Scritch, Scratch

SCRITCH, SCRATCH

It was 1981 and I had lived in my small, yet comfortable apartment for several months. I’d eagerly rented it due to its proximity to the North Quincy train station and its easy access into South Boston where I taught elementary school. My apartment was street level in a house in a quiet, family-oriented neighborhood. The house was at the end of a dead-end street near marshland that was part of the Neponset River Watershed. I was happy with my set up even though my traditional parents disapproved that I was living on my own. In their world, a woman only left her family home when she got married.

One night, as I relaxed with a novel after an early dinner, I heard: Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch.

I stopped reading and looked in the direction of the sound. I assumed it came from my bedroom. A few moments passed; nothing, so I resumed reading.

Scritch, scratch.

This time, I got up and slowly tiptoed to my bedroom. The noise seemed to come from outside a window. It sounded as if someone was trying to cut the screen to break in. I had always felt safe but that night, the sounds scared me. I thought to myself, is it a burglar?

Despite my fear, I stood still to see if I would hear the sound again. Sure enough, scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. I stood in front of my desk that was under the window. I started to shake. The curtains and shade were drawn so I couldn’t see anything outside. I also knew I had all the windows locked, but burglars didn’t let that stop them. Cracking the glass pane is the easiest way for them to enter a place.

Living alone, I took no chances. I swiftly walked to the kitchen where my wall phone was. Fingers trembling, I dialed 911. I explained the situation to the dispatcher letting him know I lived at the end of a dead-end street. Less than five minutes later, two officers appeared at my door and introduced themselves as Sergeant Tom Sweeney and Officer Frank Reilly. The Sergeant seemed to be older than Officer Reilly and had a heavy Boston accent. He was huskier, more talkative, and carried himself with confidence. It appeared to me that he had more years of experience than the younger policeman and was clearly in charge. Officer Reilly was slim with red hair and quieter. They entered, walked around the apartment to check all the windows and the back door. While in my bedroom, they heard the noise. The Sergeant ran outside while his partner, Frank, stayed with me. We both stood farther away from the bedroom window not knowing what could happen next.

After a few minutes, Officer Frank called his buddy on his two-way radio when we both heard a new batch of sounds. The Sergeant responded, “Frank, there’s no one here. I even walked around the entire building and used my flashlight to see if I could see anyone out back and toward the marsh. No one’s here.”

Again, the sound happened and Officer Frank and I looked at each other, perplexed. “What could it be?” I asked. He talked to the Sergeant on the radio, “Hey, Tommy, was that you making the noise? We just heard it again.”

“No, it wasn’t me, but I think I know what it is. The wind is causing the branches of a shrub to scrape against the screen. Is this the sound you hear?”  He created the sound with the branches; we both smiled knowing he was right. “Yup, that’s it,” answered officer Frank.

Obviously, I was relieved, but I could feel my face warm up with embarrassment. I didn’t know what to say and apologized profusely to the policemen. “I’m so, so sorry. You wasted your time coming here to find out it’s a few branches. How embarrassing. You must think I’m crazy.”

“Please, don’t apologize, and you’re not crazy,” said Sergeant Tom, “This is our job, so we must check every call and make sure people are safe. Believe me, we’ve been called to even more bizarre situations. If you don’t want to keep hearing the noise every time it’s windy, you might want to ask the landlord to cut back the branches. Also, since the end of this street is dark, your landlord should add some spotlights to the side and back of the house.  This was an interesting call, and I certainly got a good laugh out of it.” He smiled and headed toward the front door.

“Thanks, again, to both of you. I truly appreciate it.” They responded, “Our pleasure. Good night.”

With the officers gone, I decided to make some tea and go back to my reading. As I resumed with my book and waited for the water to boil, I heard the sounds again, scritch, scratch, scritch! All I could think was: Oh boy, I have to put up with this noise all night. Thank goodness it turned out not to be a burglar.

The tea kettle whistled and I got my tea ready. As I sat down to continue the novel and sip my tea, I paused to reflect on the precarious nature of police officers’ jobs. They need to be ready for any type of call, whether it is violent, dangerous, or strange. Their work often puts them in harm’s way, and they never know what to expect, yet they must respond for the safety of the community they serve. I appreciated the assistance I received from the two officers and felt better that I could relax, knowing I was safe and no one was trying to break into my apartment.

After an hour or so, glued to the novel, I felt my eyelids falling shut. I knew I needed to end the current chapter and head to bed. In bed, relaxed and almost asleep, I heard scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. My thoughts wandered, what if it is for real this time?

Scritch, scratch!