by Gayle Roper
One evening last week she and I had washed the dinner dishes together. She was talking about the new dress she was sewing.
“Would you ever wear a pink or yellow dress?” I asked. I knew red, my favorite color, was out of the question. It was the color for harlots. Prints were also verboten. But soft, plain hues? “God made those colors too. Just look at the flowers.”
“Oh, I’d never wear bold things like that,” Ruth said, immediately rejecting the idea. “I wouldn’t want to wear anything that called attention to me.”
I nodded, thinking that if I dressed the way she did, I’d be doing exactly what she wanted to avoid. It all came down to whom you hung around with.
“Cathleen,” Jake said from his place across the table from me. “Cathleen Geohagan. Why does that name sound familiar?”
We all looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head. “It’ll come. Just give me a few minutes.”
I was finishing my last spoonful of corn starch pudding when Jake yelled, “Aha! I have it.”
“Tell me,” I said eagerly.
“I read about her in the Lancaster paper about six or seven months ago. I remember because she used to date one of the guys I worked with at the trailer plant before she threw him over for some other guy. Broke my friend’s heart, but that’s another story.”
“That was in the paper?” If so, it took the term “slow news day” to a whole new level.
“Very funny.” He helped himself to more pudding. “Actually, I read about her death. She killed herself with pills and booze.”
10
I was stunned. I remembered Mr. Geohagan lying in his bed, hands resting on his stomach, eyes staring at memories.
“I miss her,” he had said. I just bet he did.
“I remember something else about her death,” Jake said. “It was her parents who found her, and it was too much for the mother.”
“She died too?” I was afraid of the answer.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jake said. “She just had a stroke or something like that.”
Just a stroke. No wonder she never came to visit. As we bowed our heads for the silent post-dinner prayer, all I could think about was poor Mr. Geohagan.
Oh, Lord, he needs You so badly! How can I help him find You?
I left early for parents’ night so that I’d have time to detour to Mr. Geohagan’s apartment to pick up the things he needed. I wore the conservative navy skirt I’d worn when I came to meet the Zooks for the first time. I even wore the cream silk blouse. Anything to impress the parents with how trustworthy I was. However, I suspect I shot the whole conservative image with my silver-studded denim blazer, the product of another art class. I particularly liked the great appliquéd pumpkin on the back and the artfully arranged fall foliage at its base, so seasonally appropriate.
I followed Mr. Geohagan’s directions in a blue funk. I’m good at feeling depressed even when nothing’s wrong, and the circumstances of Mr. Geohagan’s life provided more than ample fodder for my blues.
“You may have a sensitive artist’s nature,” my mother used to tell me after my secret was out and during one of my melancholy moods. “But that’s no excuse to inflict your pessimism on the rest of us. Rain on your own parade if you must, but not on mine. Now shape up or spend the day somewhere else.”
There was something about lawyers that made them unafraid to speak their minds, at least the lawyers I knew.
I’ve learned to spare the general populace my blue periods as I’ve matured, but tonight I felt justified in feeling positively morose. Even my sunshine car did nothing to relieve my dark mood.
As I walked down a long, dingy hall of the unimpressive tan brick apartment building, I studied the door numbers, looking for number 10. I was nonplussed when I found two 6’s until I realized one was a 9 whose top screw had come out, causing the number to rotate 180 degrees—a great metaphor for the condition of the building. Everything was a dirty, dreary beige. Even the straw wreath someone had hung on number 5 was shaggy and uninspiring. The brass plate on number 8 was so tarnished and pitted that it looked like wrought iron.
I found number 10 at the end of the hall and turned the key silently in the lock. I felt like a cat burglar, sneaking about where I had no business. I imagined a neighbor calling the police, and I couldn’t help wondering whether my principal would see the humor if I were arrested on parents’ night. I glanced furtively down the hall, and then I carefully and quickly opened and closed the door behind me.
