The Caller

by Dan Krzyzkowski

  “Are you there, Justin? Are you in your bedroom?”

  Tap-tap.

  He’d made it. Thank God. I let the air out of my chest. My pulse still throbbed in my neck, but I saw everything clearly now. Justin’s escape route stood before him. He was virtually free. All he had left to do was go down the spiral stairs and out the front door.

  “Be quiet going down the stairs, Justin. We’re not home free yet. Walk slowly and softly.”

  Tap-tap.

  I waited several moments and then asked, “Okay, so we’re in the downstairs den now, right?”

  I waited.

  No response.

  Waited. Waited.

  Nothing.

  “We’re in the den, right? Justin?”

  No response.

  “Justin?”

  I waited, waited some more. Silence.

  “Justin, are you there?”

  Silence has a sound. The sound of buzzards soaring an aqua sky, riding hot coils of air in search of food. The empty whoosh of a person falling, down and down, legs and arms wheeling … a pregnant void just prior to impact. The moment of stillness after lighting a cherry bomb on the Fourth of July and then running to get away from it … waiting, waiting—boom!

  My Cyclopean eye saw Justin standing partway down the spiral stairs.

  “Justin, what’s going on? Are you in the den yet?”

  “He came downstairs,” he whispered, barely audible.

  Impossible.

  “What? You hear him?”

  “Other side. Kitchen, dining room … he’s somewhere over there.”

  “Justin, get off the stairs. Get off there and get behind something, a couch or a chair or something. Just get off the stairs.”

  Silence as he moved.

  What the hell is going on here? The intruder was in the study, wasn’t he? How could he have gone back downstairs so quickly? And what about the jewelry? He hasn’t even visited the master bedroom yet.

  Unless …

  CHAPTER 5

  I CURSED MYSELF AGAIN on my lack of foresight and spun a full circle on my foam-padded swivel chair. It squeaked in that high-tone, rustic squeal that ancient furniture is known for. We’d like to petition for an upgrade in furnishings as much as phone lines, but to whom? As far as anyone here was concerned, redecorating was a pipe dream, even in a community as affluent as Sheldon.

  Get behind something, Justin. Don’t stand there frozen on the stairs like that.

  Until now, the inkling that there may be more than one intruder in Justin’s house had eluded me. Why hadn’t I considered this possibility earlier? What had I been thinking?

  Never mind that now, Leslie. You’re doing the best you can. What’s done is done. You and Justin are downstairs now. You’re in the den. Move on.

  “Where are you, Justin? Don’t answer me if he’s too close.”

  I was greeted by silence. Boy, did it have a sound. I was beginning to search my brain for a yes-no when he responded verbally.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Are you safe?”

  “I think. I’m behind the sofa, in the back.”

  “In the back? The back of the den, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Can’t see me here.”

  “What if he walks through? Can he see you then?”

  “Only if he looks back here. He won’t, will he?”

  “Is the couch against the wall, Justin? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, you’re behind the couch, which is up against the back wall of the den, correct?”

  “Yeah. I had to squeeze back here, so I couldn’t talk for a minute.”

  “That’s okay, Justin. That’s perfectly fine. I’m glad you did what you did.”

  “He won’t look here, will he?”

  “No, he won’t. As long as you keep quiet, he won’t look back there. Just hold still and keep your voice low. Go back to tap if he comes near.”

  “I hear him now,” he whispered.

  “Where is he?”

  “Mom’s good room, I think. I’m not allowed to go in there. All her good stuff’s in there.”

  “What kind of good stuff?”

  “White plates and cups.”

  China. Expensive glassware. Probably an ivory-white carpet, virgin of a shoe sole.

  “He’s opening the doors where Mom’s white plates are. I got punished for doing that.”

  “Well, don’t worry about him, Justin. Just stay where you are, and you’ll be fine.”

  “How’d he get down here like that? The steps go down to the living room.”

  “Where is the living room, Justin?”

  “Over by the garage, past the kitchen.”

  “You’re saying the living room is on the other side of the house?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think there may be more than one person in your house, Justin. I think the first man is still upstairs. He might be in your mom and dad’s room right now, so what you did was good.”

  “Someone else?”

  “That would be my guess right now, but you shouldn’t get too scared about it. You’re safe behind that couch. Just stay put and tell me if anything happens.” As an afterthought, I added, “You’re sure your parents didn’t tell you when they were coming back?”

  “No. Just went out.”

  Where could they be? In a snowstorm like this, where on earth would a married couple go?

  One thing was clear. Justin’s parents had attended some sort of planned event. There were two reasons supporting this. First, a couple didn’t decide spur-of-the-moment to go out for dinner on a night predicted to be the recipient of half a foot of snow. They’d had an engagement—an office party or organizational meeting, perhaps. Second, a pair of thieves with any semblance of intelligence didn’t draw up a scheme to rob a house in the middle of a snowstorm when, one would be inclined to suspect, everyone would be indoors for the night. The home invasion had been planned well in advance, meaning the perpetrators had known of the engagement Justin’s parents had meant to attend. The one thing they hadn’t counted on was a seven-year-old boy being left alone in the house.

