Neighborhood Watch

“What the heck is going on there?”

“Mrrow?” My orange tabby cat, Sputnik, nuzzles his head against my right hand and I set my coffee mug in my left hand on the kitchen counter. He isn’t much of a conversationalist, but since my husband died, it’s just the two of us. I start off most of my mornings talking to him. He’s a pretty good listener.

I imagine he said something like “What, momma?” and I sway on my tiptoes to look in the dim morning light through our window over the kitchen sink. The backyard neighbor kitty-corner to us is on full display - lit up like one of those obnoxious holiday lights displays. I spy three cop cars and an ambulance, lights flashing non-stop.

Leaning back, I tsk and lift my mug up to my lips for another sip. If my husband were still alive, he’d probably scold me for watching. But living alone, we have to be vigilant, Sputnik and I. My kids are grown and maybe visit every few months or for the holidays, grandkids in tow. The neighborhood isn’t “rough” by any means and we have a neighborhood watch. So overall, I feel safe. 

Having grown bored, Sputnik leaps down from the counter and saunters over to his kibble bowl, his little collar jingling as he jaunts along. His little name tag in the shape of a spaceship clinks against the bowl.

My late husband was a big space aficionado - a majority of our vacations were spent at the NASA museums. His face would light up like a spoiled boy’s on Christmas day when he saw those huge space crafts. New, old, didn’t matter. He just loved it. And I loved watching him. 

So after years of begging him for a pet, we settled on the scrawny little orange tabby our neighbor, who was a vet, recently happened to rescue. “We’ll name him Sputnik,” my husband announced heartily. After so many years of our house being quiet from our children being grown, it was a joy to have this little fella in our lives.

After gobbling down his fill, Sputnik rubs against my leg, purring up a storm. I’m still keeping tabs on the neighbor through the back patio glass door, the sun steadily peeking through the horizon. A few of the cop cars have turned their lights off. The ambulance lights are still flashing and a couple of paramedics are pulling a stretcher out of the back. 

The last time there was such a fuss, Dorothy Simmons fell down in the shower. She had one of those senior alert things that my son keeps nagging me about. I guess it’s a good thing she had one - after they wheeled her out of the house, I found out from Jean Newman down the street that she broke a hip and had to stay in a rehab facility for months. Thank goodness her kids took care of the house for her. 

Sputnik chirps and dashes off to play with a stuffed play mouse I left in the living room last night. I chuckle and watch him run off, full of spunk. When I turn my eyes back to the glass patio, I have to set down my coffee mug again from the sight I see.

The paramedics are rolling the stretcher back to the ambulance, weighed down by a black body bag. That poor soul. 

I pull the shades, feeling a sense of guilt I haven’t in years - probably not since back when my momma forced me to go to church every Sunday at the crack of dawn. My late husband and I, I guess we weren’t much of believers. He was more of a man of science. Sure, we got married in a church, but that was so our families wouldn’t disown us. After he passed away, it didn’t bother me, not being religious. I figured wherever or whoever he was now, it was likely that he was part of that vast space system he loved so dearly. 

It was different, seeing this unknown body bag, versus seeing him. I felt like I was violating this stranger’s memory, in a way. No doubt, with cops involved, it was likely to be messy business. 

I didn’t know who lived in that house anymore - the property had changed hands so many times in the past few years. First, it was a couple about our age, but then they moved down south permanently. Then, it was a younger couple with four children, who would shout and holler at all hours of the day. For a few years, it was mostly renters. I couldn’t place the last time I saw these neighbors. 

“Hey, boy,” I coo down to Sputnik. He’s meandering between my legs, rubbing his little face against my legs through my robe. 

The doorbell rings and he skitters away instantly. Sputnik is very much the stereotypical “scaredy-cat”. I hate answering the door in my robe, but it may be the cops, so I decide to buck up and answer it. 

The doorbell rings a couple more times on my way to the front door. “Ok, ok,” I murmur to myself. Those cops sure are impatient. 

I unlock the bolt to the door and swing it open. That isn’t a cop on my front doorstep.

A disheveled young man has his head bowed down before me. He’s got on a flannel and jeans,  and his work boots are a little loose. When he looks up at me, his long face and dark features remind me of one of those movie actors I probably had a crush on as a schoolgirl.

“Yes?” I prod him gently. Maybe he meant to knock on someone else’s door?

“Can I come in?” He asks quietly, pulling down his flannel shirt over his right palm. His eyes dart from left to right in an uneasy manner.

“I’m not expecting visitors,” I announce, getting a strange feeling from this fella. I wonder if he and that situation kitty-corner are connected? My late husband always said I read too many crime novels, but it’s an awful lot of coincidence for him to ask me for shelter. I don’t want to be harboring a fugitive.

“Please,” he begs, looking from me to the rest of my living room and kitchen past me. 

“On one condition.” I fiddle with the door handle out of his view. Lord, help me. “I need to know your name.”

“Ok, ok,” he agrees in a hurry. I swing the door open and he enters before slumping to the floor of my entryway. “Can you keep a secret?”