Knock, Knock
Her words couldn’t escape her mouth. They didn’t linger in the air. It was as if they were receding back into her. “Who’s there?”
She opened the front door to let him in. He was heaving almost uncontrollably after this morning’s run. Even Buddy wasn’t panting as hard — tongue hanging out, drool and droplets spewing from his jaw. “That must have been quite a run,” she said — taken aback by the immediate change in temperature as her husband and family dog crossed the threshold and clomped onto the hardwood floor.
It was a tough writing day, and she really didn’t want to be disturbed. But Ben didn’t bother to bring his house key again — so she dutifully let them in. Time to get back to it. She was on a personal deadline and didn’t want to miss it. “What’s for lunch, Jude?” Ben shouted through a piece of bread he had jammed in his mouth while standing next to the open fridge. “Make it yourself. I’m on a roll and can’t stop,” she shouted back at him as she ran up the stairs before the thought left her head.
Shutting the door to her writing room and sitting back at her desk, Judith Jacobs was transported into a world of her creation. Her latest novel was set in Madrid — overflowing with everything from espionage and torrid affairs to blackmail and mistaken identity … not to mention a generous helping of poison, knives, and an array of corpses. Keeping everything straight was one thing — but more often than not, the novel just wrote itself. Today was different, though. Every time Judith tried to go into her cocoon and let things happen, Ben’s voice would rise up from the yard and fly straight through the open window — taking her out of the tavernas, flamenco, paella, cochinillo, gardens, beaches … and into pedestrian niceties, weather predictions, and the newest lawn adornments.
Judith got up and moved toward the window. The sky was a pastel blue. She could see a cloud of blackbirds flying toward the horizon. The idyllic scene was interrupted again by the sound of voices. Closing it ever so slowly and carefully to avoid sending a message of exasperation (which was true, but why expose herself?), she went back to that safe place one more time. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror — the star-shaped locket that Ben had given her as an anniversary gift hanging around her neck like it was attached to her skin. It fleetingly reminded her of what life was like in the world outside her mind — quick flashes of prosaic yet precious life moments: meeting Ben, falling in love, buying this house, rescuing Buddy…
Knock, knock. Judith sat bolt upright at her desk — bleary-eyed and foggy. She turned to look at the window she had just shut — and it was pitch black outside. Was that the door again? She yawned and faintly called out, “I’m coming, Ben,” as she hoisted herself up from the recliner and made her way to the shiny doorknob — the only object she could see in the darkness. Turning the knob and throwing open the door, she fired off the words in quick succession: “So sorry, hon — the time just got away from –” Nothing and no one was there. It was eerily still.
Judith stepped into the hallway and fumbled for the light switch. Click, click. Pitch black. No light. “Ben, what’s going on?! Where are you?” Not a sound. Buddy didn’t even bark. Knock, knock. This time, it was coming from the front door. Reaching for the banister, Judith meticulously guided herself down the carpeted stairs until her toes felt the cold floor. Easing her way to the front door, she was startled by another double knock. Total darkness. She expected it. Slowly creaking open the door, she looked out and saw nothingness. No porch light. Even the air seemed thin — as if she wasn’t about to step outside into the cold, night air but into a soundproof recording studio. Dry, thin air. Her words couldn’t escape her mouth. They didn’t linger in the air. It was as if they were receding back into her. “Who’s there?”
Knock knock. Her eyes popped open. She could hear muffled screams and howls from the other side of the closed window. Soft black feathers were partially stuck to the outside of the window — waving in the afternoon air. And that’s when she knew that the knock hadn’t been coming from her door — but from the window.
It was early fall, and the air had started to change from the odd electrical warmth of Santa Ana winds to the still, welcome chill that accompanied the scent of wood-burning stoves and campground fires. She was well underway on her novel, spending much of her time in her writing room. The faint sound of her name from outside the third-story window took her out of the reverie she had fallen into hours before. Perhaps it was time to call it a day. She walked toward the double-hung window — and with all the strength she could muster, raised the lower sash and stuck her head out into the tingly air. “What is it, Ben?” Judith shouted as she strained to see him in the corner of the front yard — feet raised on her tiptoes. Ben shouted from below, “Jude, I was just telling Jim and Sally about our trip to Madrid. They’ve offered to take care of Buddy while we’re gone. Isn’t that great! I can’t believe we’re leaving in less than a we — ”
Knock, knock. Two of the blackbirds had flown into the top window sash — rattling the window and causing the bottom sash to close. The sound startled Judith, whose head and torso were already tipping toward the ground. It all happened in a split second. Down she went — head first into the newly mown lawn, doing a half flip on the way … the two stunned blackbirds at her side. During her final moments, the birds climbed over her body — and one began to peck at the star-shaped locket that she clutched in her hand. Judith managed to open her eyes one last time — looking toward the twilight sky. The window that the two birds had flown into slammed shut — and a cloud of blackbirds formed as sunset began.
And then she sat back down to finish her novel. It would never be published, but she would still fulfill her promise. Knock, knock. Just to make sure her hunch was right, she rose up and walked stiffly to the door to her creative cell and opened it. No one. Nothing. Her fingers brushed across the front of her neck and moved carefully down to her chest toward the star that used to hang around her neck. She remembered how the six sharp edges of the star felt — jolting her back to life for a brief moment. And she returned to her chair and wrote … and wrote … and wrote.
She would never vacation in Madrid, but there was no limit to her adventures. This world was hers. She always thought she would finish — but as she sat and wrote, her sense of urgency began to vanish. It was all about the process. And eventually, a sense of calm came over her. It was time to rest.
Knock, knock. Who’s … dead …
© 2020 Jeannie Novak
