Threat Along the Homestretch
Kreffan Bunker
Oct 3 2021
Threat Along the Homestretch
I’m a loaded pogo stick spring of murderous urges only anticipating their release. Raw from the bus on a Thursday, I gallop towards home. I pass cars; then church, then cars, then I face the street, Lantana, startlingly taffy-pulled lasting the full side of the senior center, resume viewing the bodies in front of me; my obstacles. Arriving at Lantana, I become alert, as one short haired senior accompanied by her leashed dog emerges from the lower gate just ahead. Hesitant and unfiltered becomes my breath, a tweed tightrope runs the length of my upper jaw. I hope she picks up the pace or peels off the street. She does neither. Being only four feet behind, I take out my phone and check the time obsessively. She was ever so slow, so I debate using the bike lane for an escape. I’m behind her, a single lunge would be all it’d take. Suddenly, the dog parks on a tree within the planter between the pathway and bike lane. She shifts herself to face the tree, leaving room enough beside for an ordinary pedestrian to pardon themselves past. While waiting on her dog, she glanced towards me. The woman finally bags her dog’s waste. Just one tug on the leash gears the dog back to the walk. The spacing remains generous, until finally she reenters the senior center at the next gate.
I didn’t expect the sidewalk construction work on the last stretch of houses. Since my eyes monitored the woman alone, I practically bump the coned perimeter before the realization. I consider alternative routes home, the quickest was through the senior center. Going inside may very well have less crowds, but often the people one comes across there are the peak of human sociability. If I’m intercepted by any local resident in this current state of mine, it wouldn’t be pretty. They’d either see me and be rattled by my demeanor, or secondly, be so naïve as to converse with me until I lash out. I don’t want to see anyone else: Despite reservations, I opt to take my chances with the old people.
For a while, I don’t see any obstacle nearby. And it’s a familiar ground, with beautifully modest houses. It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t stop; I kept on galloping; eager to get home. During my flight, I think of the grand offerings of the immediate community. Yearly, it holds a festival to raise money for its financially starved residents. I’ve been met with feelings one of a kind, when purchasing such things as antique French field binoculars and an Indian copper letter opener. And then there’s the art gallery regularly open with exhibits donated by locals. There was a religious house on the outskirts which had welcomed me just the same, despite my increasingly unfaithful attendance. It was less that I’d grown out of those offerings and more that I was so concerned I avoided what I could.
At this point, I’m midway through the center, on a sheltered road. Coming up on a dry-stream bridge from the main café, a second old woman crosses just ahead. I hesitate to move, as she takes minute steps. She appears embarrassed by her slow pace, no doubt wishing for the stamina of her youth. She remarks, “I’m horribly slow. Sorry.” “No no, you have an admirable pace,” my backfiring plea. The old woman is invigorated, and pauses her walk in front of me, in the middle of the road. She beams, declaring, “Your youth hasn’t harmed your manners any. I’m Abilene,” now she offers her hand. I’m a loaded pogo stick spring, so I skim her hand. “Very good. I live rather close, could you maybe…” “Uh. I will indeed. Where is your home, then?” I ask. “My home’s up this street, make a right onto Keeper and it’s the fourth on the left side. I
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really am grateful!” Her home’s already on the street I anticipated on using to get home myself so I can’t easily duck out. Desperation takes hold; I couldn’t tolerate a longer route.
She does not know I’ve trouble baring our intimate spacing. We talk, at her request, of college: I surf details of the curriculum of my classes, I’ve none on the social aspects. As to not speak superficially, I solely stay on what I know. I cuff my dominant hand with the other, and habitually step quicker than needed. She’s a token example of the second kind of obstacle. She laughs at my school comments and keeps likening my looks to hometown crushes. While fawning over me, urges stick. Though they’re insane, their resilience must translate to a desire.
