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.
