SLIPPING

My fingers stiffen. My hands shake. The closest phone is in the kitchen. I can hardly walk to it, have to almost creep. It’s tough for me to focus on the numbers. Why don’t phones have a single key for 9 1 1? The keys are blurry. I must have hit the 8 instead of the 9. There is a dull hum but no reply. I mumble words to the kitchen wall and try 9 1 1 again. Without waiting for a voice, a hello, I yell, ‘Help. Somebody is trying to kill me!’ Questions fly at me. I nod my head yes and no. ‘Speak up, Lady. The police are on the way. Are your doors locked? I manage to say, Uh huh.’ ‘Stay away from your windows. Talk to me. ‘Do you know who is after you, where that person is now?’ ‘All I know is he followed me home last night and again tonight. I never turned around to look at him closely but it’s a man. Help! He’s at my door.’

Miss 911 calls me ‘Ma am’ and tells me the police are at the door, not a killer. Let them in.’ I look thru the peep hole and see a fat face under a police hat. The policeman holds his badge to the peep hole so I can see that it is really him. Even so, I hesitate opening the door. ‘Open up, Mrs. Castille.’ ‘OK., OK, don’t rush me.’ The chain slides and bangs against the wood.

Fat Face is called Lt. Paul Beecham. He is alone and asks if we can sit down and talk. Questions fly at me like bees escaping from a disturbed hive. After answering one or two, I have one of my own to ask. ‘Lt. Beecham, are you on prednisone?’ A moment more and I wonder why I asked him that. And that is exactly what his next question to me is, ‘Why did you ask me such a thing at a time like this?’ The lieutenant isn’t smiling. ‘Because you are tall, nicely built but your face is so full. I have just been put on prednisone for my fibraneuralgia and a friend told me my face is going to get fat and moony.’ His answer isn’t an answer. It’s several questions. ‘What kind of danger are you in? Who is trying to kill you? Why? My sergeant is waiting in my car. I have another officer in a car behind your house, maybe risking his life to protect you. Will you please answer my questions, tell me why you think someone is trying to kill you, or my men and I will be leaving.

‘Hurumph,’ I say. ‘Don’t get pushy with me. I’m an old scared lady who is now a sick scared old lady. May I make you and the other officers a cup of coffee? It won’t take long.’ ‘No, thanks. Sit down, concentrate. Tell me about the killer.’ ‘Captain.’ ‘Wait Mrs. Castille. Start right. I am not a captain. I am Lieutenant Beecham.’ ‘Sorry, Lieutenant. Which is higher rank, Lt. or Capt?’ ‘I’m running out of patience, Ma am. Stop asking me unimportant questions. Have you had phone or mail threats?Did a man follow you two nights in a row? Did he say anything, do anything?’ ‘Yes, Captain. Once he said something but I don’t remember what it was. I think he may be young as his voice was high and I also think he plays football or is a dancer. His shoes had taps or cleats.’‘We’ll be checking your place every few hours. If you see him, call me. Put my card next to your phone. Good night.’

I give the captain time to get back to his station and call. ‘Oh, it’s Lieutenant, not Captain, I remember the person had long blond hair. What she said was ‘Hello, Mrs. Castille. Remember me, Yvonne? I’ve been walking behind you in case you fall. You shouldn’t go out by yourself at night.’

‘Captain, so tell me. Are you on prednisone?’