by Robyn Carr
I did a cursory check of my memory; I knew perfectly well I had not made that imprint. I reconsidered how I had packed, what I had done prior to leaving, whether I sat down to answer the phone. My memory for details is sound. I had had no last-minute phone calls and had made up the bed after taking my bags downstairs and leaving them by the front door. I knew this because I have a travel habit that hasn’t been broken in years. I get everything ready to go and then I make a run through the house to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher, hang up fresh towels, pick up dirty clothes, change sheets, et cetera. I am always tired when I return from a trip and find a neat, clean house and cold, crisp sheets to be a welcome creature comfort.
I had not made the impression on the bed.
My pulse picked up and I started to get a peculiar feeling. The front door had been locked; nothing was out of place downstairs. My curtains were open in the living room and I hadn’t noticed any open windows on the ground floor. I hadn’t checked the back door to see if it was locked, though I had noticed it was closed. My house is compact; if the VCR, stereo, and TV weren’t taken, if drawers weren’t opened, then nothing had been disturbed. Down the upstairs hall were two other bedrooms and another bath — the doors were all closed. I planned to turn one room into a guest room and one into an office. There were only boxes in them now.
Before I thought further, my mother-blinker, still functional, went off and thoughts of danger went out of my head as I rushed to the room in which I kept two small boxes of things that had been Sheffie’s. I opened the door to that spare room and saw the boxes, still taped shut, sitting against the far wall. They looked lonely; they were undisturbed.
Shaking, I went back to the bedroom and into my new, beautiful bathroom. I opened the linen closet; nothing appeared touched. I stood on the lowest shelf to reach the top shelf, and pulled my gun from behind the towels. When at home I kept it in the bedside stand, in the drawer under my pink angora sweater. When I left town, I hid it farther away so that if I was ever robbed, I would not be providing a gun to a criminal. It’s a small, handy, .25-caliber handgun. Pretty, silver, and loaded. I’d never needed to defend myself with it, having only had one or two spooky clients in my ten years of practice. I believed that I would shoot it if necessary. Women are inherently unsafe in this world; this is a fact of life. It is one of the things that propelled me into family law. I took the gun with me.
I went downstairs, checked around and closed the blinds, and sat down and cried, my gun in my hand, in my lap. I felt a combination of emotions that maybe only the mother of a dead child could understand. I was disturbed by the imprint on the bed and unsure what to do about it; I was more jarred by my alarm for the two boxes holding Sheffie’s memorabilia — school photos, blue ribbons, drawings, precious junk. I knew I had to have the stuff, though I had no plans to pick through it. The sharp panic that something had happened to them was too familiar; identical to the way your heart and stomach slam together when your child is playing in the front of the house and you hear the sound of screeching tires. Or dead silence in the bathroom when he’s in the tub. Or no more splashing in the backyard pool.
I was overwhelmed with some emotions I had no idea how to handle. He was gone, yet with me every moment. That instant flash of fright is like a gasp of the soul.
When the phone next to me rang, I gave a slight shriek. I let it ring three times. I picked it up hesitantly.
“Hi, you’re back,” Tom cheerfully intoned.
“Tom.” I sighed, trying to slow my heart rate.
“Was it fun? Did you have a good time?”
“Ah,” I started. I coughed. “Ah, hold on,” I said, not knowing what to do. I took a couple of deep breaths. “Tom,” I said, trying to sound all right if nothing else. “Yes, thanks, I had a good time.”
“Good. I didn’t know what to do with myself all weekend now that the bathroom and stuffs all done.”
“Listen, Tom, could we talk tomorrow? I’m kind of... well, bushed.”
“Oh Jackie, I’m sorry. You okay? Did you hate leaving your friends?”
“No... no... it’s just that... I’m kind of...”
