The police would arrive.
Yes . . . and?
The police would inspect the house.
And they would find nothing.
All the police could do was escort us to our rooms, where we would collect our belongings, since there was no way we were spending another night in the house.
But how could I, much less the kids, explain to them what had happened to us?
We were dealing with something so far beyond their realm that it was senseless.
I realized dimly that no police report would be filed.
I had not figured out the Terby yet. All I knew was that somehow I had brought it into the house—and that it had wanted me to—but what had appeared in the flickering hallway was a secret I had to keep to myself. In this, the house and I were in collusion.
I called Marta. I chose my words carefully and explained that “something” had gotten into the house and assured her that everyone was fine and I had called the police and we were going to spend the night at the Four Seasons downtown and would she please make arrangements. I said all this in as calm a voice as I could create and I said it quickly—in a run-on sentence—mentioning the intruder in the lead so that the only thing that would register was the need to book a room in a hotel. But Marta was a professional and she was wide awake the moment her phone started ringing and she told me that she would be over to Elsinore Lane in fifteen minutes and before I could say anything she had clicked off.
Sarah was still in my arms and Robby was sitting on the lawn when the two officers—guys in their late twenties—walked up to us and introduced themselves as Officer O’Nan and Officer Boyle.
They noticed the blood on my lip and the bruise forming on the side of my face and asked if I required medical attention.
I told them I was fine and that it happened when I fell in my son’s room, gesturing at Robby, who nodded faithlessly, confirming this.
They asked if “Ms. Dennis was at home,” which I took in stride and explained that, no, my wife was on a film set in Toronto, and that it was just myself and the children in the house.
While another patrol car pulled up carrying two more officers, I explained to O’Nan and Boyle that an intruder had broken in, but because the electricity had “gone out” we were unable to “get a good look at it.”
This is when everything changed.
The word “it” was what clinched the night.
The word “it” was what labeled me the “not credible witness.”
O’Nan and Boyle conferred with the two other officers.
I cleared my throat and clarified that the intruder “might” have been a “wild animal.”
There was a not very convincing discussion about whether to contact the local ASPCA, an idea that was soon left abandoned. If anything was found—meaning “it”—then they would reconsider.
Boyle stayed with me and Robby and Sarah as the three other officers entered the house, which was radiating a light so intense that it seemed as if it were day for night on our lawn, and the decibel level of noise (“The Way We Were” sung over and over)
(but you don’t even own that CD)
had awakened the Allens.
I felt a pinprick of fear as the men entered the house. I didn’t want them to enter the house. I didn’t want anything to happen to them in that house. I wanted to cry out, “Be careful.”
I sensed it then (though it didn’t prove to be true): I was the only one in the family who would ever enter the house again.
And I also knew that our family—even outside the house—was not free from danger.
I suddenly looked behind me to see if the cat I had found yesterday was still decaying beneath the hedge.
When Officer Boyle saw Mitchell and Nadine Allen standing on their black granite driveway in matching robes, gesturing to him, Boyle asked us to “stay put.”
The light from the house became muted. Someone found the sound system and the singing stopped abruptly.
The silence was momentarily startling.
I asked the writer: What is Officer Boyle telling the Allens?
(Yes, the writer was back. He did not want to be left out of this scene and was already whispering things to me.)
As Boyle walked toward the Allens, I didn’t notice Robby taking the cell phone from my hand.
Officer Boyle is telling them that you are insane, and they are not disagreeing with him. Officer Boyle is telling them about your ridiculous wild animal scenario. Look at the Allens—they are not nodding at what Officer Boyle is telling them. He is telling them that a giant hairball forced its way into your house. And, of course, the Allens do not believe this, not after the freakout they witnessed Sunday night—remember that, Bret? And they are going to ask Officer Boyle, “Does he appear to be drunk?”