Driving Blind
GRAND THEFT
Emily Wilkes had her eyes pried open by a peculiar sound at three o'clock in the deep morning, with no moon, and only the stars as witness.
“Rose?” she said.
Her sister, in a separate bed not three feet away, already had her eyes wide, so was not surprised.
“You hear it?” she said, spoiling everything.
“I was going to tell you,” said Emily. “Since you already seem to know, there's no use—”
She stopped and sat up in bed, as did Rose, both pulled by invisible wires. They sat there, two ancient sisters, one eighty, the other eighty-one, both bone-thin and bundles of nerves because they were staring at the ceiling.
Emily Wilkes nodded her head up. “That what you heard?”
“Mice in the attic?”
“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.