Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108 Page 109 Page 110 Page 111 Page 112 Page 113 Page 114 Page 115 Page 116A p r i l 2 0 1 7 1 1 1 Fiction Adobe stock trove, his to guard. He was glad to see the house had fared well in the months since his departure. The chair rails and built-in china cabinet had been refinished last year and still looked fresh. The fireplace and flue looked clean. In the cellar, Richard examined the wa- ter level of the furnace, then peered in dark corners for mouse droppings. Last winter, he discovered a family of field mice down here, squatters come in from the cold. But the concrete floor was bare, its only occu- pant Richard’s workbench, which the buy- ers had agreed to keep. Too big for his con- dominium, and his two daughters had hus- bands and workbenches of their own. Upstairs, the house was colder. Rich- ard tapped the thermostat and then began checking the windows. In their bedroom, the pocket door had been a find, overlooked when Rich- ard and Annie first toured the house. The listing agent had pointed out the unex- pected feature. Hidden within the wall of what had been a dressing area, the door hung from a track and slid to seal off the space. The privacy was only partial, but sometimes, in the last, terrible weeks be- fore hospice, when Annie moaned in pain as she slept, Richard would take a quilt and escape to the love seat here. He never confessed his absence, just wait- ed the next morning for her to ask, but if she knew, Annie had said nothing. Tonight, his retreat was exposed as he had left it. Still, by habit, Richard grasped the flush-mounted metal pull and slid the pocket door shut. The heavy oak panel moved as smoothly as ever on its track. The sensation was like a fingerprint. Then, as he was about to push the door back into the R ichard had never broken the law, not even a speeding ticket, but open- ing the door to his home–still mine, he told himself–felt like a burglary. Sliding into the darkened mud room, he tripped over a doormat the realtor had apparently brought, to scrape the feet of strangers. “Fuck,” he muttered, wondering if anyone heard him. And then, realizing how absurd that was, louder: “Fuck!” The buyers’ walk-through would hap- pen the next morning, the realtor said, so tonight was the last opportunity to retrieve anything that remained. Floors should be broom-clean. Bedroom and bath doors left open. Leave the keys on the kitchen counter. Twenty-seven years ago, was the house so pristine? He tried to recall the day he brought Annie here, the two of them bare- ly married, infatuated with each other and with the idea of owning a home. At first, she hesitated to disturb the order of the three- bedroom Victorian. The dining room chan- delier was too formal. “Let’s live with it for now,” she said. She sighed at the inconve- nient placement of a closet rod until one day Richard sawed the thing out. Now he wandered the first floor, looking for evidence of damage that might be noticed in the morning. Signs of former life. The empty space magnified the squeak of a kitch- en drawer he’d never been able to quiet. A certain amount of wear and tear was to be expected. Houses, like people, eventu- ally reveal their age. When he renovated the living room three years ago, Richard justi- fied it as a cost that would be necessary over time. Deferred maintenance catches up with you, he told Annie. Which seemed dark- ly ironic after she became ill. The organic- food fanatic, who popped nutritional sup- plements like candy, the woman who nev- er, ever smoked a cigarette, he was sure of it, who ran a marathon before anyone heard of Joan Benoit, had concealed a tumor be- hind an innocuous lobe of her left lung. The chances, right? The discovery was confirmed in the of- fice of a Boston oncologist. Richard could still picture the desk, almost feel the brushed steel edges he’d gripped as if to steady himself. Now, touching familiar brass doorknobs in Maine, Richard thought of that afternoon as a possession, one of a wall, there was rustling, a friction. A scrap of paper somehow protruded from the nar- row space beneath the door. Richard picked up the scrap as if it were dangerous. He recognized the bluish tint: a receipt, imprinted at a time when every American Express card was inserted in a cumbersome, sliding, manual device. An- nie’s name, in full. Even “Hildred,” which she disliked and always abbreviated. How strange to see her name this way again, as it appeared in the obituary. The name of the restaurant was famil- iar, a landmark on the local waterfront. But the date was indecipherable, the tendered amount mysterious. $55.21? What kind of a meal had that purchased? Not one he had shared–he would have paid. Richard tried to recall his wife’s friends. He was not the gregarious sort; he knew this. As a couple, they’d socialized little. A few neighbors, moved away long ago. A col- league at the college where he taught. But Annie had been different, collecting friend- ships the way other people collected fre- quent-flyer miles. Sometimes, he’d found himself resenting the attention she attract- ed. Sometimes he’d envied her. It had worn on them both. The receipt was nothing. Debris, swept under the door during the move. But still. And there was nowhere to discard it now, no waste baskets in the empty house, no trash cans in the garage. Furtively, as if he were littering, Richard kicked the scrap un- der a radiator. The house was filled with similar hiding spots, too many recesses and nooks to ac- count for. How long had he already spent on his walk-through? It would have to be enough. Richard headed downstairs, click- ing off light switches as he went. At the front door, he instinctively patted his pock- ets–car keys, condo keys. Check. House keys on the counter. For a moment, he wondered if he should take another look. Retrieve the receipt. Doubt was unavoidable. But too late. The door was already locked behind him. n WilliamHallisaPortlandnativewhohasworkedasa localnewspaperreporterandasaPRconsultantinNew YorkCityandBoston.HeholdsanA.B.increativewriting fromPrincetonUniversity. Pickpocket By William Hall