It was no surprise to find the apartment as depressing as the hallway. There were no smiling family pictures in gilt or silver frames personalizing the rooms. Nothing hung on the walls or sat on the end tables to lighten the dull grayness of the room. It was more than obvious that Cathleen and Mrs. Geohagan had never lived here. No woman could have stood the sterility.
I walked to the single bedroom and stood in the doorway, staring. The double bed was unmade, left just as it had been the day Mr. Geohagan became ill. A pair of gray trousers hung from the closet doorknob, the legs pooling into wrinkles. A plastic hamper held a pair of dirty blue socks and some underwear, and the dresser top was empty except for a sprinkling of small change.
I set my purse on the floor and put the pants on a hanger after hand-pressing them flat. I stuck them in the closet. After that I quickly made the bed. I couldn’t help wondering if the pants would ever be worn or if the bed would ever be slept in again. I smoothed the bedspread carefully over the single pillow and sighed. A double bed should never have only one pillow.
Feeling even more deeply melancholy, I gathered the stationery and paperback Westerns I had come for, found the pajamas and underwear, the slippers and robe. I tossed them in the canvas tote bag I’d brought. I stood by the window and looked out at the gathering night, resting my head against the pane. I felt tears very near the surface.
Suddenly, with all the sound and fury of crashing surf, the toilet in the bathroom flushed.
I froze, not even breathing. A bomb detonating beside me couldn’t have shocked me more.
Water rushed from the bathroom tap as someone—someone who shouldn’t be here—washed his hands.
Are clean thieves nicer than dirty ones? Help, Lord!
I heard the bathroom door open, and I grabbed my chest to keep my heart from popping right through my rib cage. Where to hide?
For want of a better place, I rushed to the closet, tote bag thumping against the wall as I ran. I pulled the door quietly closed after me, hoping the muffled thuds hadn’t been audible to anyone but me. I held my breath in the small, dark space and pressed my ear to the door.
I heard footfalls as he—I assumed it was a he—came into the bedroom. And stopped. I could almost feel his surprise through the door.
The bed! I had made the bed! If he had been in this room before, he now knew someone else was in the apartment.
And my purse sat on the floor beside the bed. I might as well just yell, “Hey, you’ve got company!”
He walked from the bedroom, and I strained to hear. Maybe he’d missed the significance of the bed, hadn’t seen the purse, and was just going to leave. There obviously wasn’t anything in this place worth taking.
Then again, maybe he wasn’t leaving. Over the thudding alarms of my heart I could hear him moving from room to room, undoubtedly looking for the newly arrived maid. I was doomed.
I pulled the light cord dangling from the ceiling. I had jumped and bitten back a scream the first time I bumped it when I rushed into the closet. Now I blinked in its weak light as I looked wildly around for some clever place to hide. Hanging from the rod were half a dozen shirts and three pairs of slacks, including the ones I had just put there. No hope of concealment there. But the top shelf was completely empty. I could hide there.
Yeah, right. Even if I’d been able to scramble up there on thin air, I’d be a bit obvious when the door was wrenched open.
Once, years ago, I saw a cowboy movie on TV in which the hero and his
girl hid from the bad guy in a closet. He stashed her on a high shelf, and he lay on the floor. When the villain shot through the door at regular people height, they were safe.
Such a ploy was extremely clever if you knew the bad guy wasn’t going to open the door, knew he would only shoot at the middle of the door, and if you had a hero to boost you up.
I stared at the floor, my alternative hiding place, weighing whether being safe from bullets (aimed only at the middle of the door) was worth the risk of being found curled in an extremely vulnerable position if the door were thrown abruptly open.
Suddenly from the other side of the door, the door I was actually leaning on, came the most malevolent chuckle I had ever heard. I leaped away from the wood as if it were aflame.
Lord, help! He’s got me!
But he didn’t open the door. Instead, I heard sliding noises and a grunt or two, and I realized my villain had made his move. He wasn’t going to shoot me; he wasn’t even going to open the door. There was no need. He was just going to block me in.
