🔵 By Tyler Bowman. Photo by lauragrafie.
The last bell of fifth grade shrilled from the corner of the classroom. Chatter erupted among the students as they hurriedly scooted out from under their desks. Stepping out into the warm, moist air, Brady followed along the well beaten path through the school’s front lawn. He reached the road, then took off towards home.
Cars whizzed by him as shiny blurs. Bits of radio pop songs inspired him to whistle and sing along. A gravel bend materialized to his right and he headed in its direction. Minutes later a throaty roar assaulted his ears from behind. Brady spun around in time to see a cloud of dirt and gravel blow past, knocking him from his feet and into a ditch. Only a few breaths later a barrage of sirens screamed by, eating up the gravel road like a pack of starved basset hounds.
Wedged in the ditch, drainage seeped through his pants and underwear, its cold, muddy kiss snapping him from shocked disbelief. He struggled to his feet, then brushed the grime off. A black box laying a few yards away caught his eye. Cautiously, he approached what appeared to be a safe.
Brady quickly tried to conceal the safe in his backpack. Childish frustration kicked in when it didn’t fit. After blowing out a deep breath, he scooped it up in his thin arms and carried it all the way home. By the time he stepped onto the farm house’s front porch his forearms and shoulders burned nearly as much as his desire to crack open the chest of treasure. Careful to avoid his pesty parents, he crept through the house holding his breath. The nearly vertical old wooden staircase leading up to his room demanded he approach each step with care. Every muscle in his body gorged with lactic acid. Finally in his room, he speedily wobbled over to the bed and allowed his fatigued body to collapse on top of the quilt with a soft thud.
Brady didn’t lay there long before getting up and retrieving a flathead screwdriver from a toolbox on a shelf in his closet. Poking and prying for the next hour resulted in nothing more than a little bit of scuffed metal and broken plastic.
“Brady”, his mom, Beth, yelled up the stairs, “get your butt down here for dinner.”
He paced around, unsure of where to hide the safe. Worried he was taking too long, he decided to set it in the closet and cover it up with clothes. That would have to do for now, he decided, promising himself to find a better spot later.
His father, Dale, watched the local news from his position at the head of the dinner table. The family ate together in silence. Brady watched his mom push around her food as he scarfed down his own so he could get back to what he was doing. Dale snatched the remote off the table, then turned up the volume. A news segment blared from the television: “Major Todd Wilson’s home was burglarized earlier today by two suspects fleeing in a black Challenger. Police gave chase in what ultimately led to the suspects’ death. A safe is still missing in connection with the robbery. The mayor is offering a reward to anyone with information…”
Dale slammed his beer down, rattling the dinner plates and silverware. “Look Beth,” he said, pointing excitedly toward the screen. “That’s right down the road.” The dining room chair toppled on its side as Brady’s old man rushed out the front door. Beth lit a cigarette with shaking hands before grabbing her phone. Her fingers danced across the screen to rapidly fire off a string of texts. Picking up Dale’s beer, she downed the remainder of it, then crushed the can. Brady sat frozen, staring at his plate while his mother stood up and started cleaning off the table. His heart felt like it was trying to chisel its way from his chest. The police and his dad were searching for the very thing hiding in his closet. He desperately needed to find a better stash spot, at least until some of the heat died down. That night, once the crickets stopped chirping, Brady felt confident both parents were passed out. Picking the safe up with a grunt, he lugged it over to the top of the staircase. The first step groaned deeply at the weight, followed shortly by the second. Beads of sweat slid into and burned the corners of his eyes. Each screaming step plucked out a heart-string, throttling his pulse.
Mid-flight his sore arms gave out. The safe tumbled end over end, not missing a single remaining step. In slow-motion, Brady watched in horror as the safe impacted the foyer floor with the force of an atomic bomb. Wide-eyed and pouring sweat, he stared in disbelief at the safe’s door hanging slightly ajar. He waited with held breath for his old man to come tearing down the corner, cussing up a storm. A few minutes dragged by and nothing stirs inside the house. Brady can’t believe the crash didn’t wake his parents. They must be knocked out cold, he figured. Still nervous, he slinks down the rest of the steps to stand over the conquered chest of treasure.
Licking his lips, Brady kneels down and swings the hinged lid open with a hand. He reaches in and grabs what at first feels like a giant wad of cash, until he pulls it out to reveal a banded stack of Polaroids. Curious, he removes the rubber band and starts shuffling through the collection of provocative pictures.
Brady abruptly shoots to his feet, his gut churning at the sight of a familiar face. Swallowing down a surge of sickness, he mumbles with a mouth full of saliva.
“That’s my -”
“Wife!” Dale shouts behind him.
Brady spins on his heels and drops the stack. Polaroids fan out all over the foyer floor.
Bet comes stumbling around the corned bleary eyed, frowning at all the commotion.
“What are you guys yelling about? It’s the middle -”
Her voice cuts short as she notices the pictures scattered along the floor. Blood drains from her narrow face like the dregs of dishwater down a sink. Bony knees clack together as they give out underneath her.
Dale brushes past her aggressively. Brady shakes his head in disbelief, then takes off running back up the stairs to his bedroom. Beth is left alone, sobbing into her hands on the foyer floor.
She wipes away the tears with an arm and notices the open safe. Dragging her body over to it, she reaches her hand inside to see if there is anymore damaging evidence. What she finds instead are stacks of one hundred dollar bills piled at the back. The tears stop, and adrenaline starts. Thoughts race across her mind’s eye.
Dale storms back into the foyer, but halts abruptly as he scans the scene.
“Beth?” He says. “Where’d you go?”
He steps over the Polaroids and begins searching downstairs for his missing wife. It takes a minute, but after his second pass through the foyer he realizes Beth isn’t the only thing missing. The safe. Why didn’t you look to see what else was in there, he chides himself.
Needing to check on his son, he takes the stairs to Brady’s room. It’s bad enough Brady had to see his mother like that, he thought, and now she’s left us. Dale cracks the door. Laughter reaches his ears. Confused, he throws open the door to find his wife and son counting a mound of money on the bed.