Judy dozes in a sunbeam splayed across the sofa. She’s more relaxed than I am on Sunday mornings, especially now that our daughter Jenny has left for college. I pick up and lay down the newspaper, shuffle to the kitchen for more coffee. Check the clock, unnerved by the hours ahead.
A thud shakes the house. I launch to my feet. Judy opens one eye.
“Did you hear that?”
“Crows.” She pulls a cushion over her face.
But the crows that peck on our skylights upstairs never rattle the house. “Was it an earthquake?”
Judy raises herself up on an elbow. A sound like faraway thunder trembles through the ceiling. We stare at each other.
“Raccoons?” she guesses.
I climb the steps, following scraping and dragging noises. Then, improbably, footsteps.
“Someone’s in the attic!” I’ve read about intruders—phroggers, they’re called—squatting in attics.
Downstairs, our back door slams. “George, come here!”
In the backyard my wife stands on the grass craning her neck upwards. I follow her gaze, expecting to see a regretful cat or escaped pet parrot.
Instead I see a man.
But not exactly a man: a gangly teenager in a white t-shirt and baggy gray jeans. He’s crouched on the slant of our roof, apparently as shocked to see us as we are to see him.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” I yell.
The boy squints at me like he’s struggling to identify a strange species of bird.
“Come down this instant!” This teenager could tumble off my roof to his tragic death. Then I cringe at how I sound like a character in a mid-century screwball comedy.
The boy turns his head toward a sound on the street, and I recognize his profile. He parked next to me every day when I picked Jenny up from school, pulling his Jeep into the adjacent space then scrolling on his phone and blasting rap music. Who was he waiting for: a sibling? A girlfriend? I never bothered to inquire.
Now I assume he’s here for my daughter.
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