Over Her Dead Body(8)

“I had an intruder,” I said, matter-of-factly. “I saw her on the security monitor.”

“Her?” he asked. I didn’t take offense at the inherent sexism; I had been surprised, too.

“There was no sense in calling the police,” I said, “when I could dispense with her just as efficiently.”

“Please tell me you didn’t shoot anybody.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I admonished. “I shot up in the air to scare her away. She probably ran right past you.”

He thought about this for a moment, as if trying to recall whether he might have seen anything out of the ordinary. He finally nodded and suggested, “Why don’t I make us some tea?”

We had just had tea, but I thought it a good idea. This whole “widowed woman living alone” thing had taken some getting used to, but I had come to embrace my unplanned solitude. My thoughts were more interesting than most conversations, and I certainly didn’t need a dog to walk or a cat to rival my aloofness. But I did enjoy the company of family now and then. I took comfort in the familiarity of a shared memory, an inside joke, unselfconscious laughter. My children’s insistence on denying me such comforts was a key contributor to my perpetual bad mood. Second only to the reason they were denying me, of course.

The kettle rattled and a moment later Nathan appeared with the teapot. I smiled when I saw he’d brought two cups. I had ceased lamenting that Nathan was not my own son, choosing instead to be grateful that I had someone in my life who acted like one.

Nathan set the cups on their saucers. But as he bent over to sit beside me, he froze midcrouch.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Shh!” he commanded, then stood perfectly still. I heard an owl hoot. I heard the hum of my furnace. I heard my heart beating in the backs of my ears. And then I heard what he heard. A scratching noise, like fingernails on a screen door.

“What is that?” I whispered, and Nathan held up a quieting finger.

The sound stopped. Then started again. Then stopped.

“You think someone’s trying to get in through a window?” I asked.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “And don’t shoot me!”

I would have offered him the gun, but I knew he wouldn’t take it. It was obvious he had never fired one, and the thought of using it likely scared him more than any intruder.

“Nathan, wait!” I called out, then tiptoed over to the fireplace to fetch the cast-iron poker. He nodded appreciation as I handed it to him. The front door creaked on its aging hinges as he slipped through.

My eyes found the gun. I scooped it off the table with shaking hands, then pointed it at the door. I heard the front stairs groan, the crunch of leaves under stiff leather dress shoes. Then silence.

I watched the second hand of my vintage grandfather clock tick off a full minute. Then a minute more. The gun was heavy in my hand, but I didn’t put it down. I didn’t pull the hammer back, but my thumb was primed and ready. I was no John Wayne, but if the need arose, I could get off a shot in less than a second, and a second one in half that.

I felt a wave of dizziness and realized I had been holding my breath. I forced a slow exhale. What is taking him so long? With my next breath came my long-awaited answer, as Nathan called out, “Put the gun down, I found our intruder!”

Nathan was smiling when he appeared on the stoop, cradling what looked like a blond raccoon.

“What in God’s name is that?”

He flipped on the light as he walked through the door carrying an impossibly precious golden-haired dog.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I sighed. I recalled the rope in the slender woman’s hand, which I realized wasn’t a rope at all. What a fuss I had made!

“I think we know what your intruder was after,” Nathan offered, scratching the little dog’s chin. His fingers found a silver bone-shaped tag. “Looks like his name is Brando.”

I looked into the big brown eyes of my furry visitor. His little dog whiskers were quivering, so I reached out to cup his face. He leaned into my touch. I felt a rush of warmth in my chest. I remembered when my children were babies, how easy it was to love them and for them to love me back. They were so vulnerable, with their tiny bodies and fragile hearts, so I let myself be vulnerable, too: crying like a blubbering fool over first steps, lost teeth, wobbly choir solos at tedious school concerts. But then they grew up, and our love soured. Their affection became conditional upon getting things they wanted: a trip to Europe, a new car, a down payment on a condo by the beach. Was it the money that had ruined us? Would we have been better off if I had hidden it from them? Or never made it in the first place?

“There, there,” I soothed, and Brando’s fluffy tail sprang to life, flipping side to side like a conductor’s baton. And suddenly I remembered what it felt like to feel affection with no strings attached.

“There’s a number, shall I call?” Nathan asked as he took out his phone.

“Poor sweet thing,” I said, evading the question. “What kind of irresponsible menace lets their dog run free in the dead of night?”

“Do I need to hide your gun?” Nathan asked as he dialed.

“Maybe,” I said noncommittally.

I knew we had to call the owner-intruder, and that she would come and get her dog. But I didn’t know that this mysterious stranger would give me not a reason to live but rather—at long last—an opportunity to die.