I Know What I Heard

I Know What I Heard

In July 1984, I was nearly killed by a fire extinguisher.

I was eight months pregnant and couldn’t sleep, so I sat in the dark kitchen eating a pint of vanilla ice cream. Suddenly the overhead light snapped on. My husband stood there in Snoopy boxers, raising a fire extinguisher over his head.

“What the …?” He staggered back, lowered the extinguisher and sighed in relief. “You nearly gave me a heart attack; I thought you were an intruder! Really, Izzy? No lights? No warning you’re down here? No concern that it’s two in the morning?”

“I scared you? The Marine Corps never trained you to notice the elephant missing from our bed?” I laughed at the fire extinguisher. “Really? I complain of heartburn, but isn’t that a little drast…”

“This isn't funny.” He raked his fingers through his shorn hair. “I feel grey hairs pushing through my scalp.”

Eventually, we had a mature conversation about self-defense, especially when he deployed for weeks at a time. Women preferred to protect themselves with hairspray to the face; men preferred a bullet to the face. We almost settled on a dog. Unfortunately, my husband was allergic, which limited us to expensive, hairless breeds. And to ensure adequate safety, this bald dog had to be male and so large that I’d feel uncomfortable unless he wore underwear.

Dog out, gun in.

My husband patiently showed me the basics, had me demonstrate them, then secured the weapon in a gun lockbox in his bedside drawer. The key was taped to the underside of my bedside drawer.

I took copious notes.

He immediately tore them up. “Who writes down the steps to a gun’s hiding place?”

Apparently, I was a risk to myself.

*****

For a few years, we lived with that gun. It moved with us to our assigned military bases across the country. Little mind was paid to interstate laws at that point because it seemed to be an out of sight, out of mind situation for both of us. It began to take on the innocence of a car. Deadly, only if used incorrectly. I’d grown indifferent to its existence.

Sadly, after five years of marriage and two babies, my husband was killed in action. Yet, that gun and I continued silently cohabitating.

When the boys were preschoolers, they began obsessing over guns. Bananas became pistols. Water guns were more powerful than firehoses. Their television choices became shows with violence. I was grateful they knew nothing of the real gun. Regardless, I needed to draw the line.

I made a decree. “No more guns or violent activities, and I promise to stop writing about you in my weekly column.” I lied; they were a wellspring of material. “Agreed?”

They reluctantly approved of this pact, but it didn’t end there.

“Why do adults make toy guns?” said my oldest.

“Apparently, dinosaurs and trucks are not interesting anymore. And throwing shoes is not an option.”

Maybe in some infinite wisdom, toy makers believed it would teach children better aim in getting things directly into the hamper. At that moment, my sons’ bedroom floor looked like a minefield of balled-up dirty socks that seemed to procreate.

After a 20-minute dissertation on the dangers of guns, and the importance of always respecting safe practices, I brilliantly concluded with the Second Amendment’s Right to Bear Arms.

My younger son’s brow furrowed. I was sure I’d made a very lasting impression.

“Wow, cool,” he said. “Can I get bear arms for Christmas?”

Before I could process his question, my older son queried, “So where can we buy bear arms?”

“Probably in the same stores where they sell turtlenecks and frog legs,” I said.

Exasperated, I left the room.

*****

Late one night, readying for sleep, I noticed my boys had already made their way to my bed, both sound asleep. Again, for the umpteenth time.

Dozing off, I heard a strange, yet familiar sound outside my bedroom door. The boys didn’t stir, but this wasn’t my imagination.

Moments later, that same noise. It was the first time I regretted not getting that bald dog. But I knew that sound. I froze, straining my ears, and when the sound came a third time, I was certain someone had broken into our home. Having grown up with four shameless brothers, I know what I heard.

I heard someone farting.

I tried not to panic, realizing my amateur intruder had probably eaten gas-producing food for lunch that day. Crazy, perhaps, but it was certainly possible.

Snapping back to reality, I went with my own gut, reacting without further hesitation. I had children to protect. I needed to get the gun. Stealthily, I retrieved the key, then the weapon. Considering the most dangerous thing I’d shot until then was a stapler, at least I held the correct end.

Gun in hand, I took a protective stance between the bedroom door and my precious babies. My free hand dialed 911.

“Please hurry,” I desperately whispered. It was the scariest moment of my life.

I could’ve had Chinese food delivered faster, but I was so relieved to see the police flashers outside. I threw open the front door. The two officers went to check the premises and reassured me we were safe. They advised me to sit tight until they could get a full report. Thankfully, they found nothing amiss outside or inside.

When they questioned the unmistakable sound I’d heard, their investigation took a steep downward turn. I tried to bring credibility to the crime scene.

“Maybe the intruder had an intestinal affliction, IBS, or food poisoning.” I should’ve stopped talking. I didn’t. “Why aren’t you searching local gas station bathrooms? Stop laughing, you’re very unprofessional. I want badge numbers.”

In my state of anxiety, I contemplated offering to pay one of them to sleep over, then quickly realized that would get me arrested. And worse, through periodic bouts of hysteria, they confiscated my gun and issued me a warning for not having a “carry permit.” How did I know they didn’t mean ‘voting’ when they asked if I was registered?

On their way out, they got in one final parting shot.

“Ma'am, the only way you could’ve thwarted this perp would’ve been to throw the gun at him. The bullet clip is missing; it’s probably still in the lockbox. We’ll need that, too.”

*****

No one will ever change my mind about what I heard that night. I appreciate the difficulty the police would face in identifying suspects; a line-up would be out of the question.

There was relief in no longer owning a gun. I carried mace instead. In our rural neck of the woods, it worked on both humans and bears. My only hope was that my boys didn’t use it on me when they realized Christmas had passed, and they didn’t get “bear arms.”