My breath becomes labored. I have to tell her what I’m thinking! “Give me space, I might kill you!” She laughs. I’m not making eye contact in fact I never do. “That’s rich, but I’d break you!” I have some weight (130 pounds) even still, it’s true I couldn’t overpower her. She’s old, but solid and I’m still too weak. Although I suppose if I’m really motivated, I could do a number on her. There’s no point in attacking her. She might have a whistle for all I know, then I’d be outnumbered as all her neighbors would quickly come to her aid. Of course, they don’t have their own security, but it’s localized enough where the police could respond in a minute.
We pass people’s yards and see mature citrus trees. “Hey, wasn’t the fall festival just the other week?” “Yes, but I’m upset because I had a fairy garden beside the path leading up to my door. However, I put a miniature cottage on the curb so I’d remember the roof was in need of repair and someone thought I was giving it away. Next thing I know they’re selling my cottage at one of their booths! I feverishly search for it, but it’s sold before I come to the correct booth. Although they raised 2,000 dollars, it didn’t make up for the fact that my cottage was forever gone!” I feel bad; clearly, she loved her cottage. “But think what that money will do for your neighbors!” “Fine. I just hope they got their money’s worth for the cottage,” I noticed she was forced to relinquish ownership of it as she’d suffer otherwise, “I paid eighty dollars for it and that was eleven years ago.” Despite having doubt, I say, “I bet they did. I expect combined the other booths make upwards of 1,800 dollars.” That was a not so educated guess. “Let’s hope! At least, I have more miniatures and yet my fairy garden just isn’t the same without the cottage.”
She keeps walking, while I stop in place. She turns her head back at me. “Wait, I can’t go on.” “Sure, you can. It just so happens that you’ve been making one old woman’s day. Come along. Don’t expect me to fetch a red wagon and wheel you the rest of the way.” “I wouldn’t make you do that. I feel like you’re just too trusting; you don’t even know me. Why I could-”
“I’d put you down.” Oh, how I admire her confidence! I resume walking. “That’s reassuring.” “I’m glad you think so.” We walk farther and saw some rabbits. Accordingly, the two of us begin to take count. “When I was on walks with my family, we’ve hit sixteen at one time or another. Now, we are only seeing nine.” “It must be the coyotes; they’re a plenty here.” “Some of them are scrawny; they’ll eat anything.”
“So for your college, do you commute?” “Yes, but I take the bus.” “Earth friendly or can’t afford?” Though she was thinking practically, she didn’t hit the nail on the head at all. “I’m afraid I’ll hit people!” “You’re a card!” “I mean it.” “How do you think you’re a killer if you’re afraid of people?!” I had no answer. She tried to raise my spirits. “Still, it seems like you have everything going for you.” I’m just thankful that she isn’t one to beat a dead horse. Was this a reality check? The urges, however, showed that I wasn’t exactly right in the head. “It is what it is.” “Huh?!” I’m unsure of what I meant by that. “I’ve noticed that you’re quite intelligent, but sometimes forget to think before you speak.” A compliment and an insult rolled into one. “You’re right.” There’s no way I could argue with her. She pulled out a Tejava bottle from her satchel and let me waterfall some. For us having just met, she’s very sweet.
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I trip over my feet and fall. She helps me up. “I’m surprised you didn’t break in half, when you hit the asphalt.” She had a point. Having landed on my right elbow, I’m in great pain. I have a chunk of skin missing and a bloody mess where it once was. “That will scar.” At least if one of us was to be injured, it was me and not her. I request more of her drink and she hands it over. “Just don’t drink it all.” As she says that I drink a fair amount. “Watch it!” “Here’s your drink back.” She puts it in her satchel once more. “Think you can keep to your feet?” “That depends.” “On what?” “On if you’ll be faster and catch my fall.” She rolls her eyes. “I see you like teasing people.” “Only if they’re asking for it.” She says, “is that so?” and kicks my shin. I’m not irritated, rather I’m amused.
