A Danger Within

by David Henson

I unclip and slap the garage door remote to jar a little more juice out of the battery. Of course this would happen when I have an early meeting with Mr. Allerton. I’ve gotten off to an “unimpressive” start with the new boss. I press the button a third time, and the door lurches downward. Finally.

Backing out of the driveway, I notice I need to mow the lawn and trim the shrubs. I tease Lucy that’s another reason to have kids; they eventually can do the yard work.

As I’m sliding the remote onto the visor, movement catches my eye. Did I see something — or someone — roll under the door just before it closed?

I try several times to reopen the door, but it doesn’t budge. I check my watch and hurry to the front entrance, fumbling with my keys. Wait... what if there is an intruder? I envision myself at gunpoint. No matter ’cause Lucy’s in there alone. I unlock the door and push but can’t open it. The damn brace I shove under the handle every night because of the break-ins in our area.

I call my wife’s phone. No answer. My heart quickening, I tell myself not to let my imagination take me hostage. Breathing deeply, I call our landline. Then my wife’s cell phone again. Still no answer. Calm down. Lucy can’t hear the phones because she’s in the shower, that’s all. I picture a gloved hand snatching open the shower curtain. “Lucy, are you OK? Lucy?” I pound the door, but there’s no response except the yapping Yorkie across the street.

I go around to the second-story bathroom window. “Lucy, can you hear me?” I look for a pebble or stick. Nothing. I jingle the keys in my pocket. They might break the glass. I stare up as the wind ripples through the maple near our house. The branches creak like a loose floorboard, and a squawking squirrel twitches its tail as a hawk glides overhead. Could I climb the tree and get Lucy’s attention? I imagine my wife standing under the maple, shaking her head and watching a fireman with an extension ladder help me down.

I think about phoning emergency, but see police officers knocking down our front door, and Lucy running from the bathroom in her robe screaming “Howard! What’s going on?” Don’t call. Then I picture my wife, terror widening her eyes as an intruder strokes her hair. Call.

I tell the dispatcher what’s happening. I admit I might be overreacting, but... I don’t even have to finish the sentence before she says it’s best to play it safe.

As I wait for the police, I shout for Lucy until I’m hoarse. I don’t know if she hears me, but I tell her to get the handgun from the dresser and lock herself in the bedroom.

Our neighbor Harry, still half-lathered, comes outside. I tell him there might be an intruder in our house. “I’m sick of this,” he says, hurries back inside and returns with a shotgun. The metallic sheen of the barrel sends a chill down my spine. I tell Harry, a towering guy, to get rid of that thing before he gets himself killed. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled for Lucy to get our handgun. Harry says the shotgun’s not loaded.

Sirens approach. Tires screech. I shout that the police have arrived so Lucy and the possible intruder might hear.

“What’s going on?” Harry and I wheel toward the voice. The officer pulls out her revolver when she sees Harry’s gun. “Drop it.” She’s a broad-shouldered woman I wouldn’t want to cross. Harry releases the shotgun, which discharges when it hits the ground and shatters our bathroom window. Lucy shrieks.

Harry falls to his knees and puts his hands up. Acrid smoke surrounds us and burns my eyes.

“You, too,” the policewoman says, motioning the gun toward me. “Until we sort this out.”

“It’s my house,” I say as my nightmare about looking into the barrel of a gun comes true and the cool dew soaks through the knees of my slacks. “My wife Lucy’s in the house.”

Three more officers approach. A cop with a squeaky voice charges Harry with illegal discharge of a firearm in the presence of a police officer.

I finally convince the responders I’m the one who called for help and lead them to the front of the house. I explain about the brace and how they need to use one of those little battering rams. The broad-shouldered officer tells me to get back and let them do their job. As she starts to pull me away from the house, we hear the deadbolt click. The door pulls the safety chain taut. I can see through the opening that Lucy’s hair is plastered to her forehead, and she seems on the verge of hyperventilating.

After a few reassurances, my wife exits the house. She and I wait with squeaky-voice in a squad car while the other responders search our house. I tell Lucy what I might have seen. I’m unable to read between the lines of her silence. Harry’s locked up in the back of the vehicle beside us. I keep staring straight ahead so my eyes don’t collide with his.

About twenty minutes later, the police tell us the house is secure. Squeaky-voice lectures me about tying up scarce law enforcement resources. I start to explain what the dispatcher said but think better of it.

After the officers leave, Lucy and I set about cleaning up the broken glass and silver pellets from the bathroom floor. “Well, this is a story to tell our grandchildren some day,” I say, testing the temperature of my wife’s anger. Lucy picks up a large shard and clinks it into the dust pan. “Crap.”

I figure I’m in big trouble until she lifts her hand. It’s trembling, and blood is running down her finger into her palm. She rinses the wound in the sink and globs disinfectant on it. I can tell she’s fighting back tears.

“I’m really sorry,” I say, “I thought—”

“It’s not your fault, Howard. It’s the door braces, the break-ins... Maybe we should move. Maybe...” Lucy’s voice trails off then she lowers her head and swings it back and forth while saying, “No, no, no.” She looks up at me. “I like my little house. I like my area. I refuse to be driven away.” She goes to the dresser, rummages in the bottom drawer, removes the handgun and clicks in the cartridge. “We should keep this where it’s easier to get to.”

“Let’s think about—”

My phone rings. It’s Mr. Allerton’s assistant saying my boss wants to know where the hell I am.

Lucy tells me to go ahead, that she’ll text her assistant she’s working from home today. We agree to discuss things when we’re in better frames of mind.

After grabbing a fresh battery for the remote opener, I go to the kitchen door and freeze. Did the police check the garage? Of course. But did they move all the crap around, look behind stuff? Yes, yes, yes. I crack the door and sneak my hand out to the button on the wall. The garage door grunts and creaks upwards. Bright light rushes in, and a squirrel scurries out. A squirrel!

I call Lucy as I’m driving to work and tell her about the rodent. I apologize for causing so much trouble over nothing. She says I shouldn’t blame myself then surprises me by suggesting we put poison bait in the garage.

The rest of the way to the office, I fret over what to say to Mr. Allerton about missing our meeting. Turns out it doesn’t matter. When I arrive, he marches to my cubicle and fires me on the spot.

My whole body feels shot with Novocain as I drive home. When I reach our subdivision, I ride around for more than an hour wondering how to tell Lucy. I don’t know if it’s the slant of the late morning sunlight or what, but the houses look flat, almost like drawings.

By the time I pull in our driveway, I’m so nervous, I can barely press the remote. At least it works.

Inside the house, I walk through the glare of the kitchen into the dim light of the living room, which is still sleeping behind closed curtains. I bump over a vase with my elbow. Great. More broken glass. I bend over to pick up the pieces when I hear Lucy scream, “Leave us alone!” There’s a bang, and I feel searing pain.

* * *

Doctors assure me that, with time, I’ll sit comfortably again.

Lucy’s therapist is also optimistic.