Threats

by Amelia Gray

  “You’ll cut yourself,” he said, walking toward the child by the porch, walking faster, jogging. The child saw David approaching and ran wordlessly, arms spread, fingers clutching the edges of the glass.

  David considered chasing the child. He felt watched by the man and woman by the van. “Control your children!” he called out. The children by the glass looked back, but the adults didn’t seem to hear. A pair of women emerged from the woods, arms locked around a substantial log. “Please leave!” he shouted. “I am calling the police.” The women walked by without hearing and loaded the log into the back of a four-door sedan. David headed for the house. He stepped to the side to avoid an old woman prying a souvenir shard from the porch rail. He unlocked the front door and locked it behind him.

  He put the pears on the kitchen counter with Franny’s box from work. Then he threw the junk mail and the paper bag from the grocery into the basement. The slick circulars stuck to the stairs.

  38.

  THERE WAS A DIFFERENCE in the way the air felt on David’s face and neck. Someone had been inside the house.

  The intruder was an expert tracker. In the kitchen, the tracker had opened the refrigerator door and examined the contents. He or she had moved the jar of mustard a half inch to the left. David wondered if anything had been found there.

  The threats were still in the silverware drawer, curled up against the spoons. The tracker could have found them and recorded their contents. David imagined the faceless tracker crouched over them, transcribing their contents into a notebook and then gathering them carefully, putting the sugar threat back into its plastic baggie, realigning the staples perfectly. David placed the stapled baggie in another baggie. Somewhere out there, he knew, there was an advertising salesperson who had updated “bag” to become “baggie” to make it more appealing to the baggie-buying class, which had once included David’s wife.

  Franny’s cardboard box was on the kitchen counter. The edges had lost their shape when he crushed them against his chest on the trip home. He couldn’t determine the age of Franny’s aesthetician’s license photo but decided it was about ten years old, judging by her hairstyle. He folded it once and put it in his robe pocket. He took a closer look at the receipt that had been taped behind the frame and found words typed over the page:

  David thought of Franny paying for a threat with a five-dollar bill and receiving seventy-nine cents in return. He thought of her pink wallet with the clasp, and he slipped the receipt into the sandwich bag with the other threat and put it into his pocket with Franny’s aesthetician’s license.

  It seemed best that he not make any sudden moves that might alert the tracker, in case he or she was still watching. He boiled water, stirred cinnamon into the pot, poured the mixture into a mug, and took it to check the rest of the house.

  Whoever had been there went upstairs as well. The tracker had taken fiber samples from the carpet where it began again at the top of the stairs. David could tell that things had been disturbed.

  Items from the bathroom counter had been collected. One of Franny’s travel-size bottles of hair product was open in the sink, leaking down the drain. David wished he had photographed the area before leaving the house. The water in his mug bloated the cinnamon. David watched the water rolling over the dark texture of the spice. He tipped back the cup and allowed the wet lump of cinnamon to roll into his mouth. It was like eating a hot slug.

  “David,” someone called from downstairs. The slug quit its progression down David’s throat. He coughed to dislodge it, coughed again, swallowed.

  “David? Are you up there?” asked the voice. It was a man’s voice, and one David didn’t recognize. Someone had been in the house all along. David thought of the dumb fact of it as he walked to the stairwell and leaned around the corner.

  A balding man stood at the base of the stairs. He wore a brown sweater over a collared shirt and tie, which made him look very much like David’s middle school vice principal. The man had one hand on the staircase rail and the other resting protectively on his stomach.

  “David, it’s Ted,” the man said at the same moment that David realized it was Ted, his old friend Ted, the one who started fires, whose parents allowed him to prop a wide board over the curb at his house so Ted and David and Samson could speed down and into the street on their bicycles.

  “Ted. You came.”

  “Sorry, we let ourselves in. The back door was open. We had to chase some woman with a camera out of the kitchen. Hey, what’s going on here?”

  Samson came forward to stand next to Ted at the base of the stairs. “Those people have been there for hours,” he said. “We figured they didn’t belong. Someone broke the window over your kitchen table. I took it off the tracks for you.”

  “Thanks, Samson. How are you?”

  “You’ll need to get some plywood to patch it up,” Samson said. “I looked for some in the garage, but there was a woman in there who told me to get out.”

  “We’ve been here a while too,” Ted said. He was holding a folded newspaper.

  “At least we were invited,” said Samson.

  “What’s going on?” David asked.

  “Asked you that.” Ted shrugged. “Apparently, your house was on the news. I missed it.”

  “So those are people who watch the news,” Samson said. “I’ve always wondered what they look like.”

  “Too much happening to watch the news,” Ted said. “It’s too depressing.”

  “They seemed like nice enough people,” Samson said.

  “A murder here, a suicide there,” said Ted. “Who can take it? Nurses at the trauma ward all, ‘Somebody else died. Call the paper.’”

  “But they seemed real nice,” Samson said.

  “It’s strange how many people could come out on a Tuesday afternoon,” David said. “Why would they all take off work, pull their kids out of school?”

  “It’s Sunday,” Ted said. “Church crowd.”

