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Sadie

W. Dean Marple

    The window was open just a little, allowing the cool night air of early fall to seep through dingy curtains. Downstairs in the living room, a newspaper was draped over the arm of the small recliner, some of the middle pages crumpled on the floor. She’d been reading, then dozing, in the dark. The back of her short gray hair was still matted where it rested against the nubby fabric. When she woke and stood up, the paper slipped from her lap. Walking a little unsteadily to the stairs, she recalled the paper’s stories. Her arthritic hand found the railing and she sighed: Unusual weather, accidents, home invasions. The world had changed so much. Everything had changed so much. Her eyes landed on the framed pictures of her grandchildren lining the stairwell. The grinning little towheads were now in their thirties and forties, but they still brought a smile to her face each time she climbed the stairs.
    In the bedroom, shadows cast by tree branches swayed on floral wallpaper in time with the soft ticking of a wall clock. The ornate clock, with its black walnut carvings, was a long ago present from her late husband. Back and forth the pendulum labored...tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. When the 3:00 a.m. chimes rang, they sounded tired. A bottle of ZzzQuil stood on the lace doily that covered the nightstand. Since her husband had passed away, she hadn’t slept as well as she once did. In their 57 years of marriage, Sadie McDonell always felt so safe wrapped in his arms. Tonight, she should have been more concerned for her safety.
    Outside, a human form slowly moved, completely wrapped in the darkness of night. The shadow’s hands lightly followed the dented aluminum siding of Sadie’s house; his hands were very experienced in finding small openings. Avoiding a basement window well, he stayed between the house and several overgrown lilac bushes that gave him cover until he found the open crack in the window. Giving a small upward tug, he gained a slightly larger opening—but his reward was offset by the sharp squeak of the window opening. “Damn,” he softly muttered to himself. “I hate these old wooden windows.” He much preferred vinyl clad windows with their smooth sliding action, perfect for his quick entries and even quicker exits. Nevertheless, he began a repetitive process he’d used many times before. Tug, squeak, wait, listen. Tug, squeak, wait, listen. Ten minutes passed before he had created enough room to boost himself through the window.
    Moving with the type of speed that comes from experience, the shadow man searched the downstairs. Nothing. There were no billfolds, no purses, no checks to forge, not even any loose change. He found absolutely nothing of value in desk drawers, bookcase shelves, kitchen cabinets. Silently he cursed, then looked toward the stairs and began his slow climb up. Like Sadie, his eyes traveled over the pictures on the wall. The family portraits spanning several decades brought comfort to Sadie, but they just told him that old people lived here. He liked old people. They never put up much of a fight. A burglar, more interested in money than harm, he only used violence as a last resort when someone in the house unexpectedly woke up. The black Ozark Trail knife he carried in his front pocket worked nicely. Folded, the knife was less than four inches long; with a one-handed flick, a three-inch blade appeared. Small, deadly, silent. Old people were usually more afraid of knives than guns.
    One at a time, he climbed the stairs and then paused. Nothing. The process was simple: step and listen, step and pause, step and look around, repeat until the upstairs landing slowly came into view. His hand slid up the railing until it rested on the upstairs banister. He took stock of the layout. To the left was an open view of the living room below, while a hallway and three doorways appeared on the right. Two doorways framed partially open doors that looked as though someone didn’t have the strength to completely open them. Only the third room, the farthest door, was entirely closed. He liked closed doors. They usually hid something valuable.
    Feeling the carpet runner under his feet, he silently shuffled to the first partially open door. Putting his hands on either side of the doorframe and leaning forward, he balanced himself as he used his toe to gently nudge the door open. He grimaced. A linoleum floor worn thin in front of a pedestal sink, a hand towel hanging dejectedly from the plain wall, a toilet with its chipped lid raised. There was nothing there to find except the smell of Bengay and poor personal hygiene.
    Drawing his toe back from the door, he turned to his right and felt his way to the second doorway, carefully peeked around the door, and entered. Apparently, it was a bedroom that had gone unused for some time. Even the floral pillows arranged at the head of the bed looked tired and deflated. He quietly lifted the limp bedspread and got down on his knees to look under the bed. Boxes tucked under beds sometimes held things he wanted. His cheek was nearly pressed against the floor as his left hand slowly slid under the bed, blindly exploring. He felt a worn wicker basket, then a soft blanket, and then sudden sharp pain.
    Jerking his hand back and his head up, he heard a growl and saw the wide-eyed stare of a frantic Pomeranian. The little dog did not appreciate being wakened by a stranger and showed his disapproval by sinking his tiny teeth into the flesh of the shadow’s hand and refusing to let go. Stumbling to his feet, he waved his hand in an arc over his head, the dog soaring with it. It was a strange dance in the moonlight: The man stumbling about, trying not to scream, the dog growling but unable to bark with his mouth firmly clamped on the hand. In another context, it might look like a comedy. But it was not funny to the shadow man. It was noise, and noise was not acceptable. His body thrashing about, the dog’s growling. It was noise that had to stop, and it did when the knife came out and the little dog fell. The four-pound body made a soft plop as it hit the floor.
    He stopped, listened, and tried to calm his wheezing. Someone must have heard the commotion. Surely some angry husband would burst in the room in the next few seconds. He stood motionless, felt the sweat drip down his back, listened, waited. A minute passed, then three, then five. There was no angry husband; there was no sound. Thank heaven for old people, he thought to himself. They’re so damn deaf.
    With careful steps, he slowly left the room, edged along the hallway, and approached the third closed door. He gently twisted the tarnished doorknob and slid into the room. To his right he saw what he expected, an old lady covered by a thin sheet on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open as if laboring to catch every breath. He grinned when he saw the bottle of ZzzQuil on the nightstand next to her, and then spotted the wooden dresser with a mounted mirror to his left. Twice glancing back at the sleeping granny, he moved to the dresser and pulled the top drawer open, a small white jewelry box right on top. Gently pushing the lid up and back, he saw a jumble of rings, watches, and earrings. Most of it was junk but one ring caught his eye. Diamonds, real diamonds, surrounded the setting and his fingers felt a tiny inscription on the back. Probably something sappy about an anniversary or a birthday. He didn’t care what it meant to the old lady; it meant money to him. Finally, something to make up for his aching hand dotted with doggie teeth marks and the disappointing smell of Bengay still lingering around him. Dropping the ring in his pocket, he turned to leave but stopped as every muscle in his body tightened. The old lady was awake with a corded phone within reach on the nightstand. He couldn’t let her make that call.
    Moving forward without taking his eyes off her, the knife flipped open. He didn’t even have to think as his left hand reached out to yank her head up. He knew this would all be over in a second.
    That’s when Sadie shot him twice, the bullets piercing the sheets a split second before they drilled into him. Sadie was old, but she wasn’t deaf, and she was a damn good shot.

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