Lunar Park

the house and I were in collusion.

I called Marta. I chose my words carefully and explained that “something” had gotten into the house and assured her that everyone was fine and I had called the police and we were going to spend the night at the Four Seasons downtown and would she please make arrangements. I said all this in as calm a voice as I could create and I said it quickly—in a run-on sentence—mentioning the intruder in the lead so that the only thing that would register was the need to book a room in a hotel. But Marta was a professional and she was wide awake the moment her phone started ringing and she told me that she would be over to Elsinore Lane in fifteen minutes and before I could say anything she had clicked off.

Sarah was still in my arms and Robby was sitting on the lawn when the two officers—guys in their late twenties—walked up to us and introduced themselves as Officer O’Nan and Officer Boyle.

They noticed the blood on my lip and the bruise forming on the side of my face and asked if I required medical attention.

I told them I was fine and that it happened when I fell in my son’s room, gesturing at Robby, who nodded faithlessly, confirming this.

They asked if “Ms. Dennis was at home,” which I took in stride and explained that, no, my wife was on a film set in Toronto, and that it was just myself and the children in the house.

While another patrol car pulled up carrying two more officers, I explained to O’Nan and Boyle that an intruder had broken in, but because the electricity had “gone out” we were unable to “get a good look at it.”

This is when everything changed.

The word “it” was what clinched the night.

The word “it” was what labeled me the “not credible witness.”

O’Nan and Boyle conferred with the two other officers.

I cleared my throat and clarified that the intruder “might” have been a “wild animal.”

There was a not very convincing discussion about whether to contact the local ASPCA, an idea that was soon left abandoned. If anything was found—meaning “it”—then they would reconsider.

Boyle stayed with me and Robby and Sarah as the three other officers entered the house, which was radiating a light so intense that it seemed as if it were day for night on our lawn, and the decibel level of noise (“The Way We Were” sung over and over)

(but you don’t even own that CD)

had awakened the Allens.

I felt a pinprick of fear as the men entered the house. I didn’t want them to enter the house. I didn’t want anything to happen to them in that house. I wanted to cry out, “Be careful.”

I sensed it then (though it didn’t prove to be true): I was the only one in the family who would ever enter the house again.

And I also knew that our family—even outside the house—was not free from danger.

I suddenly looked behind me to see if the cat I had found yesterday was still decaying beneath the hedge.

When Officer Boyle saw Mitchell and Nadine Allen standing on their black granite driveway in matching robes, gesturing to him, Boyle asked us to “stay put.”

The light from the house became muted. Someone found the sound system and the singing stopped abruptly.

The silence was momentarily startling.

I asked the writer: What is Officer Boyle telling the Allens?

(Yes, the writer was back. He did not want to be left out of this scene and was already whispering things to me.)

As Boyle walked toward the Allens, I didn’t notice Robby taking the cell phone from my hand.

Officer Boyle is telling them that you are insane, and they are not disagreeing with him. Officer Boyle is telling them about your ridiculous wild animal scenario. Look at the Allens—they are not nodding at what Officer Boyle is telling them. He is telling them that a giant hairball forced its way into your house. And, of course, the Allens do not believe this, not after the freakout they witnessed Sunday night—remember that, Bret? And they are going to ask Officer Boyle, “Does he appear to be drunk?”

I looked away from Mitchell and Nadine and up to the second story of their house, where I could see Ashton silhouetted against the curtains of his room, and he was talking on a phone, and when my eyes moved back to our lawn I saw Robby holding my cell to his ear, his head turned slightly away from me, nodding.

That’s so you can’t hear what he’s saying.

I looked back up to Ashton’s window, but he had moved away from it.

How could Robby make a phone call when he had been weeping with fear only ten minutes ago? He had been urging me to kill the thing only ten minutes ago—how was he able to manage a phone call when I could barely move? What was he hiding from me? Why was the actor back? Hadn’t we tearfully reconciled only hours ago?

I was staring at Robby when suddenly Officer Boyle appeared in my line of vision.

He was leaning into Robby and asking him something.

Robby immediately looked over at me and then nodded.

Robby stood up and clicked off the cell as Officer Boyle kept talking to him, their conversation dotted occasionally by Robby’s nods and the glances he kept giving me.

Marta had arrived, and Sarah asked me to put her down.

I was unaware I had been holding her all this time until I handed her to Marta.

Marta was arguing that there was no need to file a police report since it would ultimately end up in the press. But her attitude was the same as mine: if everyone was okay, let’s just get the kids to the hotel.

Two of the officers walked out of the house.

Predictably, they’d found nothing.

Yes, doors were scratched. Yes, force had been applied to each. Yes, two doors were unhinged. But no windows were broken or open and all the doors leading into the house were locked.

Whatever I had seen must have gotten into the house earlier that day.

This was the consensus view.

I asked Officer O’Nan, “Did you check under the bed in the master bedroom?”

O’Nan turned to an Officer Clarke and asked him if he had looked under the bed in the master bedroom.

Officer Clarke walked up to us and said, “Yes, we did, sir. There was nothing there.”

“So the thing’s still in the house? Is that what you’re telling me?” I was not supposed to say this—I just couldn’t help myself at that point. The question came out in a croak.

“Sir . . . I don’t understand.”

“Wasn’t there a doll—a bird—under the bed in the master bedroom?” I had turned away from Marta and Sarah, and lowered my voice when I asked this.

“Why would this doll be under your bed, sir?”

“So it’s still in the house?” I asked myself, murmuring.

“Sir, what is still in the house?” O’Nan asked me this with a clenched patience.

Clarke stared at me as if I was wasting his time. But what is he going to do? I thought angrily. What were any of them going to do? I was married to Jayne Dennis. I was a famous writer. They had to put up with this. They had to do whatever I felt was required of them. Marta was identifying herself. They regarded her seriously.

And then a scene began arranging itself on the front lawn.

“If there are no broken windows and all the doors are locked, then that thing is still inside.” I was answering my own questions.

“Mr. Ellis, we found nothing in the house.”

Another officer appeared and asked, with barely disguised skepticism, “Mr. Ellis, could you give us a description of this intruder?”

I shuddered. Later, the writer reminded me of what I said. He had the transcripts.

“We were sleeping and . . . a noise woke my son up . . . it was . . . I don’t know what it was . . . it was maybe a couple of feet tall and . . . it had a blond coat of hair and . . . it was growling at us—actually, no, it was making hissing noises . . . and it chased us . . . it chased us through the house . . . it broke the doors . . . it wanted something . . .”