Break and Enter Read Online Free PDF

three-story brick homes, none newer than the early 1700s. Tourists who had tired of the Liberty Bell or Independence Mall often wandered down it, taking pictures, marveling at how well preserved the street was, how
historical
it felt. Peter had heard them on Sunday mornings, outside the window, reading the dates of the houses aloud, wishing
they
lived there. Janice had loved the shutters painted bright black, the worn granite steps, the iron railing and antique bootscrape set into the old brick sidewalk. And so had he, for this small, lovely street and their house on it had suggested an order and happiness, a certain classic domestic perfection. The area, the oldest in the city, contained some of its most expensive residential real estate. That he and Janice owned the house was testimony to their ability to work together. He had done all the restoration work, tearing up linoleum, sanding floors. They had been extremely lucky, buying just before the real-estate boom at a decent interest rate, but still sacrificing vacations, restaurants, and a car for several years to pay the mortgage, which was still sizable. Even now, on a combined salary of eighty-two thousand, they had more or less signed their life away on this house. But, oh, what satisfaction they had enjoyed, walking home from a movie or dinner down the quiet street, the soft light of gas lamps hinting that they had reached a point of near perfection, an aesthetic culmination of their desires—security, happiness.
    Inside, Peter sorted through the mail. Bar association stuff, a flier from the Pennsylvania District Attorney’s Association, the United Way, alumni mail from Penn, Visa and American Express bills, a mail-order catalog for Janice, a letter from Bobby, who had opted out of the East Coast mentality and become a geologist in Arizona. Married a beautiful woman, too. He set his brother’s letter aside for a time when he could enjoy it, and continued flipping through the stack. One of the hunger organizations had gotten his address. All of those outfits bought mailing lists—lawyers were supposed to have plenty of cash. They didn’t know about underpaid A.D.A.’s. He ripped the envelope open and read the computer-personalized appeal:
    Mr. Scattergood, your gift of $15 will feed a starving child in Bangladesh for a month. $30 will help two children. $74 will help an entire family. Please give today to help save lives!
    Next to this was a picture of a starving boy, maybe four years old. His head was huge, his arms like sticks and his belly swollen balloon-big. On the reverse, it said:
    A Race Against Death in Famine-Stricken Bangladesh …
Almost fourteen million lives are threatened by drought.
More than 720,000 could die from hunger and related diseases in the next sixty days.
    Please send whatever you can—now!
    He looked long at the photograph, wondered what it was like to starve to death, and resented the manipulation. He tore the return envelope in half and went through the rest of his mail. Should he put his coat back on and walk to South Street, maybe troll through a couple of bars, act the lonely fool with some cosmetically florid executive secretary?
    He called Janice at the new number and she answered.
    “How’s business?” he asked, searching for neutral territory.
    “We got three more women today. One was a police referral. So,” she sighed, “we’re full, but with two discharges tomorrow. A couple of the women were fighting over what their children could watch on television.”
    “Tiring.” His attempt at sympathy.
    “Yes. But we got the state grant renewed. I’m encouraged.”
    “All this other stuff between us is wearing you down.”
    “Yes,” she said dutifully, not allowing his sympathies to register. “Peter, I need some more money.”
    “I get it coming and going, don’t I?”
    “We agreed—”
    “I agreed to be coerced into agreeing that you can’t stand me.” This was nasty but felt good.
    “All you’re doing is