When Things Rustle
The lavender blossoms of the jacaranda trees were strewn across the lawn in random patterns of color that gave the solid brick house a festive look. A recent wind had put them there, showering with brilliant contrast a front yard that otherwise would have appeared orderly but drab.
The entire effect was one of comfort and stability. Here was a house tended and cared for and, at last, trimmed with a garland of nature’s quiet beauty to create an enviable portrait of Americana. This is what we’re all about, this kind of homeyness, this kind of permanence, this kind of peace.
Then why, inside, was the old man trembling?
Look closer. The locks on the front door have been changed. Where once an ornate handle was fastened now are affixed double dead-bolts that mock the easy blossoms in the yard beyond.
An outline of the first handle, like the shadow of better days, remains visible on the door. That’s the first giveaway that all is not right here. The second is the face at the window, strained and wary. That isn’t the kind of face that ought to reflect the nature of the house. The face is afraid.
Come inside. The house harbors muted fear. Five men entered one soft and windy evening, the night the blossoms fell, and turned spring’s serenity into hours of terror the family will never forget.
The poet Acrisius wrote, “To him who is in fear, everything rustles.” The old man inside hears the rustling.
This is the home of Daniel and Madeline Reed. It sits on Palm Drive in Beverly Hills, just north of Santa Monica Boulevard. The Reeds are both 84. He’s a retired insurance salesman, not a man of immense means, but comfortable. The stairs inside the two-story house need re-carpeting. The furniture is old.
The Reeds bought their home in 1955 for $65,000. They loved it and cared for it. This was to be the rest of their lives. But now? They don’t know.
May 8. Daniel was coming home from visiting friends at 9 o’clock in the evening. Inside the house, his bed-ridden wife lay in a half-slumber. There’s nothing physically wrong with her. Their only son died of cancer four years ago and Madeline took to her bed in grief.
“I had just driven into the driveway,” Daniel said, “when they came at me out of nowhere.”
We sat in his living room. Like the house, Daniel appears sturdy and in good health. Not so. His heart is bad. He’s had cancer operations.
“There were two men. One of them said, ‘Give me your money or I’ll blow your brains out.’ He held a gun to my head. I didn’t know what to think. I said, ‘Is this a robbery?’ He said, ‘It sure as hell is.’ ”
They took what money Daniel had and forced him into the house, prodding him with the muzzle of the gun. Inside, they found Madeline and a part-time nurse’s aide, Ramona.
Daniel pleaded with them not to hurt his wife. When she tried to rise from bed, shrill with fear, they shoved her back. They forced Daniel and Ramona to the floor and handcuffed them together by the wrists and ankles, kicking and threatening them both.
“They were violent men,” Daniel said, showing me bruises on his arms and wrist. “I remember thinking, ‘Please don’t cripple me . . . ‘ “
Sometime during the evening three more men appeared. They searched the house for valuables but found nothing. More kicking, more threats. Then as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone with $140 and Daniel’s watch, his shoes and his car.
All five have since been arrested, but that brings scant comfort to the Reeds. Their lives are in disarray.
“We’ve lived in this house for 34 years,” Daniel said, “and for the first time I’m afraid to be here. I’m afraid to enter a room. I’m afraid to round a corner. I’m afraid to climb the stairs.” His voice rose. “What have they done to us!”
Fear never walks alone. With it, like the second specter in a double haunting, comes indecision. Do they buy a gun? Install a security system? Move into a condo?
Daniel measures the rest of his life now in terms of fear. Not how many years remain, but “How long will I have to be afraid?”
In my car and ready to leave, I looked back. The trees seemed vaguely threatening, the blossoms somehow disquieting. I heard the rustle Acrisius heard and I found myself asking what had Daniel asked, What have they done to us?
What indeed.