  David considered the progression of days.

  “I fixed that dripper in your bathroom,” Samson said. “Thing needed a new washer; I had one in the truck. Nothing better to do. You should get a television.”

  “I got your note in the mail,” Ted said. “Then Samson called and we figured we’d come over right away.”

  “A friend in need,” Samson said.

  “Why don’t you come on down? We’re having some beers in the sitting room.”

  Samson, who had been holding his beer at his waist, brought it up and took a drink. “Been too long,” he said, resting his hand on his belly, rubbing the spot. David came down the stairs and accepted a beer from Ted. The tourists outside were starting to lose interest in the house. A couple took off, walking up the street with their cameras. David watched them leave from the front window.

  The men drank their beers. “One of those kids sold me a paper,” Ted said. “Missing a sports section, though. Strange people for strange times. I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen so many strange people come into the dealership. Used to be, we’d get a wild-eyed man come in talking about buying a car, we’d call the police before he could kick a single tire. These days, it’s all you see. Man yelling on prices while his woman stands outside with the kids. It’s getting harder to part a fool and his money, or maybe they’re all fools now.”

  “I come to houses where the pipes are all messed up,” Samson said. “These guys try to fix it themselves. They get online and read about it. The DIY guys aren’t new, but it’s the consistency of it these days. A woman last week broke the bowl clean in half trying to pry out her kid’s toy with a crowbar. She actually had a crowbar in there.” He looked at David. “Ever put a crowbar in a toilet?”

  “No,” David said.

  “You’re all right,” Samson said.

  “How long has it been?” said Ted. “Millie’s nearly nine now, and I know you haven’t been over since she was a baby.”

  “Nine years,” said David.

  “Tell you, that girl’
s the light of my life.”

  “There’s a special place in heaven reserved for the fathers of girls,” Samson said.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “A crowbar. Incredible. Sometimes I want to fix plumbing problems and keep them from becoming a real nightmare, you know? I can see something’s falling apart. I’m a professional.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said David. The beer was cold in his hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a beer. “Thanks for coming, guys.”

  “What are friends for?” Ted said, picking up the beer. “I’m gonna throw these in the fridge.”

  “It’s been so long,” David said after Ted had gone. “And with all this happening.”

  “With all what happening?”

  “Franny, you know. Franny’s accident.”

  Samson leaned forward. “Franny had an accident?” he said. “When?”

  “Well, yes. A few weeks ago. Or months,” he said. “Maybe six months ago. Maybe a year.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I thought you might have seen it on the news.”

  “She didn’t mention anything.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Franny didn’t. What happened?”

  He felt like a propped-up cardboard cutout of a man. “When did you talk to her?”

  “Not too long ago. I drove by the house, had a job up the street.”

  “You’re mistaken,” David said, holding his hand against the buzzing in his ear.

  “I know Franny. Tall woman, big features. Brown hair down to the middle of her back.” He measured the spot on his own back where her hair would fall if it was on his head. The buzzing grew louder. “She answered when I called her name. This wasn’t too long ago.”

  “She was mistaken,” David said. “You were mistaken. It was a coincidence. Common name.”

  Samson peeled at the label of his empty beer. “Did you think she’d run off somewhere?”

  Ted came back into the room, grasped the arm of the chair, and lowered himself. When the full weight of his body hit the chair, a mechanical pencil dropped to the floor. Only David saw the motion. The double-sided tape ringing the pencil was coated with fuzz from the underside of the chair. “Who’s gone?” Ted asked.

  “I saw your wife, David,” Samson said.

  “Franny?” Ted sank his chin into his neck, as if the idea had tapped him on the forehead.

  “Now that girl’s a tall drink,” Samson said.

  “Such a good girl,” said Ted. “We sure wish you two would come by more often.”

  David set his beer on the carpet, keeping it upright with an extended finger. He imagined Franny among the tourists, confused. The buzzing grew even louder, a machine whir in his ears, but it seemed as if his friends couldn’t hear it. It was important in that moment to have a fruitful conversation.

  “What did she say to you when you talked?” he asked.

  Samson frowned. “You two fighting?”

  “Did she say we were?”

  “I mean, it all depends on context,” Ted said. “Everything is different if you two are fighting. She could say ‘Oh, he’s working on the doghouse,’ and if you’re not fighting, then you’re actually working on a doghouse, but if you’re fighting, then she’s trying to say something in code, see?”

  “We don’t own a dog.”

  “It’s code.”

  “An expression,” said Samson. “That’s what he’s saying.”

  “You should get a cell phone,” Ted said.

  David clapped his hands over his ears, boxing them. The buzzing stopped. He exhaled.

  “Sorry, man,” said Ted.

  “Maybe you could tell us what she told you exactly,” David said. “We can all figure out the context together.”

