Courtesy Call

by Susan Kroupa

  He stomped through the snow to the front door and tried the handle. Locked, of course, and solid wood. No chance of heroically breaking through it.

  "Mrs. Jacobson," he called, "I'm here to help you."

  No answer. "Help is on the way," he called again as loudly as possible, hoping she could hear and take some comfort. She had sounded so very weak on the phone. Where was that ambulance?

  He slogged to the side entrance to the garage. Also locked, but this door had a window on the top. He searched for something he could use to break the glass. Nothing. Finally, he ran back to his car and snatched the jack from his trunk along with some rags he kept to check the oil. He hurled the jack through the glass, and then wrapped his arm in the rag and gingerly reached through the jagged opening to unlatch the lock.

  The door swung open. Silence. No indication that the LockTite system was on, but that didn't mean anything. If he remembered correctly, the system was silent. He talked a good line when he sold the warranties, but he had only a vague idea how the system worked. Now he wished he'd paid more attention.

  Cautiously, he stuck a finger into the doorway, ready to feel a shock. Nothing. He pushed his hand in a little farther. Nothing. He stuck his whole arm into the garage. Nothing. The system had to be off.

  Relieved, he ran through the door shouting, "Mrs. Jacobson, I'm comi—"

  A jolt hit him, slamming him backward onto the ground. By the time he could breathe again and begin to focus his eyes, a policeman stood over him, slapping handcuffs onto his wrists.

  *

  He spent the night in a jail cell with two drunks and a jittery, anorexic-looking man who talked to himself continually in a low voice. Worse than the thin man's barely audible monologue, though, was the music that leaked around the corner from the guard station. Christmas carols. They must have come from a CD because the same eleven songs (he counted) played over and over again. Every time "Silent Night" came around, Peter thought how blissful it would be if the night actually had even a moment's silence.

  It took a lawyer and most of the next day to get things sorted out, mainly because the policeman who had found him unconscious was certain he'd caught a thief and showed no enthusiasm for trying to verify Peter's story. Finally, though, at the lawyer's insistence, the fact was established that Peter had made a 911 call only a few minutes before he had tried to break into Mrs. Jacobson's home. This alone hadn't convinced the policeman who asked Peter repeatedly how he had known she needed help. There was no record of Mrs. Jacobson's call to Peter. His dogged insistence that he'd somehow received her 911 call was met with patent disbelief. Finally, his lawyer found a neighbor who remembered Peter’s shouting outside Mrs. Jacobson's door. That, along with no sign of any wrongdoing other than the broken window, was enough to get Peter released.

  The lawyer charged double rates for working on Christmas Eve. Peter thought that a night in jail, a reputation as a thief, and a hefty legal bill was adequate repayment for trying to do a good deed. Surely, the Christmas Season had nothing more to throw at him.

  He was wrong. When he inquired about Mrs. Jacobson, he discovered she’d been found dead at the scene. The officer, a balding man with a Santa-like belly sighed as he read from his computer screen. “They might have saved her if they could have gotten in more quickly, but it looks like it took a while to disable the security system."

  By the time Peter made it home, it was almost too late to go Carla's party. Too much effort, he thought, as he showered away the jail stench, but after he was dressed, he felt restless.

  He couldn't get Mrs. Jacobson out of his mind. No worries whatsoever. Well maybe she had none now, but he wished he'd never called her, never uttered such facile promises. The commission he would receive from the sale felt like blood money.

  He called Mr. Lopez, who made it clear he didn't appreciate the intrusion on Christmas Eve, and explained the situation.

  "I want to cancel the sale. Give a return credit on her card. I don't want the commission."

  Mr. Lopez wasn't enthusiastic about the idea—it was his commission too--until Peter said it would be good public relations. "They could sue, you know. The police couldn't get inside in time."

  "That's not our fault," said Mr. Lopez. "They're supposed to have the codes to disarm it." But he finally agreed to cancel the sale first thing when he went back to work.

  Peter hung up feeling a little better. For the first time in a week his head didn’t throb. Maybe he'd go to Carla's party after all. He changed clothes and got into his car.

  Carla's address turned out to be a condo with well-lit walkways. The party was in full swing when he arrived—the door opened to laughter and voices struggling to be heard over a jazzy arrangement of "Deck the Halls." More carols! He almost turned and fled, but Carla had already seen him.

