No Place Like Home

Whittaker walked up Pilgrim Road, deliberately splashing into the puddles left behind by the night’s downpour. He enjoyed the rain. April showers and all. He smiled at that. He also enjoyed the lightning and thunder that had accompanied the storm. Despite his age, Whittaker never felt wet, even shrouded as he was in the cold mist. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel cold either. Still, he was keen to get home. Oscar, no doubt, would be hiding under the bed just waiting to curl up in Whittaker’s lap -- no small feat for a fat old lab.

Some candles glowed inside of his neighbors’ homes. That would be a legacy of the storm, no doubt. Funny, he thought he’d seen them flicker earlier, but he hadn’t passed this way yet. He could see branches all over the lawns, downed leaves carpeting the grass and driveways. Welcome to October. He’d wait for things to dry up before he got out his rake. Or maybe, why not, he’d give the job to that Nicholson boy – what was his first name? They’d moved in a while ago, the boy and the mom. No dad, it seemed, but Whitaker wasn’t about to ask. The kid seemed entrepreneurial, always looking for a bit of work. Why hadn’t he stopped by just last week trying to sell chocolate bars or something for his Cub Scout troop? Whittaker would let him rake if he wanted to make some pocket change.

He jiggled the coins in his pocket, feeling the oversized fifty-cent pieces. He asked the teller for those at the bank. He liked the warm feel of the silver, the image of Franklin on the front. Perfect. The boy could earn them all. Whittaker was in a generous mood. Anyway, the only thing he liked about raking leaves was burning them afterward. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d have to rake the same leaves two, three times, after the kids took turns jumping onto the pile of red, gold, and orange. That was fine. But the kids were gone now, and Whittaker wasn’t about to take the leap! Such a thought.

He'd forgotten why he was out, especially this night, especially during a Nor’easter. Couldn’t sleep, he supposed, got caught out. He liked storms, though, loved the crash of thunder and the bolts of lightning. It made him feel alive. Seemed like he was always out there, walking by himself.

Whittaker stomped his galoshes into one puddle, which turned out to be a pothole. He caught himself before he fell, but made note to call the town to get it filled. He looked around for something to mark it. A car might blow a tire if it runs over the hole. A child riding their bike could fly head over heels if they ran into it. This hole was a killer for goodness sake! Wouldn’t it be just like a kid wanting to speed through a puddle, splashing water like Moses parting the Red Sea? He thought about that Nicholson kid. He imagined the boy riding his bike, tossing newspapers down driveways, and crashing into the hole. That wouldn’t do.

He saw a galvanized garbage can at the end of one driveway. Odd, he thought, this wasn’t a pickup day. Still, it would do. He struggled to lift it, knocking against the bin; it sounded hollow, like a lame gong. But he wasn’t going to stand there all day, gonging away cars and kids, waiting for the town to fill that damn hole; he’d be there for years! Whitaker wrapped his arms around it, managing to get the thing on a bottom edge. He rolled it over and set it in the hole. Folks would get the idea and swerve around.

That Nicholson boy might help. Scouts were supposed to do a good deed every day. With no old ladies to help cross the street, placing the garbage can would have been a fine such deed. He’d get him to help move the can. Let the boy take the credit. What boy wouldn’t want to earn a shiny Franklin-half dollar and do his daily deed at the same time?

The clouds were starting to blow away, revealing stars against the night sky. The Big Dipper was high in the northern sky. That alerted the old Boy Scout in Whitaker that dawn was approaching. That made no sense; it felt like he’d just left home. He’d best get moving, get home. There was breakfast to prepare and that dog to feed. He was always hungry that one. Whittaker didn’t feel hungry. Rack his brains though he did, he didn’t recall when he last ate, let alone what he ate. Mind’s in a fog, don’t you know! He wasn’t so much bothered as curious. He went through the alphabet, hoping to jog his memory: A, apples, artichokes? B, bread, burgers, bacon, beans? C, chicken, cheese, clams, coleslaw! His effort stopped when he came up with clams. That got him thinking about the Cape house. How long had it been since they dug for clams and oysters at low tide? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember if he’d sold that old house. That got him worrying over having to winterize it when he came to 103 Pilgrim Road. His home.

Why was the porch light on? That hadn’t worked in a long while. Maybe the high wind had jostled a wire?At least he hadn’t lost electricity.And the leaves! They were all in a pile, not a deep pile, but not strewn willy-nilly. Whitaker wondered if the wind had somehow blown them that way. It would make the Nicholson boy’s job easier.

He walked up the steps and heard the barking. Oscar. He sounded soft and distant. Oscar must still be under the bed, poor fellow. He’d rush down the stairs when he knew it was Whitaker.

There was a jack-o-lantern on the porch steps. He didn’t recall carving one, not since his kids were still trick-or-treating. Or maybe he had. Whitaker made a mental note to get candy. And a candle. A lit pumpkin would be a clarion call to trick-or-treaters.

