By Soda Canter

His long, dry fingers pulled back the broken blind to reveal a pool of dust at the break of the pine forest. The dust dissipated as the crackle of the gravel revealed a black sedan. Almost like the game shows he and Momma used to watch on Saturday nights; a flash of light and the swish of red velvet curtains and the grand prize would be revealed. He unhooked the latch and opened the door to the sheriff. A high school friend who was once intimate but with absent time had become a polite acquaintance. He smiled at the greeting and said, “No, I’m home alone.”

Two little eyes.

He glanced to the left at the faded picture of his momma. She’d been gone for nearly ten years. He still kept her TV tray up next to the peeling lime green recliner she’d won at a bingo night back in ‘83. It had made her so happy. She never quite got over not winning again, but would tell the story from time to time after too much homemade wine, with wonder-filled eyes and an unsteady hand. In the fading sunlight, the sheriff raised a school picture of a tiny thing with a bright smile and ice-blue eyes. He could tell she was destined to be one of life’s winners and said, “No, I haven’t seen her.”

Two little eyes.

He glanced to the right at the place between the kitchen and the living room where the wood paneling had been replaced. Only one section, a sudden change from light to dark, with a tiny space in between where he’d drunkenly mis-measured. Just enough room for a faint river breeze and glimmers of dusty light to filter through. A physical reminder that he had failed after he lost his job at the canning factory. His momma had said once that he was just like his daddy. Apparently, he couldn’t keep a job either. He nodded and promised to make it right. Do something folks would remember. And he always kept his promises to Momma. The sheriff tipped his hat and stepped off the porch. He waved with a friendly pledge to catch up sometime and said, “I’ll call if I see anything.”

Two little eyes watched.