New short story

A Shaft of Moonlight

By NEAL SILVESTER

A shaft of moonlight shone down through a break in the clouds. Other than that singular beam, it was a very dark night.

The burglar hoisted himself over a fence and into the backyard of the two-story home. He landed in a crouch on cement and stayed there, listening. No guard dog, no suspicious neighbor, no sound or movement at all. He didn’t think there would be, but in these kinds of situations you had to be sure. He gradually stood up, and with one more look all around him, made his way up to the expansive, well-finished deck. As he approached the sliding glass door, he took the pistol out of his waistband. It glistened briefly in the moonlight, disappearing back into darkness as he entered the shadow of the eaves. He stopped by the sliding back door and gave one more look back and forth. Then, after a half-second of perfect silence, slammed the butt of the gun into the glass. It shattered, leaving a hand-sized hole lined with sharp, jagged edges. The burglar reached his gloved hand through and flipped the lock on the door. He then slid the door open, stepped quickly inside, and froze.

He could hear music. Faint.

Please, please, please…

But he heard no other sounds. Just pounding—of both the music and his heart.

…let me, let me, let me…

It was coming from the far side of the house, and no one was moving toward him. The listener must not have heard. The burglar reasoned that the music was probably too loud, and that the door was shut, muffling the sound. Still, the burglar could make out the words.

…let me get what I want, this time.

For a brief moment he considered his options. Then, after coming to a decision, he stuffed his pistol back into the back of his waistband, and strode into the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him.

He looked around him. Dirty dishes covered the counters. An empty frozen pizza box lay on the table. A jacket had been thrown casually on the floor. A few empty glass bottles were scattered throughout. The burglar couldn’t tell if they were alcohol or cream soda.

He took special notice of the refrigerator, where a calendar and several photographs hung by magnets. As he had originally thought and planned on, yesterday, today, and the next four days on the calendar were marked with a single word spanning all six boxes: VACATION!!

Haven’t had a dream in a long time…

Apparently the family had taken a road-trip and left someone behind. This was an unexpected development, but if it hadn’t been a problem yet, it probably wouldn’t later. He looked over some of the photos on the refrigerator. They showed a father, a mother, and three children. The oldest seemed to be an overweight boy in his teens. The younger two were girls with white-blond hair, close to the same age though not yet in adolescence. They looked like fairly happy, cheerful souls.

The burglar could guess who was left behind.

And he wouldn’t likely be coming out of his sanctuary.

Still, he’d better check, just to be sure…

See the life I’ve had could make a good man bad…

Following the sound of the music, he crept out of the kitchen, into the living room, through one short hallway and into another. Here he peered around the corner into a longer corridor. The door at the end was shut tight, but light seeped through the crack at the bottom. Music continued to play on the other side.

So for once in my life…

…let me get what I want.

But damn, he could relate.

Lord knows it would be the first time.

He inwardly cursed and turned his back on the door.

Let’s just get it over with, he thought.

He moved fast, returning the way he came till he found the master bedroom. He entered and switched on the light. Two nightstands sat on either side of the bed. The burglar approached the husband’s side: A lamp. A radio alarm clock. A stack of books on economics. A glass jar filled with coins. A notepad and a pen. A framed photograph of himself and his wife alone on a yacht.

The burglar snorted and forcefully slammed the photograph down on its face. He then checked the drawers of the nightstand, but found nothing of value.

He went over to the wife’s side. She also had a framed photograph, but hers was of her son in a baseball uniform. The burglar picked it up and looked at it for several seconds. The boy looked a few years younger than he was in the photos on the fridge. The burglar gently lowered it back down to the nightstand, putting it exactly where he had found it. Next to it were two books: one on how to deal with troubled teens, and the other a diary. He then looked back and forth between the first book and the photo of the son, and frowned. He felt a momentary impulse to open and read the diary, but it passed and he moved on.

There were some paintings on the wall of the bedroom, and the burglar idly wondered if they were worth anything, but before thinking too hard about it, he pinpointed the jewelry box. It was on the dresser near the door, directly under the light switch.

