My short story submission for the 2013 Annual Writer's Showcase.
One day a cop showed up on my doorstep with no idea of who he was.
Retired now, my primary job was to cultivate my garden. I cared for my garden as much as a young girl cares for the doll she sleeps next to at night. Sometimes, I would even take a break from doing the laundry just to check on my tomatoes and petunias. Today was one of those days when the carnations and lilies seemed more important than the whites and darks. As strange as it may seem, my husband and I lived in a maturing urban development, which had faced several robberies on Sunday nights, recently known as the Sunday Robberies. The robber had still not been caught.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the house to better manage the weeds in my garden, I could feel my heart jump as I saw a cop sitting on my doorstep.
I approached the gentleman as one would approach a stray animal.
He watched me and made a strange noise like he was clearing his throat.
“I need to see some ID,” I told him.
“What ID do you need?” he asked me. He spoke slowly with a slight backwoods accent and turned his head to the side like my old dog Tulip used to do when she needed to relieve herself.
“To prove that you’re a cop.”
He showed me realistic-looking ID while scratching his balding brown hair.
“Are you here because of the Sunday Robberies?”
Mention of the robberies made him jerk his head like I used to when I felt myself falling asleep in lectures. “Can I come in, ma’am?” he said.
Keeping my eye on the cop, I realized that I had not locked the door. I wondered if the strange man had stolen anything, but scolded myself for accusing a cop of theft. With the man in my home, my eyes darted around the corners of the room, and I felt like a sleuth. The eyes of our hunting trophies also kept a look out above my fireplace.
“What is your name, sir?” I asked as he took a seat on my brown leather armchair.
“Pete,” said the cop, looking dazed and unpredictable. “That’s a mighty fine grandfather clock there, ma’am.”
I was about to say thank you when Pete said, “Let me ask you something, ma’am. Do you know why the robber likes to leave spare change on the dining room table of the homes he robs?” the cop asked, as if something had clicked in his brain.
“How would you know that the robber likes to do that, sir?” I said.
“I don’t know,” the cop said.
“How about you just stay here, sir, while I get us some tea?” I said, feeling my hands get clammy and a strange pulse in my neck. The cop stared at me blankly.
Once in the kitchen, I thought of my husband, hitting golf balls on the driving range with the neighbors. With his memory diminishing and his health leaving him in old age, I encouraged him to spend time out wherever he wanted to go. In turn, he encouraged my gardening, telling me that before he spends his last day, he would like to see me plant every flower in the world. No longer wanting the strange policeman to pose a threat to our happy home, I dialed 911, keeping my voice down as much as I could. “There’s a man here,” I said. “Pete is his name, and he claims to be one of your own.”
“Yes, ma’am, we do have a Deputy Pete,” came the policeman on the other line. “What’s the problem?”
“He’s in a rather unusual state, and he arrived at my doorstep for no apparent reason,” I said, my voice shaking on the last word. I gave the officer my address, and he said he would be arriving shortly. I thought of calling my husband as well, but he would either be too startled for his health, or not remember by the time he came home. One thing he said that always stayed with me was that, “No matter what my mind decides to forget, love never leaves a heart, and there you’ll always be.”
Before pouring the tea for my unexpected visitor, I peeked around the kitchen corner to see if the cop was still in my living room. He wasn’t.
The grandfather clock chimed, and if I had poured tea it would have fallen on the floor, shattering into sharp puzzle pieces. I don’t quite know why, but I expected closet doors to swing open, unleashing the man and all of his fury. Instead of waiting for this moment, I walked back to the kitchen as quickly as someone my age could. I missed my terrier Tulip who startled everyone in passing, barking a shrill bark as if there was always an intruder. Now that Tulip was no longer here when I needed him, I decided to grab a knife. I wasn’t even sure how to lunge such an object at an enemy, but holding it gave me a sense of command; It was like I had gained two feet taller, had all the abilities of one half my age, and had gained the power of a mountain lion ready to spring on its prey.
All of these traits soon vanished, however, upon giving the real police department quite a fright when they showed up at my doorstep, watching a gray-haired woman approaching them with a knife.
“Put down the—“
“There’s an intruder in my house!” I said, lowering the knife to my side.
“Set down the knife, and we will investigate,” the policeman said. “Outside with another policeman you can wait.”
Outside was just where I wanted to be, among my flowers and vegetables that would not harm a flea.
The real policeman reported back once they had found the intruder coming back from the restroom. “It looks like it could be drugs,” said the real cop. “We’ll have to test his blood and urine to see if he’s been overdosing. Then we’ll report back to you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
Two days later I answered the phone in the kitchen while cutting onions for a vegetable stew.
“Is this Mrs. Melany Below?” a policeman asked.
I confirmed.
“I would like to congratulate you, ma’am, on giving us a major lead for the case of the Sunday Robberies.”
“Excuse me?” I said with a laugh.
The cop said: “Mr. Dredge, you see, who arrived on your doorstep earlier this week was suffering from drug-induced amnesia. Whoever is the mastermind behind these robberies was drugging Mr. Dredge, telling him to rob houses, leave spare change on their tables, and report back to him or her with food and money.”
I once again felt as triumphant as I had with the butcher knife in hand.
The cop said: “Mr. Dredge lost his identity as a police officer and was given a new one as a thief by someone we have yet to find and punish. Thank you for this lead, Mrs. Below.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m glad I could help.” Then I hung up the phone, my face white as a daisy.
“Who was that on the phone, Melany?” my husband asked from the couch.
“You should be calling me Nancy Drew instead,” I said, and my husband did just that after the retelling of my story.
Nancy Drew did a lot of things and solved a lot of mysteries, but she could not tend a garden better than I. No type of drug-induced amnesia could ever be strong enough to make me forget that.
