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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Brent was halfway up Calloway Street when he saw the car. A green Toyota, sun-blistered on the trunk, in its usual rut in the cracked cement of their driveway. It meant she was home. Still, he hesitated on the sidewalk, one foot on the bottom step, the other testing the spongy patch of grass grown up between the curb and the walk. The house stood with its usual afternoon slackness—porch swing still, shade pulled tight on the front window. He tried the front door. It opened on the first turn.
Inside, it was the wrong kind of quiet. No "Marketplace" on the radio, no rush of water in the pipes, no microwave thrumming against silence. His shoes made the only sound, scuffing at the mat, as he dropped his backpack just inside the threshold. "Mom?" He aimed it into the stillness, pitched it halfway between question and challenge.
Nothing. No voice from the kitchen, no reply from upstairs. He checked the living room: cushions unmolested, TV off, the blue throw blanket still folded in its sharp corner on the arm of the sofa. His hands were damp, sudden, as he wiped them down the front of his hoodie and called again, louder. "Mom!" He listened for movement. The refrigerator's motor ticked on, sounding obscene in the hush.
He moved into the hallway, passing the wall of framed photos: him in a baseball uniform, her in graduation robes, the three of them with forced smiles at the pier in Santa Cruz. He passed the powder room (door open, lights off, nothing inside but a hand towel and the sour tang of Clorox), and made for the kitchen. The linoleum felt sticky under his socks.
