Death of a Garage Sale Newbie

by Sharon Dunn

  “I know you.” He rubbed his flat stomach. “You’re Trevor’s mom. The cop.” He wasn’t a good-looking kid. Close-set eyes made his long face appear even narrower. But there was a softness in his expression.

  “Guess that makes Trev really unpopular, to have a mom who’s a police officer.”

  The kid shrugged. “My dad is a cop down in LA. Nothing wrong with cops. They’re just trying to do their jobs.” He flipped his board up with his foot and spun it around in his hands while he talked.

  “Have you seen my son?” The words nearly stuck in her throat.

  Coach yelled out to the other boys. “Steve? Dave? Trev W. Seen him?”

  A bleached blond with low-slung shorts stopped his board and yelled across the concrete. “He was here a couple hours ago. Said something about going out to The Park.”

  Coach turned toward her. “You know that abandoned amusement park by the lake?”

  Tammy nodded. She knew it well, knew that there were gates and No Trespassing signs posted. None of which seemed to stop teenagers from making it their hangout.

  Coach set his skateboard down and jumped on top of it, sliding back and forth. “Trev’s a good kid. He’ll be all right. He’s got a mom who loves him.” His gaze was unwavering.

  He turned on his board and skated back down into the pit, but not before Tammy saw the tattoo on his back. Right beneath the dragon’s stream of fire were the words: Jesus Rocks.

  Arleta lay on her bed, on top of the covers. Her hands rested on her stomach. The light from her nightstand lamp created a circle of illumination on her ceiling. The white numbers on her bedside clock glowed 10:45. The room was so quiet she could hear the numbers flipping over on the clock. Oh, to be able to go right to sleep.

  Ginger and Kindra had seemed like really nice ladies. She should have swallowed her pride and taken them up on the offer to go shopping. The invitation had embarrassed her. They saw how alone she was.

  Funny how all her friends had slowly fallen away after David died. Some had died, some had moved to a warmer climate, and some just didn’t call anymore. She had tried to make friends after David died, but the people at the senior center just complained about body aches. Not her idea of a good time. She liked to do things, not just sit around.

  The other ladies in her self-defense class were nice. They all seemed busy with children and grandchildren though. How had she let this happen? How had she become so unconnected to the world?

  Arleta flicked off the lamp and closed her eyes. Sleep. She needed to sleep. She counted to a hundred in Spanish. Uno, dos, tres…

  A sort of pounding squeak reverberated in the living room and floated down the hall. Arleta sat up straight. The silence was heady. She listened. Her heart beat faster. The digit on the clock flipped. Only quiet came from the living room. She exhaled a slow stream of air.

  Batty old lady. Now, she was just hearing things. Maybe she should look into getting a roommate or rent out the spare bedroom to a college student. That Kindra had seemed nice. Respectful. There were still some nice college students left in the world. She lay back down and listened a moment longer, willing her eyelids to become heavy.

  Satisfied, she turned over on her side. Just as the room went dark, she heard the crash of glass.

  Tammy parked her car outside the chain-link fence that was supposed to keep trespassers out of the abandoned amusement park.

  About ten years ago, the park had gone bankrupt. The rides were too outdated to have any resale value, and the owners too broke to pay to haul them away. Far as she knew, the owners continued to pay the taxes on the land, waiting for the day when some real estate developer would see it as a high return investment and make an offer. Now the place was just a big pain for law enforcement. Despite constant building and rebuilding of security fences, teens considered the park a cool hangout.

  Betty Boop told her it was eleven. She had an hour before she had to be on shift, and she still needed to get out to Ginger’s. She’d phoned into the station and left a message with the administrative clerk that she might be a little late. She hadn’t ever been late for a shift. When Trevor was born, her mother had advised her that schedules and plans would become meaningless. Mom had been thinking of sickness and soiled diapers, but the rule applied even more to teenagers.

