I might not have knives in the house, but I do have a baseball bat. Youth sized, aluminum, light and strong. I race upstairs and grab it from beneath my bed. I’m confident in my self-defense abilities, but I don’t know who’s waiting on the other side of that door. Better to have a weapon other than just my own fists and feet.
(Check your planter box just outside your front door)
I peer out onto the front porch through a crack in the curtains. Some, but not all, of the tension in my shoulders slides away as I see Richard standing there. I hold on to the bat as I open the door. Frigid air washes over me.
“Hi, Alice, sorry to bother you so early. I heard you moving around…figured you were awake.”
Monitoring me. Listening to me.
“Hi, Richard.”
His gaze darts to the bat and then back to my face.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I was already startled before you knocked.”
“Everything okay?” His dark eyes register concern. A day’s worth of stubble molds his cheeks and neck, and his dark, stringy hair hangs over his forehead, giving him a haggard look. He’s at least a half foot taller than me, but his frame is so slight, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d topple easily with a light shove. Or breeze.
“What do you need, Richard?”
“Well, like I said, sorry to bother you, but the hot water’s out again. Would you mind checking the pilot light on the heater?”
I relax a little. The heater is a constant problem. But I keep holding the bat.
“Yes, of course. Sorry about that. I really need to get that fixed.”
He offers a thin smile and shrug. “Just got home from my shift. I like to take a hot shower before I get some sleep.”
“I’ll relight it,” I say. “But it’ll probably take an hour or so to get the water hot again.”
“It’s no problem. Just thought I’d let you know. Thanks, Alice.”
He turns to head back to the Perch.
“Richard,” I say.
“Yes?”
He’s already here. And I don’t think he’s part of this, so I may as well ask. “Do you remember… Well, this would have been in the summer, I think. Do you remember someone taking a picture of the house? It’s a weird question, I know. But I saw this picture of my house online, and you were up in the Perch, in the window, looking down. I–I was just wondering if you remember that. If you saw someone.”
He pushes his hands deeper into his coat pockets, bundling against the cold. He’s wearing thin sweatpants, maybe even pajamas, tucked into untied snow boots.
“Huh,” he says. “No, I can’t say I remember that exactly. In the summer, you say?”
“Well, the trees were full, but I don’t know exactly when.”
“No, sorry, I don’t remember seeing anyone around the house. Certainly not taking pictures.”
“Oh, okay. No problem, then. Just thought I’d ask.”
Richard seems about ready to turn away but decides against it. He looks at the ground as he speaks.
“Alice…I mean, really, it’s none of my business, but you tell me you’re okay, and I’m thinking you’re not.”
“Richard, I—”
“I hear you, you know?” Now he looks up, and when his gaze locks onto mine, it’s powerful. Perhaps because he so rarely looks me directly in the eyes. “Sometimes, at night. Not often. I hear you upset. Crying. Once in a while I think…” He searches for words.
“What do you think, Richard?”
“I think maybe you’re hurting yourself or something. I mean, again, none of my business, but you seem…just…”
“Just what?”
“Just so alone.”
And here is where I lose it. The word alone stabs me in the heart, and I’m stunned by how much it actually hurts. I nearly lose my balance, then walk back a few steps into my house, sit on the bottom step of the stairs, and start crying. Weeping. I don’t care that Richard is staring at me through the open doorway as cold air floods my house. I don’t care I’m a disheveled mess in a robe that barely conceals me. I don’t care if Richard is actually one of the stalkers. All I feel is the pain of that word, because it is so desperately true. Of all the words anyone could ever use to describe me, there is none more honest than that simple, solitary adjective.
Alone.
“Oh, oh God, Alice. I’m so sorry.” He walks inside and puts the lightest of hands on my terry-cloth shoulder. “I didn’t mean to… You know. I’m such an idiot. You’re not alone. I’m sure you have lots of friends. I mean, God, look at me. I don’t ever go out or anything. I’m the loner, not you. I mean, you’re not a loner, I’m just—”
“Shut up, Richard,” I say into my hands.
“Right, of course.” He removes his hand, but I can see his feet through the gaps in my fingers. He doesn’t know whether to stay or go.
I allow myself some more tears, and it feels cleansing. For some reason, I’m comfortable with being vulnerable in this moment. But I don’t let it last too long. I wipe my face, stand, cinch my robe tight, and square my shoulders.
“Do you know anything about computers?” I ask.
