Writer's Block Shockingly Ends After 30 Years by Deborah Trahan

  Julie stares at the white screen of her laptop with not one single idea of what to write.  How ridiculous she feels, having rented a bed and breakfast stay on Nantucket’s Sconset Beach, not far from the water’s edge. Not for just one week, but two. She planned her writing journey in advance and formulated an intricate plan to begin a memoir, how-to, or perhaps even a haunted tale to end all ghostly stories ever written. And here she sits, with not one solid idea of how to jump-start the process. Suffering from the most elongated case of writer’s block. Perhaps it has been too long. Perhaps she has nothing left to say.

She pushes back the draperies covering an old-fashioned windowpane on the home’s second floor to watch a couple struggle with repairing a bike’s tire. Predictably, the man is lathering up a sweat, trying to resolve the problem, while the woman paces in circles, scrolling franticly on her phone. Julie laughs aloud, remembering a similar scene she and Leon shared years ago during their first visit to the island. They were cycling through the bumpy bricked streets of the quaint coastal town when her bike caught a flat. It was easily repaired by the owner of a bike shop near Old North Wharf.  Afterward, they enjoyed the best lobster dinner of their lives.

I could write about honeymoons, marriages, husbands, and wives. Share endless travel experiences. Or offer personal testimony about the power of patience and forgiveness. I’ve plenty to say about all these things. Three marriages, four kids, two stepchildren, and nearly a dozen grandchildren. Why revisit reality? No one’s interested in someone else’s war stories. No one. I’m barely interested in them, myself, and they belong to me.

Since I am here to write, I’ve got to produce something tangible. The worst thing in the world would be to return home, empty-handed. Leon’s on his dream excursion, fishing all the red snapper out of the Gulf of Mexico, so there’s no way I’m heading home without the first few chapters of a manuscript in my hands. Julie stands, looks around the bedroom. She remembers the box of tea bags she stuffed in her carry-on bag right before leaving. Of course, a cup of tea is what I need.

As she waits for the light on the mini-Keurig to flash green, she hears a soft knock at the door of the upstairs suite. Then an insistent pounding. With her cup in hand, tea bag still steeping, Julie opens the door, gingerly, and finds a woman shaking, with blood splattered on her arms.

Is this the same woman she’d just watched from her window?

“Good Lord, what has happened to you?”

The woman attempts to stumble her way into Julie’s suite, but Julie presses back.

“Where are you going, dear? You need a doctor, at the very least. Sit here by the door, and I’ll call 911.”

“No, no, you can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can. You’re bleeding. By the looks of that cut, you need stitches.”

Julie reaches for her phone, and the woman knocks it from her hands. It slides across the hardwood floor. “Come on inside. Let me see what I can do. Close the door. We’ll make the call after he’s gone.”

It sinks in. Julie gets it.

The bike ride has gone terribly wrong.

“What exactly happened? Were you riding on the beach together?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just need a safe place ‘til he goes away.”

“Okay, okay. My apology, I didn’t realize what we’re dealing with.”

“What I’m dealing with.”

Jesus. People and their agendas. “Well, my girl, the pronoun changes since you've involved me.”

Julie closes the heavy wooden door, bolts it, and slides the iron latch past the door frame to secure their safety in the only suite on the top floor of The Captain’s Quarters. Set against the bluff on a secluded side of Nantucket Island. If they summon for assistance, it will take at least 15 minutes for help to arrive.

“Who are you, some kind of writer or something?” the woman asks, grabbing the box of Kleenex on the side table. She dabs at the gapping cut on her right shoulder.

“Yeah, something like that.” Julie runs to the bathroom for towels and a first-aid kit she remembers seeing in the cupboard by the shower. She eyes her laptop before leaving the bathroom. If she could reach it, without upsetting this injured woman, she could make an internet call. At least do something proactive to get them help.

“What’s taking so long? It’s bleeding a lot.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Found a first-aid kit.”

Julie dampened one of the hand towels with disinfectant and gently pressed around the cut. Clearly, the woman needs stitches. “Just hold this over the cut, don’t see how that will hurt it.” She gauges the woman’s response before speaking again.

Sitting crouched on the floor, bloody towels surrounding them, they rest. A few moments later, a man’s voice bellows up the winding stairwell. A voice filled with anger and angst.

“Lisa, where are you?”

Julie places her forefinger over her lips. Lisa nods.

“Don’t cry, don’t say a word. We’re safe in here.” Lisa keeps nodding.

Heavy steps. Fists beating on door one, door two, finally door three, Julie’s door.

“You in there, bitch?” He beats on the door a couple more times. Then, the sounds reverse. Two more fist pounds on door three, two, one. Then heavy steps to the first floor. Miraculously, they hear the slam of the front door.

“I’m going downstairs to bolt it. And check the other doors. I’m the only person leasing the house this week.”

Lisa nods, again. She no longer fights the tears. She says, “Whatever you do, do not let him in.”

“Got it.”

Julie races downstairs and grabs hold of the maple banister to steady herself in the curve. She peeks out the tiny window, inserted at the midway point, to see if the man is lingering by the bikes.

No sign of him. Thank God. She hurries to throw the iron bolt across the front door, then runs to the back of the house to secure the kitchen door, too. Taking a chance to walk across the back porch to secure the screen latch is not on her list of things to do.

I’ve got to call the police.

When she hears footsteps along the gravel driveway, she freezes. There’s no way she can slip back upstairs and not be seen by someone looking in the kitchen’s bay window.

Landline. Of course. Every bed and breakfast along the Eastern seaboard must be required to keep one. But where is it?

With her back against the wall, Julie moves slowly to a hallway, careful not to cast shadows. It makes sense a phone would be in the B & B’s office, so she guesses it's in this area. Just as she turns to scoot into the small space, she hears Lisa moving around upstairs.

