It’s 5:30 a.m. Without being aware of it, this is my deep dream time. The phone rings. My heart jumps into my throat. In half a second I am sure something bad has happened to my daughters, my son, my granddaughter. My shaking hand lifts the receiver. The receiver drops on the floor. Retrieved from where it had slid under my bed, I get a tight grip on the black devil and shout, ‘Hello! Hello!’ With a loud question mark in his reply, one calm word is said, ‘Dorothy?’ I bellow back, ‘This isn’t Dorothy, you jerk. Dial more carefully.’ I slam the phone down, start to crawl under my blanket and the phone rings again. This time I am not frightened. I’m just angry, burning angry. ‘Dorothy?’ ‘NO,’ is all he hears besides the fast cut off bam.
I’m up, take a quick trip to the bathroom. With little chance of falling to sleep, I still try and lie down on my bed, put both pillows over my head and can hardly breathe. The hell with it. The pillows, almost on their own volition, go sailing across the room. One hits the night light near the door and creates a quick flash and fizzle. The bulb shatters.
There is little on my calendar for today so I need not hurry to dress. In my robe and slippers I go to the kitchen, put four cups of water in my percolator and 6 spoonfuls of coffee in the filter, turn it on but the red light doesn’t obey. Oh, Oh. Maybe the breaking of the night light caused a short someplace. I manage that fine and the coffee begins to perk. Still angry at the demons who started my day so badly, I take a swallow of hot coffee and burn the roof of my mouth. Better get back in bed or I might burn the house down. ‘Wuthering Heights’ waits for my third enjoyable reading. After a few pages my eyes start to close.
Did I sleep? The clock shows 7:30 so I assume I did. The door bell rings. Again I am almost scared to death. Maybe the police are bringing me terrible news. A quick glance outside calms me, no police car, but there is a long black car at the curb. Knowing I can’t be heard outside from the upstairs hall, I yell down anyhow. ‘Who’s there?’ It’s unbelievable. In the same deep voice I heard at 5:30, I get an answer that remains a question. ‘Dorothy?’ At the top of my lungs I reply, ‘There is no Dorothy here. Go away or I’m calling the police.’ Once more he asks, ‘Dorothy?’ I watch from my window and see a well dressed man, looking quite debonair, walking to the black car. He drives away to I know not where and I feel better.
In the kitchen I run my tongue over my scorched palate, use my long pinkie finger and peel back the thin tissue. I wait about ten minutes and take a chance tasting barely warm coffee. Morning almost passes with little else happening. Haphazardly I dust the furniture, select what I will wear that is just right for such a pretty day doing nothing specific. My new blue walking outfit, the price tag still on the sleeve, speaks my name. It needs no alteration so I snip off the tag, fix my hair a little, attach my pedometer to the my waist band and set out for a half hour stroll.
That’s when I notice the mail box flag is up. The mail doesn’t come until late afternoon. It must be a neighborhood flyer. Let it rot in there. My pedometer in place on my waist band, my emergency cell phone in my jacket pocket, a few sheets of Kleenex in the other pocket, I start out.
Two blocks down the street at 2139 Peppermill St. I see what I am sure is the same black car that had been parked at my house. There, there, I shake. I see clearly it is the man who knocked on my door. Once or twice I’ve seen the lady who lives there but have only said hello to her. She has opened the door for him. It closes. Cautiously I walk up the path, reach the front steps and hear a blood curdling scream, and then absolute silence. My hands grab at my cell phone and I hit 911. As fast as I can I tell what I heard and about the man who had been to my house and beg for help–fast help.
Three police cars arrive almost instantly. I am questioned briefly and told to move away, go home. Well, I wasn’t going home but did cross the street. The man who went is has not come out the front. One police car has already gone around the back way. Two officers, guns drawn, approach the door while 2 stand on the sidewalk to keep the curious away. Another police car arrives and puts a boot on the black car. It will be there a while, for sure.
Next I see an ambulance, a Medical Examiner’s car pull into the driveway. All of the occupants go inside. One officer has yellow ribboned the entire area and then comes across the street to talk to me. ‘I need to know everything you saw and heard. Your name, address, etc.’ I am Mrs. Priscilla Morgan, a widow. I live alone at 2023 Peppermill St.’
He asks me if I knew Mrs. Dorothy Slatin well. I tell him only to smile to if I happened to see her. I have to check this out, ‘Officer, did you say her name was Dorothy?’ ‘Yes, Ma mam.’ ‘ Well, the man you have in custody was looking for her and called my house by mistake.’
I go home, call a Security company to install protection, throw out the coffee that has lingered too long on the sink and make fresh, thinking how lucky I am that my name is not Dorothy.
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