I reached for the doorknob and pushed wildly. The only response was another wicked chuckle from the other side, followed by some more sliding. Then silence.
I drew back into a far corner, feeling defenseless and frightened. Every crime and Gothic flick I’d ever seen flooded my mind. The images did nothing for my nerves, especially since I knew I had no knight in armor, either shining or tarnished, to rush to my rescue.
I crouched in my corner and shivered and prayed and listened. I was unpleasantly aware of the watcher standing on his side of the door, waiting just as I was.
Eventually there was movement in the room. I crept to the door and listened. Whoever was out there must have become tired of waiting to see what I’d do and had begun searching the place. I could hear drawers being pulled open, sometimes falling to the floor as if wrenched off their tracks.
What was the person searching for? Certainly, anyone could see that there was nothing of value in this lonely, godforsaken place. Except my purse.
Lord, help! I really didn’t want to go through the process of canceling credit and bank cards and getting new ones, of applying for a new driver’s license, and all the other things that had to be done when you were robbed.
But he wasn’t interested in me. I hoped my things didn’t concern him, either. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten me. He was now in the living room, now the kitchen, taking no care to be quiet with his movements. He knew that the location of the apartment, first floor corner, largely did away with being heard by neighbors. Besides, he was probably hurrying as fast as he could. I might have friends who would show up at any moment.
I got down on my knees and tried to peer under the door. All I could see was more of the rug that covered the closet floor, a very unattractive shade of brown, perfect for a drab place like this.
I slumped in my corner and waited, willing the intruder to leave. Finally, I heard the front door slam. I jumped to my feet and listened. All remained quiet.
I twisted the doorknob and pushed, hoping against hope that whatever was blocking me in would move. It didn’t. That would have been too easy.
I turned and leaned my back against the door, pushing, pushing while the slick soles of my new Mary Janes sought traction on the carpeting. Without warning my feet flew from under me, and I grabbed at the nearest thing, an old red-and-blue plaid shirt, to keep from falling. I fell anyway, my spine bouncing hard in spite of the rug. The shirt landed on my head, the collar button holding it on the hanger popped by the pull of my weight. The now-malformed hanger bounced noisily above me.
I got to my feet, rubbing my sore backside. This time I faced the door, placed my palms flat, straightened my arms and shoved as hard as I could. Nothing happened except my shoulders, still tender from the tomato picking and fighting, protested what they obviously felt was more abuse.
I stared at the door, trying to picture what was piled against it out there in the free world. The dresser? The bed? Both?
The hinges! The idea burst like an epiphany, and I was thoroughly impressed with my cleverness. I would take the hinges apart the way the painters did whenever my mother wanted the house painted. They slid the long round things out of the little round circles. I’d do the same, then pull the door loose and climb out.
But the thoughtless builder had put the hinges on the room side of the door, not my side.
All right. I’d just power the door down.
I rammed it with my shoulder a couple of times, astonished at how abruptly I bounced back. Rubbing my soon-to-be-black-and-blue shoulder, I quickly and decisively rejected physical force.
I think I realized then that I wasn’t going to escape. I don’t know how else to explain my screaming, pounding fit. When my fists were too sore to continue, I stopped my ridiculous behavior. Maybe later on tonight, when I might be more easily heard, I could try again, this time in conscious choice.
I sat cross-legged with my back against the wall. I looked at the Louis L’Amour and Max Brand books that had tumbled from the tote bag. I need to introduce Mr. Geohagan to Steve Bly and Sigmund Brouwer, I thought. Get him reading some Christian Westerns.
I picked up one of the paperbacks. I might as well pass the time profitably. If I thought of Mr. Edgars, my principal, storming up and down the halls looking for me, I’d only upset myself more. I glanced at my watch. I was already a half hour late.
Please, God! Let Mr. Edgars sound the alarm.
I glanced at the weak bulb on the ceiling and wondered how damaged my eyes would become reading in this dimness.
The light! No wonder the intruder had known exactly where I was. The glow must have shown around the edges of the door in the almost dark bedroom. Sighing at my stupidity, I began reading.
