SAVOR

SAVOR 

By Tyler Miclean 

Tom was waiting for Ruth to sit down at the coffee table before he said anything. She crossed the kitchen to the cupboard and got out a mug. Tom was a statue, but his eyes followed her around the kitchen. Ruth filled her mug and came over to the table to set it down. She pulled her chair back, dragging it loudly on the wood floor, and plopped herself down. She gave a little performance, sighing dramatically, to make light of her creaky, step by step, morning routine 

Tom took in a deep breath and said, 

“Fancy some apple picking today, Ruthie?” 

Ruth took a big sip of coffee, looking Tom right in the eyes. 

“We just went apple picking,” she said. Tom shrugged. 

“Ya gotta pick em when they’re ripe, dear.” 

“You found some ripe apples, have ya?” 

“Mmhmm,” Tom said, smiling a bit. 

Ruth smiled back, raising her eyebrows playfully. 

“Well, you can pack the car while I finish my coffee.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said as he saluted her and rushed out of the room. Ruth continued to smile after her boyish husband, sixty-three years old. She drank two more cups of coffee while Tom zipped in and out of the kitchen hauling their gear. Within the hour, they were suited up in their van and driving down the street. 

“Well, whadduya know,” Ruth said as they drove passed an apple orchard. Tom laughed behind the wheel, and Ruth went back to reading the newspaper she’d brought along. 

“They’re doing a harvest festival at Lovergon Square Tuesday. Maybe Morgan and Peter’ll want to go.” Ruth looked up from the newspaper and over at Tom. 

“We’re here,” Tom said. 

He parked the car by a hedge. It shielded the house on the corner from the sidewalk. 

“Anniversary’s coming up, you know?” Tom turned and winked at her. 

“Oh, you want something nice, huh?” 

“Just giving you an edge,” Tom said. 

Their car doors opened exactly together. Tom opened the trunk. The inaugural sound of the hydraulics excited him a little. They each stuffed two pairs of latex gloves in their front pockets. Ruth grabbed her apple picking purse, and Tom put a folded garbage bag in his back pocket. He took out the rolling garbage can and grabbed his trash picker with the trigger and nabber. They both got their hats and sunglasses on, and Tom shut the trunk. 

They rounded the corner, walking slowly on the street, close to the sidewalk. Tom pushed the can out in from of him, while Ruth stuck close by. They’d stop whenever they spotted something that could work. Tom would flip open the can, take his trash picker, and nab wrappers or little plastic ties or caps that got caught close to the drain. Ruth would fan herself with her sun hat, waiting for him. Little by little they made their way down the street, picking up after the neighborhood. A young female jogger gave a little wave and thanked them. Ruth smiled and waved back.

“It’s good exercise for him,” she said. The woman laughed and disappeared around the corner. 

At one house, Tom rolled the can into the driveway, setting it close to the garage. Ruth watched the street, while Tom focused on the porch, spotting something there to pick up. He drifted over with his trash bag and picker, looking behind a large potted plant that stood to the right of the front door. He laid the picker against the frame, put on a glove, and bent down to the pot, brushing back the moss dressing at the base of the plant. A house key appeared, and Tom took it. He got a little of the moss dressing with his picker and brought it to the trash can. They didn’t stick around the house for any unusual amount of time. 

Keeping on like this, they made their way down the whole street. It was Thursday in the mid-morning hours. Commuters and carpools had already left. There weren’t many people out and about. When they finished the street, the couple turned around and headed back. As they passed the house with the potted plant on the porch, Tom rolled his can in front of the garage again, and Ruth waited for him on the porch. He unlocked the door, and they went inside. The outside of the house looked the same as far as the neighbors were concerned, except for the additional trash can sitting in front of the garage. 

Tom and Ruth took a moment to glove up. He reminded her to take off her shoes. They placed them side by side on the mat in the entryway. The living room followed. The fireplace, the mantle above, and every surface in the room was covered in ornaments from Hobby Lobby and Michaels. The fall theme continued in each room, even the bathroom. 

“Better call the mayor, tell him to move the harvest festival here, huh?” Ruth made herself laugh. Tom didn’t join in. He pointed to the clock over the bookcase, which had a crown of auburn leaves fastened to it, and spread all his fingers out to Ruth, signaling ten minutes. She nodded and mimed zipping her lips shut. Tom went to the back of the house, while Ruth stayed in the living room. 

She talked to herself quietly, taking it all in. There was a glass pumpkin on the coffee table. 

“Happy Anniversary, honey. I got you that glass pumpkin you’ve been barking at me for.” 

She didn’t pick it up, but the thought of Tom doing anything with that glass pumpkin made her laugh. 