  There were now two intruders to account for. Could there be others? I wondered what our chances were of reaching the front door if the second perp migrated to the top floor also. Did Justin have a clear path in which to run? Could he get out and safely reach a neighbor’s house?

  “Justin, tell me something. What is the closest door to you now?”

  “Uh, the front one. Across from the kitchen.”

  “If you were standing in the kitchen, could you see the front door?”

  “Uh, yeah. There’s a short hallway, kind of.”

  “What other doors are there?”

  “The one that goes out to the garage—”

  “From the living room, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which is on the other side of the house?”

  “Uh-huh, yeah.”

  Too far. Too risky.

  “Any others?”

  “Back door. The sliding one that goes out to the deck.”

  “What room is that one in?”

  “Living room.”

  Both in the living room. Both too far.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How close are you to the front door, Justin?”

  “It’s right next to the den. But it’s got too many locks.”

  Too many locks?

  “So, it’s right next to the room you’re in—that’s what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, but it’s locked a lot.”

  “If the other man went upstairs also, do you think you could make it out the front door, Justin?”

 
“No, it’s too scary. It’s got locks.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. The front door, the main door of the house, was battened down. It had a standard knob lock, deadbolt latch, and chain lock—the works. Think through the eyes of a seven-year-old. Three locks on that door: three simple devices, three simple procedures. But now insert the variables. There are strangers in your home, prowling about like phantoms. Suddenly, those three simple procedures become one complex, terrible task. Remove the chain, flip the deadbolt, twist the knob lock, pull the door open, and then open the storm door—all at once. Shaky hands. Sweaty fingers. Someone behind you. All that noise. Someone would hear. You could probably make it, but was it worth trying? Was it worth the terror?

  I decided not to move him. It was his house and his life. Likewise, it would be his hands doing the jitter trying to undo those locks, not mine. The crawlspace behind the couch seemed like a suitable hideout. If he wanted to stay put and wait it out, then so be it. I was with him.

  I could only wonder when his parents might return. If the crooks finished their job and left the house, Justin would surely insist that I remain on the phone with him until Mom and Dad arrived. I would gladly comply. The thought of an eerie silence in a house that’s just been robbed and possibly ransacked was enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. That silence would have a deafening sound. Justin, I knew, would refuse to move. The narrow space behind the sofa would be his hideout until his parents walked through the door. Even then, he might cower in doubt, awaiting the sounds of his parents’ voices before crawling out. I thought about that cordless phone also. How much longer would it last?

  “All right, Justin, this is what we’re gonna do. It seems like you’re in a pretty safe spot, so we’re gonna hang tight for a while and see what happens. In the meantime, I want you to go back to tap-talking. It’s best if you’re as quiet as possible. Remember, we have to pretend that you’re not there, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he whispered.

  “Okay, no more talking until I tell you. Remember, one for no, two for yes, three for not sure. Got it?”

  Tap-tap.

  I took a moment to delve into my mind for something to talk about. Try to recall the last time you were asked to devise a one-sided conversation over the phone. I suppose we could have shared the silence, but such an approach didn’t seem conducive to keeping Justin immersed in the semirelaxed state in which I wanted him, where he was safer and less prone to panic. Thus, I racked my brain for something interesting to say, something that involved the boy himself, and that included tappable responses. Focusing on the questions I asked would help soften his anxiety.

  Across the desk joint, Mary was engaged in a conversation of her own. I spared her a quick glance and saw her smiling face with the phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, reading aloud from her manual of ribrackers. Mary had a richness in her voice that seemed to epitomize her natural elegance for this kind of work.

  Between calls of my own, I would often tune in to her. Not to the words themselves but to her mitigating timbre, so smooth and soft. It was almost maternal. I couldn’t help but conjure up warm memories of my own mother—sitting on her lap late at night, her delicate voice floating past my shoulders as she read from Mother Goose, the book sprawled before us like a sacred world. Occasionally, Dad would join us, and I’d nestle between them, but it was my mother who always read. It was her voice that transported us from our world to another, made us together, and lulled me into a warm slumber on those special nights. When you’re a kid, it’s often the present you think about. Sometimes the past, rarely the future. The harsh realities of life haven’t revealed themselves, not solely because of your age but because your parents have been there to shield you with their protective wings. As an only child, that’s what I most remember about those moments, when I was cuddled between them—feeling warm, loved, and protected. My parents were the best friends I ever had.

  ***

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a terse male voice answered.

  I said, “Are you aware this line has been busy? I’ve been trying to get through for the last twenty minutes.”