  After grabbing the flashlight out of her jockey box, she opened the door and stepped onto the gravel. Water from the lake lapped against the shore. The breeze was soft and cool, baby fingers touching her cheek. She shone her light toward the pier. Too cold for late-night swimming.

  It took her only a few minutes of skirting the fence to find the place where it had been cut open. Stars twinkled in the night sky.

  She stepped clear of piles of twisted metal and walked past chairs for a Ferris wheel. A washed-out metal sign advertising the bearded lady banged in the wind. Up ahead, several circles of light bounced, dimmed, disappeared, and came back on in a different location. Thirty feet away, water surged against the shore in a repetitive rhythm. This was the less-developed section of the lake. Vacation homes and quaint little overpriced shops were across the water.

  Someone shouted a single indiscernible word. Again, the scenarios of all the destructive things teenagers found to amuse themselves with flashed through her head.

  Drugs, sex, setting things on fire. She took a deep breath. Jesus rocks. Jesus rocks. Not all these kids were a bad influence on her son.

  As she drew a little closer, the voices became more distinct. Her light flashed on Trevor’s plaid shirt, the one he wore all the time. She sighed. He was still alive. Four bodies huddled over something by the roller coaster. So intent were they on what they were doing that they didn’t even look up.

  Tension corseted around her rib cage. She shortened her stride. Oh please, God. Let it not be drugs. Her foot crushed plastic.

  One of the boys raised his head from the huddle. “Cop!”

  How did they know even when she wasn’t in uniform? Some sort of special radar teenagers must have. Or did they all just know that Trevor’s mom was a police officer?

  Three of the boys scattered. Their footsteps pounded on dirt, and one of them banged against something and groaned. Then they were absorbed by darkness. Trevor with his distinctive curly hair continued to bend over whatever was holding his attention.

  “Hi, Mom, you found me.”

  She stared at his back, frozen by the dread of seeing needles or a stash of pot or whatever it was the other boys had left for Trevor to take the rap for. “Yeah, I found you. Do you know how worried Grandma and I were?”

  She willed herself to take the last few steps. Two emotions tore her in opposite directions. Part of her wanted to grab Trevor by the ear, drag him back to the car, and revoke every privilege he had until he was thirty. The other part of her wanted to grab her little boy and hug him, touch his soft hair, and tell him that it was okay, that she was just glad he was still breathing. They would work through whatever mess he had gotten himself into. The right reaction was somewhere in between those two.

  Trevor straightened his back. She saw what had been holding his attention: tools. He had lined up several wrenches and screwdrivers on his skateboard. Her steps felt suddenly lighter. No drugs. No drugs.

  “Trevor, what are you…?” She shone the light on his face, his beautiful, sweet face. Like a rope untwisting, the tension left her body.

  “Me and my buds were going to get the roller coaster running so we could go for a ride.” He pointed at a motor that must belong to the roller coaster. Trevor rose to his feet and shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy pants. “Until you scared them all away.”

  “Oh, Trevor, I am so glad you’re not taking drugs.” She pulled him toward her and hugged him.

  “Mom, stop.” He wiggled free of her hug, crossed his arms, and rested his chin on his chest. “Drugs? What are you talking about? I’m not stupid. You been telling me scary stories about what you saw on patrol since I could talk.”

 
Tammy touched his cheek. He turned his head sideways. She had let other voices rule her perceptions, the voices that said single moms always raised messed-up kids. She wasn’t a statistic and neither was Trevor.

  It took substantial effort for her not to smile. But warm fuzzy moments wouldn’t make him take responsibility for his actions. Her voice was calm and even. “You were supposed to stay at the house. That was your punishment for shoplifting. There’ll be an additional punishment for this little stunt.”

  Trevor rolled his eyes.

  Back to the same old same old. “Don’t argue with me. You know all the bad things that can happen to kids out at night, all the trouble they get themselves into.” This was their rehearsed script. This time though, it was easier to say her lines.

  “I know. I know. But I’m not one of those kids.”

