Richard Hawk needs quiet. His office has glass walls. Workers continually mill among cubicles outside his door. Someone sticks their head inside his office at least once every five minutes. Day after day. He often clamps his palms on the sides of his head to stifle a scream.

Every day on his way to work, he passes a stone house. It appears impervious, castle-like, with a massive wooden door. He has to have it.

One day, bearing lilies, Richard bangs the gargoyle knocker.

A tiny wrinkled lady opens the door. “I’m Marjorie Adams. You must have the wrong address,” she says.  “No one alive would send me flowers.”

“Richard Hawk. CEO Mega Corp. I want to buy your house.” Richard shows his teeth. “These are for you.”

Marjorie places ringed fists on what used to be her hips. “It’s not for sale.”

A whiskered face peers from behind her ankles and meows at Richard. Marjorie starts to shut the door as Richard thrusts the flowers at her. “Keep these anyway,” he demands.

Outside, a chill autumn wind blows. The knocker gargoyle leers. An iron fence abuts the side of the house, enclosing a garden.That night, Richard dreams about the house. In his imagination, vines snake around the private garden, thick and protective. Deep, red, thorn- covered roses surround a small cold pond.

A week later, Richard tries again. As he approaches the house, a figure darts from the garden. Richard startles as he feels a hand squeeze his index finger.

“Take me for walk,” says a little boy. “Me, Doobie.” Doobie looks up at Richard with yellow eyes and strangely vertical irises.

“No,” Richard says.

The boy’s eyes do not waver, but Richard detects a hint of something in the face. A nameless something Richard may have felt as a child.

“Okay. Okay, a short one. Is your grandma at home?”

The boy says nothing, but starts down the street, still holding tight to Richard’s finger. He strides along, the child trotting to keep up. Enough. After a few minutes, Richard returns to the house, and knocks.

Marjorie opens the door. “You again.”

“Here’s Doobie,” says Richard. “Your grandson?”
Doobie scoots in and disappears.

“Sadly, I don’t have grandchildren.” A grey cat jumps onto Marjorie’s shoulders. She and the cat touch noses. “But thank you for returning Doobie.”

“Come in.” she says. “A cup of tea?”

“I’ll take a coffee, black.”

“You can call me Marge,” says Marjorie. “But you can’t buy my house.”    

Richard’s nostrils widen. “Everyone has their price.”

He follows her into a small parlor where his lilies are arranged in a vase on a table. Front paws delicately placed, Doobie lies neatly on the table under the flowers, tail twitching. Richard stares at the thin vertical diamonds in the cat’s yellow eyes.

Marge brings in a tray with a huge teapot and tiny porcelain cups. No coffee. They perch on delicate chairs. Richard loathes tea but pinches the handle of his teacup between his thumb and index finger. Luckily, one sip and the tepid brew is gone.

“Marge,” he says. “Marge. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Dickie,” she says. “We can’t.”

“My name is Richard.” Richard despises the name Dickie. He crosses his legs to indicate that he’s not going anywhere.

For an uncomfortable time, Marge makes eye contact with Richard; her eyes glistening. She reminds Richard of Mrs. Gottfried, his high school history teacher, an extraordinarily intelligent, strong-willed, and formally dressed elderly woman. Despite perfectly acceptable grades, Richard had felt apprehensive in her class. He’d felt she could look into his soul, and that there was something there he didn’t want to know about.

Doobie springs from the table and onto Richard’s lap, causing the fragile chair to tremble underneath. Having nowhere else to go, his hands rest on the cat’s soft warm fur. Doobie’s body vibrates, purring, hypnotic.

Richard strokes Doobie. He wonders if there is an inner room somewhere in this house, a room with no windows and a thick, sound deadening, carpet. He imagines a pool of blood staining the carpet. He’ll bury Marge in the garden.

A current pulses between the old lady and the cat. A whisker sprouts from Richard’s clean-shaven cheek. The cat slinks off his lap. He senses that he is shrinking. His tail twitches.

“Dickie. Doobie,” calls Marge. “Come get your milk in the kitchen.”

# # #

Joan Slatoff lives in Ithaca, New York. In her semi-retirement from Head Start and the world of early childhood education she has rediscovered her love for creative writing. In 2017 she received honorable mention and online publication through a Flash 405 Exposition Review short fiction contest for a short piece titled, Abeeku.

Photo: Peter Lam CH