First Person America
By Christine Parsons

The pink roses on Mrs. Cranberry's arbor bloomed the day our house was broken into. Heading down the drive- way to begin my morning walk, their fragrance drifted toward me from across the street. Blue delphiniums and violet pansies hugged the white picket fence that flanked the lattice arbor on either side. Elm and pear trees shaded the scene, keeping it green and lush, like an illustration from one of the Beatrix Potter books I used to read to my children. The only thing missing was a crotchety Mr. McGregor in denim overalls and straw hat, metal rake in hand to frighten away intruders.

 

Ah, there's the pity. I didn't realize we'd been hit until that evening when I searched around for my husband's laptop but couldn't find it. No matter, I thought, opening the door to our college sophomore's room. I'd borrow Carolyn's instead.

 

As I opened the door to Carolyn's room I smelled the scent of her favorite perfume in the air, and half expected her to appear with a "Hey Mom, what's up?" But she'd left the day before to study in Italy.

 

I'd hugged her goodbye at San Francis- co International Airport, resisting the urge on the drive home to pull a U-turn and keep her here, where we enjoy the illusion of safety. The next morning I decided to walk off my worry over Carolyn's safety abroad. And that's when the other bad guys--America has them too--plucked her laptop from the edge of her bed.

 

"Guess we've been robbed," said my husband as we tallied the string of disappeared items. "Better call the police."

 

Three officers arrived within minutes, eager to solve the first case of honest-to-goodness crime in our 60-year-old cul-de-sac's history. Walkie-talkies spit ten-four messages, guns poked from polished leather holsters. We gathered at the dining room table to strategize.

 

"So, that's it--just the two laptops and some cash?" asked the lead investigator, filling out his report. "No jewelry?"

 

"I didn't really think about that," I said, getting up. He followed me into the master bathroom. We stood at the doorway, taking in the disarray. Clothes covered the floor. Makeup, hairbrushes, a dryer and flatiron crowded the countertop. "Yup, you were ransacked all right," the officer said. I cleared my throat. "Actually, this is how I left it this morning."

 

"Oh, sorry, ma'am."

 

I cleared a path and walked to the built-in cabinet where I kept my baubles, third drawer down. It was empty.

 

The officer called his posse. They snapped on latex gloves and "dusted for prints." Flummoxed, I asked myself, "why would anyone want my stuff?"

 

Then I remembered Nana's bracelet.

 

Everything else had been junk, but my late Italian grandmother's bracelet was the real thing: pure gold. She'd given it to me on my sixteenth birthday, after our family had feasted on her gnocchi with basil tomato sauce and prune cake with walnuts and cream cheese frosting for dessert.

 

"Bella Tina, go get my purse," she said. "I brought you something special from Italy." She draped the heavy link bracelet around my wrist, secured the clasp; cupped my face in her soft hands. "Take good care of it."

 

The officers departed at midnight.

 

We locked the doors--twice--and shuffled off to bed. The next morning I padded down the hall to Carolyn's room to smell her perfume again. Sinking into her comforter, I stared at the ceiling; pictured her in Italy, traipsing along the same ancient streets her great grandmother Nana had walked before she immigrated to America.

 

When I was a child, Nana would take my hand in hers and lead me around her yard. We'd visit the half-dozen statues of saints, lingering at St. Anthony. "If you ever want something," she'd say, whispering in my ear as if we were in church, "Pray to St. Anthony. He'll listen."

 

Four decades later, I didn't want the laptops, the cash, or the bracelet made of gold. But I closed my eyes and asked St. Anthony to watch over Carolyn while she was in Italy, and to bring her back safely.

 

When I returned from my walk later that morning, the light on my answering machine blinked red. I pushed the button and Carolyn's voice filled the kitchen. "Ciao, Mama and family, it's me calling to say I made it here just fine. I'll try again later. Love you!"

 

I said a prayer of thanks--for roses that bloom despite sinister visitors, for the sound of my daughter's voice, for life just as it is.

 

Christine Parsons is a regular TAE contributor.