The Wrong House      Shortly before we moved, a small van pulled in the driveway next door.  The driver left the engine running, her pocketbook on the front seat, and the door open.  But she had disappeared.  No one knew where the driver, or any passengers, if there were any, had gone.      One little kid grabbed a golf club and charged into the backyard shouting, "I'll get them," while his younger brother stood dumbfounded by the open door of the van and softly repeated, "Two hands on the wheel, please.  Come to a full stop, please.  Look left, look right, and look left again, please."      The elder brother then emerged from the back.  Clearly disappointed, he reported, "There's no one there," and slid the seven iron back into the bag.      From across the street came the advice to call the police.  "It's a crime in progress," they insisted.  We had started to talk about something else entirely by then, but did not want to digress for too long so that we could continue with our walk around the block.      Then someone came out from the front door of the next house down the street, the house next to our neighbors' and two doors from ours.      "Oh, I'm, sorry," she said as she approached.  "I saw Sally here in this driveway and thought this must be Lucy's house, but then Sally corrected me and said to go next door."      We all nodded in understanding now.  She had brought dinner for Lucy and her kids, including Sally -- a meals on wheels delivery -- but without a sign on the van anywhere.      Our neighbor said, "You left your pocketbook on the seat and the door open and the engine running."  It was her driveway and it had been momentarily and inexplicably blocked.      The driver said, "Oh, I know.  I just wanted to get dinner to Lucy and the kids.  She looks awful.  So run down.  Have you seen her?"      None of us replied. © Dennis Barone