Chris Rhodes couldn't sleep. He lay on his back, his side, and his stomach, but none of the positions did the trick. He wondered what was keeping him awake.

Then he realized that the bed sheets were stuck to his skin like saran wrap to a leftover piece of chicken. It was the middle of July, and the daytime temperatures had reached the mid-nineties. He had never splurged for an air conditioner, preferring a powerful box fan that normally sat on his dresser.

Where was the fan? His half-asleep brain struggled with the question until he remembered his house guest. Sheila Simmons was in the spare bedroom across the hall. She needed the fan more than Chris did, he felt sure.

He peeled the sheets off his skin and rested his head on two pillows. He felt a little better and drifted into a light sleep.

Then he heard it. Maybe if the fan were there it would have masked it, but in the silence the noise got his attention like a dagger thrust into his ribs. He sat up and froze, waiting for another sound.

When it came, he was sure of what he was hearing. There were footsteps on his back deck. How did he know she was here? How did he find the house?

His heart beat like a motor as his stomach tightened. He had decided on a plan if he showed up. A last resort. But now, it was no longer a plan. He would actually have to do it.

Earlier that day, he had been preparing to teach his social studies class when Earl Dexler, the high school principal, popped into his room."Sheila's out today. I need you to cover her homeroom until the sub gets in," said the stocky, bald fifty-year-old man.

"She's out again?" Chris said, inquisitively.

"She says she has a stomach bug." Chris and Earl met eyes, speaking to each other without words. Both men knew there was no stomach bug. "There's nothing I can do, Chris,' he said with his head down, and left the room.

At the end of the school day, Chris stopped in the records office and asked for Sheila Simmons' address. When the secretary flashed him a curious look, he said: "She was out today. I have some assignments from her students. I thought I would drop them off at her house." He waited for a response, but the secretary continued to stare at him. "I thought she might appreciate it. She might like to grade these papers before she comes back."

She finally gave him the address, and he was soon off to Sheila's place, puttering away in his Geo Metro. He had consulted Map Quest before he left the school, and the directions led him across town to the "Harbor Hills Mobile Home Park."

He drove down the dirt road, passing a number of mobile homes in various states of repair. His squinting eyes focused on the trailer numbers until he found twenty-two. The trailer was white with black shutters and was sandwiched tightly between two similar homes.

As he approached the front door, he noticed a little garden, neatly squared off in the tiny front yard. The area was covered with weeds and crab grass. What once appeared to be a dutifully cultivated speck of earth was now a forgotten and neglected eyesore.

In the center of the garden, however, was a solitary flower. A stargazer lily, it stood tall with its head raised to the sun. Chris admired the white and purple petals for a moment until the screen door rattled.

Sheila opened the door only halfway, shielding most of her face."Chris! What are you doing here?" she asked from behind the door.

Holding up the stack of papers, he said,"I brought your students' assignments. I thought you might want them to grade while you're home sick."

She held her left arm out of the screen door as she kept the front door half closed, hiding the right side of her body and face. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble, Chris, but thanks."

Chris walked to the front door but didn't hand her the papers. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking, but I need to get inside before my stomach acts up again. I'll take the assignments, but then you should go."

Chris stepped closer to the front door. As she reached for the papers, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was pushed backward and almost lost her balance. Her angry face attacked him, but Chris didn't notice.

He couldn't notice anything except her right eye, which was swollen completely shut. Her normally cute face looked deformed by the hideous blackness that surrounded the eye. Her slender, five-foot, two-inch frame slumped forward as she exhaled a disgusted sigh.

"I fell and hit my head on the front step. I didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea... like I think you're getting now."

Chris didn't speak right away, but continued to study the bruise that filled nearly half her face. She stood with her hands on her hips, impatiently waiting for his response.

"My God," he muttered softly,"he must have hit you hard."

"I told you, I fell," she insisted, and then she walked past him and sat on the couch. Her long, curly black hair fell down the sides of her face, and she brushed the hair off of her bruise.

He turned to her slowly and said,"This is none of my business, and I'll leave if you want. But I should tell you that some of us at the school are worried about you."

Her head came up, looking both worried and annoyed. He continued: "It's impossible to not notice, Sheila. You have one bruise after another. You call out sick all the time. You used to be friendly and joke around with everyone. You used to come out to happy hour and to parties. Now, you don't even talk to anyone anymore. Ever since you've been living here with this guy, you've totally changed."

Her face fell apart, and she cried in her hands, softly at first, then harder. He was unsure of what to do. He watched her cry and paced by the front door. When the crying did not subside, he sat next to her. He tried to reach his arm around her, but she pushed him away.

"I'm not kidding," she said. "Get out of here, Chris. He'll be here any minute. He'll kill you. You don't know him. He's a maniac."

