by Ken Douglas
Carolina opened the top drawer and pulled her underwear and tee shirts aside to get at the dried cat food underneath. Having a secret pet was fun, but soon she was going to have to tell her mother, because soon she was going to be out of food and she would need some money to get more. Money she didn’t have, her allowance didn’t go far enough.
She opened one of the small packages with her teeth and laid out the contents on the corner of her dresser and giggled as the ferret leapt off her shoulder onto the dresser top and started to eat.
“ Hungry, huh? Okay, you eat and I’ll go and get some water.” She rubbed the animal’s back and giggled when it wiggled. “I’ll be right back.” She was happy as she left the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen. She still had to go to the bathroom, but she could hold it till she got a bowl full of water for her pet. After all, Sheila depended on her. She could go pee anytime. She closed the door to her bedroom, so Sheila couldn’t run about the house, and went for the water.
She turned on the light when she entered the kitchen. She shivered a little. It was cold. She opened the cupboard by the refrigerator, took out a bowl and went to the sink. She turned on the water. Then she heard it, a crackling kind of sound from outside the kitchen window. Someone was there, walking across the dried leaves outside. She turned to the window and saw nothing but her reflection, but it felt like somebody was out there. She turned off the water with the bowl only partially full.
She set it on the counter. The house was quiet as the desert with no wind. She took shallow, silent breaths, as if whoever was out there could hear the blood surging through her veins and the raging sound of air as it rushed in and out of her lungs.
Something scraped along the side of the house, by the kitchen window. Her heart pounded. She walked backwards, taking baby steps, without picking up her feet. She put her hands behind herself, feeling for the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway. More scraping. She wanted to run, but was frozen. She took a deep breath, fighting back a cough as her asthma kicked up. She tried to hold it back. Her inhaler was by the sink, but the sink was under the window.
She had another one, but where was it? Her lungs started to spasm. Where was it? She closed her eyes for a flash and tried to picture where she’d seen it last. Ever since she could remember she’d had trouble with words. She always seemed to get the letters mixed up. She compensated by remembering things as pictures. She saw the picture. It was sitting on the TV.
The muscles in her stomach started to contract. She doubled over and bit her lip, fighting back the coughing spasm. She forced her feet to move. More scraping outside. The person, animal or thing out there was getting closer to the window above the sink. She was afraid to breathe, if she didn’t get the inhaler quick, she might have a full blown attack. She stretched her right arm behind herself, never taking her eyes off the window, finally she felt the door jamb.
She had no choice. She grabbed a great breath and went into a jerking, gut wrenching, coughing spasm. An attack was close. She reached up and flicked off the light, covering the room in darkness. Then she turned, coughing and holding her hands out in front of herself, because the spasm forced her to keep her eyes squinted shut.
She felt along wall, till she found the door to the dining room. She stumbled into the table, banging herself in the shins on one of the dining room chairs. She put her hands on top of the table and worked her way around it. If whatever was outside was making any noise, she was drowning it out with her coughing.
She made her way halfway around the table, then she turned toward the living room, flicking the dining room light off as she passed it. She stumbled and fell over the couch, winding up on the floor. The attack was close. She crawled to the television, fought to get up on her knees, reaching out for the inhaler.
It wasn’t there.
Her mother must have moved it.
Where would she put it?
The medicine cabinet in the hallway bathroom. That’s where her mother always put the inhalers when she left them lying around.
The spasm eased up for a second and she crawled over to the end table by the right side of the couch, reached up and turned the lamp off. Now the house was dark.
She pushed herself off the floor, forcing herself into a bent over crouch with her hands on her knees. She walked bent, coughing and jerking, with her head facing the floor. She remembered to go around the table in the dining room, but she misjudged where the doorway was and bumped into the wall. She flung her arms left and right along it and found the doorway. She moved right and went through it.
The attack was on her. She felt like she was going to die. She was afraid the inhaler wouldn’t be enough. She might need oxygen. She didn’t have any. She was never without her inhalers. She’d never had a problem, till now, but she’d never been this terrified and worked up before.
She moved along the wall with her right hand leading the way, feeling for the bathroom door. She wished she would have left her bedroom door open, because then the light from her room would have been enough for her to see in the hallway. She felt the doorway, but she was afraid she didn’t have time to feel around in the darkness for the medicine cabinet, so she flicked on the light and opened the mirrored door. It was there. She grabbed it with a shaking hand, put it to her lips and took a quick puff, followed by two more, and the contractions started to weaken.
After a few seconds she was able to breathe again, not normally, but well enough so she could move about the house. She turned off the bathroom light and scooted along the wall toward her bedroom. She found the door, felt for the knob, found it, opened it and went in, closing it after herself and turning out the light.
There was someone out there. She felt it. She knew it. Last night she only felt it. Tonight she knew it. And tonight she was alone, again. But she wasn’t going to sit and wait for them, or it, to come and get her, no sir. She took another puff from her inhaler, then put it in her pocket. It was stupid not having one there all along. Then she set Sheila on her shoulder with one hand and grabbed her father’s old baseball bat from under her bed with the other.
