Then remembered.
Martha had locked it automatically when she went to the laundry room.
He rang the bell.
Nothing.
Rang again.
Still nothing.
“Martha!”
No answer.
The washing machine was running.
George walked around the side of the porch and tapped on the living room window.
“Martha!”
Across the street, someone noticed him.
Her name was Ellen Brooks.
She had moved into the neighborhood three weeks earlier.
She had never met George.
From her upstairs window, she saw an older Black man standing beside a house, peering through a window and tapping the glass.
She did not see the screwdriver tucked into his cardigan pocket.
She did not know he had planted the maple tree.
She did not know his name was on the property records.
She knew only that she did not recognize him.
So she called the police.
“I don’t know if it’s anything,” she told the dispatcher.
“There’s a man looking into the windows of a house.”
“Is he trying to enter?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Any weapon?”
“No.”
“Description?”
“Older Black man. Gray hair. Beige sweater.”
“Has he broken anything?”
“No.”
The dispatcher classified it as a suspicious-person call.
No burglary confirmed.
No emergency.
Officer Blake Nolan was four blocks away.
He arrived in less than five minutes.
By then, Martha had finally heard the bell.
She came toward the front door just as George returned to the porch.
Before she could open it, Nolan’s cruiser stopped at the curb.
George turned.
Nolan stepped out.
“Sir.”
George waited.
“Can I help you?”
“What are you doing here?”
George glanced at his own house.
“Trying to get inside.”
Nolan looked toward the window.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“Identification.”
George patted his trousers automatically.
Then sighed.
“My wallet’s inside.”
Nolan’s expression hardened.
“Of course it is.”
George looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“They are where you can see them.”
“Don’t get smart.”
George stared at the officer.
He had lived long enough to recognize when a conversation had already become something other than a conversation.
“My wife is inside.”
“We’ll determine that.”
“She’s coming to the door.”
Nolan glanced toward the house.
Martha opened it.
“George?”
Then she saw the officer.
“What’s happening?”
Nolan raised one hand.
“Ma’am, stay inside.”
“That’s my husband.”
George looked at Nolan.
“There.”
Nolan did not move.
Martha stepped onto the porch.
“He lives here.”
“Ma’am, I said stay inside.”
“What are you doing?”
Nolan turned back to George.
“Put your hands on top of your head.”
George blinked.
“For what?”
“Hands on your head.”
“Officer, my wife just told you—”
“Now.”
George’s voice became firmer.
“I haven’t done anything.”
Nolan stepped closer.
“I’m investigating a burglary call.”
“Burglary?”
Martha looked horrified.
“This is our home!”
Nolan ignored her.
George said:
“Then check the address.”
“I’m checking you.”
That sentence stayed with George.
Long after the bruises faded.
Long after the hearings.
Long after Nolan stopped wearing a uniform.
I’m checking you.
Not the address.
Not the caller.
Not the house.
George.