We reached our town on Tuesday afternoon.
The clock on the dashboard showed half past two.
I had been imagining the drive into our neighborhood for hours, but when we finally turned onto our street, I felt strangely unprepared.
The snow along the curbs had melted and frozen again.
Road salt had turned the remaining piles an ugly gray.
The bare branches above the sidewalks looked dark against the sky.
Everything seemed familiar.
That made the changes easier to notice.
A black pickup stood along the street near our house.
I didn't recognize it.
Brett's truck was nowhere in sight.
I slowed the Toyota as we approached the driveway.
Ardis leaned forward slightly, looking past me toward the front windows.
Neither of us spoke.
I pulled in and stopped beside the garage.
The engine ticked as it cooled.
For a few seconds, I kept my hands on the steering wheel.
We had driven nearly fifteen hundred miles to get here.
We had left two months of warm weather behind.
We had spent two nights in motels and most of four days looking at the road.
Now we were home.
Or at least, we were standing outside the place we believed was home.
Ardis opened her door.
The cold reached into the car before she had both feet on the ground.
She pulled her coat tighter and walked around to the trunk.
I got out and helped her with the luggage.
Our suitcases were heavier than they had been when we packed them in Arizona.
That was probably my imagination.
She wheeled hers toward the walkway and stopped beside my boots.
I noticed she had placed it carefully, upright and close to the front steps.
I couldn't have explained why that detail stayed with me.
Maybe she wanted to be ready to go inside.
Maybe she needed something solid beside her while she looked at the house.
I turned toward the front window.
The curtains were in place.
The porch was clear.
There were no boxes stacked outside, no obvious signs that somebody had taken over the property.
Then I saw the African violets.
Ardis kept them on the inside sill, where the afternoon light reached them.
They had purple flowers.
Not one or two, but several.
I stared at them through the glass.
"They're still flowering," Ardis said.
Her voice was quiet.
I looked at her.
She was watching the plants, not me.
Someone had been watering them.
That was a small thing, but it mattered.
It meant the house hadn't been entirely neglected.
Somebody had taken care of at least one part of it.
I couldn't decide whether that made me feel better.
Across the street, a curtain moved.
Vern was watching.
He didn't step outside or wave us over.
He simply stood behind the window, giving us the privacy of pretending we hadn't noticed.
At the Hendersons' house, another curtain shifted.
Our arrival had not gone unnoticed.
I couldn't blame the neighbors.
Vern had called because he thought we deserved to know what was happening.
Now we had come back early, and the whole street would be wondering what we intended to do.
I felt a flicker of embarrassment.
That was unfair.
We hadn't created the situation.
Still, I knew how people talked in a small town.
A family dispute could become the subject of conversation before the people involved had even decided what to say to each other.
I looked at the black pickup again.
It was clean enough to suggest someone had been using it regularly.
The tires were dark with road grime.
I didn't know whose it was.
I didn't know whether the driver was inside our house.
I didn't even know if Brett's girlfriend was home.
All I knew was what Vern had told me.
She had moved in around Christmas.
Her brother had followed.
He was paying Brett six hundred dollars every month.
I had spent the whole drive trying to keep those facts separate from my assumptions.
I didn't want to arrive with a story already written in my head.
But the pickup made the situation feel less like a rumor and more like a life that had been arranged without us.
I opened the trunk and removed the last small bag.
Ardis was standing beside the front steps.
She looked at the door.
"Do you have your key?"
I reached into my coat pocket.
The key was there.
It had been with me throughout the drive.
I had touched it more than once while sitting behind the wheel, as if checking that it hadn't disappeared.
I held it in my palm.
The metal was cold.
I could have used it.
It would have taken a second to unlock the door and step inside.
For a moment, I nearly did.
Then I pictured a stranger coming down the hall and finding me in the entryway.
I pictured the sheriff being called, a neighbor watching from across the street, and somebody later telling the story as if I'd been the one who had invaded another person's space.
I didn't want that.
I wasn't going to force my way into a confrontation.
Not with my son.
Not with anyone.
I put the key back in my pocket.
Ardis looked at me but didn't question the decision.
I walked to the front door.
The storm door had a narrow pane of glass.
Through it, I could see the dim hallway beyond the entrance.
The familiar runner was still on the floor.
The coat hooks were still mounted beside the wall.
Those ordinary details made me hesitate more than the black pickup had.
I had spent years walking through that door without thinking about it.
I had carried groceries through it, brought in Christmas presents, and stepped inside after long days of work.
It had never occurred to me that one day I might stand outside and wonder whether I was welcome.
I turned toward Ardis.
She was still beside the suitcase.
Her face was composed, but she had pressed her lips together.
I wanted to tell her that everything would be fine.
I couldn't.
I didn't know what was waiting inside.
I didn't know what Brett would say when he saw us.
I didn't know whether the young man downstairs had been told who owned the house.
I knew only that we had come back because we needed answers, and I wasn't going to let the distance between Arizona and home become an excuse to avoid asking for them.
I raised my hand.
Then I knocked.
Three firm raps.
My father had always knocked that way when he came to visit someone.
He believed that announcing yourself was a small sign of respect.
I had followed the habit for most of my life.
I waited.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then I heard movement inside.
Footsteps crossed the hallway.
A shadow passed behind the glass.
Someone was coming to the door.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: I Had Carried My House Key Across the Country, Yet I Waited Outside Until a Stranger Came to See Who Was Knocking
The Call From Home That Turned a Quiet Arizona Morning Into Something I Could No Longer Ignore
Part 3 of 9
