I did make the effort, once again, to try to reach my cousins on the phone. Abby and Ollie. This time from my cell. If I could just get them down here, maybe they would love it and we would have a blast! It would be like a Norman Rockwell painting. Abby and I would gossip and giggle all day and I’d let Ollie play Roblux until his face turned blue.
But, again, that same beep boop beep. “We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is not in service. Please check the number and try again.” And I checked. And I tried. Checked. Tried. Checked. Tried. But nothing. The number I have is officially wrong and I am officially annoyed and officially sick of hearing that dumb automated message.
Fun fact: Three nights ago, in the middle of the night, I thought I heard that scratching sound again. But this time I was not fooled into getting out of bed. No, no, sorry. No, you cannot coax me out of my sweet warm cocoon with just some scratching.
You see, I have learned. The explanation is that there is a rather large dog, or possibly even a cat, who has some obsession with something in the ground there. That is the simplest explanation. Occam’s razor. And, since that is the simplest explanation, that is the most possible one and the one I have trained myself to believe.
Problem solved.
And, now, having had the experience of the desolate empty-house dream, I know that it’s probably wise just to stay in bed at night. No reason to go anywhere. Just sit tight. Snuggled beneath the sheets.
Yes, it is possible I could explore other options. Of course, but let’s not get carried away when the entire canon of both novels and cinema is at my disposal. And that new subscription to CuriosityStream, which means entire series on the Silk Road, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, and the Wars of the Roses. Not to mention podcasts.
For instance, right now I’m enthralled by the true story podcast of a southern California suburb where a rich, sweet interior designer has been seduced by a homeless man posing as a doctor. You see, you can’t make this stuff up. So, yes, there may be scratches, but my armor is my apathy. And my addiction to the internet.
Just as I am about to start my day by listening to episode three of said podcast, there’s a knock at the back door. Hmm. That must be one of the construction guys. Well, my job is to oversee this baby, so that means I will have to not only get up out of this blissful bed, but actually get dressed, comb my hair, and make sure I have not slobbered all over myself somewhere in the night.
The pounding continues as I descend the stairs, and there, framed in the little window of the farm-style back door of the kitchen, is Mike. He squints at my figure coming toward him.
“Late night?” He smiles.
“Um, yeah. I was up . . . studying,” I defend myself.
“Studying? Really? Over the summer?” he asks, crinkling his forehead.
Wow. I guess Mike is a bit of a nosey noodle.
“Um, actually, I have a project I’m working on. It has to do with the mesh of civilizations in southern Spain, Andalusia, and how, perhaps, the Alhambra declaration is what directly led to the fall of the Spanish Empire.”
He looks at me for a moment.
“I’m researching it for a possible history dissertation. It’s never too early to start thinking about it. I’m planning on doing a dual major in history and religion.” That part is at least true.
“Guess you’re ahead of the game. Don’t most people take the summer before college off?” He now looks honestly concerned about my well-being.
“Most people probably have more money than I do.” This comes out before I can stop myself. Stupid. What a vulgar thing to say! My grandma says you’re never supposed to talk about money.
“Wait. Are you getting paid to stay here?” He looks up at the house, as if the house could answer.
“Um, yeah. And to just make sure all . . . this . . . goes okay, I guess.” I gesture to the construction.
“This? You mean us? Are you here to watch us?”
“Oh, no, it’s not—”
“Make sure we don’t steal the soaps?” He’s irked now, or maybe he’s joking.
I try to laugh it off, not wanting to get into a scuffle.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. No one’s gonna steal the soaps, or the figurines, or whatever other tchotchkes are floating around.”
Sweetie?
He continues, but all I can hear in my head is that word. “Sweetie.” Clanking around all over the place.
“. . . My guys are honest guys. And I am, too.” He looks at me, suddenly serious.
“Yeah, I never . . . um, thought anything like that, actually . . .”
“If anything, you’re the one who needs looking after.”
This takes me by surprise.
Also, sweetie?
“Yeah, you.” He nods. “Little girl like you, all alone in this place.”
“Oh, it’s fine I’m—”
“Hell, I’m worried about you.” Again, he squares off, facing me. I realize he’s a bit of a space invader. Like, he’s not observing the stay-three-feet-away rule. He’s definitely a little too close for comfort.
“Oh, well. I’m adjusting, it’s—”
“Is there an alarm system or anything in here?” He looks around the doorway. Again, space invading.
“Um, I don’t think so. The professor . . . never said anything about it. I’m sure he would’ve.” I hadn’t thought about it. Honestly, this guy is officially freaking me out.
“Okay, this is what I’m gonna do. Every morning, when I come, I’m gonna check in. Make sure you’re alright. And at the end of the shift, before I leave, I’m gonna make sure you’re squared away, safe and sound. And . . . I’m gonna give you my number. In case there’s any trouble. Especially on weekends.” He nods, a dad nod, assuring.
“Um. Okay.” I guess he’s just trying to be nice?
Maybe he’s just a really nice guy.
But still . . . “sweetie.”
“Alright then. You take care.” He turns to join his crew, but then turns back. “Hey, you seen that hammer?”
“Excuse me?”
“That hammer. Still can’t find it,” he answers.
“Um, I don’t think so. I did look,” I assure him.
“Hmm. Weird.” He walks away, taking his baseball hat off and scratching his head. It’s a red Phillies hat. Of course.
I want to say something to him, a final witty note. But all I can think of to say is, “Do you like baseball?” which I think we can all admit is a pretty obvious thing to infer judging by his coaching kit as well as his baseball hat.
So, instead, I’ll just stand here looking natural in my sweatpants and wonder if he noticed the coffee stain on my T-shirt. From yesterday. No need to wash it, it’s just me here, right? Mostly.
I don’t know if I should be vaguely insulted or flattered by his sudden interest in my well-being. Or by “sweetie.” Whatever I’m supposed to be, it seems like I’m a little bit of both. That’s the thing about emotions, they’re never just one of this and one of that. Never pure mad. Or pure happy. It’s always a little bit of both. There should be more words to describe these things. Like bittersweet. Or sadjealous. Or gratefulinsulted. Maybe my problem is that there never seems to be the right word for what I’m feeling.