Kidnapped

Darkness fell slowly last night as I scrambled and fretted over a million chores and pulled myself in as many mental directions. I looked forward to a quiet night with the beginning romance of a new, good book.

DING DONG chimed the doorbell.

Already donning my PJs, I immediately headed toward my back door. I saw through directly to the yard through the diamond frame of glass cut into the door; my stoop stood empty.

(five minutes later) DING DONG. I then recognized the longer, patient chiming of the front door bell.

Who was it? It was no one I knew--that I knew. Friends and family always knock at the informal back door or call if they see my parked car, informing me of their presence just outside my doors.

(10 minutes later) DING DONG. I looked toward the front door but fearing to venture into the living room which spilled with all my son's bedroom contents--I still haven't finished painting his room. I think to leave the lights on in the bathroom and hallway so as not to alert the intruder to a change.

Suddenly, my home seemed less a peaceful retreat, a haven and more of the house made of sticks in the Three Little Pigs fable. And the Big Bad Wolf heaved just outside my fragile walls.

Has it stopped?

(15 minutes later) DING DONG. DING DONG. DING DONG. DING DONG. Impatience. On their part. Anxiety. On mine. How do they know I'm home????

The only other time someone attempted to gain entry with such persistence was when a Sheriff was bent on subpoenaing me as a witness in a car accident case. Was that it???!?! Had to be. This was definitely foe, not friend causing this.

My breathing grew more normal as some 20 minutes glided by without ding, nor dong. They left, I thought in relief. I began thinking of what I would do the next day when the Sheriff returned. Someone assuredly sent by the decree of my law-wielding ex-husband.

Normalacy returns. Why am I being subpoenaed? By whom? Shit. This must be the spawn of some visitation issue with his father.

DING DONG. What in the hell do they want??? I feel like the tortured soul in Poe's Tell Tale Heart. I'm reduced to slithering around only my bedroom, the bathroom and the hallway. I finally gather some bravado and sneak on all fours through the kitchen toward the veiled windows. The creaking of the hard wood floors sound as loud as an alarm.

Somehow the night seems more menacing knowing it sits just outside the sheer daffodil panels hanging on my windows. Do I dare sneak up and peer out? I do.

Again no one.

DING DONG. DING DONG. DING DONG. I slide down the kitchen wall.

Brrrrrring. Brrrrrring. A cold steel ringing from the phone. A click. "No one's here right now so please leave your message after the tone." Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

"Mam, this is Officer Jones from the police department. Would you please call us back as soon as you get this message.We're sending some officers to your home."

Was this a message of menace or rescue?

"Officer, I'm returning a call..."

"Your name?"

"(blank) (blank)"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, why..."

"Did you know you left your car trunk open?"

"WHAT!" I nearly shout.

"Your car trunk is open. Can you please go outside and speak to the officers? They are right outside your front door. "

Stalling, I told the policeman that I would need a few minutes to get dressed. I quietly turned the lock on my back door and slowly turned the knob. The wind moved through my back yard like a snake, rattling the long, lean leaves of my tiger lilies and sweeping through the too-long grass.

I stepped onto my stoop and strained my neck to see the back end of my car. . . with the trunk wide open like a gaping hungry mouth. The wind made it "chew."

I went back in headed toward the front door and stepped out into the night again to face the backs of two officers walking down my steps. I embarrassingly lied, saying I was sick and had been taking a long bath.

The darker older one told me that my neighbors had called the police worried that some harm had come to me in my own driveway. I remembered the state of contents of my trunk: my Liz Claiborne faux crocodile attache opened and vomiting its overstuffed contents all over my trunk looking like it had been in a tussle. Or just another clue pointing to my chaotic life (i.e., speeding all over town, bringing work home).

I don't know which is more disturbing: my rapid-fire reaction and conclusion as to whom rap-rap-rapped on my front door, or the assumption of my neighbors who equated an open trunk and failure to answer the door to foul play.

The mind is truly a powerful bit of machinery.