A Stranger's Wish (15 page)

Once, years ago, I saw a cowboy movie on TV in which the hero and his girl hid from the bad guy in a closet. He stashed her on a high shelf, and he lay on the floor. When the villain shot through the door at regular people height, they were safe.

Such a ploy was extremely clever if you knew the bad guy wasn’t going to open the door, knew he would only shoot at the middle of the door, and if you had a hero to boost you up.

I stared at the floor, my alternative hiding place, weighing whether being safe from bullets (aimed only at the middle of the door) was worth the risk of being found curled in an extremely vulnerable position if the door were thrown abruptly open.

Suddenly from the other side of the door, the door I was actually leaning on, came the most malevolent chuckle I had ever heard. I leaped away from the wood as if it were aflame.

Lord, help!
He’s got me!

But he didn’t open the door. Instead, I heard sliding noises and a grunt or two, and I realized my villain had made his move. He wasn’t going to shoot me; he wasn’t even going to open the door. There was no need. He was just going to block me in.

I reached for the doorknob and pushed wildly. The only response was another wicked chuckle from the other side, followed by some more sliding. Then silence.

I drew back into a far corner, feeling defenseless and frightened. Every crime and Gothic flick I’d ever seen flooded my mind. The images did nothing for my nerves, especially since I knew I had no knight in armor, either shining or tarnished, to rush to my rescue.

I crouched in my corner and shivered and prayed and listened. I was unpleasantly aware of the watcher standing on his side of the door, waiting just as I was.

Eventually there was movement in the room. I crept to the door and listened. Whoever was out there must have become tired of waiting to see what I’d do and had begun searching the place. I could hear drawers being pulled open, sometimes falling to the floor as if wrenched off their tracks.

What was the person searching for? Certainly, anyone could see that there was nothing of value in this lonely, godforsaken place. Except my purse.

Lord, help!
I really didn’t want to go through the process of canceling credit and bank cards and getting new ones, of applying for a new driver’s license, and all the other things that had to be done when you were robbed.

But he wasn’t interested in me. I hoped my things didn’t concern him, either. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten me. He was now in the living room, now the kitchen, taking no care to be quiet with his movements. He knew that the location of the apartment, first floor corner, largely did away with being heard by neighbors. Besides, he was probably hurrying as fast as he could. I might have friends who would show up at any moment.

I got down on my knees and tried to peer under the door. All I could see was more of the rug that covered the closet floor, a very unattractive shade of brown, perfect for a drab place like this.

I slumped in my corner and waited, willing the intruder to leave. Finally, I heard the front door slam. I jumped to my feet and listened. All remained quiet.

I twisted the doorknob and pushed, hoping against hope that whatever was blocking me in would move. It didn’t. That would have been too easy.

I turned and leaned my back against the door, pushing, pushing while the slick soles of my new Mary Janes sought traction on the carpeting. Without warning my feet flew from under me, and I grabbed at the nearest thing, an old red-and-blue plaid shirt, to keep from falling. I fell anyway, my spine bouncing hard in spite of the rug. The shirt landed on my head, the collar button holding it on the hanger popped by the pull of my weight. The now-malformed hanger bounced noisily above me.

I got to my feet, rubbing my sore backside. This time I faced the door, placed my palms flat, straightened my arms and shoved as hard as I could. Nothing happened except my shoulders, still tender from the tomato picking and fighting, protested what they obviously felt was more abuse.

I stared at the door, trying to picture what was piled against it out there in the free world. The dresser? The bed? Both?

The hinges! The idea burst like an epiphany, and I was thoroughly impressed with my cleverness. I would take the hinges apart the way the painters did whenever my mother wanted the house painted. They slid the long round things out of the little round circles. I’d do the same, then pull the door loose and climb out.

But the thoughtless builder had put the hinges on the room side of the door, not my side.

All right. I’d just power the door down.

I rammed it with my shoulder a couple of times, astonished at how abruptly I bounced back. Rubbing my soon-to-be-black-and-blue shoulder, I quickly and decisively rejected physical force.

I think I realized then that I wasn’t going to escape. I don’t know how else to explain my screaming, pounding fit. When my fists were too sore to continue, I stopped my ridiculous behavior. Maybe later on tonight, when I might be more easily heard, I could try again, this time in conscious choice.

I sat cross-legged with my back against the wall. I looked at the Louis L’Amour and Max Brand books that had tumbled from the tote bag.
I need to introduce Mr. Geohagan to Steve Bly and Sigmund Brouwer,
I thought. Get him reading some Christian Westerns.

I picked up one of the paperbacks. I might as well pass the time profitably. If I thought of Mr. Edgars, my principal, storming up and down the halls looking for me, I’d only upset myself more. I glanced at my watch. I was already a half hour late.

Please, God! Let Mr. Edgars sound the alarm.

I glanced at the weak bulb on the ceiling and wondered how damaged my eyes would become reading in this dimness.

The light! No wonder the intruder had known exactly where I was. The glow must have shown around the edges of the door in the almost dark bedroom. Sighing at my stupidity, I began reading.

I understood that I was in the closet for the night when my second and third screaming and pounding fits brought no more response than my first—unless you counted a sore throat and tender, tender hands. My watch said one a.m.

I began to feel sorry for myself big time. Here I was, missing for the night, and no one cared enough to come and get me. Apparently, no one even missed me. I felt the tears rise.

I blinked them back. After all, I was a strong, modern, independent woman. So what that I was trapped, thirsty, hungry, and in need of a bathroom. So what that if I wanted to sleep, I would have to do so on the floor. Who cared that it was getting chillier all the time and that I had no covers and that I couldn’t even stretch out all the way because the closet was too small. The pioneers had survived worse situations than this, and so would I. I was tough. I could take it.

