Falling Forward Read Free

wrought-iron gate at the front of my community. There is a small latch on the gate that normally pushes up and allows it to swing open. But today, the latch wouldn’t move. I tried it a couple of times, and banged it with the back of my hand to no avail. Those teenagers who run around stirring up trouble at night in their golf carts must have broken it. The same kids had recently defaced the pool area and broke the water fountain – they actually smashed it so badly it fell off the wall. I couldn’t comprehend why these kids needed to break things for entertainment. Or more so, how their parents let their early teenage children out late at night, unsupervised, on dangerous motorized vehicles, and didn’t worry about them.
    There was another entrance about a quarter mile down the street. I would have to deviate from my normal path. I shook off my hesitation, turned up Mr. Valentine by Font, and ran down the street towards the other entrance. I was proud of myself for seamlessly adapting to this new pattern, and thought perhaps I should alternate my routes to introduce some new curbs, grass, obstacles or pathways that might work out muscles I may have missed during my typical run.
    As I was running down the street, I saw flashing lights in the distance. The sounds of sirens began to eclipse my headphones. I rarely saw police in my neighborhood, so this was quite unusual. The last time they came by, someone thought Mrs. Rodriguez has fainted on her lawn and called 911. They couldn’t have known she was trimming a low hanging bush, so all the fuss was over nothing. I think she may have eked out a rare smile during that incident. These police cars were moving quite fast. I stopped and pulled my headphones out as I watched this drama unfold. What could have possibly happened in my quaint, safe, quiet little neighborhood? Was it the heavily tattooed power washing guys with the big orange truck? Did they do something wrong? I quickly thought about ignoring it and finishing my run, but the suspense was too powerful. I turned and ran back towards the action to see what was unfolding.
    My heart nearly stopped as I approached the flashing lights. The police were parked in front of my driveway – MY driveway! I can’t begin to explain the horror of finding police dispatched to your own home, especially with sirens and lights blaring so early in the morning. Two officers were sitting behind their doors with their guns drawn. As I attempted to run to my door, an officer grabbed me from behind and pulled me down to the grass, then rushed me behind his car. I was shaking inconsolably as I repeatedly asked the officer what was happening. I was terribly worried about Richard. Had I forgot to lock the door behind me, and someone snuck in and was holding Richard hostage? Had he managed to fight off the intruder long enough to call 911? Or had Mrs. Rodriguez watch the entire incident unfold and called the police on his behalf?
    On the ground trying to look up and see what was happening, I struggled to utter a few words with a shaky voice. “What – what are you doing here? What the hell is going on? Why are you in my home?” He quickly but gently covered my mouth and told me he would explain in a minute.
    And then it happened. The kick in the teeth that would shatter my smile for all eternity. As my luck would have it, all the neighbors were out, awakened by the sirens, to see Richard, my husband , walk out of my house in nothing but his underwear and handcuffs. Two officers escorted him into the back of a police car. I yelled to Richard, and all he could seem to muster was “ Call Paul ” as they pushed his head down and slid him into the back seat.
    The officer who was restraining me asked me who I was. I told him. He asked me if I was alright and if I needed any medical assistance. I told him I was fine, and demanded he explain what the hell just happened. Another officer approached. “Mrs. Garvin? I’m Lieutenant LaShonda Allen.