Author: Larry Lau

       It was a small house in a tidy neighborhood. On the ground floor was a large front room with polished hardwood flooring, marked by a central rug of Native American design. A brick fireplace dominated the left wall, along with appropriate wall hangings and other embellishments. Ceramic pieces were smartly placed in just the right locations, giving the room a pleasing balance of well-thought-out color accents. Near the front windows, there was a small wooden table with four chairs that served as the dining area. A little further back from the main room were three smaller rooms: a den, an office, and a bathroom. Up front and to the right of the main room was a nicely remodeled kitchen that included a back door area that led out to a fenced-in backyard.
      Also in the back of the house, there was a nicely polished wooden staircase that led up one flight to attic space converted into a large bedroom. Continue reading “THE ESCAPE”

       The church was filled to capacity, standing room only. Two hundred people at least, in attendance, all strangers to me. A priest droned monotonously from his perch up front, looking up from his written speech from time to time, pausing at key moments for effect. As far as I was concerned, I wished he would just shut up. He didn’t know my mother and his familiarity rubbed me wrong. I could feel myself growing angry. Continue reading “LEFT”

     The walk home from school was quiet along Lakeview Blvd., and the spring air was cool and bright. Railroad tracks to the left that ran parallel to the road, were mostly blocked from view by the thick trees and untrimmed underbrush. On the right, sturdy high-end homes hugged the lake’s edge. Further up ahead, I could see the entrance to our driveway, and as I approached I saw something unusual. Dad’s Buick Riviera was parked in the carport, half-hidden behind a line of shrubbery. This was curious, to say the least, maybe even worse than curious. He was never home from work this early. Something must be wrong. Continue reading “THE BUICK”

      We were sitting in the dining room, at a small wooden table that was just large enough to accommodate Gloria, her husband David, her sister Kathy, and me, when I felt someone’s toes rub up and down my foot. It was a probing gesture in search of a response; deliberate, intentional, a willful act of reconnaissance. To say, at that moment, that I felt panic would have been, to say the least, an understatement. Impulsively, I wanted to look up and make eye contact with whoever was the source of this provocation, but my better sense stopped me from committing such a potential error. To look up could risk a disastrous reveal, exposing the look of terror on my face to examination. No, I had to, at all costs, not look up. Instead, I kept my focus frozen on a piece of steak attached to my fork, which had been hovering at a standstill above my plate, just below chin level. In that same instant, I realized that suspending all motion completely could attract an equal amount of attention and inquiry. So, I forced myself to utilize all the guile at my command to reengage my full presence at the table. My hope was to convey an attitude of utter casualness and to resume eating my dinner as if nothing at all was afoot.
       But the probing toes continued to elevate their searching to higher altitudes. When David was asking me about school, the toes were passing above shin and calf. By the feel of things, they were giving every indication they intended to achieve even greater heights of ascension. There was no doubt, the aim was for the rarefied pinnacle, where if contact were made all possibility of restraint would fail and I would run screaming like a madman out of the house, and disappear insanely into the night.
       Before that happened, however, there was hope that something might alter the course of things. Perhaps, if I contributed something interesting to the conversation, say, something about the weather, anything that might distract the probing toes from their upward trajectory and cause them to reverse course. But in answering David’s question, I blurted something out that made not the slightest bit of sense. By the look of the twinkle in Gloria’s eyes, I might have spoken a completely unrecognizable language. I think I said something like, “God! What a beautiful day it is!” Even though it was completely dark outside and well into the night.
       As awkward as this non sequitur was, it, thank God, was jarring enough to achieve its objective—the probing toes retreated from between my quivering knees. Now, I only had to contend with my stumbling interruption regarding the beautiful day. I smiled shyly, chuckled softly, and looking down modestly, said, “I mean, what a beautiful dinner this is, and with such beautiful people!”
      I was confident who the guilty toes belonged to. Gloria. It had to be her. She was sitting opposite me at the table, with the most direct line of access. I thought I knew her well —we’d been having a secret affair for a few months — and, yes, I know I had just turned 15 years old and she was my 25-year-old art teacher, but love was love. I was head-over-heels and I would forgive her anything, anything! Even if that meant having dinner with David, a kind man, sitting right next to me, and with her younger sister, Kathy, just to my left, who, by the way, had been staring mysteriously at me all night long. So, I could overlook Gloria for putting me in this absolutely terrifying circumstance, because that’s what made her special, made her who she was, the kind of person who delighted in living dangerously.
       Yes, I was entirely convinced it was Gloria whose toes had touched mine when a shocking thought came to me.  Maybe it wasn’t Gloria at all, maybe it was Kathy. Maybe Kathy’s toes had done the initial outreach. Who’s to say it wasn’t her? It certainly would explain Kathy’s intense gaze. What was I to do? I struggled for an answer, and then it came to me. I would do nothing.

       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.