Sighing, I turned out the light and lay on my back with a couple of Mr. Geohagan’s shirts and his bathrobe over me for warmth and my knees bent so I would fit. I stuck a couple of the paperbacks under my head for a pillow. Every time I moved, I slipped off, thonking my skull on the floor.

“I want Clarke to come and rescue me,” I said aloud into the darkness. Then I giggled. Where had
that
come from?

But I couldn’t deny that the idea had a certain appeal. He could blast me free with an Uzi, something all Christian counselors keep hidden under their mattresses. Or he could push the offending furniture away and throw the door open while I huddled beguilingly on the top shelf, just waiting to be grasped by the waist and lowered tenderly to the floor.

Or he could loosen the hinges—they were on his side—and man-handle the door open, lifting me from my swoon (from lack of food and water, not fear) and carrying me to safety in his strong arms. Who cared that if he got to the hinges, he wouldn’t need to do anything but pull the door open? Rescues demanded marvelous feats performed on behalf of the damsel in distress.

Obviously, being in the dark in small, closed places wasn’t good for me.

Lord, I have the distinct feeling that this is one of those situations in which I have to choose. You saved me from potential physical harm earlier this evening, and I thank You most sincerely. But somehow this is the harder part, isn’t it? Somehow sleeping in this dumb closet on this hard floor is going to develop me as a Christian—if I choose to let it. I can keep pitying myself, or I can just trust You.

I sighed.
I’ll trust.

I actually slept, my slumber interspersed with abrupt awakenings every time my head slid off the books.

In the morning I read the fourth Louis L’Amour book and prayed most thoroughly for everyone I had ever known when, at about nine o’clock, I heard someone enter the apartment. Then I heard a, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

“In here!” I pounded on the closet door. “I’m in here!”

“Don’t worry! I’m coming,” yelled a male voice which did not belong to my imagined hero. I had no idea whom it did belong to, but whoever he was, he was my new best friend.

There was much scraping and grunting, but finally the door of my prison opened, and a gray-haired policeman stood there, a middle-aged angel in blue. He was somewhat startled when I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Then I almost knocked him over in my rush for the bathroom.

“I’m all right. Truly I am,” I said to Mr. Geohagan several hours later. I’d collected my purse, left untouched by the bed, given the police my statement, gone home and changed, and made my afternoon classes. Then, as soon as I could leave school, I drove to the hospital. “No scars, bumps, or bruises.” He didn’t need to know about my sore shoulder and fists.

“But you might have been badly hurt!”

I patted his thin hand as it lay on the covers, telling myself to remember to wash thoroughly before I left. The last thing I needed was hepatitis. “But I wasn’t. I’m just sorry it was necessary for you to be informed.”

“No one knew where I lived. They had to contact me so they’d know where to find you. I can’t believe it took them until today!”

I made a wry face. “Me neither, but I understand how it happened. Last night Mary and Ruth assumed they’d just missed seeing me. John wouldn’t have noticed whether I was there or not, and Jake would have been in his own apartment all evening. I think Mr. Edgars was quite angry with me when I didn’t show for parents’ night, but he assumed I was either sick or for some reason of my own had decided not to come. He planned to talk to me about it this morning when I came to work.”

“Is he an understanding man, or should I write a note for you?”

“Dear Mr. Edgars, please excuse Kristie. She got locked in a closet?”

He grinned, and I was happy to see him smiling instead of fretting. “Beats ‘The dog ate it.’ ”

“Anyway,” I continued, “this morning Mary was very concerned when I didn’t come down to breakfast. She finally checked my bed and, surprise, surprise, it hadn’t been slept in. She made Jake call the school, and it became obvious as they talked that I hadn’t been seen after I left the house last evening. Jake remembered I was going to your place, and he called the police.”

“And they called me. Let me tell you, I thought I was going to have another coronary. The news that you were okay was such a relief!”

I was touched by his concern.

“And you didn’t see the thief?” he asked.

“Not a glimpse. The laughter I heard through the closet door was so deep that I’m certain it was a man, but that’s all I know. I’m just sorry your apartment was ransacked. The man did a thorough job of it.”

Mr. Geohagan shook his head. “I don’t care about the apartment at all. It’s only somewhere to sleep. It’s not my home, my house. I lost the one when Cathleen died and Doris became sick, and sold the other not long after. I just couldn’t stand being there anymore. There’s nothing in that apartment I’d miss—except you.”

My eyes misted. “That’s so sweet.” But I was struck again by the emptiness of his life.

Lord, I’m alone too. Don’t let me ever have a life that barren. Please! And help me fill some of the holes in his life.

I handed him today’s
Intelligencer Journal.

“You were right,” I said, pointing to page one. “Sick calls are indeed good copy, and now you’re famous.”

He looked at the front page picture of himself and Adam Hurlbert shaking hands. Hurlbert had health and vitality oozing from every pore. Even his toothy smile had vigor. Mr. Geohagan looked worse than ever by contrast. The black-and-white picture drained what little color he had and left him looking cadaverous.

“How convenient for Adam that I chose this time to become ill,” he said cynically.

“But not very convenient for you. You need to get better so you can get back to normal living. You’ve got all that stuff to do!”

“Nothing’s normal about my life anymore,” he said, his bitterness and self-pity kicking in with a vengeance. “My daughter’s dead, my wife’s had a stroke and doesn’t even know me, and I’m sick, sick, sick!”

Forcing down my sympathy, I said, “To what do we owe your rousing good spirits? I’m the one who spent the night in the closet, not you.”