One day a cop showed up on my doorstep with no idea of who he was.
Retired now, my primary job was to cultivate my garden. I cared for my garden as much as a young girl cares for the doll she sleeps next to at night. Sometimes, I would even take a break from doing the laundry just to check on my tomatoes and petunias. Today was one of those days when the carnations and lilies seemed more important than the whites and darks. As strange as it may seem, my husband and I lived in a maturing urban development, which had faced several robberies on Sunday nights, recently known as the Sunday Robberies. The robber had still not been caught.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the house to better manage the weeds in my garden, I could feel my heart jump as I saw a cop sitting on my doorstep.
I approached the gentleman as one would approach a stray animal.
He watched me and made a strange noise like he was clearing his throat.
“I need to see some ID,” I told him.
“What ID do you need?” he asked me. He spoke slowly with a slight backwoods accent and turned his head to the side like my old dog Tulip used to do when she needed to relieve herself.
“To prove that you’re a cop.”
He showed me realistic-looking ID while scratching his balding brown hair.
“Are you here because of the Sunday Robberies?”
Mention of the robberies made him jerk his head like I used to when I felt myself falling asleep in lectures. “Can I come in, ma’am?” he said.
Keeping my eye on the cop, I realized that I had not locked the door. I wondered if the strange man had stolen anything, but scolded myself for accusing a cop of theft. With the man in my home, my eyes darted around the corners of the room, and I felt like a sleuth. The eyes of our hunting trophies also kept a look out above my fireplace.
“What is your name, sir?” I asked as he took a seat on my brown leather armchair.
“Pete,” said the cop, looking dazed and unpredictable. “That’s a mighty fine grandfather clock there, ma’am.”
I was about to say thank you when Pete said, “Let me ask you something, ma’am. Do you know why the robber likes to leave spare change on the dining room table of the homes he robs?” the cop asked, as if something had clicked in his brain.
“How would you know that the robber likes to do that, sir?” I said.
“I don’t know,” the cop said.
“How about you just stay here, sir, while I get us some tea?” I said, feeling my hands get clammy and a strange pulse in my neck. The cop stared at me blankly.
Once in the kitchen, I thought of my husband, hitting golf balls on the driving range with the neighbors. With his memory diminishing and his health leaving him in old age, I encouraged him to spend time out wherever he wanted to go. In turn, he encouraged my gardening, telling me that before he spends his last day, he would like to see me plant every flower in the world. No longer wanting the strange policeman to pose a threat to our happy home, I dialed 911, keeping my voice down as much as I could. “There’s a man here,” I said. “Pete is his name, and he claims to be one of your own.”
“Yes, ma’am, we do have a Deputy Pete,” came the policeman on the other line. “What’s the problem?”
“He’s in a rather unusual state, and he arrived at my doorstep for no apparent reason,” I said, my voice shaking on the last word. I gave the officer my address, and he said he would be arriving shortly. I thought of calling my husband as well, but he would either be too startled for his health, or not remember by the time he came home. One thing he said that always stayed with me was that, “No matter what my mind decides to forget, love never leaves a heart, and there you’ll always be.”
Before pouring the tea for my unexpected visitor, I peeked around the kitchen corner to see if the cop was still in my living room. He wasn’t.
The grandfather clock chimed, and if I had poured tea it would have fallen on the floor, shattering into sharp puzzle pieces. I don’t quite know why, but I expected closet doors to swing open, unleashing the man and all of his fury. Instead of waiting for this moment, I walked back to the kitchen as quickly as someone my age could. I missed my terrier Tulip who startled everyone in passing, barking a shrill bark as if there was always an intruder. Now that Tulip was no longer here when I needed him, I decided to grab a knife. I wasn’t even sure how to lunge such an object at an enemy, but holding it gave me a sense of command; It was like I had gained two feet taller, had all the abilities of one half my age, and had gained the power of a mountain lion ready to spring on its prey.
All of these traits soon vanished, however, upon giving the real police department quite a fright when they showed up at my doorstep, watching a gray-haired woman approaching them with a knife.
“Put down the—“
“There’s an intruder in my house!” I said, lowering the knife to my side.
“Set down the knife, and we will investigate,” the policeman said. “Outside with another policeman you can wait.”
Outside was just where I wanted to be, among my flowers and vegetables that would not harm a flea.
The real policeman reported back once they had found the intruder coming back from the restroom. “It looks like it could be drugs,” said the real cop. “We’ll have to test his blood and urine to see if he’s been overdosing. Then we’ll report back to you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
Two days later I answered the phone in the kitchen while cutting onions for a vegetable stew.
“Is this Mrs. Melany Below?” a policeman asked.
I confirmed.
“I would like to congratulate you, ma’am, on giving us a major lead for the case of the Sunday Robberies.”
“Excuse me?” I said with a laugh.
The cop said: “Mr. Dredge, you see, who arrived on your doorstep earlier this week was suffering from drug-induced amnesia. Whoever is the mastermind behind these robberies was drugging Mr. Dredge, telling him to rob houses, leave spare change on their tables, and report back to him or her with food and money.”
I once again felt as triumphant as I had with the butcher knife in hand.
The cop said: “Mr. Dredge lost his identity as a police officer and was given a new one as a thief by someone we have yet to find and punish. Thank you for this lead, Mrs. Below.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m glad I could help.” Then I hung up the phone, my face white as a daisy.
“Who was that on the phone, Melany?” my husband asked from the couch.
“You should be calling me Nancy Drew instead,” I said, and my husband did just that after the retelling of my story.
Nancy Drew did a lot of things and solved a lot of mysteries, but she could not tend a garden better than I. No type of drug-induced amnesia could ever be strong enough to make me forget that.
RSS Feed