  He wasn’t one of those kids. She saw that now. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. Shoplifting was not a minor thing, and neither was this. But at least it wasn’t drugs. “You are not immortal, Trevor Welstad. I tell you those stories for a reason. Now go to the car.”

  Trevor tilted his head heavenward, but after picking up his skateboard, he trudged forward. Tammy walked behind him. “I have an errand to run before I go on shift.”

  “Mom, I’m tired. I want to go home.”

  “I don’t have time to take you home and then come back out this way. You’ll just have to come with me.” Any way she looked at it, she was going to be late for work. It would be the first time in the twelve years she’d been on the force, and it might give Stenengarter the excuse he needed to reprimand her. She didn’t care. The right thing was the right thing.

  Trevor slowed. “March, young man.” She really wanted to hug him again.

  They got into the car. Tammy shifted into reverse, turned around, then headed toward the road that led to the Salinski house.

  In the car, Trevor crossed his arms and stared at the roof.

  “Shoplifting and trespassing.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “What’s next, Trevor?”

  His jaw jutted out. “You embarrassed me in front of my buds.”

  “That’s not all I’m going to do.”

  “You can’t make me stay in that house. I feel like a prisoner.”

  Why did they have to have the same discussion over and over? “I’m trying to protect you and get through that thick skull. I’ve dragged dead teenagers out of rivers. Do you understand?”

  “That’s not going to be me.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He was right about one thing. She couldn’t just keep him under house arrest until he was eighteen, as appealing as it sounded. She had to find something constructive to keep him busy so he didn’t think trespassing was a good way to kill time.

  Trevor slammed the back of his head against the headrest of the passenger seat. “I’m so bored.”

  In the darkness of her room, Arleta squeezed her eyes shut. She had never really believed in God. But for some reason, she said what she was pretty sure was a prayer. Oh, please. Let that just be my imagination. Just let it be the wind because I left a window open. Oh, please. Oh, please. Oh, please.

  She waited for what seemed like a thousand years. As her heart pounded, mentally she went through her drill, tried to remember where she had put the speed loader and the flashlight, visualized the exact placement of each item in her drawer. Slowly, she swung her feet to the floor. Listening. Waiting. The clock flipped over another number, and she nearly jumped out of her slippers.

  She turned her head slightly. Was that a footstep? Maybe. And maybe I am just a lonely old lady with an overactive imagination. She swung her legs back on the bed and lay down.

  And then she heard the noise.

  The squeaky desk drawer being closed, followed by a muffled footstep.

  Arleta leaned over her bed, pulled out the shoe box, and grabbed Annie. She jumped to her feet, tiptoed across the floor, and opened the nightstand drawer. Her senses kicked up a notch. Adrenaline rushed through her system.

  She stuck the flashlight in her teeth and shoved the speed loader into her revolver. She jumped over the top of the bed and positioned herself in her hiding place. If she had a phone in her room, she could have called the police. The only phone in the house was in the living room.

  All her perceptions sharpened. The gun felt cold and hard in her hand. She could smell the faint scent of the vanilla candle she had burned earlier.

  She heard another noise. Maybe papers being moved. Time slogged forward. The weight of the gun caused her hand to shake.

  In her head, Arleta practiced her warning. I have a gun, and I know how to use it. I have a gun, and I’ve been trained to use it She readjusted her grip on the revolver and reminded herself that she needed to squeeze not pull the trigger.

  She clicked her flashlight on and off. Was the guy redecorating? What was taking him so long? She clenched her dentures. Either this guy needed to leave her house or come into the room.

  Her heart beat slowed. She set the gun on the bedspread and twisted her wrist around to get out the soreness. This was not going like she expected. She thought it would be a little more exciting, action packed. Someone was in her house shuffling around, looking for something, messing up her stuff.

  This was boring. Was she even going to get to use any of the techniques she learned in class?

  The instructor said she was the second best shot in the class, right after the single mom who used to be a marine. More noise from the kitchen, something hitting the floor.

