Guests, Again
I have just settled down in the living room with some after-dinner espresso and the Arts & Style section when Maureen, who has been staring out the window for a few minutes, beckons me over.
“It’s happening again,” she says, “take a look, they’re back.”
I groan, and get up, folding my paper neatly upon the table. Maureen makes room for me at the window, and I peer out. Sure enough, there’s another damn masked girl sitting on the swing set, staring at the house.
Maureen gives me a look. “It’s your turn”, she says.
“Can’t we just leave her there? Maybe they’ll get bored.”
“Robert, the quicker we get through this, the quicker you can get back to your coffee and your paper.”
I know she’s right, but it’s a little brisk outside, and I’d rather just let them sit outside for a while and wait. I walk over to the closet, and grab a sweater before returning to the living room.
“Still out there?” I ask, hopefully.
Maureen looks up from her book. She’s started reading the Twilight series, because she works as an English teacher, and she feels she should keep up with what her sixth graders are reading.
“Just go out, and do it. Want me to check the phone line while you go out? I’ll do that, and you can chase the kid away.”
I shrug, and open the door. There’s nobody out on the porch, which is typical at this stage, but you shouldn’t take anything for granted. The girl is still out there, and a quiet little breeze coaxes a creak out of the swing set. I remember that I should really just get rid of the swing set because nobody uses it and it just invites trouble.
I stride purposely across the lawn, and start yelling at the girl. Partly because it’s chilly, and partly because I think it’ll help, I wave my arms wildly and start pointing aggressively. She hops off the swing when I’m about halfway across the lawn, giggles, and skips into the little patch of trees that separates our house from the neighbor’s. I turn around and walk back into the house. I’m not playing that game.
Maureen is waiting for me when I get back into the house.
“The phone line is dead,” she rolls her eyes, “of course.”
I nod. “You know, I think this group might be new to this kind of thing, the girl bolted before I even got close. Into the trees, no less. Got your cell phone, I hope?”
“Robert, do you think I’m that stupid?”
“Just checking,” I say, “Might want to give Con-Ed a call and get them over here tomorrow to fix the line. If we call tomorrow morning they’ll probably be booked already.”
Maureen nods in agreement and dials up the number. I go into the kitchen to retrieve some biscotti.
I’m already expecting a chilling note in blood—once in refrigerator magnets—or even a masked face at the glass, but when I get into the kitchen, there’s this guy partway through the window, with his legs fumbling about on the counter-top and his fat stomach squeezing itself over the sill. I’m flabbergasted.
“Are you kidding me?” I yell, perhaps a bit too loudly, and I grab one of his feet and give him a hard shove out. He kicks wildly, and I let him go as I feel him trying to extract himself, this time to the outside. There’s a moment of tension, and then he gets a toehold on the edge of the sink and torpedoes back out the window, flopping majestically out on the grass. I lean out the window, and watch as he hurriedly picks himself up. His mask has come askew, and I can see that he‘s got a ridiculous little goatee peaking out. I feel incensed.
“You will not,” I yell out, “I repeat you will not enter this house in such an idiotic manner. We have a front door for a reason, we have easily unlatched basement windows, we have the windows to our college-age daughter’s room which are unlocked…” The man has gotten up and is jogging away, consciously not looking back. I stop yelling, and shut and lock the window. Maureen comes into the kitchen with the phone in her hand, and classical music playing through the other end.
“What was that about?” she asks.
“We’re going to have to be more careful,” I say, “One of them just tried to get in backasswards through the kitchen window here, scuffed up the countertop a bit.”
She shakes her head in disgust, and is about to say something when the classical music ends, and a women’s voice comes through the line. Maureen goes back to the call, and I wipe down the counter to ease my mind.
Then the phone rings, which is standard, and I let it ring a couple times before picking up and saying “I’m sorry, we’re having dinner at the moment, now’s not a good time.” I hang up. Normally I wouldn’t be so brusque, but I’m little frustrated at how the evening has gone, so I want to make the guy on the other end sweat a bit. The phone rings again, and I let it ring a few more times before picking up. I must confess it’s a neat trick to cut the phone line, and then rig it up so you can make some creepy calls into the house.
“Hello?” I say to be polite.
There’s only heavy breathing on the other end. I figure it must be the guy who was trying to get in the window, because the voice seems really out of breath. I wonder if he smokes.
