Sunday Morning
Richard
Brown
Your
daughter will die at noon if you don’t do as you’re told.
There’s
nothing more frightening to a parent than a death threat to their child, is
there? There’s no telling how a parent might react. That’s what the note said
that I held in my trembling fingers. It had been tucked into the newspaper this
fine Sunday morning when I went out to retrieve it from the doorstep at seven
o’clock.
I heard the thump as it
hit the
front door, and the softer thump of it dropping to the concrete stoop. I
stumbled out of bed, put my bathrobe on, hurried down the stairs, opened the
door, and picked it up. Nobody else was around. The obnoxious nine-year old who
lives next door in this duplex and is always up at this time was away at a
sleepover. I watched her leave Friday evening. Every time I go to get the
paper, she’s right there, asking me questions like “Where’s your paper?”, when
she knows damn well where it is. Her dog keeps shitting in my yard, too. My
half, anyway. You wouldn’t think such a dumb animal would be able to tell where
the dividing line is, but he never dumps on their half, now does he?
The delivery boy had driven
off
minutes before. He’s in his twenties.
I took the paper into the
dining
room and set it on the table so I could make my coffee. I make a full pot so
that it will keep me until at least noon. Ten cups of French roast. I don’t
care about the brand as long as it’s French roast. I pulled the hazelnut
creamer out of the fridge and set it next to the sugar bowl. Then I went about
my morning routine.
I turned on the downstairs
heater and set the thermostat to seventy-four. I swear that setting creeps up
every year. I climbed the stairs and got dressed in a thick sweater. These
Pacific Northwest winter mornings send chills through my bones that have no
need of supplementary death threats. I shaved. I combed my hair, parting it
carefully on the left side.
I brushed my teeth. That
probably seems like an unnecessary detail, but to me, it’s important.
Dressed and groomed, I descended
the stairs again, this time to find my coffee brewed and waiting for me. I
poured a cup, added creamer and sugar, and sat down at the little table to read
the obits. Had to make sure I wasn’t in there, yet. I hadn’t brushed my teeth
yesterday, and I didn’t want to die with a dirty mouth.
Out flutters this little
piece
of paper, like I had cracked open a fortune cookie. I unfolded it, and there it
was: Your daughter will die at noon...
My only child is a thirty-six-year-old
son.
He’s an insurance
adjustor with
one of those insurance scam companies. I think it’s the one with the lizard, or
maybe the one with the caveman. He lives in Arizona, where it’s nice and warm,
even in the winter. I keep meaning to move down there, maybe see him once in a
while. He wouldn’t appreciate that, though. We haven’t even talked since his
mother died. That was twelve years ago.
I remember that scene as
clearly
as I remember what I had for dinner last night. It was a Salisbury steak with
mashed potatoes. Or was that the night before? The point is, his sainted
mother, my sweet Annie, had wanted to be buried on his summer property in
Northern California. Ukiah, it’s called. He has this giant elm tree there that
she just adored. Loved to sit under it and drink her Arnie Palmers, she did.
She’d play canasta there and watch the fireworks there. Best of all, though,
she’d bounce our grandson on her knee there and tell him all sorts of fanciful
stories. King Arthur, Robin Hood, even Buck Rogers. They all came to spend time
under that old elm with her and that boy.
Under that elm is where
she
wanted to be buried.
She never made a will, though,
so when I had her cremated and put her ashes in my neighbor’s gas tank, my son
decided he couldn’t forgive that. I think she would have appreciated the joke.
Your daughter
will die…
Someone’s little girl
was in
deep trouble. Should I ask around, see whose daughter was missing? “Hi, I live
down the street. Is your little girl at home?” That’ll get me arrested. If not,
handing over this death threat surely will.
Should I call the police?
No
need. I think I know whose nine-year-old daughter is missing.
I do wonder who would want
to do
this, though. Is it someone from Annie’s funeral? One of her family, maybe?
Could it be that old neighbor whose gas tank Annie had fouled up? I ponder this
question as I carry the little note to a mostly unused cupboard. I pounded a
tenpenny nail up through the bottom of it yesterday. I spike this note onto the
nail, right on top of the other note.
Yesterday morning’s
note.
The note I found tucked
into my
neighbor’s newspaper after I stole it from their stoop.
I have your daughter.
She dies
tomorrow unless you kill the old man next door to you.
I sip my coffee and listen
to
the minutes slip by on the clock as I read the obituaries.
It’s
8:07.