Once at the jewelry box, he promptly turned the light off and brought a gunnysack out from his jacket pocket.

Just then the music coming from down the hall changed.

...However far away...

He began grabbing handfuls of jewelry and stuffing them into the sack. There was a lot of it. As he had expected.

...However long I stay...

Among the diamonds and emeralds, he found a small blue bejeweled bracelet that seemed a little lighter than the others. He was about to question its authenticity, but then—

...Whatever words I say...

But then he heard the music suddenly get much louder, and the sound of soft footsteps on quality carpet.

...I will always love you.

The burglar hurriedly tossed the bracelet into the sack and dove behind the far side of the expensive bed, just two seconds before the only occupant of the house entered the room.

The light stayed off. The burglar kept perfectly still. Had the boy heard him somehow, or…?

One of the closets on the other side of the room opened with a creaking sound, and the boy turned on the small light within. The burglar heard rummaging; he raised his eyes just over the bed and saw the boy crouched down in front of the closet, apparently looking for something. The burglar, though he now knew the kid wasn’t after him, knew it wasn’t safe to breathe just yet.

The rummaging stopped, and the boy paused for just a moment before rising and turning off the closet light. He then made his way out of the dark room, something in his hand. The burglar, curious, followed him with his eyes.

The boy disappeared into the hall. A moment passed, and the burglar knew the boy was in his room again because the music changed abruptly. The door, however, did not close.

The burglar crept back into the hall, hesitant but still curious, stopping at the same corner he had peered around before. From here he had a good view of the boy’s room, but not all of it. However, a window on the far wall provided a clear reflection of the area the burglar could not see. This included the boy, sitting on his bed—holding a gun to his own head.

Billy rapped all night…

The burglar glanced around in a twitching fashion. Two scenarios had instantly entered his mind. And there was nobody there to help him choose between them.

...about his suicide...

He thought rapidly.

…how he’d kick it in the head…

And made a hasty decision.

...when he was twenty-five...

He dropped the sack.

Didn’t want to stay alive…

Whipped out his gun.

...at twenty-five...

Brought it up in both hands…

All the young dudes…

Aimed…

…carry the news…

And fired.

The spot in the window, exactly where the reflection of the boy’s head had been, shattered, louder and more prominent than the breaking of the sliding glass door.

The burglar grabbed the jewel-stuffed sack and dashed away, out the open back door, and into the moonlit night.

The next day, the boy sat on a bench right across the street from his home. He said nothing, did nothing. Just watched the people pass by, sitting snug in his warm winter coat. The grey sky was gloomy, but much lighter than the storm clouds that had inhabited the sky the day before. Though not blue, it was still an improvement.

He had been sitting here for hours, not quite thinking, not quite feeling, just absorbing the world around him and letting his subconscious process it all for him. If he shivered from time to time, it was not because of the cold. No tears came from his numb, near-dead eyes.

A man in a ragged, patchy coat sat down next to him on the bench. A few minutes later, he left. Nothing to distinguish him from any other man or woman who happened to pass. The boy thought nothing of it.

More minutes passed, until the boy happened to glance to his left, where the man had been sitting. Something on the bench caught his eye. It was a blue-jeweled bracelet and a scrap of paper underneath. The boy had the feeling he had seen the bracelet before. He brought his gloved hand out of his pocket and picked it up to examine it more thoroughly.

The jewels were not real, that much was clear. Probably just plastic. Something a child had made. Etched on the inside of the bracelet was a name and inscription:

“Kenny Cobb, Ms. Miller’s 3rd grade class. Happy Mother’s Day Mommy!”

He picked up the scrap of paper. There were words on the back:

Your mother loves you. Don’t break her heart.

As every kind of emotion converged on the boy, he began to sob loudly, convulsively. All those bottled-up emotions poured out of his eyes in the form of tears. He cried until no more tears came.

Then he looked at the note again and gave a single, resolute nod.