I Know What I Heard

On the last night in October of 1984, I was nearly killed by a fire-extinguisher. I was eight months pregnant and couldn’t sleep. Seduced by the bowl of candy not coveted by trick or treaters, I sat in the silent darkness of our tiny kitchen and plowed through the leftovers. Suddenly, the overhead light flicked on, and my husband stood there in nothing but Snoopy boxer-shorts, about to bring a fire-extinguisher down on my head.

“What the …?” He staggered back. “You nearly gave me a heart attack; I thought you were an intruder!” He moaned in relief, then gestured to my chaotic mound of empty wrappers. “From upstairs, it sounded like something was tearing its way through the sheetrock.” With his free hand, he counted my numerous atrocities. “No lights or warning you’re down here? No concern it’s two in the morning and I have a flight sortie in a few hours?” As if disappointed in the woman who could go in labor momentarily with our first child, my husband shook his head at me.

 “I scared you?” The overhead light made me feel interrogated. “I guess special ops training taught you to overlook the 700 pounds missing from my side of the bed?” I pointed at the fire extinguisher. “Really?” I laughed. “Sorry, I occasionally complain of heartburn but isn’t that a little drast…”

“You find this funny?” He raked his fingers through his shorn hair. “I actually feel grey hairs breaking through my scalp, as we speak.” He left without another word.

Eventually, we had a productive conversation about self-defense. Recognizing that women preferred to protect themselves with hair spray to the face, while men on the other hand, preferred a bullet to the face, we almost settled on a dog. Unfortunately, we were both allergic, so we’d be limited to hairless breeds costing thousands.

In order to ensure adequate safety, this bald dog who didn’t even exist, yet whom my husband already affectionately named Shakespeare, must be male, and so large I wouldn’t feel comfortable unless Shakespeare wore underwear. Dog out, gun in. My consolation prize- Seuss, a cat who could care less if crack dealers made themselves comfortable in our home.

From the moment my husband brought that gun across our threshold, I became criminal-minded, nervous and paranoid overnight. I only held it once; it was cute but surprisingly heavy and cold. He showed me the basics, had me demonstrate them back, then secured it in a special locked box, and locked that box in his bedside drawer. The keys were taped to the underside of my bedside drawer. I took copious notes.

My husband tore them up. “Who writes down steps to where a gun is hidden?”

Apparently, I was a risk to my own safety.

*****

For a few years, we moved several times and coexisted with that gun hidden in our bedroom, while we slept less than an arm’s length away. After a while, I never gave it a second thought. Sadly, after five years of marriage and two babies together, my husband was killed in action. Yet, that gun and I continued to cohabitate without paying each other any mind. We almost completely forgot about each other, until that fateful Halloween in 1988.

The out-of-sight, out-of-mind gun mentality turned out to be a good thing. My boys, no longer babies but toddlers, made guns out of everything from bananas to Seuss’s tail. As preschoolers, when Halloween rolled around, gone were the days of pre-packaged Pooh characters. For the first time, they chose their costumes for Halloween. The oldest wanted to be Terminator, even though the movie poster alone gave him nightmares. My youngest, barely four, decided on the gangster, Muggsy Malone.

Since I’d invented DIY, I wrapped the Terminator son in foil -head to toe, put silver oven-mitts with gun-barrels drawn on them in black marker, and topped him off with a silver colander on his head. His little brother, the youngest OG on earth, was dressed in a double-breasted, striped zoot suit from a thrift store, along with a feathered fedora. And what self-respecting, Halloween adorned, 1920s gangster is complete without a semi-automatic, plastic, toy gun?

When we rang my mother’s doorbell and the boys yelled “Trick or treat, Grandma!”

She was, to say the least, apoplectic. I was accused of ruining her innocent grandbabies. She insisted this gun obsession was not normal behavior. She dropped apples in their pillowcases and slammed the door on us. It was clearly her, this isn't over, slam.

Like clockwork, my mother was at my door the next morning. She brought two, box-set Barbie and Ken dolls. My late-husband was twirling in his grave, but I needed to be progressive, this was the late-80’s, after all. And to be honest, I was well into my twenties, and my mother still scared me worse than any Halloween costume.

When the boys were handed the doll boxes, they stared at first, quite curious. My oldest ripped through the cellophane window and looked down Ken’s pants. “Does he have a wiener?”

Here we go. I knew a lecture was coming and I could do nothing but observe.

“Honey, you’re almost five.” My mother smiled down at him, but her teeth were zipper-like. “That is not the proper word for a boy’s body part, now, is it? So, what is the proper word?”

I was proud when my son languidly replied, “A penis, Grandma.”

“Very good, and what is the part called on the female body.” She just had to push it.

