Ask the Parrot

The other way, maybe? Jack didn’t know anybody at the Getty station, and in any case she would have been through there long ago. Back here long ago, if everything was all right.

Jack switched the television off before he sat down again because he didn’t want to fall asleep, dammit, he wanted to be wide-awake for when she got home, and in the meantime he wanted to be wide-awake so he could fret.

It had all begun last night, when, having awakened in front of the television set yet again, he’d finally got himself out of his living room chair and into bed. He’d become a creature of many habits since he’d been in this house on his own, and one of those habits, the last thing every night, just as he was getting into bed, was to unlock the drawer in the bedside table and look in at the pistol sitting there.

It was reassuring, when you lived alone in an isolated place like this, to know that little protective device was there. He’d never actually fired the gun; he’d only bought it for the sense of security it gave him, but that sense of security was real—it helped him to sleep soundly every night—and so the ritual was there, at bedtime, to look in for just a second at the gun. Like a pet you’re saying good night to.

And last night it was gone. That was a real stomach-churner of a moment. He’d been half-seated on the bed, opening the drawer, and he bolted right up again when he saw that empty space where the gun was supposed to be. Then he stared around wildly, looking for an explanation, trying to remember a moment in which he himself would have moved the gun to some other location—where?—and found no such moment, nor any reason for any such moment.

The next thing he’d done was go through the whole house again, making sure every door and window was shut and locked, and they all were. So had it been sometime during the day that the gun was taken? But who would know he had it, or where to find it, or where to find the key?

He knew the few people who lived in this town, and there wasn’t a one of them he could even begin to imagine sneaking into this house and making off with his gun. But who else? Some passing bum? There were no passing bums, no foot traffic at all. Somebody driving by in a car wouldn’t suddenly stop and walk into Jack Riley’s house and walk out with his gun. It made no sense, no matter how you looked at it.

Feeling totally spooked, he then switched on the front porch light, as though it might attract Suzanne at this late hour, but almost immediately switched it off again, because he knew it wouldn’t attract Suzanne in the middle of the night and he didn’t want to know who else it might attract. Instead, he left lights on in the bathroom and the kitchen, and thus did get some sleep, though not as much as usual, and this morning he called Suzanne to tell her about it.

She was as baffled as he was, of course. She had other things she had to do on Sunday morning, but could come over to see him this afternoon, and did. When she arrived, again he told the story. She double-checked all his doors and windows, helped him look in all the other drawers in the house, then sat down to try to figure out who might have done it.

No suspects came to mind. Eventually Suzanne said she’d go off for gas and supper, and Jack fell asleep in front of the goddam television again, and now what?

Suzanne gone four hours. Night outside. No gun, no Suzanne. Sometime after seven, he accepted the fact that there was no alternative; he had to call the troopers.

He didn’t want to. If it turned out there was some simple rational explanation for the disappearance—both disappearances—he’d feel like a fool, some old geezer that’s lost his marbles. But the gun is really gone, and Suzanne really hasn’t come back, so eventually there was just nothing else to do.

Jack kept all the emergency numbers written on a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall near the kitchen phone, including the nearby state police barracks, because they were the ones responsible for policing this area. Still reluctant, but knowing he just had to do it, he dialed the number, and after a minute a voice came on and said, “Barracks K, Trooper London.”

“Hello,” Jack said. “I wanna report—well, I wanna report two things.”

“Yes, sir. Your name, sir?”

“First I— Oh. Riley. John Edward Riley.”

“Your address, sir?”

“Route 34, Pooley,” he said, and gave the house number, and then the trooper wanted to know his phone number, and only then did he show any interest in the reason for the call. “You say you want to make a report?”

“A disappearance,” Jack said. “Two disappearances.”

“Family members, sir?”

“Well, it’s— No, wait. The first was last night, was the gun.”

“The gun, sir?”

“I’ve got—I had— When I moved here, I bought this little pistol, it’s called a Ranger, I got the permit and all, you know, it’s for house defense.”

“Yes, sir. And it disappeared?”

“Last night. I keep it locked in a drawer, and last night, before I went to bed, I went to look at it, be sure everything was okay, and it wasn’t there.”

“Sir, did you have any reason to believe everything was not okay?”

“Not till I saw the gun wasn’t there.”

“Sir, did you have a reason to look for the gun?”

“I always do. Every night, I just double-check.”

“Yes, sir, I see. Could you tell me who else resides with you, sir?”

“Just me, I’m on my own.”