Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I walked through the empty rooms, listening to the hollow echo of my own footsteps on the pine floorboards. In the small back bedroom, a strip of floral wallpaper had peeled away from the plaster, revealing the gray drywall underneath.
A truck door slammed in the driveway.
I went to the front window and saw Sarah’s blue pickup truck idling near the curb. She climbed out of the cab, carrying a small cardboard box under her arm.
“The sheriff’s deputy was at the hardware store,” Sarah said as I opened the front door. “He said the county prosecutor wanted to know if you were going to sign the formal complaint against Arthur.”
We stood near the edge of the driveway, the shadow of the house growing longer as the sun began to dip behind the pine trees.
“I told him no,” I said. “The deed is back in my name. That is enough.”
“He forged your signature, Maria,” she said.
“He is sixty-two years old,” I said. “If he goes to the county farm, he won’t last six months.”