“It’s okay, I can call you at work tomorrow. If you’re sure you’re okay.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, my voice beginning to tremble. I’m coming apart, I thought. I need time to think this through, come up with an answer as to how this happened. I was shaken, and aside from Roberta, there was no one else to tell. “I have a suspicion that someone might have been in my house while I was gone.”
“Oh? Have you been robbed?”
“No. Everything seems to be fine,” I said, looking around as I said this. “But... oh jeez, you’re going to think I’m out of my head... I think someone laid down on my bed.”
“What?”
I was momentarily embarrassed. “There must be an explanation... something I forgot... like maybe I laid down for a minute before I left town.” Except that the imprint wasn’t on the side I use, the side where the phone and clock-radio are.
“Maybe you should call the sheriff,” he suggested.
“And tell them what? That someone —”
“Yes. Yes, Jackie. If that’s what you think happened, call the sheriff, let them send someone out to check the house.”
“No, I —”
“Listen, you sound rattled and I’ll come over, but I think you should call the sheriff’s office. It’s their job to check possible break-ins, and it can’t do any harm. Better you call them right now and I’ll come over to lend moral support.”
“I feel stupid,” I said, a large tear spilling over.
“You’re sure nothing’s missing?”
“So far. I haven’t looked thoroughly...”
There was silence for a moment, as though he were thinking. “Call them. Be safe instead of sorry. I’m coming over, but it’ll take me a while to get there. I’m about thirty minutes away.”
“Listen, you don’t have to —”
“I won’t stay. Let’s get you locked up tight, feeling secure, then I’ll leave.”
All I needed was someone to talk me into it. I know I’m not a flake. I was projecting what I thought Tom, or the police, might think. Much of my anxiety revolved around the idea of someone looking at my life, my boxes of stuff that had been Sheffie’s, my neatness, which isn’t compulsive except when I’m leaving town. I had the urge to go back upstairs and see if my underwear drawer was in disarray, but I knew better than to go back upstairs. Besides, my underwear was always in disarray. Reasonably, there was no one in my house. It wasn’t as though I had come in and disturbed a thief. I had been in the kitchen and on the phone for over an hour. If I were going to get attacked, I had the most unmotivated attacker in the state.
I took the offensive, unnecessarily, with the cops.
“This is Jackie Sheppard, 449 Apache Drive, and I’ve returned home from a trip to find that someone was in my house while I was gone. Please send a patrol car.” And then I was pushed into saying that nothing was broken, stolen, or disturbed, except for the imprint on the bed. I finally hedged, asking them to please check the house for me so I could relax. I sounded to myself as though I were making excuses. The dispatcher said it would be done and tried to establish that it was not an emergency.
Then I looked around. Gun in hand, not expecting to find anything, I walked through the downstairs. I opened the louvered doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Nothing. I opened the front hall closet in the entry. Nothing. Behind the kitchen in the back of the house was a small enclosed back porch that served as a pantry and laundry room. I hoped to enlarge and renovate it into a larger room, create a sunroom that would extend the length of the house. It had a back door with steps that went down into the backyard. I could see that the dead bolt was unlocked. There it was. I remembered locking that damn door. As I threw the bolt, I had thought how doing so reflected such an L.A. mindset; I believed few people in Coleman felt compelled to lock their doors. I ha
d considered becoming more complacent about this ritual. The door had been unlocked in my absence. Whoever entered my domain and lay down on my bed in my bedroom had used the back door.
Now, what the hell does something like that mean? What would the motivation be? Who would go to the trouble, for what purpose? Since I had found what I was looking for, I looked no further without someone in uniform. I also had an unfinished basement, a cellar. There was a furnace down there, and mouse droppings. The door was in the pantry. I had it padlocked; I had the only key on my key chain. I wasn’t going to go down there with or without protection.
When the doorbell rang I walked briskly to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and placed my loaded pistol in the vegetable crisper. I had only twice told of my firearm possession — I educated Sheffie, and I told Chelsea, who told Mike, and then I lectured them; the gun was registered, but no one was to have knowledge of it. An innocent comment, an ill-timed joke about the little pistol-packing mama... these were the sort of thing that got people robbed and killed. Fact: Most assaults, rapes, and murders are committed among acquaintances.
