The Strangler

1966:  Fears of getting caught and getting caught.

 

There was not much to watch on television at 2 a.m. except old, black and white movies.  I lit up a cigarette to keep awake.  The cigarettes were Marlboro because they came in a box and that was cool.  At the age of fifteen, it was all about looking cool with a cigarette in your hand.  I practiced holding it out between my index and middle fingers.  I tried inhaling; hacked and coughed.  When I stifled my coughing, I listened.  Quiet; except for the soft droning of a woman’s voice on the TV.  I was babysitting; the kids were asleep upstairs. 

 

I sat in the living room, slouched on the couch with my knees hunched close to my chest, feet up.  The couple on the television moved in for a close up kiss.  My eyelids fluttered.  Then, I heard it—something.  Playing the sound back in my mind’s ear I couldn’t decide if it was a scrape or a knock.  My muscles contracted and I shivered.  Did they lock the door when they left?  I thought I should check, but froze at the fear that someone was on the porch and could see me though the glass panels on the door if I moved into the entrance hall.

 

The lamp on the table next to the couch gave off a dim glow from under the yellow shade.  The only other light came from the outside fixture at the back door, casting a moon-like beam across the kitchen.  The front foyer was dark.  Now, the dark walls of the living room seemed to move in towards me like a vice.  I put out the cigarette and wished that the Turners would come home.  They’d turn on lights; walk through the house and talk.  It would all be OK.  Oh god, I needed to spray something to cover the cigarette smell!  But, I couldn’t seem to move from the couch.

 

I stopped breathing and listened.  Nothing but the people on the TV.  There it was again!  There were reports that the “Cincinnati Strangler” had been seen in the neighborhood.  He had already killed several women in the city over the last three months.  Now, I was sure I heard footsteps near the front porch.  Mr. and Mrs. Turner would come in the back.  I shivered again and my skin crawled as perspiration seeped from my pores.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  I frantically searched my memory of the evening with the kids.  Did anyone touch the front door?  Was it locked or unlocked?  Now I heard it clearly—tap, scratch.  Tap.  Tap. 

 

I thought I should get up and check the lock, but was paralyzed by the possibility of seeing the intruder sneering at me through the glass.  Or, he would see me as I moved into the foyer, his hand on the door knob, ready to burst in.  By now, I was certain that the man on the porch was the “Cincinnati Strangler.”  His face would be covered with a ski mask, eyes wildly searching the foyer through the side panel until they met mine.  I could not move near the door.  Instead, I flattened myself on the sofa, then, rolled off onto the floor, trying to make no sound.  I belly-crawled through the living room and into the dining room, where a phone sat on a side table.  Rising off the floor only enough to reach the phone, I pulled it down to me and dialed my home number, hoping and praying that my mother, who was a light sleeper, would hear the ring. 

 

“Mom, I hear someone outside the house,” I croaked into the phone.  “I think he is on the front porch.”

 

 “What time is it?” She asked, coming awake.  “Where are the Turners?” 

 

“They aren’t home yet.  I’m scared!  Should I call the police?”

 

“I’ll call the police,” said my mother.  “Just stay where you are and don’t go to the door.”

 

I hung up the receiver and balled myself up as small as possible on the floor, half hovering under the telephone table.  The tapping was distinct now, though erratic.  Maybe the “Strangler” was moving about the front porch, casing out the house, looking for his victim.  I peered around the corner from the dark dining room now, unwilling to move back into the living room.  There was the pack of cigarettes still sitting on the arm of the couch, gently spot-lit under the lamp.  I had to retrieve the cigarettes before anyone—the Turners, the cops, or the strangler—saw them.  Once more, lowering to the floor, I proceeded to inch my way back into the living room, but the creak and weight behind real footsteps on the front porch stopped me cold.  The pounding on the front door struck through my heart. 

 

“Jodi! Jodi!” called my Dad’s voice.  Springing for the foyer, I switched on the light, opened the door and fell into my father’s arms. 

 

“Oh my god, Dad.  Did you see anyone out there?” 

 

“I didn’t see anyone.  What did you hear?” asked Dad.

 

“Someone was moving around the front porch,” I reported.  “I heard tapping and scraping around this corner.”  I motioned to the front right of the house. 

 

Dad told me to stay put and he went back out to the front yard with a flash light.  Car lights shone in the driveway and the Turners pulled up.  Behind them, I could see the lights of a police car.  Relieved and self-conscious, I stood in the foyer and explained the events of the last hour to the Turners and the police officer.  My Dad soon came around the corner of the house.  Now, the cop, a stocky, middle-aged man, and my father went back out and around the corner. 

 

The crisis averted, I moved into the living room to gather my items and my coat.  Moving with matter-of-fact grace, I retrieved the cigarettes and Bic lighter and put them into my purse, hoping not to call attention to my task.  Coat on, I waited in the foyer as Mr. Turner pulled his wallet out and counted out the bills to pay me.  My father and the policeman came back to the porch.  I couldn’t read my father’s expression, but the cop was smiling.

 

“Was this the sound you heard?” the officer asked, and he reached over the porch rail and made a movement with his arm.  I nodded at the now familiar scratch and tap. 

 

“Just a rosebush that could use a little pruning,” he smiled. 

 

My cheeks flared as I began spewing apologies, watching my father’s expression.  He was generally not a person to see the humor in a situation, and especially at 2:30 in the morning.  I got no such bonus.  Mr. Turner snorted and mentioned that he would not have to drive me home, now that my Dad was here.  The cop was already on his way back to his car. 

 

I moved obsequiously toward our car and got in the passenger side.  My father got in the car, turned the key and drove me home in silence. 

 

That’s it.  That is where the story stops.  Nothing was ever said and the cigarettes remained safe in my purse.  I never smoked again.