“It’s a new friend for you, Tom,” she said to herself. There were candles on the coffee table too, and wicker planters in the corners of the room with little cornucopias sticking out with the flowers and the gourd vines. Over the fireplace was the family photo. The parents looked forties, and the kids were little. The little boy looked like her Peter, dusty blonde hair with a round face and brown eyes, full of personality. She could feel herself focusing in on that face. 

“Cute baby,” she said softly. Tom’s footsteps could be heard faintly in the hallway. Ruth figured he was going through all the rooms. A tear surprised her, rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly. There weren’t any more. It was just the one. She stopped looking at the little boy in the photo. If there was anything for Tom in the house it’d be in the office or the garage. 

And the garage was lively, quite the family warehouse. Nothing jumped out to Ruth as especially Tom. She thought there might be a nifty tool or gadget someplace, but nothing was popping out at her. In the office, Ruth was a bit stressed by the number of desk objects and little nothing bobbles that covered the surfaces. There wasn’t very much room to work it seemed. She was deciding between a fashionable letter opener and a leather journal. She picked the journal. It was small and one in a dozen, none of which had been written in, not at all. A few were inscribed with messages from what seemed to be this man’s wife on birthdays and Christmas once. I guess she wasn’t getting the clue. Ruth slipped the journal into her purse. 

When she got back to the living room, Tom was in the entryway. He held the trash bag with something inside. He seemed flustered. 

“What?” Ruth asked. Tom put a finger to his lips and spoke very softly. 

“There are two police officers outside talking with a woman.” Tom nodded, and Ruth nodded back. “Help me put some more trash in here.” They searched in the bathroom bins but didn’t find too much left behind. Ruth returned to the office. There were more than a few things there that she concluded couldn’t be anything but trash. She also found a couple of letters that she showed to Tom. They were addressed to Daniel Seveste. Another one had that name and a Kaitlyn Seveste typed out together. They topped off the trash bag with paper towels and Kleenex and a nearly empty shampoo container. They threw in all their gloves just before tying it off. 

The doorbell rang. Tom took in a deep breath and walked to the front door, putting on a bit of a character, someone older and slower. 

“You guys back already,” Tom said loudly as he opened the door. He was facing a police officer. The other one was close behind and the woman they were talking to was standing a little further back. 

“Hello,” Tom said, “Can I help you?” 

“Is this your home, sir?” 

“No, officer. This is our son’s house.” 

“What’s your son’s name?” 

“Danny Seveste - or Daniel Seveste,” Tom corrected. 

“What’s your daughter in law’s name?” 

“Kaitlyn.” 

“Last name?” 

“Seveste.” 

“Maiden name, sir?” 

“Ya know, I… I’m not sure, actually what…” 

“How did you enter the premises, sir?” 

“Just through here. There’s a hide-a-key.” 

“May I see it, sir?” 

Tom dug it out and handed it over. The officer tried the lock. He turned to the woman in the driveway. 

“Do you recognize these people?” 

“Nope,” the woman said. The officer turned to Tom. 

“Do you know this woman?” 

“No, I don’t know her.” 

The officer asked the woman if she’d ever met her friend’s husband’s parents. She said that she hadn’t. They explained to Tom that this woman had called 911 to report potential intruders in the home after arriving to house sit, not finding the hide-a-key in the planter, and then seeing two people inside the house through the front window. 

“We… we sometimes come over when they’re out of town to water plants and take out garbage. They didn’t tell us not to come over.” 

“How old are you, sir?” 

“Seventy-one. Don’t ask my wife’s age. I’m not even sure I know for sure.” 

The officer didn’t laugh. 

“Can you confirm your identity, sir?” 

“My wife’s got my wallet in her purse. Let me - Honey?” 

Ruth had sat down in the living room. She hollered back.  

“What!?” 

“Can you come here please?” 

“I’m sitting down.” 

“There’s a police officer here and I need my wallet!” 

“You gotta be kidding me. I’m sitting here with the tray on my lap!” 

“I’m sorry, honey. I need my wallet.” 

“I didn’t bring it!” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t bring it!” 

“Why didn’t you bring it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“So you don’t have my wallet?” 

“I’ll check!” 

“Please check, okay?” 

“OKAY!” 

The officer could see Ruth down the hall, crossing the entryway from the living room and disappearing again. She reappeared with her purse dangling from one hand, fishing through it with the other. 

“I didn’t bring it.” 

“You always have it on you.” 

“Well I was packing the car, and getting coffee, and you weren’t doing anything to get ready.” 

“It’s okay, sir,” the officer interjected, “Ma’am?” 

Ruth had adopted a slower, heavier demeanor too. “Yes, officer?” 

“Can you confirm your identity?” 

“I’m Lucy Seveste.” 

“Do you have any ID, ma’am?” 

“I don’t drive,” Ruth said. 

“She has a little dementia, so they uh… they took her license.” 

