It can’t be her. He stared at her as she walked down the hall and into the family room, trying to place her, trying to rationalize why it can’t be her and not succeeding.
It was the doorbell again. It never rang when his wife was gone but tonight seemed to be the exception. The first time it had been a young man wanting to know if he wanted to donate to the national “Save the Wallaby Foundation”. He hadn’t.
The second time it rang he couldn’t find anyone. It only took him a couple of minutes to get there and the door was open with only the glass of the storm door to keep out the cold. Whoever rang the bell should have known someone was home. Maybe they didn’t really want to talk to anyone, he thought as he went back to his computer.
Now it was ringing again. What the hell is this…an open house party? he thought. This is it, I’m going to close the door and turn off the lights. Hell, maybe even pull the shades . . .
There was someone at the door this time. They had their back to him and he couldn’t tell if it was someone he knew or not. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. He walked slowly to the door. He hated this - the cold calls from people selling or begging or petitioning for this or that. He understood the purpose but it made him uncomfortable - the chain of events; the small talk, the intro, the soft sell, the denial, the hard sell, the adamant “I don’t want it!”, the really hard sell that makes you feel like a real jackass and twice as dumb.
Sucking in his stomach, preparing for another round of “You mean YOU REALLY DON’T CARE ABOUT THE COCKROACHES OF BANGALLA??”, he opened the door, asking “May I help you?”
Whoever he thought they were, whatever he thought they wanted, he was wrong. He was not prepared for the the shock when they turned to face him.
“Well, is she in?” she asked as she turned around to face him, her eyes sweeping up from the street out front to his feet and then up to his eyes. Her mouth was turned up at the corners - only a trace of a smile that ran all the way up to her eyebrows… giving her a slightly devilish look.
His mouth went dry as he got his first look at her. It wasn’t so much her looks or what she said that got his attention. It was The Way she said it.
He had heard the same question, asked with the same slow southern drawl, many times before. Usually it was all he was asked, the only thing said to him during all the calls - “Well, is she in?” His mind reeled as he tried to focus his eyes on the person before him.
“Well, is she?” she asked again. She stood on the porch, patiently waiting for him to answer, her eyes laughing, her mouth still barely turned up, smiling. He couldn’t focus on the question because he was still in shock. I know this person he thought. I know this person. I know her, I know her…. from where, where!? “Is .. is w.. w. w.who in?” he stammered, his heart pounding and head throbbing.
“Oh, surely you know that!” she laughed, “Now, just who do you think I mean?”
This can’t be possible he thought. The lady standing before him can’t be more than 25 yea…
“27” she said.
“W . . what ?” He stammered, blinking away the hair from his eyes.
“27,” she repeated. “I’m 27 today.”
That’s great. he thought . . . is she reading his mind now? Well, what am I thinking now, can you tell me that?
“You know, “ she drawled, “there’s some things that I just can’t explain, like how I seem to know you, but you don’t know me at all, do you?” Her smiled disappeared. “Well, if she ain’t here, maybe you just ought’a let me in, seeing as it’s raining out here.” the drawl thick as the humidity on a southern summer evening. “She should be back soon, I reckon. Shopping I suppose, am I right?” she chattered as she breezed by me and into the house. “Now don’t worry about me, I know where I’m going.”
She did too.
It can’t be her. He stared at her as she walked down the hall and into the family room, trying to place her, trying to rationalize why it can’t be her and not succeeding.