  "Come in! I'm so glad you made it!" Carla's smile was the first warm thing Peter had experienced all day. She hung his coat on a rack by the door "Everyone's here!" she said a little breathlessly. "I think half the condo association decided to come." She leaned into him until her lips nudged his ear and said in a stage whisper, "There are people here I don't even recognize."

  Peter stepped back, smiled, and let her talk him into a piece of fudge and a ginger ale. Given how his day had gone, he felt it would be tempting fate to drive home with anything inside him that would show up on a breathalyzer. The fudge was overly sweet, and the room too hot, and Peter almost wished he hadn't come.

  And then he looked up and saw her across the room. Ann. She stood in front of a red and gold aluminum Christmas tree, staring at him, an openly inquisitive look on her face.

  He found it hard to breathe.

  "Excuse me," he said to Carla, who was in the middle of saying something he hadn't heard at all. "I know that woman." With an apologetic smile, he turned and crossed the room to Ann.

  "You're here.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She looked puzzled. "Didn't you expect me to be?"

  "Expect you?" As she stared, he stammered, "I mean, I’m delighted you're here. Wonderful surprise." He couldn't seem to stop talking.

  "Surprise? But you asked me to come." Ann began to rub her hands together, as she always used to do when she was nervous. "The call..."

  "Call?"

  "I got a call. From a woman saying that you'd been tied up—actually, locked up was the phrase she used but she had an accent and I assumed she meant busy—"

  "Wait a minute," Peter said. "Was her name Jeanette?"

  "Yes, Jeanette. From the Christmas Foundation? She said you desperately wanted me to meet you here, and would I forgive you for having her call for you but that you really wanted to...to talk." Her voice trailed away.

  She was thinner than when he'd last seen her and she had dark circles under her eyes. He wanted to hug her, to feel her warmth against his chest. Not that he had any right anymore, or any illusions as to how welcome his touch would be.

  She flushed. "You didn't ask her to call,” she said, her voice flat.

  And Peter realized that she would leave if he didn't find a way to stop her.

  " I...I'm glad she called. I wanted to see you. “

  "Oh." Ann stood stiffly, rubbing her hands.

  “Peter!” Carla headed toward him with two drinks in her hand and a determined look in her eye.

  "Can we go outside?” Peter asked Ann quickly. “Where we can talk?"

  Ann nodded. They threaded their way through the crowd to the door and fished their coats from the rack. Peter gave Carla what he hoped was a cheery wave, and then led Ann outside into the welcoming silence.

  "My car's pretty close." Peter said. Ann followed him without a word.

  It had stopped snowing and the sky was bright with stars and reflected light. After only a few steps the cold seeped through his coat and numbed his toes, but it was his mind that seemed frozen. This was his chance, his only chance.

  They reached the car and Peter fumbled in his pocket for the key, then s
tuck it in the lock, his hand trembling but not from the cold.

  The key wouldn't turn. He tried it again and again, but it wouldn't budge.

  "It must be frozen," he said, now truly in a panic that she would leave. He’d lose her all over again and then he'd be alone, he'd be like poor Mrs. Jacobson locking out the ones who'd come to help. But what could he say to stop her? The words he needed had been shut inside for so long that he'd lost the key. His brain felt iced over. He couldn’t think.

  Terrified that she'd leave if he waited even a moment longer, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him.

  To his amazement, his eyes watered, tears spilling down his cheeks and with the tears, at last, he found the words. "Please don't go, Ann," he whispered. “I've missed you so much...And I need you. I've always needed you."

  And then the tears came, unstoppable, in huge gasping sobs. He clung to her and cried like a boy who'd lost his father, like a man who'd lost his only love.

  Finally, he stopped and took a deep, shuddering breath. Ann's arms still held him like a lifeline. She hadn't pulled away. She was still there. He didn’t move until his tears began to freeze on his cheeks and he started shivering.

  "Maybe we could go get a cup of coffee." Ann said softly. "I'm pretty sure I can get my car door open."

  She took his hand and together they crunched through the snow to her car.

  His cell phone rang. Who could--? But then he knew. He flipped it open with one hand, keeping his other in Ann’s.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He wanted to say more, but found he couldn’t speak.

  In a voice warm enough to melt the snow, Jeanette said, “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Mr. Mallick.” And she was gone.

  Ann raised her eyebrows, curious. Peter squeezed her hand and then pulled her into his arms once again.

  Merry Christmas indeed.

  [END]

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