Read Online Something for Nothing by David Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Anthony
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see anyone, but he wanted to give it one last glance. There werenât any signs of life, and so he squeezed himself through.
Martin walked quickly across the yard toward the houseâdidnât look right or left, just walked through the tall grass (sure, the landscaping was plush and expensive, but Hal needed to get his shit together and mow the lawnâeither that or have one of the kids do it, for Christâs sake). In a couple of seconds he was up on the patio, his hard-soled shoes crunching and scraping a little bit on the brick. And then he was inside, right on in through the sliding glass door that led into the living room. No one locked their doors in the suburbs. Yes, there was the occasional robbery here and there, and for a while people would be more careful. A few people might put stickers on the windows or signs on the lawn that said something like home protection system. And then next to it there might be a sign about not letting your dog shit on the grass. But people let their dogs take a crap wherever they wanted, and they didnât pick it up. Martin certainly let his dog pick his spot, and there was no fucking way he was going to stoop over with a plastic bag and pick up dog shit. It was the same with alarm signsâthey were bullshit, too.
He didnât have a specific plan. He hadnât even planned to sneak into their house this morning. But his worrying out by the pool had given him too much free-floating energy. And then when it had occurred to him that Miriam was out working, he couldnât not do it. It seemed as if one minute he was sitting in his backyard, and the next he was squeezing himself through the Weaversâ back fence.
Martin went through the living room to Hal and Miriamâs bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking around, taking it in. He walked over to the bed and ran his hand along the sheetsânice and soft, a high thread count. They were white, which Martin was relieved to seeâno cheesy red or gold or anything like that. And no absurd mirrors on the ceiling, or Hawaiian sunset wallpaper. Though he did notice that the bureau located across from the foot of the bed had a nice big mirror.
He climbed onto the bed and sat down, swinging his feet up, crossing his legs at the ankles and resting his back against the headboard, which had a bamboo weave. He looked at himself in the bureau mirror.He didnât smile at himself. He just sat there staringâstaring at himself staring. Then he raised his right hand in a feeble, uncertain wave. It was proof: he really was sitting on Miriamâs bed like this, and the person he saw in the mirror was actually him, rather than some ghost self whoâd followed him here and who was seeking to make the leap from the two-dimensional space of the mirror into the three-dimensional reality of his world.
Martin swung his feet back down to the floor, and began to look around, pulling open drawers, stepping into the walk-in closet, looking on the shelves in there. He didnât know what he was looking for. Once he located her underwear drawer he made the obligatory search through its contents, but really only so that later he wouldnât regret not having done it. The next time he talked to her, heâd know heâd run his hands over the bra and panties she was wearingâand that was worth something, he thought. But he was actually more interested in finding out if sheâd hidden something beneath her underwear. Sex toys, certainlyâthat would be very interesting. But heâd settle for an old photo that was important to her, or a note of some sort. Or a diary. That would be a gold mine.
The idea of the diary set him on a new round of searching. He reopened drawers and looked under sweaters and T-shirts; he stood on a stool and peeked on the top shelves in the walk-in closet. And he got down on his hands and knees and ran his arms between the mattress and the box spring. Nothing.
Under the
Martin walked quickly across the yard toward the houseâdidnât look right or left, just walked through the tall grass (sure, the landscaping was plush and expensive, but Hal needed to get his shit together and mow the lawnâeither that or have one of the kids do it, for Christâs sake). In a couple of seconds he was up on the patio, his hard-soled shoes crunching and scraping a little bit on the brick. And then he was inside, right on in through the sliding glass door that led into the living room. No one locked their doors in the suburbs. Yes, there was the occasional robbery here and there, and for a while people would be more careful. A few people might put stickers on the windows or signs on the lawn that said something like home protection system. And then next to it there might be a sign about not letting your dog shit on the grass. But people let their dogs take a crap wherever they wanted, and they didnât pick it up. Martin certainly let his dog pick his spot, and there was no fucking way he was going to stoop over with a plastic bag and pick up dog shit. It was the same with alarm signsâthey were bullshit, too.
He didnât have a specific plan. He hadnât even planned to sneak into their house this morning. But his worrying out by the pool had given him too much free-floating energy. And then when it had occurred to him that Miriam was out working, he couldnât not do it. It seemed as if one minute he was sitting in his backyard, and the next he was squeezing himself through the Weaversâ back fence.
Martin went through the living room to Hal and Miriamâs bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking around, taking it in. He walked over to the bed and ran his hand along the sheetsânice and soft, a high thread count. They were white, which Martin was relieved to seeâno cheesy red or gold or anything like that. And no absurd mirrors on the ceiling, or Hawaiian sunset wallpaper. Though he did notice that the bureau located across from the foot of the bed had a nice big mirror.
He climbed onto the bed and sat down, swinging his feet up, crossing his legs at the ankles and resting his back against the headboard, which had a bamboo weave. He looked at himself in the bureau mirror.He didnât smile at himself. He just sat there staringâstaring at himself staring. Then he raised his right hand in a feeble, uncertain wave. It was proof: he really was sitting on Miriamâs bed like this, and the person he saw in the mirror was actually him, rather than some ghost self whoâd followed him here and who was seeking to make the leap from the two-dimensional space of the mirror into the three-dimensional reality of his world.
Martin swung his feet back down to the floor, and began to look around, pulling open drawers, stepping into the walk-in closet, looking on the shelves in there. He didnât know what he was looking for. Once he located her underwear drawer he made the obligatory search through its contents, but really only so that later he wouldnât regret not having done it. The next time he talked to her, heâd know heâd run his hands over the bra and panties she was wearingâand that was worth something, he thought. But he was actually more interested in finding out if sheâd hidden something beneath her underwear. Sex toys, certainlyâthat would be very interesting. But heâd settle for an old photo that was important to her, or a note of some sort. Or a diary. That would be a gold mine.
The idea of the diary set him on a new round of searching. He reopened drawers and looked under sweaters and T-shirts; he stood on a stool and peeked on the top shelves in the walk-in closet. And he got down on his hands and knees and ran his arms between the mattress and the box spring. Nothing.
Under the
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