  “We’re swamped here, ma’am. The storm has lines down in three locations. There are a ton of accidents.”

  “Listen, I’ve got a serious situation here. I’m calling from the latchkey helpline on Main and Fifth. I have a boy on the line who says his house has been broken into. He’s home alone, and we think there are two intruders in the house with him. You’re gonna need to get someone out there.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “He’s only seven. He either doesn’t know his address or he can’t recall it at the present time. I was hoping you could trace—”

  “You don’t have an address? Lady, I really can’t afford to spare any units on another false alarm from you people. Not on a night like this.”

  “This is not a false alarm.”

  “Do you have any proof that this boy is telling the truth?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s terrified. If that isn’t proof enough—”

  “Call me back in ten minutes, okay? If he still insists the story is true, we’ll try and get somebody out.”

  My car phone went dead.

  ***

  “Sounds to me as if you’re alone a lot. Am I right about that, Justin?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Must get lonely there by yourself, huh?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Not much to do.”

  No response.

  “Loneliness can be a difficult thing to deal with. Oftentimes it seems so quiet you start to think the walls are staring at you. When I went away to college, I was faced with loneliness too—kind of like yours, only I was a bit older. My roommate dropped out of school. She never told me why, really. Anyway, I had to live by myself for the rest of the school year, and it wasn’t easy for me. I didn’t have a phone in my dorm room, and I didn’t know many people at the school. There were times I swear I would have done anything to have someone to talk to. Sometimes it’s nice just to be able to talk to another person. Not so much to hear what they’re saying but for the sake of being with someone. You know what I mean, Justin?”

  Tap-tap.

  “You know, I think you’d really like having a dog. A dog is great to have around because, in a way, he’s always there for you. A dog will never get mad or get in a bad mood or get grumpy. He always wags his tail and is happy to see you. You can pet him, and he’ll wag his tail and ask for more. I had a real nice dog when I was a kid, and I’ve been thinking about getting one for my own little boy.”

  Tap.

  “What? You think I shouldn’t get a dog?”

  No response. I waited a minute. Perhaps the absence of a response was a signal that I had asked the wrong question.

  “Is it that you don’t like dogs, Justin?”

  Tap.

  “You do like dogs?”

  Tap-tap.

  I pondered a moment longer, chewing on my bottom lip.

  “Is it that your parents won’t let you have a dog? Wait, let me rephrase that. Will your parents let you have a dog?”

  Tap.

  “They won’t let you?”

  Tap.

  “Have you asked them?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Dogs are nice to have.” The thought of that boy and his dog, Mickey, playing together after school each day reentered my mind. “Was it your mom who said no, Justin?”

  Tap.

  “Your dad?”

  Tap-tap.

  “Well, I guess we can’t have everything, can we?” I leaned back in my swivel chair—creak!—and switched ears with the receiver. My earlobe had developed a dull soreness from having the hard plastic pressed up to it. The boy’s mentioning of his parents had opened an inner doo
r for me, and I couldn’t help but speculate. Despite the little I’d learned so far, things in Justin’s home did seem a little off center. Though he hadn’t expressed any clear examples of troubles in his family, the clauses of doubt and hesitation he’d employed in his responses had raised some red flags in my mind. I didn’t know what those flags signified, or if they meant anything at all. Much of the Call-A-Friend service is guesswork and assumptions, and I was well aware of the perils of guessing too far and assuming too much. Then again, children of healthy families have little reason to dial 1-800-FRIENDS, do they?

  Unfortunately, the well-balanced family is growing far and few between. Statistics indicate a 96 percent dysfunction rate in today’s world. With figures like those, it’s little wonder help lines like ours are spreading throughout the country. In the nineties, kids have plenty to be confused about. One of every ten people will become alcoholic. That’s close to one alcoholic for every two families. One of every two couples will divorce. Kids who develop without the benefit of a father or mother figure face distinct disadvantages compared to those who have both. One of every three girls will be sexually, physically, or emotionally abused. And in today’s economy, more and more families involve two working parents, whose children are sometimes left home alone. They are the latchkey kids of our society.

  Justin seemed a prime example. I harbored little doubt to there being some measure of unhappiness in his home. The only question was his willingness to discuss it—often a Herculean task for children. Kids will tip off their loneliness and inherent unhappiness but often clam up when it comes to pinpointing the actual problem. Many will avoid the issue and provide evasive answers to direct questions. I have a theory that many are torn between an unconscious love and hate for their parents—love for the parental figure, hate for the parental problem. The majority of conflicts that parents endure are beyond the child’s scope of comprehension, which often complicates matters. Some will use denial as their way of coping. If they pretend it’s not there, it won’t be. The worst of experiences are sometimes repressed, when an often horrific event is relocated to the subconscious mind and actively forgotten. A spectacular process such as this can lead to many problems later in life.