Though she’s affectionate, she likes to screw around. “You’re a momma’s boy, aren’t you?” “Yes, I frequently read short stories with her.” “Ha, I knew it! Your mannerisms told me that much.” “How old are you?” “nineteen.” “It figures,” I awaited further explanation, “you still act pubescent.” “Are you mean or… tell me what it is!” “Calm down.” I was a little too offended. It didn’t become me. I know I cared some for her, because that’s when I get irate with people. I forgave her and left that distasteful conversation in the past. The urges resurfaced, “I still might kill you.” “Shut up! I want to show you something.” She pulls out her late husband’s combat knife concealed in her jeans. I snatch the knife and hold it away from her. She punches me in the gut and takes the knife back. That’s as physical as I ever got with a woman! “That’s mine! I just wanted to show you that you couldn’t take me. Now, will you quit worrying?” That is a tall order.
Becoming so well acquainted, it’s like she’s an old time friend. “Hold my hand.” At least if our hands are locked, I’ll have a harder time killing her. “Sure.” I feel the warmth of her wool gloves. She looks at my nails. “You have feminine hands. Mine are man’s hands.” She ungloves her left and I see stubby calloused fingers. “No, they’re delicate.” She’s such a sweet woman. If I was going to kill her, I could at least be somewhat polite. The urges were exceptionally strong willed. Though we were almost to her home, I worry for her safety. I white knuckle her. She complains about the grip of my hand and I loosen it some. She squeezes my hand and I then I complain. “Let’s see how you like it!” She relieves the pressure and stares at me. “Wasn’t so comfortable was it?” She’s a hoot! We’re getting close to her home. I’ll be both relieved and saddened when we part ways. She was great exposure.
I release her hand and I gallop away. I don’t look back. I need to get away from people and get home! I come out the north side of the senior center. I see more obstacles: one of which was my art teacher. I cross the street, but she already noticed me. I gallop to the bottom of the passageway leading to my home. I arrive and frantically take my keys and unlock the door. Once in my room, I close my door and begin to write about the day’s events. I write, “I recall that sweet old woman I had just met and then abandoned. She did what she could to alleviate my concerns and yet this was in vain. She had a wondrous personality. She was playful. She would have made a terrific aunt! We got to know one another. I made her feel good about herself. If I was to face any obstacle, I’m thankful it was her. I wonder what became of her. I’d like to think I care. I feel awful to have left her as I did.”
I found next week’s local newspaper in the inside recycling. I read the Police Blotter, “Local resident, Abilene Rally, discovered that several cottage roofs in her fairy garden were caved in. A dog ran out of her yard. She pulled out a combat knife and chased the dog out of sight. A neighbor Nadia Conch, who apparently benefited from their Fall Festival proceeds, came to apologize about her dog. Reportedly, Abilene screamed at her. The woman broke down in tears and she had not even a little sympathy.” I flipped the paper over and was eager to read
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the rest of it, but a yogurt stain prohibited further reading. Let’s see: she pulled out her knife, she was violent with me for lesser things. Could she have killed her neighbor?! Why the hell was this story in the Courier if not for an ugly ending?! I brought the paper to my mom. “What’s the matter?” “A friend of mine became a murderer.” “Don’t jump to conclusions!” “She had a knife I think she used it! She was already upset over the community taking one of her cottages for their festival!” “Maybe, she just got into an argument with whoever she was dealing with. They could’ve disturbed the peace.” “That’s hardly anything to put in the courier! Don’t you think something awful happened.” “No because…” “Because why?!” “I’m not sure.”
I walk the homestretch through the senior center again seeing if I can’t cross paths with Abilene Rally once more. The very first person I see is her, of all people! “Long time no see,” I say with a slight smile. She stares at me. “Yeah, no kidding!” I walk her to her home.
At her doorstep, she says, “won’t you come inside?” I agree. Her home is nice; it’s decorated with vintage landscapes. She sits me on her wicker chair beside her coffee table. “I’ve got tea for us. Better you drink it now than later in the day.” She takes out a bottle equal to the other from her kitchen. She brings a Victoria Sponge to the table and would’ve portioned it out with a stainless steel knife, but currently none are clean so she washes off her combat knife and uses it instead (of course, the cuts she made were much more crude). Though I want to ask her about her situation with the Courier, I decide against it out of respect. “I am ecstatic that you agreed to be in my home. What prompted you?” I desperately search for the single best answer.
