Chapter 8 - The Eviction at Maple Street
At 1:30 PM, two marked Sedgwick County Sheriff cruisers pulled up to the curb of 1422 Maple Street.
Tom Becker parked his Peterbilt behind them, leaving the engine off. Elsie remained in the cab under the careful watch of Sarah Vance’s paralegal, who had driven over with the final stamped court orders.
Tom walked up the driveway beside Deputy Sheriff Miller—a burly, gray-haired officer with three decades on the force. Miller held the blue-backed court documents in his left hand.
The front door of the house was locked. Through the front picture window, the curtains twitched.
Deputy Miller stepped onto the porch and hammered three heavy raps against the wood with the butt of his heavy flashlight.
"Sheriff’s Office! Open the door!"
Two minutes passed in heavy silence. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened six inches.
Renee stood behind the safety chain. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair unbrushed, and her face devoid of makeup. She looked ten years older than she had on Saturday night.
"What is this?" she demanded, her voice cracking with hysterical rage. "Tom, call your dogs off! You have no right to bring police to my home!"
"Renee Becker," Deputy Miller said in a flat, administrative drone. "I am serving you with an Emergency Order of Immediate Possession and a Temporary Restraining Order issued by the Eighteenth Judicial District Court. You have sixty minutes to collect your immediate personal clothing and medications and vacate these premises."
Renee’s eyes bugged out. "Vacate? This is my house! Walter left this to me!"
"The court has determined that you have committed waste, defaulted on tax obligations, and committed grand theft against the trust of Elsie Becker," Deputy Miller stated, pushing the door firmly against the chain until the brass screws groaned in the frame. "Unlatch the chain, ma'am, or we will breach the door and take you into custody immediately."
Renee’s trembling fingers fumbled with the chain. She slipped it free, and the door swung wide.
Standing in the hallway behind her, clutching Walter’s old baseball glove against his stomach, was Jonah. The boy was crying silently, his small frame shaking with terror.
"Mom?" Jonah sobbed. "Where are we going? What did you do?"
Renee spun around, pointing a shaking finger at Tom. "He did this! Your brother did this to us! He wants us on the street, Jonah! He wants to throw us in the gutter!"
Tom stepped past Deputy Miller into the living room.
He didn't look at Renee. He walked straight toward Jonah.
He sank onto his knees in front of the boy, bringing his eyes level with his half-brother’s. Jonah flinched, pulling the baseball glove up to his chin.
"Jonah," Tom said, his voice dropping into that deep, steady tone he had used when Walter had passed away. "Look at me, buddy."
Jonah sniffled, his eyes darting to his mother, then back to Tom. "Tom... is Elsie mad at me? I didn't steal her party. I swear I didn't know. Mom told me Elsie wanted to stay home because she was sick."
Tom felt a painful wrench in his chest. The boy genuinely hadn't known. Renee had orchestrated the entire lie, feeding Jonah’s nine-year-old vanity while keeping him completely blind to his sister’s suffering.
"I know you didn't, Jonah," Tom said gently. "Elsie isn't mad at you. And I'm not mad at you. You are my brother, and you will always be Walter’s boy."
"Tom, get away from him!" Renee shrieked, lunging forward.
Deputy Miller caught her firmly by the elbow, spinning her around and backing her against the wall. "Ma'am! Stand down! One more outburst and you are leaving in handcuffs!"
Jonah dropped the baseball glove. He stepped forward, his small arms wrapping tightly around Tom’s neck, burying his face in Tom’s flannel shoulder just as Elsie had done twelve hours earlier.
"I don't want the scooter," Jonah sobbed, his voice breaking. "I don't want the games, Tom. Can we give them back? Can we give Elsie her party?"
Tom held the boy tight, his large hand resting on the back of Jonah’s head.
"It’s going to be okay, Jonah. I promise you, it’s going to be okay. But your mom has to leave right now."
Over the next forty-five minutes, under the cold, watchful eyes of two sheriff’s deputies, Renee Becker shoved her clothes into three mismatched suitcases. She didn't look at Tom. She hissed curses under her breath, slamming drawers, weeping theatrical tears, and glaring at Jonah whenever the boy refused to pack his new toys.
"Leave the PlayStation, Jonah!" Renee snapped. "Leave everything! Let your brother choke on it!"
"He isn't choking on anything," Tom said calmly from the doorway. "Every toy you bought with Elsie’s trust money is staying right here to be inventoried by the court auditor."
When Renee finally dragged her suitcases down the porch steps toward her white SUV, half the neighborhood was standing on their lawns, watching in stone-cold silence.
Amanda Miller stood at the edge of the cul-de-sac with her arms crossed, watching the woman who had lied to her face be escorted away like a common burglar.
Renee threw her bags into the trunk, slammed the hatch, and turned to look at the house one last time.
Her life on Maple Street was over. Her reputation in Wichita was ash. And waiting for her on Thursday morning was a formal arraignment for felony embezzlement.
She climbed into the SUV, threw it into reverse, and sped away, the tires squealing against the damp asphalt.
Tom stood on the porch, holding Jonah’s hand in his left, while Elsie—having finally climbed down from the truck cab—slipped her small hand into his right.
The two children stood side by side on the porch, looking at the house.
"Daddy?" Elsie asked softly.
"Yeah, bug?"
"Is the house ours now?"
Tom looked down at the two children his father had left behind.
May you like
"No, sweetheart," Tom said, squeezing both their hands. "This was Walter’s house. But tomorrow... tomorrow we’re going to find our own."
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