She sat on the bed for a minute, catching her breath and letting her eyes get used to the dark, then she went into the living room where the phone was. By the time she sat down on the couch, the attack was over and she was breathing normally.
She set Sheila down on the back of the couch and dialed Arty’s number, feeling a small sense of relief when she heard the phone on the on the other end of the line start ringing.
He heard the phone ringing from under his pillow and was afraid to answer it. What if it was her. But of course it was her, nobody ever called him. It was her. It had to be her. He wished he didn’t have a phone in his room. He wished he didn’t have his own number. But he had a paper route and sometimes he had to use the phone for collections and his father wouldn’t let him use the family’s phone. He made Arty have his own, and he made him pay for it, too.
The back of his neck tingled with the vibration of each ring. He’d been sleeping on his back, with his head directly over the phone. He didn’t want to answer it, but if he didn’t, his parents might hear it and come into his room. He didn’t think they could hear it, though. The pillow hid the sound, like pillows always hide the sound of a bad guy’s pistol in old gangster movies.
The phone rang again.
What if she’d heard the noise again?
The phone rang again.
What if she felt like she was being watched again?
The phone rang again.
What if she wanted him to come over?
The phone rang again.
He picked it up.
“ Hello,” he tried to sound sleepy, but he was afraid his whispering voice had betrayed him.
“ Arty?” It was her.
“ It’s me.”
“ Did I wake you up?”
“ Yes,” he lied.
“ But it’s only eight-thirty.”
“ I go to bed early, ’cuz of my
paper route.” He didn’t want to tell her that he couldn’t stand watching television with his father, that he’d much rather be alone in his room.
“ There’s someone outside.”
“ Get your mother, right now,” he whispered into the phone.
“ She’s not here, and I’m kinda scared. I turned all the lights off, so I can hide better if he comes in.”
“ No, that’s stupid,” he whispered loudly. “Turn ’em back on. You don’t want it to look like nobody’s home. And turn on the TV.”
“ But whoever it is knows I’m here.”
“ Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. I’ll be right over. Don’t let anyone in till I get there. Oh, yeah, I’ll knock three times, Knock, knock, knock,” he said slowly, “that’s how you’ll know it’s me.”
“ Do you know where I live?”
“ I know.” Arty knew where everybody lived. “I’m leaving right now.”
He hung up the phone and pushed himself off the bed. He might be in serious trouble with his father tomorrow for sneaking out, but he had a friend who needed him tonight.
He pulled his flannel pajama pants out from between the crack in his buttocks, then pulled them down. For an instant, naked from the waist down, he wondered about what to wear, then he dropped the thought and pulled on the same underwear he’d worn to school. His mother never would have approved. Then he went to his dresser and pulled out a faded pair of Levi’s from the second drawer.
Breathing heavily and already sweating, he stuffed his feet into the same white socks he’d worn earlier. If he was violating his mother’s rule about never wearing anything he’d taken off till it was washed again, he might as well go all the way. But not the white tennis shoes, he’d never wear those again. He rummaged in his closet and came up with his new Nikes and put them on.
He took a deep breath, to calm himself, after he’d laced them up. He scratched the back of his neck, to chase away the chilly willies, and took another breath, before opening the second from the top dresser drawer and taking out an old sweatshirt. He put it on over his pajama top. He knew how cold it was outside.
Now he had to get out of the house. There was no way he was going to get down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. His mother spent every night sitting at the breakfast table, alone, reading. And he wasn’t going to get out the front way either. His father spent every night in front of the television, also alone. That meant he had to go out the window. Something he hadn’t done since he was younger-and leaner.
He pulled the curtains aside and raised the window. The squeaking sound it made going up caused him to jump back. He held his breath and waited. But nobody came.
He stared at the open window for a long half-minute. Outside meant danger, excitement, a friend. Inside was his mother in the kitchen, his father in front of the TV and Arty alone in his room. He blanked his mind, putting tomorrow and his parents out of the picture and his leg through the window.
Fifteen minutes later he was huffing up the sidewalk in front of Carolina’s house. He jogged up to the front porch without thinking, grabbed a lungful of air and knocked three times. The door opened immediately.
“ Boy am I glad you came.” The relief in her eyes made whatever his father decided to do to him tomorrow worth it.
“ I got here as fast as I could.”
“ Come in, quick. I think someone’s been looking in the window.”
“ You didn’t turn the lights on,” he said. “We gotta do that.”
“ You sure?”
“ Yeah, how many movies have you seen where the bad guy comes into the dark house?”
“ Okay.” She walked over to the couch and turned on the lamp.
“ Where’s your mom?”
“ On a date. Follow me.” She led him over plush white carpet, across a living room filled with a bright orange and yellow overstuffed sofa with matching love seat and chair. “My mom likes bright things,” she said. “My room is this way.”
“ I can’t go in your room.”
“ Why not?”
“ I don’t know,” he said, but he knew the answer and he didn’t feel like holding it back. “My mother wouldn’t like it.”
“ So, don’t tell her.” She turned on the light as she entered her room.
