Driving Blind

“Sounds bigger’n that. Rats.”

“Yes, but it sounds like they’re wearing boots and carrying bags.”

That did it. Out of bed, they grabbed their wrappers and went downstairs as fast as arthritis would allow. No one wanted to stay underneath whoever wore those boots.

Below they grabbed the banister and stared up, whispering.

“What would anyone do in our attic this time of night?”

“Burgling all our old junk?”

“You don’t think they’ll come down and attack us?”

“What, two old fools, with skinny backsides?”

“Thank God, the trapdoor only works one way, and is locked beneath.”

They began to edge step by step back up toward the hidden sounds.

“I know!” said Rose, suddenly. “In the Chicago papers last week: they’re stealing antique furniture!”

“Pshaw! We’re the only antiques here!”

“Still, there’s some up there. A Morris chair, that’s old. Some dining room chairs, older, and a cut crystal chandelier.”

“From the dime store, 1914. So ugly we couldn’t put it out with the trash. Listen.”

It was quieter above. On the top floor, they gazed at the ceiling trapdoor and cocked their ears.

“Someone’s opening my trunk.” Emily clapped her hands to her mouth. “Hear that? The hinges need oiling.”

“Why would they open your trunk? Nothing is there.”

“Maybe something …”

Above, in the dark, the trunk lid fell.

“Fool!” whispered Emily.

Someone tiptoed across the attic floor, careful after being clumsy.

“There’s a window up there, they’re climbing out!”

The two sisters ran to their own bedroom window.

“Unlock the screen, poke your head out!” cried Rose.

“And let them see me? No, ma’am!”

They waited and heard a scraping noise and a clatter as something fell on the driveway below.

Gasping, they shoved the screen out to peer down and see a long ladder being toted along the driveway by two shadows. One of the shadows grasped a small white packet in his free hand.

“They stole something!” hissed Emily. “Come!”

Downstairs, they threw the front door wide to see two sets of footprints on the lawn in the dew. A truck, at the curb, pulled away.

Running out, both ladies shaded their eyes to read the vanishing license plate.

“Damnation!” cried Emily. “Did you see?”

“A seven and nine, is all. Do we call the police?”

“Not till we know what’s gone. Shake a leg.”

By flashlight on the attic stairs they unlocked the trapdoor and climbed up into darkness.

Emily swept the attic room with the flash as they stumbled through old suitcases, a child’s bike, and that truly ugly chandelier.

“Nothing’s gone,” said Rose. “Odd-peculiar.”

“Maybe. Here’s the trunk. Grab on.”

As they lifted, the lid sprang back with an exhalation of dust and ancient scent.

“My God, remember that? Ben Hur perfume, 1925, came out with the movie!”

“Hush,” said Emily. “Oh, hush!”

She poked the flashlight into an empty place in the middle of an old party dress: a sort of crushed pocket, two inches deep, four inches wide, and eight inches long.

“Dear God in heaven!” cried Emily. “They’re gone!”

“Gone?”

“My love letters! From 1919 and 1920 and 1921! Wrapped in a pink ribbon, thirty of them. Gone!”

Emily stared down at the coffin-shaped emptiness in the middle of the old party dress. “Why would anyone steal love letters written so far back by someone probably dead to someone, me, good as dead?”

“Emily Bernice!” exclaimed Rose. “Where you been lately? You ever see those TV matinees make you want your mouth washed out with soap? How about the gossip columns in the town gazette? You ever look at the crazy ladies’ magazines at the beauty parlor?”

“I try not to.”

“Next time, look! All those folks got up on the dark side of the bed. Our phone’ll ring tomorrow. Whoever stole your letters’ll want cash to hand them back, or edit them for some crazed women’s book club, or for advice in a lovelorn column. Blackmail. What else? Publicity! Come on!”

“Don’t call the police! Oh, Rose, I won’t wash my underwear for them or anyone! Is there any grape wine left in the pantry? Rose, move! It’s the end of the world!”

Going down, they almost fell.