Chapter 26 - THE BACKYARD AGAIN
Nine months after sentencing, I drove past my old house.
By choice.
New owners had painted shutters blue.
Different car in driveway.
The fence repaired.
I did not stop.
Then turned around.
Stopped across street.
Not because trauma demanded confrontation.
Because I wanted to see.
The backyard could not be seen from road.
Fine.
I did not need it.
The cage was gone long ago.
Police released it after appeals deadline? It could be destroyed/disposed after evidence retention. I had declined return.
It went to municipal disposal.
Good.
No relic.
The brass padlock remained evidence until case closed, then also discarded.
No shrine.
No cage in barn waiting for symbolism.
The new owners probably knew nothing beyond disclosure of police incident? Real estate disclosure may not require crime history. No need.
Their children’s bikes lay on lawn.
Normal.
I drove away.
At my townhouse, I opened bank statement.
Read it.
Every transaction.
Not obsessively.
Monthly.
That was healthy.
Then my phone buzzed.
Samuel?
No.
Marcus’s restitution payment.
$72.18.
Small inmate wage/credit.
I stared.
Then laughed.
Nine thousand dollars would take forever at that rate.
Not my life.
I transferred notification settings so I saw quarterly summaries instead.
Systems replace vigilance.
Then Dr. Shah retired? No need.
I kept new doctor closer.
My cognitive screening still normal.
One day I forgot appointment.
I laughed.
Called.
Rescheduled.
I did not panic:
Dementia.
Marcus had made ordinary forgetfulness frightening.
I refused.
Then I bought a dog.
Not German shepherd.
Small mutt from rescue.
Terrible ears.
Name:
Duke? That would be too callback. Call him Milo.
He came with a crate.
When shelter worker asked:
“Do you plan to crate-train?”
My stomach tightened.
I said:
“No closed crate in my house.”
Could be trauma-driven.
The trainer suggested baby gate instead.
Fine.
Milo slept under kitchen table.
No cage.
Then my therapist asked:
“Are you avoiding crates because of memory?”
“Yes.”
“Problem?”
“Not if dog is safe.”
Good.
Not every accommodation needs conquest.
Then Marcus sent another letter.
I opened.
He wrote about therapy.
No request to move in after release.
Obviously not.
He had arranged halfway housing/job placement.
Good.
Then:
I used to think if I could get you to say I was helping, that would make it true.
I remember you saying “I am not fine.” I hated Rachel for recording it. Now I think that sentence probably saved both of us from what I was becoming.
I sat long time.
Then answered:
It saved me first.
He replied a month later:
You’re right.
That mattered.
No self-centering.
Then release date in future.
Would I see him?
Not yet decided.
I told probation contact:
No surprise visits.
No address given without consent.
Meeting only professionally supervised initially if I request.
Good.
Immediate aftermath ended with choices, not reunion.
One evening Rachel called.
“Storm coming.”
I smiled.
“Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Call if you do.”
“Okay.”
I carried patio chairs inside myself.
They were light.
No one needed to prove anything.
Then rain started.
I stood at door watching.
Water ran across concrete.
For half a second, cold hose hit my memory.
Then Milo barked at thunder.
I laughed.
Closed door.
Home.
May you like
Mine.
Safe because I said so.