Chris stood up and said,"Come with me."

"What?"

"Let me get you out of here."

"I can't do that."

"You'd rather stay here and get beat up again?"

"You don't understand. You don't understand how he is. He'll find us. He'll hurt you."

"I'll get you help."

"I don't need help. I'll be okay."

"What about your eye? Did you get it looked at?"

"No. It's okay."

"How do you know? You obviously took an incredible hit to your head. You could have a subdural hematoma."

"A what?"

"You could have internal bleeding in your head and not know it yet. You could have a fractured eye socket. You could have damage to your retina. There are all sorts of reasons why you need to see a doctor."

She cried in her hands again, and flinched in pain when she inadvertently touched the bruise. He held his hand to her and said, "Come with me."

She ignored him and continued to cry as he kept his hand extended. After a moment she said, "Get out of here before he gets back."

"I'll only leave if you come with me."

"I can't do that."

"Then I'm not leaving." She looked at him, as if to check if he were sincere. "Take my hand. We'll both leave before he gets back." Their eyes locked in an intense, stubborn gaze; her poor swollen mess flickered a little, trying to look at him.

She placed her hand in his, and he squeezed it tight as he pulled her to her feet. He led her outside and helped her into the car. He gunned his little four-cylinder engine, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

He paused for a moment. He wondered if his hazy brain could be playing tricks on him. Maybe paranoia was getting the best of him. Maybe no one was really there. Then he heard it again. He was awake now, so there was no mistaking the noise. Someone was moving around on his back deck.

He thought of the police. He had only one phone, which he kept downstairs in the kitchen. He thought of making a mad dash for it and dialing 9-1-1. But, no. The clamor would alert the intruder and cause him to either run off or break in and attack. Running off wouldn't be such a bad thing, but without actually seeing who was there, the police could do nothing. And Chris would be left to wonder if it were him or not.

He would have to sneak downstairs quietly and see who it was. Then he could call the police. Of course, this was a dangerous venture. What if he broke in before Chris got downstairs? He had no choice. He had to get the gun.

Just a few hours earlier he had placed it in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He opened the drawer and saw it sitting harmlessly on an old pair of sweat pants. Not knowing anything about guns, he thought it looked like a toy. It was small, and the barrel was nothing more than a little black stub. He put his hand around the brown handle and carefully slipped the .22 caliber bullets into the chamber. It was the first time he had ever loaded a gun.

After leaving the trailer park, Sheila pleaded with him to bring her back. She went on about how dangerous her boyfriend was, how he owned guns and knives, and how he would find them soon. He placated her only after a promise to get a gun. He didn't mention that he knew absolutely nothing about guns and had never fired one. She didn't need to know that. The idea of a gun made her feel safer, and that's all he wanted to accomplish.

His friend, Jeff O'Neill, was a gun enthusiast, and had a collection for both hunting and target shooting. Fortunately, he lived in the area, so Chris stopped at his house. Leaving Sheila in the car, he walked up to his friend's front door and rang the bell.

After listening to some stomping around, Chris saw the door swing open. Jeff stood there, casually chomping on a wad of gun. He wore an old, ratty Rolling Stones tee shirt and a baseball cap. A heavy brown beard covered his pudgy face.

"What's up, Chris?" he said as he opened the screen door.

Chris explained his predicament quickly and without much detail. He ended with the need for a handgun.

"Are you nuts? I'm not giving you one of my guns. You don't know a damn thing about guns. You'll probably shoot yourself."

"Having a gun is the only thing that will make her feel safe enough to come to my house."

"Why do you want to take her to your house? Take her to the police or a shelter or something."

"If I do that, she'll freak out and run back to him. I think she trusts me enough to stay at my house, but I need a gun so she'll feel safe."

"I don't know, dude. I can get in a lot of trouble for giving you a gun."

"Listen, I'm not going to need it. She talks about her boyfriend like he's Charles Manson or something. Saying he's going to hunt us down and all of that. But he doesn't know me. He doesn't where I live. He's not even going to know she left with me. I'm not worried at all. This is just to calm her down."

"Yeah, but how long is she going to stay with you? He could track you down eventually."

"I think I can talk her into getting professional help after a night or two at my place. I won't let her stay any longer than that. I promise I'll have the gun back to you in two days."

Jeff hook his head."Well, I do have one pistol that's not registered. I guess I could loan it to you. But you have to promise me that you won't fire it, and you'll have it back here in two days."

"I promise," Chris said adamantly. He waited a moment and then asked,"Why isn't it registered?"

"It's actually illegal to own in this state. It's a Saturday Night Special."

Chris looked at him blankly. Jeff said, "It's a junk gun. The state banned them a few years ago. So I'm not even supposed to have one."