As my younger son quizzically lifted Barbie’s dress, my older son rolled his eyes and said, “I don’t know, Grandma, somethin’ from China?”

My mother was at a loss for words, a rarity in my world. She watched, frozen in horror as her precious grandsons proceeded to bend the dolls perpendicular at the hips. Then, gripping them by their plastic legs, double-fisted, they ran around the house making shooting noises, then eventually resorted to throwing the dolls at each other. When my scowling mother finally left, she suggested we all needed serious psychotherapy. 

I’m sure she was right, but I had too many other things to worry about. How did my sons know so much about guns? They rarely watched television, and there were no toys guns in the house, so why so drawn to them? Squirt guns, yes, I understood that lure. But this had gone too far. I’d raised them on Disney cartoons, Land Before Time, Bambi, Lion King, okay, bad examples, but I’d long since given up winning mother of the year. I just knew I needed to do something.

That night, when I tucked them in bed, I told them they were playing much too violently for my liking, that it may frighten people who didn’t know what sweet boys they both were. I was well-aware, the schools were cracking-down in their war against gun-violence, specifically on what was deemed “inappropriate” Halloween costumes. I was still struggling with keeping peanut products out of their lunchboxes.

“So, no more guns. Agreed?” I’d start there.

“Then, why do adults make toy guns?” said my oldest.

Totally unprepared for that, I had their undivided attention because they’d let me read them a medical journal if it meant they could stay awake longer. I went into a 20-minute dissertation on how guns are very dangerous, but they can save lives too, only if properly handled. I wrapped my brilliant speech up with a synopsis of the second amendment, our natural-born, constitutional right to bear arms.

My younger son pondered this, brow furrowed, and I knew I had really made an impression on both of them, maybe they even learned some history in the process.

“Wow,” he said. “Victor’s dad has a deer head in his living room, but bear arms would be cooler. Can I be a bear for Halloween?”

Before I could process what he’d said, my older son queried, “So, where exactly can you buy bear arms?” Was he going to escape as soon as I shut their door, go on a mission to find them?

Too fatigued to worry, I kissed them on their foreheads and said, “I’m guessing they sell bear-arms in the same stores as turtlenecks.”

*****

By the following October, I had decided, no more violent costumes. The night before Halloween, better known as mischief night, I stayed awake as late as possible. I knew our trees would get toilet-papered, but eggs to my new mini-van would require immediate cleaning. They wanted to go as Ghostbusters, seemed harmless enough. Nope, they had slime guns, they were weapons.

After much thought and arduous work, I finally finished their costumes. They were going as ghosts – no weapons, just two holes cut into two white pillowcases and done. I didn’t care if they liked them. By morning, it would be too late to do anything about it and the lure of separate, albeit smaller pillowcases full of candy would be enough to get them out the door.

By 11:30 pm, when I finally readied for sleep, both boys had made their way to my bed because they had bad dreams, one involving a bear shooting me. Great, I thought. They snuggled in next to each other and were asleep within minutes. Seuss stretched, annoyed to woken-up, and reoccupied his spot on my pillow like a hair hat, leaving me little room.

I thought about the reactions the boys were going to have when they were ghosts the next day, not Ghostbusters. I’d convince them that the ghosts outsmarted the busters every time, until a woman got involved. They were at that age when I could still trick or treat them. Harmless little things, such as them wanting sweet cereal and promising to eat all of it without waste, never happened. I bought them the cereal they craved but would surreptitiously slip sugar-free bran cereal into my cart, as well. At home I’d switch the two cereals. The look on their faces when I poured that first bowl knowing they’d promised to eat the entire box – priceless.

What mother doesn’t push the clocks ahead in the summer when it stays light out till what seems midnight? It was really six, yet the clocks read eight – bedtime. I only did that trick once, because I’d forgotten to switch the clocks back. My next day was completely thrown off. I had the boys at summer camp by 6am sitting in an empty parking lot thinking, What’s wrong with this picture?

Honestly, I never cared much for Halloween and hated the night before even more. I slipped back out of bed around half past midnight, and made my final rounds on Hallows Eve. I glanced out the front door and noticed just a few strips of white hanging from a tree that I’d clean-up in the morning. No egg-bombs in sight, and with mischief-night curfew long since passed, I locked all the doors, shut out the lights and returned to bed. Some late-night host was interviewing an actor I couldn’t quite place, so I muted the television, knowing the boys needed a nightlight or they’d wake up in total darkness and get scared.

As I was about to doze off, I heard a strange, yet familiar sound. It was in the hallway, just outside my bedroom doors. The boys didn’t stir but it wasn’t my imagination. Even Seuss popped his head up at the sound, head cocked, ears twitched.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered.

Seuss looked at me as if to say, oh please, woman, it was you.