  That was it. She made up her mind. She was going to break one of the rules of her class. The instructor had said not to be a vigilante, not to go looking for trouble. She could hear his deep, gravelly voice in her head. “Ladies, there is a reason this class is called self-defense, not self-offense. We don’t go out firing our guns just because we’re in the throes of PMS.”

  The last time she had been in the throes of PMS, Ronald Reagan was president. She needed to get some sleep, and this guy was keeping her awake. She clicked on the flashlight and checked the path in front of her. After shoving the flashlight in the pocket of her bathrobe, she took a deep breath, picked up her gun, and darted through her doorway and down the dark hall, gun gripped in both hands, ready to fire.

  Arleta cleared her throat. “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Darn it, she needed to sound stronger, more in control.

  Near her china cabinet, a tiny pinpoint of light bounced and disappeared.

  She pressed her back against the wall and moved a few steps closer to the living room and kitchen area.

  A shadow passed by the window. Light from outside provided a momentary glimpse of snowy white hair.

  Again, the adrenaline kicked in. Her heart was going a mile a minute. Yes, that’s what I am talking about. The gun became part of her hand. Her finger slipped inside the trigger guard. Her own inhaling and exhaling created a rhythm that helped her focus.

  “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”

  Yes, that was it. Strong, commanding. Arleta stood at the end of the hallway that led to the living room and kitchen area. She listened. Nothing.

  “You need to get out of my house. I have to get some sleep.”

  She didn’t hear noises so much as she sensed that someone was in the room. He or she was standing very still, but Arleta knew she wasn’t imagining things. It was the same feeling as when you knew someone was staring at you, even before you turned and looked. In the dark, someone watched her.

  “I have a gun, and I know how to use it.” This time she sounded a little less forceful. Don’t let him sense your fear, Arleta. Again, she waited. Only this time she wasn’t resting behind her bed, she was standing…and her bunions were starting to hurt.

  What a time waster.

  “I have a gun, and I’ve been trained to use it.” And I will use it. With the gun pointed at the ceiling, she squeezed, not pulled, the trigger. The thunder of th
e shot nearly broke her eardrums. Something above her cracked. Plaster dust sprinkled on her head.

  Footsteps pounded across floorboards. An outside door swung open and slammed shut. Arleta counted the intake and outtake of air…twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. A car started up and sped away.

  For what felt like a millennium, she stood in her dark living room blinking plaster out of her eyes. Arm relaxed, gun resting at her side, she was motionless enough to pass for a statue. Her pulsed drummed in her ears, creating that muffled feeling like wearing headphones. Arleta didn’t remember thinking that she should turn on the light, only that she found herself at the light switch pushing it up.

  She turned a half circle in her living room and kitchen. The place was much less messy than she had expected for the amount of time the man had been in her house, but there was clear evidence that someone had been here. A photograph turned facedown. A china cup on the floor, unbroken.

  She walked slowly to the desk that had been David’s. That’s where she had seen the tiny light. She opened a drawer. She always paper clipped related papers together. Now they were one unorganized heap. The intruder hadn’t been sloppy, but she would have known even if she had slept through the noise. When you lived alone, it was easy to tell when someone else had messed with your stuff. The intruder had focused his search around David’s old desk.

  Arleta ejected the bullets from her revolver and set it on the desk. An unexpected wave of nausea overtook her and she bent over. All the fear she hadn’t allowed herself to feel rushed through her with the strength of a gale force wind. She slumped down in the chair by the desk.

  The police. She needed to call the police and tell them what had happened. Her stomach churned like an old-fashioned washing machine. After the police, there would be no one else to call. Every person she could think of was an acquaintance at best. Not someone she felt comfortable calling in the middle of the night. Not someone who would talk to her and calm her down. Now that was sad.

  Yes, she could take care of herself, but she was tired of being alone. Her new life was starting tonight. No more living in the past, longing for David.