Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
We loaded the three car seats into the back of my mother’s Buick, securing the straps while the babies slept through the humidity. My mother, Martha, adjusted her glasses in the rearview mirror, her eyes dark with concern as she watched me climb into the front passenger seat.
“Did you try calling his cell phone again?” my mother asked, her voice soft and careful.
“He is not answering,” I said, staring out the window at the passing suburban brick houses.
The drive to Elm Lane took twenty minutes, taking us away from the manicured lawns of our subdivision and into the older, quieter outskirts of Oak Creek. The trees here were larger, their branches arching over the narrow two-lane road like a canopy.
We pulled into the gravel driveway of the Elm Lane house, the tires crunching loudly over the loose stones. The yellow paint on the wooden siding was cracked and bubbling, and the front porch sagged slightly on the left side.
My mother turned off the ignition, and the sudden silence of the country road settled over the car. We sat for a moment, listening to the gentle hum of the insects in the tall grass.
