Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“You did not cause this,” I said.
“I wanted a quiet place for her,” she said, looking down at her daughter. “That was all I wanted.”
“There is a small brick house for rent three streets over,” I said. “The owner is an old Navy widow who keeps the roof in good shape.”
Emily nodded slowly, but she did not look at me. She climbed into the passenger seat of the moving truck and pulled the door shut with a heavy metallic latch.
The truck pulled away from the curb with a cloud of black exhaust, leaving the street suddenly quiet.
I walked up the concrete steps of the porch. The paint on the wooden floorboards was peeling in long, curling strips that scraped under my boots.
My father was sitting on the top step, his elbows resting on his knees. His knuckles were raw and red, and his old Buick was parked at the curb behind my mail box.
“Chad took the television,” he said, not looking up. “He took the microwave too.”
“Where is he, Dad?” I asked.