He tried the door, but it felt locked. Whitaker never locked the door. There was no need in this neighborhood. Hell, he usually left his keys in the car’s ignition! Funny, he looked toward the driveway and didn’t see it. Had he put it in the garage? He didn’t think so; he never did unless snow threatened.

He tried the front door again. The door wouldn’t budge. But it was always loose, rattling, in its frame, not snug. Must have swelled in the rain. He walked around to the back door, but that too was locked. Oscar was barking more, not his usual bark, more a yap, when Whitaker saw the light go on in the back bedroom.

“Is someone there?” asked a woman’s voice.

“It’s me, Whitaker. I’m locked out, and who the hell are you anyway?”

He went back to the front, banging now. He counted a clock inside chime twelve times. Midnight, he thought. But that clock hadn’t worked in years! Behind the door, he saw a light come on in the hall.

“Is someone out there? I’m going to call the police, so you’d better go away.”

Whitaker was annoyed now and knocked harder. Who was this person in his house, threatening to call the police?

“You go right ahead and make that call, young lady. Because if you don’t, I will!”

He said, “Young lady.” He didn’t know how he knew that.

Another voice came from the other side of the door. “Who is it, Mom? Is it him?”

“No, not him. That’s your imagination. Go upstairs and stay in your room.” Then she said, “No, stay with me. Stay right with me.”

Whitaker rattled on the window, almost hard enough to break it. “Let me into my house. I belong here. You’re scaring my Oscar. Please, I want to be home!”

Through the window curtain, he made out the woman, indeed a young woman, holding a short Louisville Slugger under her arm while she turned the dial on the phone. She looked up, straight out the window. “He’s back, I’m sure of it. He’s trying to break in.” He couldn’t hear what else she was saying. Who is back? He wondered. Whitaker looked around, but not a living soul was there.

At least she called the police, he thought. They’ll sort this out. Maybe Moran would be on duty, thought Whitaker. They usually put the young ones on the night shift. He liked Moran, a bit dim maybe, but a decent fellow. He helped Whitaker once, called in the ambulance, when he ran over a pothole and crashed his car into a boulder. A glacial erratic they called it.

She was still talking into the phone, staring right through him. She was bold, he’d give her that. And to bring a child to, what, a burglary, in a storm. He almost felt sorry for her. She must be desperate. Poor kid.

Whitaker tapped on the door again, gently this time; knocking wouldn’t change things. The woman warned that if he came in, she was armed. Armed, thought Whitaker, Ha! With a kid’s baseball bat. He stomped on the floor of the porch, trying to make noise, when he saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser turn into the driveway.

“Thank God you’re here,” said Whitaker. “There’s a woman and a child in my house and they won’t let me in!”

One of the policemen, a burly old guy, barreled past him. Whitaker had to step aside to avoid getting knocked down.

“Don’t worry about Oscar,” yelled Whittaker. “He won’t bite, just barks.”

The policeman knocked on the door while another scanned the yard with a powerful flashlight. “It’s the police, Mrs. Nicholson.” She opened the door, tears in her eyes.

“Sergeant Moran, thank God you’re here. There was this knocking, someone trying to get in the front and the back. I think they were trying to get in through the window, too.”

“Again, Mrs. Nicholson? Are you sure this time?” The policeman flipped on his flashlight and told her to stay inside while they looked around. The old one, a sergeant, plowed through the pile of leaves, spreading them over the lawn.

“Hey, fellow! You don’t need to do that!” yelled Whitaker. The sergeant ignored him. Both policemen returned to the porch. The one in charge, the big fellow, wiped sweat from his short-cropped head. I’m getting too old for this, he thought. “No one again, Mrs. Nicholson. Maybe it’s some kids out on a Halloween prank, but I doubt it. We couldn’t find any prints in the mud out back, and after this rain, we wouldn’t miss them.”

Mrs. Nicholson was shaking her head, insisting she heard something. Her boy came down the steps smiling. “It’s the ghost officer. I’ll bet it’s the ghost.” The boy couldn’t have been happier. “I told you, Mom. It’s the old man.”

“Stop being silly!” she said, now smiling. “Sorry, officers. He’s got some imagination.”

At that moment, a gust picked up, knocking acorns from the massive tree in the front across the porch. One bounced off the window. “Sounds a lot like knocking,” said one of the officers.

“Maybe I’m the one with the imagination,” she said. Sergeant Moran didn’t comment when her face went red.

“I’m sorry to bother you this time,” she said.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for. Spent most of the night clearing branches off the roads. A real crime is a nice distraction,” he laughed. “At least you have power. We’ll drive around, keep an eye out…for stray acorns and any ghosts.”

The two policemen drove off in their cruiser. The younger one spoke up, “A bit crazy, you think?”

“Just a bit?”

They were laughing as they weaved around the rubbish bin someone had used to mark a pothole.