Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I took my screwdriver from my back pocket and began to loosen the two long screws that held the inner plate. They came out slowly, their threads packed with old rust and white wood dust.
With the screws out, the entire mechanism slid from the bore hole, leaving a clean, round opening through the solid heartwood of the door. I could see the driveway through the hole, the empty concrete where my father’s Buick had sat for so many years.
I reached into the box for the new cylinder. The brass was bright, catching the light like a new coin.
I slid the latch bolt into the edge of the door, lining up the faceplate with the shallow recess my father had chiseled thirty years ago when he helped me build the porch. The wood was old growth cypress, hard as stone, and the scent of sap came back to me as I tightened the new screws.
I slid the outer cylinder through the bore, the metal shafts clicking together with a solid, manufacturing precision. I held the inner thumb-turn plate against the wood, turning the long mounting screws by hand until they caught the threads.