He seems startled by my change of direction. “Um, a little, I suppose.”
“How can I find out who owns a website?”
He shrugs. “You can check WHOIS.”
“Who what?”
“W-H-O-I-S. You do a WHOIS lookup on any website, and that tells you. You know, like ‘who is the owner of whatever.com.’”
“Okay,” I say. “Hang on.” I walk over, grab my laptop, and sit back on the bottom step again. “Close the door, Richard. It’s freezing in here.”
As he reaches back to close the door, I spy the corner of the planter box outside. Snow is piled on top of it, a big loaf of white bread. Is there really a gun there?
The door shuts, and I refocus on the laptop screen. I Google whois and immediately find the site I need.
“So I just enter in the website I want to look up?”
Richard peers over my shoulder and looks at the screen.
“That’s right.”
My instinct is to pull the screen from his view, but I don’t. Living with secrets hasn’t worked out for me anyway. I type in www.mistertender.com and click Enter.
“What’s that site?” he asks.
“Long story.”
The page loads with technical terms, but it doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. Halfway down the page, I see Registrant Name.
Next to that, it says Registration Private.
Damn it.
Richard leans in closer. “Yeah, no surprise,” he says. “You can pay an extra ten bucks a year or so to shield all your info. Most websites are private, I would expect.”
“So now what?”
“I have no idea,” he says.
“Well, thanks, Richard.”
He stands upright. “You know, I like listening to long stories.”
I sigh. “But that doesn’t mean I like telling them.”
“Okay, I won’t pry anymore,” he says.
When he looks at me, why do I simply trust him? There’s really no reason I should, except that he pays his rent on time and otherwise leaves me alone. Just earlier, I had a moment of panic that Richard was spying on me through my ceiling, but now, as he stands here, I sense his energy, and it’s good energy. I have no logical reason to think he’s not Mr. Interested. But he’s not. I just know it. He is just Richard.
“Are you working tonight?” I ask.
“No, I’m off.”
“Then come over for a glass of wine,” I say. “Maybe I’ll tell you a long story.”
His face brightens, and for a man I’ve never considered particularly attractive, it’s lovely.
“I’d like that,” he says. “What time?”
“Let’s say five.”
He nods. “Sounds good.” When he looks to the ground, he blushes. I don’t want him blushing, because that means he might be thinking tonight is a date. Tonight is not a date. Tonight is me being able to connect with another human being, something I do far too seldom.
“And look,” I add, “you’re probably going to go check out the website when you get back upstairs. If you do, you’ll need a password. Gladstone, all lowercase.”
“Alice, I’m not trying to—”
“It’s okay, Richard. I’m realizing it’s healthy for me to share some secrets. Look at the site. It’ll be a good starting point for our conversation later.”
He only nods at this, then turns and walks away. I partially close the door and listen until he’s back in the Perch. Then I open the door, check the street to confirm it’s empty, then dig through the planter box with my bare hands. The snow daggers my fingertips, but it takes only a moment before I feel the slick plastic of a Ziploc bag. The hard metal inside. I don’t pull the gun out of the planter. I don’t want it inside my house. I don’t even want it this close to me, but I’m not touching it more. I pile the dirt and snow back on top, then retreat back into the house.
Door locked.
Alarm panel armed to Stay. Ice crystals melt and drip from my numb fingertips. I walk to the basement, where the water heater lives. As my bare feet press down the cool, wooden steps into the darkness of the unfinished space, a sudden thought comes to me. A certainty, even.
The water heater is working just fine.
What if I’m wrong about Richard and my trust is misplaced? Maybe he made up that story about the water heater just to have an excuse to knock on my door at the moment it would unnerve me most.
I make my way in the tight space, reach up, and pull the chain on the solitary light down here. The bulb has little effect.
Aroma of damp brick and musty wood beams.
The cold of the concrete floor bites into the bottoms of my bare feet as I walk to the water heater. Again, another certainty washes over me. The moment I check the water heater and confirm it’s working just fine, I’ll hear the basement door close, followed by the sound of someone descending the old steps.
I force myself to keep moving forward. Finally, I reach the water heater in the back corner of the room. I bend down and slide the cover to the pilot light over to the left. As I do, I touch the metal exterior of the heater itself.
It’s cool.
I peer at the pilot light.
It’s out.
The muscles in my back relax, and as I reach inside to ignite the pilot, I think that I’m looking forward to that glass of wine with Richard.