I understood that I was in the closet for the night when my second and third screaming and pounding fits brought no more response than my first—unless you counted a sore throat and tender, tender hands. My watch said one a.m.
I began to feel sorry for myself big time. Here I was, missing for the night, and no one cared enough to come and get me. Apparently, no one even missed me. I felt the tears rise.
I blinked them back. After all, I was a strong, modern, independent woman. So what that I was trapped, thirsty, hungry, and in need of a bathroom. So what that if I wanted to sleep, I would have to do so on the floor. Who cared that it was getting chillier all the time and that I had no covers and that I couldn’t even stretch out all the way because the closet was too small. The pioneers had survived worse situations than this, and so would I. I was tough. I could take it.
Sighing, I turned out the light and lay on my back with a couple of Mr. Geohagan’s shirts and his bathrobe over me for warmth and my knees bent so I would fit. I stuck a couple of the paperbacks under my head for a pillow. Every time I moved, I slipped off, thonking my skull on the floor.
“I want Clarke to come and rescue me,” I said aloud into the darkness. Then I giggled. Where had that come from?
But I couldn’t deny that the idea had a certain appeal. He could blast me free with an Uzi, something all Christian counselors keep hidden under their mattresses. Or he could push the offending furniture away and throw the door open while I huddled beguilingly on the top shelf, just waiting to be grasped by the waist and lowered tenderly to the floor.
Or he could loosen the hinges—they were on his side—and man-handle the door open, lifting me from my swoon (from lack of food and water, not fear) and carrying me to safety in his strong arms. Who cared that if he got to the hinges, he wouldn’t need to do anything but pull the door open? Rescues demanded marvelous feats performed on behalf of the damsel in distress.
Obviously, being in the dark in small, closed places wasn’t good for me.
Lord, I have the distinct feeling that this is one of those situations in which I have to choose. You saved me from potential physical harm earlier this evening, and I thank You most sincerely. But somehow this is the harder part, isn’t it
? Somehow sleeping in this dumb closet on this hard floor is going to develop me as a Christian—if I choose to let it. I can keep pitying myself, or I can just trust You.
I sighed. I’ll trust.
I actually slept, my slumber interspersed with abrupt awakenings every time my head slid off the books.
In the morning I read the fourth Louis L’Amour book and prayed most thoroughly for everyone I had ever known when, at about nine o’clock, I heard someone enter the apartment. Then I heard a, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
“In here!” I pounded on the closet door. “I’m in here!”
“Don’t worry! I’m coming,” yelled a male voice which did not belong to my imagined hero. I had no idea whom it did belong to, but whoever he was, he was my new best friend.
There was much scraping and grunting, but finally the door of my prison opened, and a gray-haired policeman stood there, a middle-aged angel in blue. He was somewhat startled when I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Then I almost knocked him over in my rush for the bathroom.
“I’m all right. Truly I am,” I said to Mr. Geohagan several hours later. I’d collected my purse, left untouched by the bed, given the police my statement, gone home and changed, and made my afternoon classes. Then, as soon as I could leave school, I drove to the hospital. “No scars, bumps, or bruises.” He didn’t need to know about my sore shoulder and fists.
“But you might have been badly hurt!”
I patted his thin hand as it lay on the covers, telling myself to remember to wash thoroughly before I left. The last thing I needed was hepatitis. “But I wasn’t. I’m just sorry it was necessary for you to be informed.”
“No one knew where I lived. They had to contact me so they’d know where to find you. I can’t believe it took them until today!”
I made a wry face. “Me neither, but I understand how it happened. Last night Mary and Ruth assumed they’d just missed seeing me. John wouldn’t have noticed whether I was there or not, and Jake would have been in his own apartment all evening. I think Mr. Edgars was quite angry with me when I didn’t show for parents’ night, but he assumed I was either sick or for some reason of my own had decided not to come. He planned to talk to me about it this morning when I came to work.”