Why or why didn’t I grab my phone?

Julie’s heart races when she clearly hears Lisa walk to the window, located directly above the driveway. Steps along the driveway, steps from above. Sweat gathers at the back of Julie’s neck. This scene is turning sour very quickly.

She spots a business phone on the owner’s desk, complete with several lines. Before she lifts the receiver, Julie anticipates the sound she’ll hear. And it won’t be a dial tone. Sure enough, someone has cut the line.

Within a half-hour, Julie has jumped from not having anything to write about to enough material for a mystery suspense novel. There’s a problem, though. She’s the heroine in her story, and she’s in distress.  Julie instinctively pulls out the middle desk drawer, softly and carefully, hoping to locate a gun. B & B owners keep weapons, don’t they?

   She finds one, but not in the drawer. Years and years of reading mysteries and suspense novels finally net a payoff. The odd, oversized leather-bound container sitting on the third shelf of the middle bookcase holds a pistol. Julie exhales. And assesses her options. The desktop computer is probably useless now that lines have been cut. Who would cut the phone line and leave network access in place?

Sure, enough, when Julie taps the space bar to see if the computer is functioning, a black screen offers its reply.

    Julie has nothing more than a hunch to suggest Lisa and her man are up to something. And no reason to believe that he’s planning to strike out against her, a stranger renting a B & B. He doesn’t even know she’s in the house, right? Doesn’t know Lisa’s here, either. There’s no other choice, Julie needs to return to the suite upstairs, check on Lisa, and retrieve her cellphone.

   With the pistol in hand, Julie slips back into the hallway. Feeling empowered with a weapon, she peaks out from the kitchen window and sees no one lurking. She walks purposefully through the sitting room, joyful to see the front door still latched, and takes the stairs, two at a time.

   Lisa is slumped by the bathroom door. And she’s lost a lot of blood. A tourniquet? Of course. Julie throws open her suitcase, pitching one sundress after another to the side, until she finds a nightgown. She starts at the bodice and rips it apart, one strip of material followed by another.

  “Lisa? Lisa, honey, I need you to try and sit up. I’m going to attempt to stop the bleeding, then we’re calling 911. Whether you like it or not.” Julie hurries to tighten the cotton tie, then looks for her phone.

    “This is 911. What’s your emergency?”

    “I’ve got a woman bleeding. Heavily. She’s been cut with a knife.” Julie struggles to get the pertinent information organized for the operator.

    “Address?”

 “125 Beach Street, Sconset Beach. And, we need more than an ambulance, ma’am.”

   “Explain.”

    “Her husband or boyfriend sliced her upper arm. He’s still in the area, and he’s already charged into the house once. We’re hiding in a room upstairs. I’m pretty certain he knows she’s here. The house phone line has been cut.”

  “Officers are on the way. So are the EMT’s. Stay on the line with me, please.”

"I’m putting you on speaker, she’s passed out, I think,” Julie says. “Hold on.”

  Lisa slinks down from her position. The tourniquet is soaked. “Should I change the tourniquet?” Julie shouts.

“Is there a first-aid kit in the home? See if you have smelling salts. Use them.” The operator sounds terse.

    Lisa’s head hits the floor. Julie doesn’t ask any more questions. Seems pointless. She hurries to change the young woman’s bandage, finds a belt in a suitcase and uses it. The first-aid kit has one small packet of inhalants. After she rips the package open, Julie passes it beneath Lisa’s nostrils, and she stirs.

   “Honey, you’ve got to hang on. Medics are on their way.” She pulls the comforter off the bed and covers the young woman. “Why did you stay with someone who treats you this way?”

    Lisa’s glassy eyes look vacant. “He’s not my boyfriend. I only met him this afternoon.”

   “Oh my God.”  She sits next to Lisa and holds her hand. Within moments the woman’s head flops on Julie’s shoulders.

    It’s going to be impossible for me to move. How will I help EMS get in the house? I can’t worry about that. They can bust down the door if they need to. I should’ve called the owner, I didn’t even think about that.

  A few moments later, Julie hears sirens in the distance, probably careening down Ocean Avenue. Please God, let this woman be okay. Five minutes pass and Julie hears a commotion at the back door. Then the sound of several people running up the stairs.

    “Mrs. Whittingham? Are you in there? Open the door for us, please.”

    Julie eases away from Lisa and runs to release the door’s bolt. Four emergency officers greet her. Standing behind them is another man who introduces himself as Paul, the homeowner. Julie steps into the hallway with him while the others assist Lisa. Within minutes the woman is on a stretcher, hoisted up high as the officers manage the narrow, winding stairway, and on her way to the hospital.

    A classic, predictable line follows. “If you hadn’t called us when you did...”

  “I was afraid of that. I hope she’ll be okay,” Julie says

“Obviously, you can’t stay here tonight,” Paul says. “Can I give you a lift to the White Elephant Hotel?”

“Isn’t that on the other side of the island?”

   “It is, and I’m happy to cover your expenses. I can’t imagine why you would want to stay here. What if that mongrel returns?”

"You make a good point. Give me a second to gather my things.”

   As they double-check the doors, Julie asks, “How did you know to come? I didn’t think to call the number I was given until we were nearly desperate.”

“It’s a small island. As soon as you rang 911, I got a call, too.”

Paul helps Julie with her luggage, and they both give the house one last glance before leaving.

“By the way, what do you do?”

"I’m a writer,” Julie answers.

    “Well, you certainly have enough material for a book after today’s turn of events.”

   "I do, indeed. My goodness, I nearly forgot to tell you. I found your gun in the office. And left it in the cupboard in the suite’s bathroom. Took it upstairs in case we needed it.”

   “Now, I’m confused,” Paul says. “I don’t own a gun.”