The wind was picking up outside. The sky was an unhealthy shade of sunset-red, as if were infected. Looked like a storm was brewing.
“Let’s go check it out,” I suggested to Thing Two. It was hot in the house. The dead leaves whipping by the window suggested there might be a cool breeze in the backyard.
We stepped onto the patio. Thing Two closed the sliding door behind us so the cats didn’t get out. (Like aging action movies stars, they think they’re outdoor cats, but are actually old and fat and lame – easy pickings for hungry coyotes or paparazzi.)
We watched the trees lean away from the wind, their branches rippling. Clouds clumped together and charged across the sky like Black Friday shoppers squeezing through Wal-Mart doors at 5:00 AM. The setting sun spilled its fiery red sheen across everything.
“I’m scared,” said Thing Two. She’s five, and has issues with storms.
In time, I’ll insist that she face her fears — a little thunder never hurt anyone, and odds are lighting won’t hurt you — but for now…
“Okay, let’s go back in.”
She pulled on the sliding door. It didn’t open. Locked? I tried.
Locked.
Realization hit me like a slap: I’d turned the knob on the way out, thinking I was unlocking the door, when in fact it was already unlocked. I’d locked it. And the front door was locked too. And my keys…
My keys were in my other pants. Along with my cell phone. Safely inside the house — along with my shoes, and my daughters’ shoes as well. My beautiful locksmith wife had keys, of course, but she was out with Thing One.
Thing Two started to cry.
“I’m really scared,” she said.
I smiled the “Don’t worry, Daddy will take care of this, everything’s going to be fine” smile I’ve been working on for the past 9 years.
“Let’s go to the neighbors,” I said. “We’ll call Mommy, and she can come home and let us in.”
The neighbors kindly let us in, and even more kindly did not laugh in my face. They handed me the phone. I stared at it blankly.
“For calling your wife,” they suggested.
“Right…” The thing was, I didn’t know her cell number. It was pre-set on my phone (which was safely nestled in the pocket of my jeans across the street), so while I called it every day, I never actually dialed it.
“Um…” There was no way to ask this without sounding like the idiot I was. “Do you… have my wife’s cell number?”
They did. I made the call, we were back in the house within the hour, and I learned a valuable lesson: anecdotes make great blog entries when you’re putting off starting that short story you should be working on.