"Why did they ban them?'

"'Cause they're crappy little guns. They're made poorly, and they're really dangerous. They have no safety, and they'll go off easy. So I'm going to give it to you unloaded."

"Okay, but you have to give me some bullets."

"Dude, I just told you it's a dangerous gun."

"What if she asks to see the bullets? Then all of this would be a waste of time. I promise I won't load it. I just want to have the bullets in case she wants to see."

Jeff shook his head in disgust and stomped away. He returned a few minutes later with the gun and a small box of bullets. "Here it is," he said as he planted the gun in Chris's palm. He carefully handed him the box of bullets. "Listen, man, you got to make sure you don't screw around with this thing. It can hurt you - or somebody else."

"I won't," Chris replied, and took a step into the house. "I just need you to do one more thing for me."

"What?"

"Show me how to load it?"

"What for? You just said you won't need to use it," Jeff replied.

"I'd just like to be able to do it. You know, in case she insists that I load it. If I don't have any idea about how to load it, it's not going to make her feel very safe."

Jeff shook his head in frustration. He took back the gun and bullets and sat on his couch. He placed the gun on the coffee table and rolled a few bullets out of the box. "Listen, man, I'll show you how to do this, but you have to promise me something."

"Of course. Anything."

"If anything goes down and you fire this thing, you did not get it from me," Jeff said slowly and clearly, looking Chris in the eyes.

"I promise."

With the weapon loaded, Chris started to make his way down the stairs. He was barefoot and stepped as if he was walking over jagged rocks, not wanting to cause any creaks from the old, wooden stairs. He turned the corner and was just a few steps away from the kitchen.

He had inadvertently left on a dim light above his stove. He was glad for his mistake, as it was enough light to see there was no intruder in the kitchen. A sliding glass door separated the kitchen from the deck. He stopped before entering the light. If there was indeed someone out there, he could spot Chris in the light, and the element of surprise would be gone.

He waited at the border of light and dark, and struggled to see through the blackness on the deck, alert for even the slightest movement. He couldn't see anything, but the noise came again. It was the same as before - footsteps. Someone was out there. Maybe searching for the best way to bust inside. His clammy hand held the gun tighter.

He had a decision to make. He could take one step into the light, grab the phone, and dial 9-1-1. Or he could take a few steps across the kitchen, flip on the outdoor light, and see who was out there. He contemplated his choices in the darkness until he heard a loud thud. Whoever was out there was trying to break in. There was no more time to think. He had to decide now.

Chris held Sheila's hand as they walked into the house. She was shaking, and a pool of wetness had formed in her good eye. She sat on the edge his couch, as if she would need to run out at any moment. He tried to calm her with casual banter, and brought her a big glass of Merlot.

She sipped the wine and formed a little smile after Chris attempted some humor. Her body relaxed a bit, and she finally sat back against the couch. He worked hard to entertain her and make her feel comfortable. But his brain was searching for ways to get her help. He desperately wanted to take her to the emergency room. At the very least she had a concussion, he thought. Maybe worse.

He knew that an attempt to get her to go to the hospital would not be well received, and it might set back his other efforts. He decided to try in the morning. But he desired some professional advice. After coaxing her into watching a video and having another a glass of wine, he slipped into the kitchen.

Chris was friendly with the social worker from the school, Vanessa Baxter. He found her name in the phone book and dialed the number. She answered on the second ring. Speaking as quietly as he could, he rambled through a brief version of the events.

She listened in silence until he stopped talking, and then she told him to wait a moment. He peeked into the living room and saw Sheila on the couch, her eyes still fixed on the television. He stepped quietly back to the kitchen.

Vanessa's voice returned and instructed him to write down a phone number. She recited the number as he scribbled it down on the cover of the phone book. "There are people at this number that will help her," she explained.

"I'm afraid she'll run back to him if I get other people involved. I barely got her here."

"Call the number, Chris. These people are professionals. They'll know how to handle this situation."

"But..."

"Call the number. Call it now," Vanessa demanded.

Neither spoke for a few seconds until Chris said,"All right."

"Call me back later," she said and hung up.

Chris strolled into the living room and sat with her a few minutes. With a worried expression, she turned to him and said, "He's probably home by now. I know he's pissed that I'm not there. The longer I stay away the worse it will get."

"I'm not taking you back there. You're staying here tonight."

"What am I going to do tomorrow?'

"Hold on a minute," he said and walked into the kitchen. He knew he had to call, even if she heard him. He dialed the phone, and a woman's voice identified the number as a domestic violence hotline. He explained the situation.

She told him what to do. Bring her to their center in the city. She would meet with a counselor. They would provide medical assistance without the trauma of a busy emergency room. She could consult with a lawyer free of charge. They would help report her situation to the police, and have her abuser arrested. And they would take her to a safe house.

