Nothing to Jack

This morning I heaved a sigh of "here we go again". Someone had been in my 1993 Honda Civic during the night. I'd say someone "broke into my Honda", but most nights I don't give perpetrators the opportunity to break into my car. Most nights I leave it unlocked. Saves paying for busted window repair.

Last night's perp was persistent. (From this point forward, the perp will be a he.) He went through the glove box: photos, about nine casino club cards, all with clips and curled cords, a circuit city discount coupon, auto registration, none of it worth stealing. He left the container of dog food I carry for Snug alone. He didn't take the Vanity Fair article on Karl Rove sitting on the front seat. He left the thirty empty envelopes there. Didn't seem enrapt by the anthology of plays. Or the two dog blankets. I still have Snug's water dish.

He flipped open the trunk. No luck. I doubt he could get much meth money for a portable dog kennel or tire chains. He pushed the trunk back down, but didn't shut it.

My car is entered about once ever two or three months. It's monotonously the same. Driver door not quite shut all the way in the morning. Sometimes the dome light is on. Glove box opened. Contents dumped on the floor. The trunk opening was a new thing. Best of all, nothing missing. I don't keep anything in my car.

Having my car entered last night reminded me of the time our family was all sleeping tightly in bed when the phone rang.

Andy Sietz was the police department desk sargeant. She woke us up. My dad answered.

"Pert! Andy Sietz here. Hey, Pert! Where's your car?"

"It's parked out in front of the house."

Andy laughed.

"Like hell! We just got a call from Spokane. It's in a parking lot."

"The hell..."

"The hell is right. Some kids. From Osburn. We'll have it back to you in a few hours."

And so they did.

A couple of weeks later, a knock at the front door. Dad and I were watching a ball game. It was a man and a teenager. We didn't recognize them.

When Dad saw they weren't selling anything or thumping the Bible, he invited them in.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the man said, "but the boy has something to say to you."

"I'm sorry I stole your car," the teenager said softly.

"Speak up!" the dad said,"that's no apology."

The teenager's voice got bolder. "I'm sorry I stole your car and. . . if there's any work I can do for you in your yard or anything, I'll do it to pay you back for your trouble."

Dad stood quiet.

"What my boy did to you was wrong. He can pay for it."

Dad was slow to speak, but said, "I appreciate you coming down here and saying your sorry. It's all right. "

"You sure. He'll do any job you ask."

"It's all right." He looked at the father. "It's all right."

They left. I was still in grade school. My heart swelled. I was really proud of my dad.

Dad turned to Mom, "That's a good man."

"Yes, he is," she said. "Yes, he is."

Dad never thought he belonged in church. He didn't think the church welcomed his drinking or his profanity. When he would go to church, he always said that the roof would cave in.

That day he introduced me to mercy, more memorable than any I had experienced within a church. Or have since.