A Short Story by Pamela Eason

The closet was cedar paneled, almost pitch-black dark, and tiny. We snuggled close, behind some dresses and a stack of blankets, too scared to breathe, must less whisper, wonderin’ what he’d do next.

Just before the scrape, scrape, scrape had got loud enough to register and sent us to the closet, Freda Mae had been showin’ me the new additions to her Susy Goose sit-down vanity. Hers had a real glass mirror, not the plastic kind that made your face look extra long. On it was another mirror, a new pink handheld one with Snow White’s face, a comb, also pink and also with Snow White’s face, some pink waxy lipstick, and matchin’ nail polish. It was the kind that peeled off quick.

The Dear Diary that was pushed to one side intrigued me most. It was locked by a thin silver key that hung around Freda Mae’s neck. I was just wonderin’ what in the world she’d written in there that she hadn’t told me when we heard a big stick draggin’ and scrapin’ and bumpin’ along the outside bricks, and my curiosity was replaced by a kind of buzzin’ in my brain that must have been what panic sounds like.

“It’s Bert,” she said. She meant Bert Leon Reynolds, named after Burt Reynolds, because his mama, Mrs. Nellie Ruth, was secretly in love with the movie star. She’d spelled her Bert’s name with an ‘e’ to throw people off. Nobody was thrown off.

Freda Mae’s identification was confirmed when the silhouette of a bulky head covered by a cap with the signature earflaps appeared through the sheer curtain window panels. Mine and Freda Mae’s minds must have been workin’ in tantum, because we both dropped to our hands and knees and crawled like barnyard cats towards the closet. Feeling safe in darkness, I started thinkin’ again, which made the easy feeling temporary.

He must be havin’ one of his spells. When they came on him, he’d go a little berserk and run off from Mrs. Nellie Ruth, who lived just down the road apiece in a little white house with a porch that nobody ever sat on. When that happened, she’d call the neighbors, and somebody would go out looking for him and bring him back home. But, right now, nobody seemed to be on his trail, and he was gettin’ crazier by the second.

He was bangin’ on the widow now, and I was realizin’ we’d trapped ourselves in this closet. Why hadn’t we headed for the kitchen where the wall phone, knives, and cast-iron pans were?

Me and Freda Mae locked eyes. The bangin’ was getting stronger. He was gonna break the window if he didn’t stop. I pointed towards the hallway. Freda Mae got my meaning and cracked the closet door. We bolted to the hall.

Bert must have seen us because he let out a little yelp. We crouched down in the hallway and caught our breath. We gotta call somebody who can contain him, Freda Mae whispered.

Less than an hour ago, we’d felt so grown-up, me ten, Freda Mae twelve, two big shots beggin’ to stay home by ourselves while our mamas and our little sisters headed to town for a quick Five and Dime run.

On “go,” or “three,” I don’t know which, we barreled down the hall towards the kitchen, me after a pan and a knife and her for the phone. But, Burt Leon Reynolds beat us to it. He was already peerin’ in the kitchen window above the sink. We sunk back into the hall, unable to reach the phone, or the knives, or the pans without him seein’ us.

Was the kitchen door locked? I peeped around to see. No!

He must have seen me lookin’ and got the same idea.

“Run!” I mouthed.

“Front door,” Freda Mae mouthed back. We scrambled around the dinin’ room furniture and hightailed it past the gold, brocade-covered sofa and the art deco lamps to the living room door. Her hands were shaking so bad she could hardly turn the lock.”

“Hurry, hurry!” I said, tapping my right fist into my left palm as the lock rattled. “He’s got in by now.”

She fumbled a few more times. The door unlocked. We flung it open and flew into the daylight and across a grassy field to Freda Mae’s granny’s house. A few minutes later, we’d breathlessly explained our ordeal to her.

“Y’all go sit in the front room and look for your mama’s car while I call around,” she said.

Freda Mae waited long enough for twenty-three cars to go by before she said, “Somebody must have got him by now.”

True enough. About that time, we saw a green Buick stop in front of Mrs. Nellie Ruth’s house. Mrs. Nellie Ruth opened her front door as Mr. Leonard and Bert Leon Reynolds emerged from the car. Mr. Leonard put his arm around Bert and led him up the front porch steps to his mama.

“He’s as mild as a pet rabbit now,” Freda Mae said. “Spell must be over.”

“Look,” I said. He’s carrying somethin’. “What if it’s your Dear Diary?” The panic had started to buzz slightly in my brain again. I was thinkin’ about what the preacher said last Sunday about everything said in secret being revealed in the light and most times in ways you’d never expect.

“He can’t read, and I’ve got the key,” she said.

“He can cut it open with a knife. And Mrs. Nellie Ruth can read.” I was thinkin’ about the time we’d disguised a hot pepper in some peanut butter and gave it to Blue, Mr. Warren’s dog, who was always chasin’ us when we walked by.

“It’s new,” she said. “Not a word in it yet, but if he didn’t take it, you can bet I’m gonna write something in there tonight.”

I didn’t say it, but I thought, soon as I get home, I was gonna be erasing some things in mine. Heck, I might even burn it.