  “They were fighting,” Samson said. “Listen. This wasn’t too long ago. When I saw her, I got out of the truck and she was standing in front of the house. She was smiling real big too, now that I think about it. It was noticeable because I never saw the girl smile, not even in those early days. But there she was, smiling and playing with the buttons on her jacket like a little one. I tried to give her a hug but she took a step back, and I remembered”—he paused—“I remembered how she is. I asked her what she was up to and she shrugged, said she wasn’t up to nothing, and pointed at the house. It seemed like it hurt to talk, and when I asked her if she’d been sick she kind of nodded and held her throat.

  “She did say one strange thing,” Samson went on. “I asked if you were around, if maybe I could come in and warm up. My job wasn’t for a few hours at least. I wasn’t wearing my boots, and the cold was starting to get to me, you know. Doctor says I should eat more fish oil. That stuff is good for hair and skin along with your heart, but those pills make you fish burp like you’ve got a hatchery in your gut.”

  “You were going in,” David said.

  “I told her I was going in to find you, and she tried talking to me, but she had a real craggy voice. I’m pretty sure she told me to be careful around the house and said she was learning a language. Real strange.”

  As Samson spoke, David saw Ted take an interest in the box of ashes on the coffee table. “I said, ‘What’s that, Fran?’ and she tried again, but her voice was totally gone. She made a talking motion with her fingers.”

  Ted tried to read the label on the package by turning his head to the side and then his body, leaning forward, arching slightly, trying to go unnoticed. He was across the room from the box and squinted toward the small print. David watched him.

  “It was kind of strange, but I figured the girl was getting some secondary education,” Samson said. “Spanish or whatever. I said that was good, and she smiled real wide and nodded. Then she went around back.”

  Ted stood up then, one arm stretched toward the box of ashes. Before he could get closer, David took the box up and moved it next to the window. “Clutter,” David said.

  Ted watched the box as David moved it but didn’t follow him over. “I could have sworn you two owned a dog,” he said.

  “She learning Spanish?” Samson asked. “That’s good for the service trades. We’re trying to get the boys into it in school.” He drained his beer, becoming aware that Ted was standing. “Got to be hitting the dusty trail,” Samson said.

  They each warmly shook David’s hand, and he walked them to the door feeling that they had all learned something.

  “David,” Samson said. “It’s been so good to see you.”

  “It’s been good to sit down with you,” said Ted.

  “About that letter you sent us,” Samson said.

  “About that.” David tapped the doorknob with his shirtsleeve and then unlocked it. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you two still talked. I’ve been a little off lately. I thought that if I wrote the same letter and only one of you came, I wouldn’t have to worry if the content of the letter was at fault. I hope you understand.”

  Ted waved him off. “Not that, David. That’s all fine.”

  “We did have a question about one element of the content,” said Samson.

  “There is a mention of five hundred dollars,” Ted added.

  “The money,” David said. The men regarded one another.

  Samson clasped his hand on David’s shoulder. “Thing is, the old gal and I could really use a little help. The kids all need braces. Orthodontists, you know? I’m frankly not pulling it together at work. We’ve been losing clients with the tax breaks drying up, and now college is coming. My wife’s looking for another job, but in the meantime—”

  “The mortgage is killing me,” Ted said. “I am literally dying every time I stick a stamp because of how much money I put in envelopes every month. I feel my heart rate speed up. Kids aren’t cheap. Millie wants violin lessons. And would you believe it, her spine’s all twisted up like a pretzel. Needs one of them things for her back. They say it’s a genetic thing, but nobody on my side has it.”

  “You guys need the mon
ey,” David said.

  Nobody liked to hear it out loud. Samson cleared his throat and grasped the door’s handle, inspiring a subtle sweat in David.

  “We don’t need it. We’re doing fine. Only thing is, you mentioned money,” Samson said. “We were just following up. We know you’ve been out of work, but we figured you had some saved up, living here and all. We were just following up.”

  “I brought the letter with me,” Ted said, going for his back pocket.

  David took out his wallet and extracted his spare checks. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I know you both have obligations.” He lifted his knee to the doorframe and wrote two checks for five hundred dollars each. “Please, think of it as my gift to your children.”

  The men accepted their checks without comment. Samson folded his into thirds and placed it in his breast pocket, and Ted slipped his unfolded into his wallet. They each shook hands with David in turn. Samson sighed and looked as if he was about to speak, but he closed his mouth.

  The men left, holding the railing on their way down the stairs. David came out onto the second porch stair and watched them walk to their car. “We should do this again,” he called after them. Ted turned back and waved, tucked his wallet into his back pocket, and then waved again, opening the car door. Samson kept his back to the porch but raised his gloved hand to the window when he was in the car. David waved back and saw it all as a good sign.

  39.

  AFTER HIS FRIENDS WERE GONE, David noticed that the woman from the salon was sitting on his porch. She had been sitting around the corner of the house, so Samson and Ted likely wouldn’t have seen her upon their departure, but David saw the corner of her salon apron, the cuff of her blue jeans. A thermos and a bag of pears rested by the chair. He walked down the porch steps and approached her from the lawn, eye level with her sensible shoes. “I showed myself a seat,” she said. Her lips were broad and pursed. He remembered how he had seen an ear within them, which seemed like a strange thought in the daylight but not fully outside the stone-walled boundaries of possibility.