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The remainder of that September day passed in virtual silence.
After the events of the morning, Mike spent a couple of solemn hours in his room. His casement windows cranked ajar, the crisp autumn air lightly scented with sweet-leafy decay filled his lungs. Mike's spinning mind was a ramshackle of a thousand thoughts and no thoughts at all, trying to make sense out of what had just happened.
Downstairs, Patty was gripped with remorseful euphoria. Her body propelled by adrenaline, she placed the now spotless bakelite ashtray on the coffee table, returned to the kitchen and sorted the wilting groceries, making sure that they found their rightful place in the avocado colored fridge. Her mind ran frantic with questions of lasting effects and potential scenarios. Whether her envisioned inventions were prophecy or paranoia, she could not tell.
At four thirty, Mike came downstairs to leave for his Wednesday evening European History class at Charter Oak College. He wanted to stay, so many questions raced through his consciousness, but when he glanced at the living room and saw that his mother was nowhere to be found, he was relieved. His chest loosened. Mike opened the front door, strode down the tarblack driveway to the white Chevy Laguna with the chocolate vinyl roof, tossed his books on the shotgun seat, turned the key and let her roll.
Mike's father returned home from work at a quarter to six. Patty had his dinner ready and waiting. Throughout dinner, she kept wondering if some telltale sign would give her away, if the mark of Cain was emblazoned on her forehead. But by the time that the last morsel of pilaf was hefted from plate to mouth, nothing gave her secret away. And she smiled to herself.
The sleepy gold and rust colored suburban hamlet was as silent as Pinelawn when the Chevy Laguna slowly rolled to a halt, the red tail lights extinguished, making the night as tarblack as the driveway. When Mike entered the house, the only illumination was the frosty azure glow of the television radiating from the living room where his mother and father sat on the couch watching Quincy, M.E. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with Patty's. But he strode up the stairs to his room, aware of the futility of the moment.
Thursday was new.
Mike's father dressed in the cobalt glow of the newborn day, unknowing and happy. Patty stirred beneath the covers, and did not emerge from her chamber until the salmongold rays of the new sun roused her to consciousness. Ensconced in chenille, Patty plodded down the stairs, crossed through the living room and entered the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When the doors swung open, she noticed mike drinking orange juice over the sink, wearing nothing but his boxers.
"You're up early," Patty croaked, her first words of the day.
"Oh, hi!" Mike spun around, startled.
"Look, Mike, about yester ..."
"No, no ... it's OK. You were right. I was wrong to take your property without permission ... you were ..."
"I know you're sorry. I know it won't happen again."
Patty reached out and gently cupped his cheek with her palm. She brewed a pot of coffee and poured two cups. They sat silently at the kitchen table. Patty gazed at her reflection in the blackness of her cup and smirked.
"I was pretty angry yesterday."
"Yeah." Mike chuckled.
