Elizabeth Weaver: Taken

I keep thinking about what was taken, something acquired under the guise of helping when she was simply helping herself. She'd started by walking the old woman's dog.

I never met the woman, didn't even know someone lived in that seemingly deserted house, blinds always drawn, no one in or out, till I heard Tammy tell a neighbor that "the poor thing had broken her hip...had no children...needed help," so Tammy started walking her dog, a runt of a creature that trembled and skittered as Tammy drug it down the street till it did its business and afterwards half-choked itself against the leash as it scrambled back to its owner.

Within a week Tammy spent part of each day behind those shades and carried out grocery bags when she left, one in each hand with two more tucked under her arms.

I didn't think about it till the deputy asked if I'd seen anything unusual. This was after the woman's son came and fired Tammy and packed what he could of his mom's stuff into the trailer hitched to his little box of a car. The deputy asked me about that old woman and missing jewelry and if I'd noticed how much weight she'd lost once Tammy started "taking care of her," but all I'd seen was that scaredy-dog and brown bags and how light she seemed in her son's arms as he carried her to his car before they drove away.