Repositioning himself, Seuss was asleep again. That was the difference between cats and dogs. Dog owners could jump off a cliff and their dog would jump right behind them. Cats, on the other hand, watch their owners jump, saunter to the edge of the cliff, sit a spell, lick themselves, then walk back to the road to hitch a ride into their next life.

Less than a minute later, I heard that same noise a second time, and I knew that noise, albeit out of context, there was absolutely no mistaking it. I was paralyzed, straining my ears for another, and when the same sound came a third time, I was certain there was another being in my home. No one would ever convince me otherwise. I knew what I heard.

I heard someone fart.

It sounded crazy, even to me, but it was the scariest moment of my life. I tried not to panic, once I realized that of course this could happen. An intruder who had eaten gas-producing food earlier in the day. Burglars were human, they had to eat… and poop, too.

With the muted television sending random strobes of light around the room, I broke free of my frozen pose. I had to go with my gut, got the pun, but needed to act without further hesitation. I had two babies to protect. I needed to get the gun. As gingerly as possible, I retrieved the keys, and then the weapon. Considering the most dangerous thing I’d shot until then was a stapler, I was relieved to be holding the correct end.

Gun in hand, I took a protective stance between the bedroom door and my sons. Seuss was nowhere to be seen. With my free hand, I dialed 911 and requested extra back-up. I was told the responding officers made that call. Please hurry, was all I could think to whisper.

My heart was pounding so loudly, I feared I’d wake the boys. Thoughts raced through my mind - like hiding the boys in dresser drawers, and telepathically contacting my late-husband. I attempted the latter, but to no avail. Was I expecting a superhero to come through the window? It was Halloween, the boys would’ve loved that, but it didn’t happen. With my luck, I’d have shot Superman.

Thrust back to reality, when I saw red and blue flashes outside, I ran for the front door. I flipped on the porch lights, just as the doorbell rang. I could’ve had Chinese food delivered faster, but I was never so relieved to see the police in my life. One of the officers advised me they were going to take a quick look around the premises. They reassured me we were safe, and to sit tight till they could get a full report. Thankfully, they found nothing but an old broken basement window I doubted Seuss could even squeeze through.

We stood in my well-lit foyer and when they got to the part of their report in reference to the unmistakable sound I’d heard, the investigation took a steep downward turn. I tried to bring some credibility to the crime scene by drawing on my medical background.

“Maybe the intruder had an intestinal affliction, food poisoning, ran out to find a bathroom.” I could’ve stopped talking but nope, apparently, I couldn’t. “Are you saying burglars or worse, murderers, can’t have IBS? C’mon, stop laughing, you’re so unprofessional! I want badge numbers.”

I despised them, as much as I hated my gaseous intruder. I contemplated offering to pay one of them to sleep over, then quickly realized that request would get me arrested. As it was, through their periodic bouts of hysteria, they managed to issue me a warning for not having a gun-permit. How was I supposed to know they didn’t mean voting when they asked if I was registered?

Before they left, they got in one last shot at my expense. Turns out, the bullet clip was missing from the gun, most likely still in the metal lockbox. I imagined my late-husband adding that extra step as one more way to limit risk after we had two rambunctious sons.

“Mamam, the only way you could’ve thwarted this person, would’ve been to throw the gun at him.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” I said as I closed my front door. I still heard their laughter. “Or maybe you should quit your day job!” 

Having grown up with four shameless brothers, no one would ever change my mind about what I heard. I could appreciate the difficulty the police would face trying to identify the perp, a line-up would be out of the question. I felt utterly defeated.

Naturally, I turned to my mother for comfort. She told me she didn’t care if it was Halloween, or an alien invasion. I was to march right down to that police station and turn that gun to the first officer you see.

Much to my delight, no questions were asked, and the following week, I received a gift card for being a responsible citizen. My mother, on the other hand, mailed me highlighted articles of women shooting off their own toes, and the book, Self-Defense for Idiots.

*****

There was comfort in not owning a gun. Life with growing boys was challenging enough to the extent that if I did own a gun, I’d use it on the geniuses who came up with the concept of Halloween, certainly was not a mother’s idea to give endless amounts of sugar to a kid. Same brains who decided only one prize per cereal box full of sugar?

Or the designer who thought an elastic band, thinner than a strand of hair, was adequate enough to hold a plastic mask on a kid’s head without snapping after five houses. I blamed the same guy responsible for the microscopic disclaimer, “batteries not included,” only to be discovered by a hysterical child at 6am on Christmas morning.

For all involved, I became a mace carrier. In my rural neck of the woods, it served a dual purpose by working on humans and bears. My only hope was that my kids didn’t use it on me when they realized yet another Halloween had came and went, and they never got their “bear arms.”

Then, I’d be forced to dress-up as the Invisible Woman. If only...