Bodge Scully was the sheriff. Is the sheriff. It was Bodge himself, in what I suppose were hastily drawn-up drawers and a wrinkled shirt with stale, dried perspiration stains under the arms, who stood at the door. I was impressed; it had been less than a half hour since I called.
Where a name like Bodge came from is a mystery. The man happens to be kind-hearted and an excellent small-town sheriff. Around fifty, over six feet tall and thirty belly-pounds overweight, he was a homely man. His face was pocked, his sand-colored hair strung with silver, and his eyes almost raccoon-like in their dark circles and folds of flesh. He had the worst nose; it must have been broken a hundred times, it was so bent and bumped. His eyebrows could have used a trim. Bodge had a bright, crooked, white smile full of crowded teeth that added to his comforting, cozy manner.
I had met him twice in Roberta’s office and found him affable. Roberta, who was not a fountain of easy praise, said Bodge was damn good. “Oh, Bodge, I got you up for this, didn’t I?”
“I live right on the edge of town,” he said, “and it would have taken forever for a car to come out from the county station; there’s a patrol car in Coleman tonight — but he went out Driscoll way to calm down some hard-partying Driscolls, so I figured you’d have to wait a long time for him. I thought I’d come on over.”
Past him I could see the official car on the street. My front door was up a small hill, with about fifteen concrete steps. “I appreciate it, Bodge. Come in.”
“What’s going on?”
“I want you to know that I’m no flake, Bodge. I’ve managed my share of suspicious people over the years; we have a few more of them in L.A. than you have in Coleman.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said, his voice gravelly and his speech unhurried and quaint. He was walking in my house, looking around as he moved into the living room, seeming to head for the kitchen without being directed. I was therefore talking to his back.
“What I’d like you to understand is that I can handle myself fine and I don’t get upset over little things; sometimes I don’t get myself worked up over the big things. This —”
“Whether or not you get worked up is nothing to me. Even hysterical people have real incidents.” He turned and looked at me.
“Someone came into my house while I was out of town and laid down on my bed. As far as I know, nothing was taken or disturbed; the dead bolt on the back door is open and I haven’t checked yet to see if it was damaged. I am certain I locked it.”
“Where do you keep the liquor?”
“That cupboard,” I said, pointing. “Wine in the fridge. Jug wine, cheap kind.” I laughed in mock embarrassment. He opened the cupboard and looked. There were only three bottles, two unopened and one, the scotch, half full. That’s the only thing other than wine that I like and I don’t overindulge.
“All here? I’ve known kids to break into houses that they know are empty and pick up loose change and booze.”
“It looks all there. I haven’t checked everything closely yet. Drawers and things.”
He walked past me to the back door and opened it. He made the dead bolt go back and forth in an easy slide.
“Aren’t you going to be careful for fingerprints?” I asked.
He looked at me closely and smiled. “What would the charge be?”
“Breaking and entering? Trespassing?”
“I think if you’re right and it was locked, it’s a clean pick, Jackie. No damage. Might have been a key.”
“There are no other keys out.”
“Last owner?”
“The house was empty for a long time. Real-estate agent?”
“Let’s look at the bedroom,” he said. “You haven’t touched anything?”
“No.” I wouldn’t elaborate about the gun. “I came home, had a glass of wine and some crackers, and talked on the phone for about a half-hour. A friend from L.A. I was in L.A. over the weekend and a friend called to make sure I got back all right.” Funny, now it was sounding good to me — having somebody check on me.
Fortunately, the imprint on the bed was unmistakable; it wasn’t as though I could have imagined it. A large, heavy person whose head was on the pillow and whose legs were long had left a few wrinkles and dents on the bed.
