Cans of spray paint and old, half-working lighters, aka flamethrowers.
Garden trowels, perfect for digging spike pits in the yard.
A rusty box cutter.
And last, but certainly not least, a sledgehammer so heavy I could barely lift it.
It was a veritable arsenal of tricks, traps, and weapons, and by the time I had compiled my notes neatly in my unicorn Trapper Keeper, I was beginning to feel very good about my chances against whatever it was out there.
But despite all my offensive capabilities, there was really only one legitimately useful piece of equipment that I found. Tucked in the back of my closet, lost and all but forgotten, was a Polaroid camera with three pictures still left. Dad had gotten it for me two years earlier during my sudden, temporary fascination with photography. Those were different days back then, long before everything went digital, and instead of wasting a fortune on a real camera with real film, Dad settled for the cheapest Polaroid he could find.
I’m not sure how I had forgotten about the thing, especially with all the evidence plastered around the house. I had a bulletin board in my room that was wallpapered with pictures of Memphis staring at the camera, my dad smiling with a beer in his hand, and even a few of Andy, his hand held in front of the lens, clearly uninterested in having his picture taken now or ever.
Mostly, though, there were pictures of me and Sallie. A few of the stills were of other friends, the peripheral sort who drifted in and out, background players in the play that was my life, but only Sallie stood out. Little did I know how even that would change in a few short weeks, but then, everything would change, wouldn’t it? My spotty typing at work is proof of that.
The first night after seeing the Toy Thief, I attacked my goal hard. I was well intentioned in my planning, but my results left a bit to be desired. If everything hadn’t gotten so bad later, or maybe because it did get so bad, I couldn’t have helped but laugh at my attempts. I started by tying a thread to the sliding back door in long, looping knots and attaching the other end to the living room lamp. In between, I attached three empty soda cans to the string by the pull tabs. They hung limply in the center, dangling like cow udders. It was a pathetic attempt at an alarm system, but it would make at least some noise if anything touched it. Andy, who had only just begun to acknowledge my existence again, sat back and sneered.
“What is that supposed to be?”
It was Monday night, a little after nine. Just about the time that everything in the house wound down, the heartbeat at its slowest. We’d eaten leftover pizza from the night before, and Dad was in his recliner in the other room, probably dozed off. I had waited until the sun started dropping to begin enacting my plan, and by then, Andy was usually in his room, playing a game or watching TV. I hadn’t expected to even see him out here, and I let out a little yelp when he spoke from behind me.
“Nothing,” I barked.
He stared at the glass door, at the exact spot where the camera had caught everything unfolding.
“You making another bullshit movie?”
“It’s not bull,” I answered, not quite sure my father wasn’t in earshot. Andy had long given up any pretense that he didn’t cuss like a sailor. We both did of course, but I was still my daddy’s little girl. I thought I could keep that up for a few more years, use it, take advantage of it.
“Sure,” he said, turning away without another word. I considered following after him, my instinct urging me to get in his face, to be relentless, to refuse to let up until he saw that I was right. That’s what I always did. But tonight, though, tonight was different. I let him walk away without another word and went back to my work.
During my digging, I’d come across another old toy of mine, a plastic pony frozen mid-gallop, with a honey-colored coat and a white mane blown back in the breeze. Quite striking really. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember where it came from. Some well-meaning relative who had no clue that I never had and never would give a shit about horses. It did, however, serve well as my bait.
I placed it on the end table just next to the sliding door, in exactly the same spot Sallie’s doll had been. Then, on the opposite side of the room, I set up shop on the dust-covered sofa. It was old-brick red, covered with afghans as ancient as Methuselah’s balls. No one ever sat there, mainly because it was so damn uncomfortable, but when my father strolled through half an hour later, he barely even noticed.
“Have a good night, honey,” he said with a quiet peck on the top of my head. “Don’t stay up too late. School tomorrow.”
In many ways, the scent of beer mingled with aftershave had become “Daddy’s smell” during those years. He wasn’t a drunk, not in the traditional sense, but he was a drinker. More nights than not, he would “have a few,” as he liked to call it. In the years between then and now, I’ve thought a lot about my dad’s drinking. I’ve had my own brushes with addiction, things that I won’t go into here, but I’ve always come out on the winning side, able to sweep the little gremlins into a closet and slam the door shut. My tendencies, I’ve learned, are much more extreme, just like pretty much everything else about me. I get mad quicker, I laugh harder, and if a fight breaks out, I hit harder. Dad and Andy were both a smoother, quieter variety, and even though I never had a chance to ask him, I think my dad’s drinking was less about self-destruction and more about a mellow, smooth numbness. After losing my mom, I think I can understand that.
When the coast was finally clear, I finalized my supplies for the evening. First, I pulled the cushions off the couch, frowning at the mess of old gum, loose change, and bits of ancient food underneath before sneaking down the hallway to pull a sheet from the linen closet. I carefully laid the sheet down, plopped a pillow onto one end, and began to set out the rest of my gear. I decided, with some regret, that the fireworks would be a bad idea. No matter how ferocious a weapon they might prove to be, setting the house on fire could turn a win into a loss very quickly. I unfolded the pocketknife and slid it under the edge of the sofa, just in reach if I needed it. I tucked the heavy metal flashlight I’d found in my dad’s toolbox into the folds of the sheet, and I slung the strap of the Polaroid around my neck. Then I slid down into the sheet, nestling as deep as I could manage before pulling the cushions up on top of me.
It was, admittedly, very bad camouflage, but from a distance of fifteen feet or so, I might be nearly invisible if you weren’t looking for me. Through a narrow slit of cushions, I could see the back door, a gaping, empty blackness. With a few fidgety adjustments, I pulled the camera up closer to my face and peered through the eyehole. It wasn’t a great angle, but it would work.
And the waiting game began.
I listened to the music of my house. Every house has its own tune, a unique series of sounds that takes years for you to fully realize is even there. Ours was no different. The icemaker on the fridge would hum, pop, and dump a fresh load with a crunch. The water heater, long on its last leg, would hiss every so often. When the central air came on, one of the loose vents would rattle just loud enough to hear. Still I waited.
Soon, the industrial saw of Dad’s snoring began to drift in, and a few minutes later, the constant clattering hum of the mingling games and music from Andy’s room ceased. The house itself seemed to calm down, breathing with the wind outside, and the cracks and pops of the cooling frame grew silent. Never in my life up to that point had I felt more surreally and irrationally afraid. I was, after all, at the scene of the crime, a place where the unreal and mundane collided, a place where anything might happen. I huddled deeper into the musty folds of the couch to hide myself as I shuddered. There wasn’t anything to see, and even less to do, but my mind, like the minds of most children, abhorred the vacuum. The empty space filled with a thousand images, all overlaid too fast for me to even discount them as foolish, like a deck of cards being shuffled by an expert dealer.