"A safe house?" Chris asked as Sheila walked into the kitchen. The woman on the phone explained it to him as he watched Sheila stare at him with an expression filled with curiosity, anger, and fear. She would stay in a house somewhere in the area, but still a comfortable distance away. She would be surrounded by counselors and people who could help her. And there was twenty-four hour security.

"I don't know if she's ready to do that," Chris said as he looked at Sheila.

"Is the victim with you now?" the woman asked.

"She's standing right in front of me," Chris replied. Shelia's good eye widened and her fists clenched.

"May I speak with her?" the woman asked.

Chris lowered the phone, and said,"Sheila, please talk to this woman."

Sheila turned away and walked back into the living room. Chris hung up the phone and followed. "Don't be mad," he pleaded, "these people can help you more than I can."

"I'm not talking to anyone," she said in a shaky voice.

Chris told her about the safe house. He told her she could be examined in a quiet clinic instead of a hospital, talk to counselors who knew about this sort of thing, have help talking to the police, and get advice from a lawyer. He mentioned the twenty-four hour security several times.

She was quiet and looked down at the floor until he stopped. Then she said, "I want you to take me home."

"I can't take you back there. He'll kill you. You said yourself he's a maniac."

She sat on the couch and was quiet. Chris sat next to her. Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally, Chris said, "Please stay here at least for tonight. We'll talk more tomorrow."

She didn't respond right away, but eventually, in a hushed voice, said, "Okay."

He made a decision. He would take the two steps into the light until he reached the kitchen counter. There, he would put the gun down. He would need to take a long stride to the light switch and turn it on. Then, he would look through the sliding glass door and see who was on the deck. He would take a step back, grab the phone, and dial 9-1-1. The gun would be just inches away... if he needed it.

His stomach danced wildly, and his intestines rumbled, ready to empty. But a deep breath calmed him enough to enter the light. He reached the counter, and his sweaty hand placed the gun on it. Then, an explosion erupted in front of him. He staggered away. In shock, he fell against the wall. He realized he had heard gunfire.

Was someone shooting at him from the deck? He looked around frantically, waiting for another shot. The light switch was just above him. He reached up and flipped on the outdoor light. He stood up, prepared to see Sheila's maniac boyfriend on the deck, perhaps pointing a gun at him. But instead, he saw something he did not expect.

Three fat raccoons, in the middle of feasting on garbage they managed to steal from an overturned trash barrel, looked back at him. In unison, they sprinted into the darkness of the yard. His eyes darted back and forth. Raccoons? There has to be something more than raccoons, he thought. Who shot the gun?

He noticed a hole in the sliding door with cracked glass around it. He looked at the gun on the counter, and he knew. His own gun had fired. He realized that he slammed it on the counter too hard in his nervous haste.

He leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, still expecting some danger to approach him. He heard pounding, like thunder, from above him and jumped up in fear, but quickly recognized the sound as Sheila running down the stairs.

Looking worried and breathing heavily, she approached him. "I heard a noise. What's happening?" She saw the gun on the counter and took a step back. "Did you shoot the gun?'

Barely able to speak, he pointed to the deck and said, "Raccoons."

"You're shooting at raccoons?"

"No," he gulped in some air, "I heard a noise. I thought it was your boyfriend trying to break in. The gun went off by accident."

She reached for his hands, and then hugged him close. He felt his heart pounding violently against her breasts like a jackhammer on concrete. After a moment, the furious beating subsided, and his breathing returned to normal. They broke their embrace, but stayed close.

She looked in his eyes and said,"All right. I'm ready to go."

"What? Go where?'

"I'm ready to go to that place. The safe house."

Chris didn't move. He looked at her with dubious eyes.

"Can you take me there now?"

His mouth opened, but it took him a moment to speak."Of course I can take you now."

"I'll be ready in a few minutes,' she said and walked back up the stairs.

He took a deep breath and reached for the gun. With his hands still shaking, he carefully unloaded the bullets.

Copyright © 2003 Dan Smith
All rights reserved.

About the Author

Dan is a graduate from the creative writing program at The Educational Center for the Arts in New Haven, Connecticut. His first play premiered on ECA's stage in 1988, and since then, he has seen fifteen of his plays produced in various Connecticut theatres. His play, A Sparkle in the Sky, was first runner-up at The Athe 2001 National Playworks Competition. His screenplay, Benjamin Black, was recently produced by Clownface Productions. He recently had fiction published in Epiphany Magazine. Dan is a contributing writer and artistic director for Think Twice Productions, a murder mystery troupe. Dan lives in Clinton, CT with his wife, Teresa, and their English Bulldog, Abbey.