Horace Afoot by Frederick Reuss Page B

“A burglar?”
    I fetch my pack from the middle of the walkway where I dropped it. “Let’s see.”
    The front room is undisturbed. Mohr follows me into the kitchen and stands in the doorway. There is shattered glass on the floor, and the back door is wide open.
    “Be careful,” Mohr wheezes behind me.
    “My wine glass.” I stoop and pick up the flat disk that was the base. The empty bottle is still on the table. “He knocked it over when he ran out.”
    “You’d better call the police,” Mohr says.
    I leave the kitchen to check upstairs. The second floor seems undisturbed. The bedroom is as I left it, sheets turned down on the bed.
Selected Philosophical Essays
face down on the floor, window open. A warm breeze. No signs of intrusion.
    “Did you call?” Mohr asks when I return to the kitchen. He is standing by the sink holding a glass of water. It is the first time I’ve seen him in light other than library or grocery-store neon. He looks less wilted. His wig seems more natural; his features are etched, not sunken.
    “I don’t think I want to. I’ve had enough of police lately.”
    “But someone broke in.”
    “They didn’t take anything.”
    “You should report it.”
    I open the broom closet. My case of Château Bel-Air is still there. I lift the lid, no bottles missing. It is the only thing I can think of I might miss. That and my—notebook! I turn to look at the table. The notebook is gone. “Goddamnit!”
    Mohr is startled.
    “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn him!”
    Mohr puts his glass in the sink. “Call the police,” he intones.
    “They won’t do anything. Goddamnit! Besides, I know who it was.”
    “Report him.”
    I go upstairs to call. When I come back down Mohr is standing outside on the front porch. He seems unsure whether to stay or to leave.
    “The little bastard stole my notebook.”
    Mohr lowers himself onto the top step and sits with his back hunched. “Nothing is safe,” he says.
    “Are you feeling better?”
    Mohr nods. “Thank you, yes.”
    I stay inside, behind the screen. A slight breeze blows through it into the house.
    “I have these coughing fits fairly often.” He clears his throat, his back still turned, facing into the yard. “I have lung cancer and a touch of emphysema.”
    I let the screen door slam behind me and sit down on the rocking chair. The chirping of cicadas in the trees fills the silence, and I resist the temptation to say I’m sorry. I rock for a moment, waiting for Mohr tocontinue. But he doesn’t. His shoulders rise and fall with the effort of breathing. “How long do they say you’ll live?”
    Mohr lets out a weak guffaw that makes his shoulders shudder. He looks back at me with crooked mirth, seeming to appreciate the brutal banality of the question. “I was supposed to die six months ago.”
    We sit in silence, the warm summer air circulating by a breeze that seems to be picking up. I watch the moths swarm around the bare light-bulb that juts from the wall at the far end of the porch and wonder if it will rain. What is there to say?
    The police arrive. The patrol car glides to a stop directly behind Mohr’s car. A figure emerges, tests a flashlight beam against the blackness, then approaches.
    “Someone call in a complaint?”
    Mohr stands up, keeping a hand on the post for support.
    “This kid keeps harassing me,” I begin.
    The cop tucks his long flashlight under his arm and holds up both hands to stop me. He asks if I am the one who called in the complaint.
    “Yes,” I say and begin to tell him what happened.
    The cop interrupts me after a few seconds. “You chased him into the woods?”
    “He was already in the woods by the time I got to the back of the house.”
    “Then what happened?”
    “Nothing happened. He got away. I came inside and found a broken glass and my notebook missing.”
    “Notebook?”
    “My journal.”
    “Mind if I take a look?”
    I escort the cop inside. Mohr stays out on the porch. I tell the cop about