never noticed the foreclosure notice. It always made me feel a little creepy, with its dark windows and chipping paint. Had that house been in the middle of Smith Glen when we were kids, we’d have christened it the town’s haunted house.
And yet it seemed perfect. Who would know if I broke inside? Maybe one or two cars drove past on a busy day.
The foreclosure was my ticket to financial solvency. Even a menial job would turn my bank account around when I didn’t have to pay rent or utilities.
I can do this.
My sudden interest in the home scared me a little. What was I thinking?
“You’re not considering taking a ride out to Myers Road, are you?”
I sipped my beer.
“Of course not. Kinda far for a bike trip.”
I filed the foreclosure in the back of my mind as I rode home under a dark and lowering sky. The dead fingers of a cold wind, a reminder of how close winter was, touched my neck and followed as Main Street fell farther behind.
The houses became more derelict. At the last possible moment I realized the house with the sagging porch—the crazy junkie’s house—was just ahead. I wheeled sharply down a side road and circled around the block until I came back out onto Cayuga Street. I kept glancing over my shoulder, but there was no sign of his bike.
Halfway to King’s Road, I spotted the Subaru behind me. A 4x4 truck and an old station wagon rode between me and the recognizable Subaru. Apparently, Donna thought I couldn’t see her.
This confirmed my worst fears—I had a stalker.
Our meeting at the cafe had been more than happenstance. For how long had this been going on?
Becca was in my life now, a person whose experiences made me question everything I thought I knew. I’d searched too long for Becca to let Donna screw this up for me.
I shot a quick look over my shoulder and saw the Subaru inching closer as the 4x4 and station wagon passed. Not wanting to let her know I’d seen, I watched our reflections in house windows from the corner of my eye. A black, sporty compact fast approached in the oncoming lane. A train of slower vehicles moved behind it.
This was my chance.
I edged the bike into the middle of the lane. I felt Donna’s car pull back to give me room, then slide in behind me.
I guaged the space between the sports car and the trailing traffic. It was going to be close.
I had a sudden vision of the classic video game, “Frogger.”
As the sports car shot past, I swung the bike across the road.
My heart jumped into my throat. I’d misjudged the speed of the hatchback leading the slower train. It was going to hit me.
Horns blared. The hatchback flashed its high beams.
Tires squealed and somebody swore out their window as I hopped the opposite curb and cut down a side street. Looking behind, I saw the Subaru brake with no chance to cut across. Donna would have to wait for the line of cars to pass and do a u-turn.
Expecting she wouldn’t give up the pursuit, I swung another left into a quiet neighborhood, cut through two yards, and worked my way back to Cayuga Street. By then the glut of traffic had cleared. No sign of Donna.
I’d lost her. My day was about to get worse.
The first raindrops wet the blacktop when I crossed the parking lot of King’s Road Apartments. I didn’t think much about the police cruiser parked in front of my apartment until I saw the eviction notice taped to my door. A hard-chinned officer stood with Jenkins, eyeing me from the lot. The cop’s eyebrows appeared as one long caterpillar-like growth, his hands huge and gnarled, the hands of someone who’d used his fists too many times to solve problems.
“What the hell is this?” I yelled, ripping the notice off the door.
“You don’t pay your rent,” Jenkins said. “And so now you are out of an apartment.”
“I paid you last week.”
He walked toward me with the wind pulling greasy strands of hair across his eyes. The officer lumbered beside him. Emboldened, Jenkins glanced at the policeman, whose badge strangely shared my landlord’s last name.
“Oh? Perhaps I am mistaken. If you could provide me with a copy of the check—”
“You know I paid cash. This is bullshit.”
“You see why I asked you to come?” Jenkins asked the officer.
The cop stood a full head taller than me. His hand rested on a night stick, the grin not meeting the hardness in his eyes.
“Sir,” the officer said, glaring down at me. “You need to lower your voice and get yourself under control.”
“I’m perfectly under control,” I said. “He knows I paid him cash. He told me he’d give me a receipt.”
“Is this true?” the officer asked my landlord.
“The boy is full of stories. Since Mr. Morgan moved into King’s Road, he’s been chronically la
te with payments. I’ve given him every chance to catch up, but what more can I do? What do you expect from a young man who can’t be bothered to work like the rest of us? Everyone knows I would never cheat a tenant.”
“You can’t get away with ripping me off. I’ll report you to—”
“Who? Who are you going to report me to?”
A covert smile passed between them. Jenkins had a family member on the police force, and I had no leverage. I bit my tongue, cursing myself for not demanding a receipt before I placed cash in his cold hands.
The wind howled. Sleet pinged against the police car’s windshield.
“This has gone far enough,” I said.
I tried to insert my key into the door and found the lock had been changed.
“This isn’t your property anymore.”
“This is just an eviction notice,” I said, waving the paper in his face. “You can’t change the locks without giving me time to respond.”
“I can, and I did. I am a fair man,” Jenkins grinned. “And I will show you how fair I am by allowing you to retrieve your personal items from the apartment. All I require is one hundred dollars as a good faith payment.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. What Jenkins was doing was illegal.
“You mean you want a bribe. You can’t do this. I have rights.”
“Sir,” the officer said, moving to stand beside the door. “I told you once to lower your voice. If you can’t control yourself—”
Frustrated, I twisted the locked knob and threw my shoulder into the door.
“He’s vandalizing my property,” Jenkins said.
I shot Jenkins a look that would have made water boil. As I shoved against the door, the nightstick struck my ribs. The breath rushed from my lungs. I crumpled to the pavement, clutching my side. Tears blurred my eyes; I buried my face in my arms so as not to give them the pleasure of seeing the pain they’d caused me.
As I lay catching my breath, the officer grabbed me by the back of my shirt and yanked me to my feet.
“That’s police brutality.”
I slumped against the wall for support.
“You were out of control and attempting to break into private property. You’re lucky I don’t haul you to jail.”