“Look at this.” My husband was peering through our upstairs window. A red light hovered over our house from which beamed a large spotlight into the woods behind the house. We watched as the search light turned on set of trees pale white and then another until it finally rested at an angle on some spot beyond our window.
Who was in the helicopter and more importantly who were they looking for? We turned on the local news station. No reporter was sharing breaking news on a manhunt. We scanned Internet newspapers. Nothing.
It was Wednesday, the night of our church’s men’s Bible study. My husband asked if I would be okay if he went.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m fine.” I can’t cave to unfounded fears. According to the laws of probability, I should be completely safe and secure. Have a good time with the guys.
After my husband left I was fine. I curled on the corner of the sofa and read a book. Then the neighbors dogs bayed. I heard the helicopter again. Worse, the motion-sensing porch light flicked on, and the creaky old house felt very large and empty and haunted.
I wanted my husband back. Yet, I didn’t call him. What if a murder was in our backyard and killed him on his way from the truck to my home? That would be awful. He was safer at the study, and I was fairly safe behind locked doors.
However, I didn’t want to stay on the first floor. I went upstairs and grabbed my husband’s k-bar. My nerves were steeled by the foot-long, Marine issued knife. Then, I scooped a bowl of ice cream to silence the remaining quaking nerves — the ones that were asking, if attacked what will you do with the knife? I stationed myself in our bedroom, across the hall from the baby’s room and waited.
Eventually, I heard the doorknob rattle and familiar footfall echoing in the hall. My husband. Thank goodness.