“ It’s nice,” he said. “I’ve never been in a girl’s bedroom before. Actually, I’ve never been in anyone’s bedroom but mine. My parents won’t let me in theirs and I don’t have many friends.”
“ That’s too bad,” she said.
“ How come you got two beds?”
“ They were on sale when my mom bought the furniture for the house. She thought it would be a good idea, in case I had friends sleep over.”
“ You got many friends that spend the night?”
“ Not yet.”
“ The bedspreads are different,” he said. Then he screamed.
“ Sheila,” Carolina said, sounding cross and trying not to. “Come here.” She laughed as the ferret jumped from Arty’s shoulder into her lap.
“ What is it?” Arty asked, feeling sweat run under his arms.
“ It’s my ferret. Arty meet Sheila, Sheila meet Arty.”
“ Keep it away.”
“ Oh grow up. She won’t hurt you. She’s as harmless as a cat.”
“ You’re sure?”
“ Sure. Stick out your hand.”
He obeyed and extended his arm. Sheila approached warily and nuzzled his hand. “She likes me.” He stroked her fur. Then he said, “She has a gold necklace like yours.”
“ Yeah, mine was too long, so I used a pliers and made it shorter, and since Sheila had to have a name tag I used the leftover part instead of a collar.”
“ I’ve never had a pet before,” he said.
“ Me either, Sheila’s my first, and my mom doesn’t know about her.”
“ What?”
“ She’s a secret pet.”
“ If she’s a secret why does she need a name tag?”
“ Because if she gets lost and someone finds her, I want them to know she’s a pet and not a wild animal, so they don’t hurt her.”
“ How did you get her?”
“ I saved my allowance and lunch money, till I had enough. I got her at the pet store in Tampico.”
“ So how come it’s a secret?”
“ Because I know my mom. She’d make me give her away. She hates animals.”
“ How do you keep her from finding out?” He smiled at the clucking sound the ferret was making.
“ I buy dried cat food with my allowance and keep it in my underwear drawer. My mother never looks in there.” She smiled more with the right side of her face than the left.
“ You have a crooked smile.”
“ Really?” She looked in the mirror above her dresser. “Yeah, I do.”
“ Where does it go to the bathroom?”
“ At first I thought that would be my big problem, but it wasn’t. I leave the window open a little bit and she squeezes out when she has to go and comes right back in afterwards.”
“ Did you train her to do that?”
“ No, she always did it. She’s never gone in the house.”
“ Does she ever bite?”
“ Only when she’s playing, but it’s just little nibbles and it doesn’t hurt.”
The ferret arched its back and screamed, making a sound like a baby that had been scalded with boiling water. Arty jumped away from the animal, squirming and turning along with Carolina, following the ferret’s frightened gaze and he saw two glowing red eyes staring into the room. Staring at them. Then they faded to black and were gone.
Chapter Four
John Coffee glanced over at the wrapped packages on the passenger seat. Gifts. Carolina was one of the few good things to come out of his life. He smiled as he thought of her eyes, sparkling green as dew lit grass on a fresh morning, her crooked smile showing perfect teeth. Most people wouldn’t believe what he had to t
ell her, but she would, because they never lied to each other.
It tore at his heart, the thought of telling her, because it would probably steal away her childhood. But she had to be warned, even if it meant the steep price of her innocence. But first he wanted to just sit and talk, gab about baseball, school and whatever else she might be interested in.
He parked across the street and shut off the engine. He had the windows down and he felt a chill as the evening breeze blew through, bringing the scent of the sea and something else.
He sucked in his breath and held it, listening to the silent breeze. An electric charge danced through the air. He tasted a faint rotten egg smell, and he knew he wouldn’t be knocking on his daughter’s door with gifts and a smile and gabbing about the Atlanta Braves this evening.
The wind shifted, taking the faint sulfur smell away, but he’d tasted the familiar scent and knew that she was near. He opened the door, cringing at the sound it made. He knew what he’d tasted on the wind. He opened the glove compartment, took out a small jar and dropped it in a coat pocket. Satisfied that it was secure, he reached back in and took out the holstered forty-five automatic. Not very accurate at distance, but hit a person anywhere at close range and you picked him up and slammed him back about six feet.
He took the gun out of the holster and shifted it to his left hand. There was a reason children feared shadows on the wall and primitive people feared the night. A gun would be useless against whatever tore at their hearts, and he doubted it would be much good against what he was about to face, but he felt naked without it.
The charged air sent the hair on his arms tingling in warning, and he crossed himself.
She was close.
He stepped out of the car, looking up and down the block as he closed the door, checking to see if anyone was watching. The small residential street was lit by a street light at either end, the two in the middle of the block were dark.
Was it coincidence?
She was clever.
It started to rain.
The house was covered in darkness and it reminded him of another dark house on another dark night. It was overcast then too. And, he remembered, it had rained the night he broke into her house at the end of the road. There were stories and legends, whispers and pointing fingers. The locals knew enough to leave the old woman alone. Not him. She was old and he thought she would be easy. Old, she was, and now his daughter might wind up paying, because easy, she wasn’t.