“Hello?” I say again. “Do you smoke?”
The person on the other line swallows, and tells me in a deep, measured voice that I’m in the kitchen. Automatically, I turn off the lights and look out the windows. It’s a little maneuver that nobody ever expects. When Courtney—our daughter, now attending a small liberal arts college in the Midwest where this never happens—was younger we used to have a baby sitter who was particularly quick at flicking the lights off and spotting the caller among the trees or the begonias in the back. I don’t see him though, and I wonder if he’s bluffing. I give myself a little slack with the phone cord, and walk into the foyer.
“Where am I now?”
He’s unprepared for the question. I figure he‘s probably using a script. “You’re… you’re still in the kitchen.”
I sigh and walk back into the kitchen.
“I see you…” The voice says. “Do you feel safe?”
“Don’t be ridiculous” I say.
“I’m in the house.”
I laugh, because I hear the soft noise of leaves under his feet as he shifts his weight. “Yeah, and I‘m Fidel Castro.”
There’s a pause, and then the line cuts out. I unplug the phone out of the wall, and walk back to the living room. Maureen is still on the phone. She’s lying on her side, curled up on the couch, and the neat little flowered dress she’s wearing is bunched up above her knee. I sit down next to her, and stroke her leg. She flashes me a disapproving look. I lean over her, and she turns away and says “That’s fine, as soon as possible please,” to the service representative on the other end of the phone. I kiss her cheek.
“They’re checking their schedule.” She says.
There’s a hard knock at the door, and I fix her dress. It’s at an odd timing, and I’m skeptical. I pick up the copy of Twilight, in case I need a bludgeon, and as the person knocks again, I go into the hall. I pause, and then throw open the door.
It’s Peter. Shit, bad timing.
“How’s it going, man?” he asks brightly.
“Hey, what’s up?” He steps inside, and I close the door, and shake his hand.
“I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by,” he says. He motions to the book I’m still gripping. “What’s up with the book?”
I give him a look. “We’ve got another group outside.”
Peter gives me a blank look.
“This group’s not really that good though,” I continue, “So I just wasn’t sure if they just screwed up the timing.”
Peter’s face turns grave. “I’ve come at a terrible time haven’t I?”
“You’ll have to stay with us until this blows over,” I say, “Hapless as these guys are, if you try to leave, you’ll probably still get killed.”
Peter shakes his head, and takes his keys out of his pocket. He aims his autolock out the window, and the lights on his station wagon blink twice. They briefly illuminate a female figure slouching across the lawn towards the car.
“Jesus.” Peter says.
“Can I offer you some biscotti? Or a drink?” I ask.
“Biscotti would be great.”
We go into the kitchen again, and to fill Peter in, I explain how the fat one tried to get in over the sink, and how he fumbled the phone call.
“Seriously.“ says Peter.
I grab the bucket of Trader Joe’s biscotti from the cupboard, and we go back into the living room. Maureen is off the phone, and standing by the window.
“Hey Peter,” she says as we enter, and turns to look at us.
“Hey Maureen. See if they’re doing anything to my car?”
“Yeah, they couldn’t get in but I think they’re slashing the tires.”
Peter picks a biscotti out of the container. “Could be worse.”
I take a biscotti, and toss one to Maureen who sits across from us. Peter is a mutual friend of ours from college, but he was closer to Maureen, as both were in school to become teachers. Peter teaches biology at a high school in Norwalk, and Maureen asks him about that. Apparently he’s got a class of particularly dense students this year.
There’s a crash from upstairs, and we all jump up.
“Oh hell,” I say, “they broke a window.”
We all head upstairs. It’s in our bedroom, and the glass is littered all over the floor, with a brick in the middle. Something is written on it in an untidy scrawl. Whatever.
“Careful,” Maureen says, throwing her arm across the door, “nobody has their shoes on.”
“I’ll go get a broom and a dustbin” says Peter, heading back.
“Like hell you will.” I say. “I’ll go get it.”