“I know I didn’t do it because I have this eccentric ritual about leaving the house perfect when I’m out of town. I’m not a breezy traveler; travel is work for me and I love to come home to a clean house, clean sheets, all that.”
He pulled down the spread and examined the covers. “Look like the way you fixed it? Left it?”
“Yes,” I said. The sheets were smooth; no one had been under the covers. I hadn’t even considered someone getting in the bed. I sighed in relief. After he yanked the spread up again and I smoothed it, all trace of that body was instantly gone. I immediately felt better; I immediately felt foolish. I began to wish I’d done that, made it go away.
Bodge walked through the rest of the upstairs and opened all the closet doors. I followed around behind him. “You tell me if you see something out of place.”
“Okay,” I said. I was beginning to feel silly. Not that I’d been mistaken, because that was impossible. It was the idea that he was here, looking around, and there was no real crime, no serious misdeed. There was nothing.
Back in the master bedroom, I opened the dresser drawers and checked the small jewelry box. I don’t keep the kind of meticulous drawers that would show a sock had been touched. They looked like they always looked; full and jumbled.
“Well... Jackie...”
“I know. What can you do?”
“Go to the bathroom since you’ve been home?”
“I went in the bathroom — I didn’t...”
“You have a male visitor that spends time here?”
“A man? As in someone I date? As in someone who might come in here or have a key or something?”
“No... as in might lift the seat when he urinates.”
I was momentarily confused and then my eyes widened. I shot to the bathroom door and looked in; the seat was up. “Damn,” I muttered, looking back at Bodge. “Now, I know I didn’t leave it like that — it’s only up to be cleaned and I didn’t clean the toilet before I left. I would remember.”
“Okay. Well, I can brush it, but — to tell you the truth, Jackie, unless you find something damaged or missing or some other thing that stands out, we don’t have anything here. Why don’t I get you locked up tight and I’ll radio Sweeney to do a couple of drive-bys during the night. Unless you’re scared and you don’t want to stay here.”
“He peed here,” I said, both shocked and insulted. “Some creep came in here to lay down on my bed and pee. What the hell does that mean?”
“You could call Roberta Musetta, couldn’t you?”
“No,” I said, somewhat exasperated. “Tom Wahl called me a while ago. He was the one who said I should call y
ou if I thought this was spooky. He’s going to come over to give me moral support. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Don’t be, Jackie, it’s fine. There was someone in your house — for whatever reason. You know Tom pretty well?”
“He did the shelves, painting, floors, and renovated the bathroom. I haven’t dated him or anything like that. I guess you could say we’ve become friends.”
“If he’s on his way over, you’re in good hands. He’s strong and able; not many people would want to go through Tom to get anything. All that building, I guess.” He rubbed his hands over his paunch. “I should do something like that, get in shape.” He left the room and went toward the stairs, me taking up the rear. “I’m going to get the flashlight and walk around the yard. I’ll check in with you before I leave.”
“Thanks, Bodge,” I said. I wanted something; I wanted reassurance. Or, at the least, an explanation. “Ever been called out for something like this before?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Do you think it’s weird?”
He shrugged. “You might remember something later, come up with a reason or explanation.”
“And if I don’t — then do you think it’s weird?”
“Different, anyway. It doesn’t seem like you’re in any danger. Leave a light on downstairs tonight; make the place look occupied.”
“Yeah,” I said. I felt exhausted and knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep as usual.
In the end I did, though, because of Tom. He was warm, generous, and humorous. He shook hands with Bodge and they talked about things that had nothing to do with my “incident.” Tom asked Bodge how the rumpus room was coming along and later told me that Bodge had started building on a room for the kids when his oldest was in high school and now was hoping to finish before the grandchildren were all grown up. This familiarity helped me; if Bodge was friendly with Tom, I felt I had the next best thing to a deputy. And then Tom listened patiently as I trilled about what kind of a nut would leave these hints of his presence and yet have no reason to come into my domain other than to be sure I knew he was there.