Shadow at the Door

Sarah J. Woo

Gary’s gone.

No note on the counter. No shirts in the closet. No bobbleheads on the shelf.

Gone, all gone.

I pad through the house with a carton of ice cream, tapping the metal spoon against my teeth. It’s cold, I’m freezing. This old house with its constant complaints—replace me, patch me, don’t forget me. You promised, Gary. You promised you’d fix it.

I keep a tally in my head—one notch for each day you’re gone. Twenty-three so far. Maybe more. I’ll count to forty, you still have time.

This morning, I opened the cupboard and found your old mug—the chipped yellow rim, the black coffee rings. You forgot it, same as everything else. I told you the caffeine would eat a hole in your stomach. You said your gut was lined with steel and laughed like you always did.

Someone’s knocking at the door. I freeze, spoon clamped between my teeth. On the porch, there’s a shadow holding a box. It wants me to open, sign my name. Just a quick scribble, and it’ll go away. But I don’t move. Stay low, stay safe. You taught me that, Gary. Just you and me.

The spoon slips from my mouth, clattering on the floor. I suck in my breath, listening to the house breathe. The fridge hums an alien tune. I’m rummaging the shelves. These dishes you bought me—fragile as eggshells. I wash them by hand so they don’t chip, I lay each one in the cupboard like a baby in a crib. Meanwhile I think of small things—the matchbook you brought home from the Yellow Inn, the way you whistle low when the news comes on.

There’s the knock again. Quiet as the rats scuttling in the walls. It’s always quiet here, too quiet. Tell me a story, Gary. What are you thinking about? I’m thinking about the first time we met, at that bar next to Ralph’s. You in your fringed suede jacket, a real California cowboy on the hood of your car, a scene from an old movie. You had a flask of bourbon in your pocket. You didn’t even like bourbon—neither did I. We tipped our heads back, grinning at the moon.

Answer the phone, Gary—please, I’ve been calling. I’ve got dishes to put away, a million things to do besides hunting you down. It wouldn’t kill you to say hello. I’ll call my sister Linda. I’ll call the police. They’ll find you. They’ll take this shadow away. Come and see. It’s nothing, just shadows and the sounds of an old house.

I’m putting on my shoes. Just to step outside, just for a minute. Maybe you’ve gone around the corner to the Johnsons’—are they hiding you, Gary? Is that where you’ve gone? The world’s on fire, and you’re playing hide-and-seek—now, of all times. The sun’s stretching across the glass, beckoning me outside. I’m not going anywhere. I’d rather freeze.

Someone’s at the door. They know my name.

Linda says just close the blinds, Marcy, walk away. How can I do that, when you might walk up the drive any moment, jangling your keys, smiling that crooked smile I’ve known since second grade? You’ve been here my whole life, Gary, tell me I’m not the only one who remembers. I’m picturing the county fair, our mothers placing pillows of cotton candy in our palms, sugar melting on our fingers as fireworks explode overhead.

The knob won’t turn. You were supposed to fix it, Gary. And now they’re waiting, waiting at the door. My heart’s jumping out of my throat. Who is it? Maybe it’s death, coming to collect me. Tell it to go away. Tell it we’re not home.

Linda says she’ll call the police if I don’t. I said that’s fine, let them come. They’ll know what to do about the door. Come back, Gary. You’re the only one who knows what to do.

I’m counting the cracks in the linoleum. Nine, twelve, thirteen—then I lose track. Ten, eleven. Open the door, please, so I can come in. Open it, or I’ll pry the knob off with a crowbar. Then you’ll be sorry, so sorry. Sorry I broke your door. I couldn’t help it. It’s just—they’re saying my name. Calling and begging and knocking. But I know their tricks, with their clipboards and their chocolates.

Fix the knob, please, Gary. How else am I supposed to get in? Do you expect me to crawl through the window like some midnight prowler? Don’t look at me like that, we’re not animals. Let’s be civilized, you and me. Let’s say hello, and please, and thank you, and goodbye. You forgot that last one, Gary.

The light’s gone out now. Where did you put the spare bulbs? I hate when you hide things where I can’t find them. I’ve told you a hundred times to give things a home. And what’ll it take for you to open the goddamn door?

I take it back, Gary, I’m sorry. The dishes once belonged to my mother, but if you want me to say they were a gift from you, I will. Whatever you want me to say. What a nice gift, I say. You always know how to pick one out, how to make things nice.

There goes another knock. They’re waiting for me to give a statement. They just want me to sign. They’re good people, polite people, they only want to know the truth. Would you tell them to leave? No thank you, we’re atheists, no soliciting. Tell them to come back later.

Do you hear that? It’s in the walls now, getting louder. I can feel it through the plaster. Don’t answer it, love. They’ll stop calling our names soon. Then I’ll get us out of this house—I promise, just the truth, quick—before they get here—they’re on their way, they’ll round you up, I’ve got my finger on the button—it only takes one call, so be good and come home and tell me who’s at the door. What are they selling—solar? Turn them away. Close the blinds. It’s dinner time, and I’m about to throw a chicken in the oven, Gary, and you always pick the worst times to interrupt me. I’m up to my elbows in chicken guts, so go and open the door for me. Tell them we’re busy, whatever it takes to get them to leave.

Hurry, come back before the oven dings, before the bird burns, before I freeze. Do you hear me? They’re waiting, they won’t go. Come fast. Just say hello. There’s still time.

Hello.

Gary.

Sarah J. Woo is a Korean American writer and former attorney. She holds a B.A. from Yale University and a J.D. from UCLA. She lives in Los Angeles with her family and eighteen fruit trees.