I walk down the hall to the closet. The best method is to walk as if you’re just headed down the hall, and just as you pass the door, you turn and pull it open. I’m guessing it’s the woman, and sure enough, I throw open the closet, and the masked lady tries to bring a candlestick holder down on my head. I catch her arm, yank her out of the closet, and throw her against the opposite wall. She drops the candleholder and it clatters to the floor. Her nails dig into my hand, and I pull on her arm. She stumbles forward and I direct her weight down the stairs. She takes it, and trips at the top, plunging and tumbling down the stairs, before crumpling in a heap at the bottom.
I think I should briefly mention that I don’t normally hit women.
I grab the broom and dustbin from the closet, and meet Maureen and Peter half-way in the hall.
“Let me guess,” smirks Maureen, “The woman was in the closet?”
“Yeah she was,” I say, handing the broom to Peter, “I almost wondered if she would come behind me from the computer room, but it was fairly typical all the same. Tried to use that nice candleholder we got as a wedding present.”
Maureen pursed her lips. “I hope that isn’t dented.”
We take some time sweeping up the glass, and when we’re done we descend the stairs together. The woman is gone.
“That was fast.” I mutter.
Maureen flashes me a worried look.
“Looks like they got their shit together.” says Peter.
We get back to the living room, and they’ve started a fire in the grate. Among the burning newspaper, I see the container of biscotti.
“So.”
The family is arranged in a cute little line on the far end of the room. The man is on the left, holding a small hatchet in one hand and a half eaten biscotti in the other. In the middle is the little girl, wearing a white dress with pink roses along the bottom. She’s holding the hand of the woman, who is standing surprisingly straight.
“So you thought you were safe?” The man is speaking again. “Well you’re not. Not at all.”
I lean my arm on Maureen’s shoulder. “Where’d you get the axe?” I ask.
“That’s not your business.” The man replies testily. He takes a bite from the biscotti and chews slowly, looking at us.
“You tell yourselves you have nothing to fear, but you’re wrong, dead wrong.“ Then he starts to say something else, and, for effect, starts waving the hatchet around.
“Careful,” I say, “Watch where you’re waving that.”
But as soon as I say it, the guy loses his grip on the handle, and the hatchet spins from his hand and buries itself into Peter’s shoe.
“FUCK.” Peter yells, staring down at the cleaver embedded in his loafers. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?”
The man looks like he’s about to continue speaking, but Peter reaches down and wrenches the weapon out of his foot, and tosses it away. Blood leeks onto the floor, and onto the carpet.
“FUCK YOU.”
“Hey!” the man says, starting forward, “It was an accident.”
“I don’t fucking care, fuck you, you piece of shit, sonavabitch…” Peter yells. The mother pulls the girl close and covers her ears protectively, and the man raises his arms defensively.
“Hey, you know, watch your language, there’s a young child here!”
The man takes another step forward angrily, and then looks back, torn. Maureen leaves the room, and runs up the stairs, and I hurry over to Peter.
“You‘re a fine one to talk,” I say, trying to be reasonable, “You just threw an axe at a teacher. Do you have anything we can stop the bleeding with? ”
The man stares back at Peter who continues hurling obscenities. “Alright!” he says, “We’re going, just, just stop yelling, Christ…” He pulls his bag mask off, and throws it my direction. HE looks like he hasn‘t shaved in weeks.
“Wrap it around his foot or something, just shut up!”
It’s the best I have, so I kneel down and begin to wrap the burlap around Peter’s foot, and the man leaves through the front door, pushing his family in front of him with a backward glance of disgust. Maureen returns with a mini first aid kit from the upstairs bathroom.
Peter glances at me. “Hey.” he says weakly.
“Hey,” I tell him, “You’re going to be alright, this didn’t get you so bad.”
“I know,” he says, “I’m losing a lot of blood though, Is there any biscotti left?”
I look around the room. Nothing. The man even took his half eaten piece with him. The shriveled corpse of the plastic container lies in the fireplace.
“Nope,” I say, “I’ll have to get more.”
“Sucks.” Peter says, and then passes out.
So, lol. This was great. Maureen and Robert are beyond frightened, clearly, and just plain irritated now. Which is incredibly amusing, but still partially unbelievable. I'd understand more if this psycho creeper family wasn't dangerous at all, if they just left annoying messages and stole their biscotti, but when you're talking about real murderous invaders, Robert and Maureen's indifference becomes unrealistic. They only seemed to be slightly perturbed about the candleholder, and the ax, and the slashed tires. Which makes the story cute, yes, but I'm not buying it.