THE NIGHT RUN

       Lying in bed, wide-awake, I watched a square of light reflecting on the patio outside my window. I knew that as soon as that light went out my father, in his bedroom above me, would soon be asleep. It must have been after midnight. I could tell that my brother was already asleep in his bedroom next to mine because I hadn’t heard a sound from him in over an hour. And my father’s new wife hadn’t made a sound for quite some time either. All I had to do was wait for my dad to close his book and turn off his lamp.
       After several minutes I heard a soft click and the patch of light on the patio went out. Again, I waited long enough to feel it was safe to slip out into the night. I threw on jeans, a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. The house was absolutely quiet. I slid the sliding glass door slowly open, stepped out onto the patio, and slowly closed the door behind me. The night air bit into my skin. The moon was out, giving me all the light I needed, and I knew that once I got moving the chill would fade.
       Crossing to the other side of the patio to the stone path that led past my brother’s bedroom window, I stepped soundlessly up to the carport. Once there, I stopped to listen. It was quiet. I turned onto Lake View Road, which was lined on the left by Douglas Firs that hid railroad tracks, and lined on the right by the houses on the lake’s edge. After walking a short distance, I picked up my pace to a light jog. A half a mile later I came to a dark curve, and it looked like I was entering a cave. The moon’s light was completely blocked-out except for an occasional sliver slipping through thick branches above. Entering this darkness I slowed down because I could barely see my feet, let alone the road. It was difficult to keep my bearings but I kept moving forward, step by step, listening for anything threatening. Finally, the darkness gave way to the grey light of a clearing and I could see the railroad tracks up ahead. I picked up my pace again, crossing the railroad tracks, and followed the road around one more bend until it opened up to a valley of quiet farmhouses nestled in grey sepia against darkened foothills.
       I was now on Iron Mountain Road and had about three miles of country to go. Looking ahead, the distance seemed to dissolve into mist. I felt an urgency to get across this stretch as fast as possible, so I plunged ahead into the grey hush. The only sound was the soft tapping of my tennis shoes on the road.
       Then, about midway to my destination, my worst fear happened. From one of the farmhouses came two dogs running fast toward me barking loudly. They stopped at the fence line, but I kept moving. They followed me on the other side of the fence, making such a racket I was sure the farmhouse would light up and I’d hear an angry farmer shouting to know who was out there. All I could do was keep moving, praying the canines stayed on their side of the fence. At the end of their property, the dogs stopped at the fence corner but continued their vicious barking. When I got far enough away their barks become savage growls, as they reluctantly returned to their porch.
       With little more than a mile to go, I felt encouraged after surviving the dogs. That’s when headlights approached from up ahead. Sprinting off the road, I hid behind some wet shrubbery, crouching low just in time. I could hear the deep mumble of the car’s engine getting louder as it rolled by where I’d just been standing. Could this be the police? Did the farmer call them? There was no way to know, but it sure felt like the car was moving way too slowly as it passed by, like it was looking for something. Thankfully it didn’t stop. 
      I waited a minute to make sure all was clear before getting back on the road. A new, heavier silence pressed down on me, fueling unwelcomed imagination. I rounded a long curve and saw houses in the distance. Within a few minutes, I entered an old suburban neighborhood of well-to-do houses. The Episcopal Church where, incidentally, I had been baptized, came into view, I was almost there. I crossed the street and entered a small park overcrowded with tall fir trees. Emerging from the trees, I stopped and listened. It was absolutely still, not a sound. I stepped up to a fence and placed my hands on the top railing and lifted myself up and looked at the cottage-like house. All lights were out. I dropped back down and found the latch handle that opened the fence gate. Slowly and quietly I pressed the lever and the gate opened a few inches. I held still for a few moments. Then I pushed the gate open enough to slip through and closed the gate behind me. I crossed the backyard of soft lawn, passing the single, separate garage on the left, and stopped at the side back door. The house was small, like most of the houses on this street, there wasn’t much space between them. Mrs. Urban’s car was parked in the driveway, meaning Mr. Urban was gone.  I looked up to the second-story window where I knew she would be, asleep. But now the question was, how to wake her up? She didn’t know I was coming.
       So, what to do? I couldn’t knock on her door, that would be too loud for the neighbor not to hear, and to circle around to the front door would be too exposed. I certainly couldn’t call up to her. I was beginning to feel foolish and almost ready to give up when I looked down and saw the gravel under my feet. Gravel. Little stones small enough to make a soft plink on a windowpane, but not big enough to break it. I gathered up a small handful of gravel and picked out a small stone that looked to be the perfect size. Taking careful aim, I tossed it gently up at the window, where it struck the pane with just the right amount of force. Plink. I held still for a moment, listening. Then I gently tossed another one. Same sound. Same silence. Same hope. And then, once again. One more try. Plink. And then, there she was, standing on the other side of the window, looking down at me. She wore a long, white nightgown, and as I looked up at her she smiled at me. She gestured with her hand for me to wait and disappeared from the window. A moment later the back door opened and she whispered for me to come in. After closing the door behind me she wrapped her arms around me and I felt her warmth. I didn’t realize how cold I was. Then she led me upstairs.
       I was fourteen-years-old and Mrs. Urban was my Art teacher.