CALLING

Bill walks West Meadow Beach on a cold December day passing summer cottages, some ramshackle, others newly painted white or bright colors. He notes a plastic bag is caught in the beach grass and flapping in the wind, a Bud bottle near a driftwood log used for a summer seat, a screen door banging in the wind. He passes a long line of the cottages, some boarded up, all dark except one where he sees a light on. He looks at his watch and realizes it’s late, needs to call his wife. He knocks at the door. A teenage boy with long stringy hair hanging over his eyes, pimply face, answers sullenly, “Yeah?”

“May I use the phone—it’s a local call.”

“We don’t have one.” The boy looks nervous, bites his lip, taps his foot, eyes dart around.

“But there’s one there on the table.”

“Oh yeh, but it don’t work, cut off for the winter.”

“Okay,” Bill turns to leave, “sorry to bother you,” then he hears, “Idiot, why did you answer the door, now someone knows we are here.”

Bill wonders if they broke in. He hears another voice call out from the back of the house, "He’s seen you, now we’ll have to kill him.” With that, Bill runs between the houses, darting behind porches, garbage cans, hiding in tall grass. Sees two figures sneaking behind him. He hears footsteps crunch on the rocks and darts behind a clump of cedar trees, a boat up on blocks working toward his car in the parking lot. When he finally gets there, he runs zigzag through lot, expecting to hear shots, to be shot, then just as he gets to his car and takes hold of the handle, the key already in his hand, he hears laughter, howls of laughter and turns to see the boy who was at the door and another one standing at the edge of the lot, doubled over in laughter.