My great aunt and I searched her house high and low for the bomb. Her brother mentioned it the other day, saying he hid the incendiary device in the house after returning from military duty as a young man.
She did not even know where to look, first telling me one spot, then retracting her demand. "It's not there, I've cleaned up there."
Up the step ladder, I point the flashlight behind an ancient bookcase, and see the base of a once-golden lamp. The rest of the torch-like lamp lies above everything, laid across the beams spanning the ceiling of the garage. That's a great lamp, Dort tells me.
Next we check behind the cabinets across the way. Nothing. Then the box of fishing weights. There were many different sizes, from a few ounces of weights strung together to one crusty ball weighing at least five pounds, but no bombs.
Back across the garage, behind the furnace we check the crawlspace above the tunnel. The tunnel leads from the front gate, under the kitchen, to the stairs leading to the front door. I did not see anything, until, in the very corner, a cylinder, made of black metal. I angled myself upward, my head tilted to avoid the water pipe, and snagged it with one hand. It was skinny and hollow, with two-inch strips scored out of one end. They were flanged upward, like a bomb blast blew it open.
"I wonder what that is," Dort says. We didn't know and put it down, continuing our search.
We made our way back to the rear of the basement, near our starting point. As Dort rummaged some more, I looked around, picking up a large leather holster that belonged to Dort's dad.
She would tell her brother we searched hard but found no bomb, Dort said.
This whole episode reminded her of when her brother asked her for his ammunition. She had given it to the police, but did not have the heart to tell him it was gone.
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