The officer left to talk to the woman in the driveway, passing by his partner, who took a step towards Tom. He asked some more questions about what exactly they were doing for their son at his house, and Tom and Ruth went through it with him. Eventually, he stopped asking questions. 

Ruth saw the woman in the driveway dial a number on her phone and hold it up to her ear. She and Tom watched without flinching. The phone rang and rang. It went to voicemail, and the woman left a message. Still, Tom and Ruth just stood by, not showing any signs of relief or dismay. 

“We can go,” Tom told the officer. 

“We’re gonna need you to stay put until we can confirm with the homeowners.” 

“That’s fine.” 

“How long?” Ruth asked. 

“We’re just gonna have to wait, ma’am.” 

“Can I sit?” 

The officer noticed that she was slightly shaking as she stood there. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Thank you, officer. She patted Tom’s arm and told him as she walked down the hall that she was sorry for forgetting his wallet.

Tom asked if he should try to call and confirm with his son. He dialed some numbers confidently, got some voicemail, and left his own message. The officers didn’t think to cross-reference the numbers, and all they could do was wait. The woman in the driveway let the officers know that the Seveste family should be getting off their plane in at least the next three hours.

A phone started ringing. The woman in the driveway answered it. Tom looked up and covered with a small, easy-going smile. Ruth was in the living room again, away from where everybody was. She was not smiling. She was sitting on the couch, looking up at the little boy sitting on his mother’s lap in the picture. She could hear the woman’s voice outside. Even from the living room, it was crystal clear. 

“Right, yeah. The police are here. No. Don’t worry, okay? I’m here. The police are here. Just… No, no, it’s okay. Okay, go to your hotel, and call me once you’re all settled. It’s fine. I’ll let you know. Just hold on… right, the officer wants to talk to you.” 

Ruth’s heart was racing. She was thinking of Peter and Morgan, of Thanksgiving and Christmas time. The officer’s voice was even louder. 

“I just want to confirm that you’ve contacted your husband’s parents and that they are not at your house. Well, they claim to be your husband’s parents, ma’am. We would appreciate you being available for a phone call, yes ma’am. You have nothing to worry about. We’re here and they’re not going anywhere. Thank you, ma’am.” 

Ruth couldn’t hear much of anything anymore, not Tom’s shuffling or muttering, not the birds, nothing. All she could hear were the officer’s boots as he came up the porch steps and into the house. She could hear him coming down the hall on those hard wooden floors.

…

But there she was instead, sitting next to Tom in the passenger’s seat, cycling back through it, imagining it. She tried not to think anymore, about being hauled off to prison, having to explain, of the sadness on Peter and Morgan’s faces. Tom had a big grin on his face and didn’t seem to notice how fixed and frozen she’d been since they’d gathered their loot, locked up the house after them, and packed up all their props. She had her purse with the journal, and Tom had his trash bag, with just that one thing weighing it down at the bottom, no office papers or shampoo bottle. They passed the orchard again on the way home, and Ruth exhaled with a little bitterness, seeing a woman her age actually picking apples. 

They weren’t rushed as they pulled up into their driveway. Ruth went straight into the house with her purse, while Tom unpacked the van. The day crept along with the usual pace of a Thursday afternoon. It was lunchtime, and the two of them made sandwiches in silence. 

At the end of the day, after Ruth had finished cleaning up dinner, she came over to sit with Tom who was watching TV. As soon as she sat down, Tom turned off his program and ran into his study, returning with the trash bag. 

“Happy Anniversary, Ruthie.”

He pulled out a little picture frame. It was made of bright red clay with delicate orange, blue, and harvest yellow streaks twisting up the sides. It really was a nice frame. Ruth held it in her hands, looking at the family photo still inside. It was a picture of the little boy. Another tear came. Tom didn’t see that. 

“I’d thought you’d like that, huh?” He said. She looked up at him.

“Why didn’t you take the picture out?” 

“Well… that’s what the frame looks like with a nice picture. You don’t have to keep it in there.” 

“I can’t throw away a picture of a little boy.” 

“Why not?” 

She didn’t answer that question. She fetched his anniversary gift. He liked it and thanked her for it. 

Sunday morning came, and Tom took a deep breath once Ruth had sat down with her coffee. 

“You hungry for apples, Ruthie?” 

“Not particularly, Tom, no.” 

He nodded a bit. Ruth sipped her coffee in silence for a minute or two till he tried again. 

“It’s becoming one of my favorite things,” he said sweetly. 

“Stealing?” She said. 

He shook his head a little. He waited till she seemed cooler. 

“On Tuesday, there’s this fella who - ”

“On Tuesday, we’re taking Peter and Morgan to Lovergon Square for the day.” 

Tom furrowed his brow at her, earnestly. 

“What’s happening at - ”

“The harvest festival.” 

THE END.