TOMMY ATCHISON
EDMOND — The checkout lady at the S&H; Stamp Redemption Center flipped through my coupon books nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter that I had been saving stamps almost a year for the beautiful coffee pot shown in the catalog. She pushed the box across the counter and muttered, “Come again.”
It was going to be a busy afternoon. After getting my 2- and 4-year-old boys lunch and putting them down for a nap, I would have uninterrupted time to finish the Irish Crème cake I had started the previous evening. It was Saturday, and our best friends were coming to visit. We had recently moved to our new home in a semi-rural area where there were no neighbors, so I was especially pleased to be having company.
After they left around midnight, we went to bed and Art fell asleep immediately while I lay there thinking of the events of the day.
“What’s that!” Startled, I sat up, staring at a glow coming from the kitchen and streaming across the living room. A few seconds passed. The light went away. Thinking I must have been imagining things, I lay back down and was about to drift off when it happened again. Terrified, I threw the covers over our heads and shook Art awake.
“Shh, don’t make a sound,” I whispered frantically. “Someone is in our kitchen.”
“How do you know?” he whispered back.
“Because of his flashlight,” I replied.
We slowly poked our heads out from under the covers and, sure enough, the living room was bathed in that eerie light. Then the room went dark again.
“He’s probably armed,” Art whispered.
We retreated under the covers again and hatched our plan.
“The .22 is in my closet,” Art whispered. “I’ll creep into the living room and hold him at gunpoint while you call the police.”
“Okay, but the gun isn’t loaded. The box of bullets is on the top shelf somewhere, and I’m going with you.”
“Where’s the flashlight?”
“In the kitchen, but there’s a penlight on my bedside table.”
“Okay, bring it,” Art said under his breath.
We slipped out of bed and felt our way to his closet, then closed the door behind us. Art reached for the gun and searched for the bullets by the light of the penlight. We were bathed in sweat, adrenaline pumping and hearts racing. The closet was full of clothes plus Art’s golf clubs. He found the bullets and loaded the rifle.
“Here I go,” he whispered, and disappeared into the darkness.
I grabbed Art’s trench coat and slipped it over my sweat-drenched summer nightie. Then I pulled a 9-iron out of the golf bag and was taking a tentative step out of the closet when I was assailed by an unexpected sound. Laughter. Great peals of gasping, knee-slapping belly laughter were coming from my husband.
I ran into the kitchen and turned on the light to reveal an unforgettable sight. Art was standing there, tears streaming down his face, pointing at my beautiful new stainless steel, 12-cup electric percolator with an automatic thermostat that controlled the temperature of its contents. I’d forgotten to turn it off, and every time it engaged, the control panel lit up.
He looked at me, armed with his favorite golf club and wearing his trench coat, and uncontrollable waves of laughter enveloped both of us.
We were married 45 years. On those rare occasions when we faced potentially frightening situations, our standard response was, “Don’t shoot the coffee pot.”
TOMMY ATCHISON is an Edmond resident. She is a member of Edmond’s Challenged Pens writing group. Her column appears this week in place of Marjorie Anderson’s As I See It.
