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A Butterfly Effect
by Paula Eames The leaves had changed, jack-o-lanterns sat on porches, and the air was that brand of crisp particular to autumn. John Hoffstad began his morning with a cup of fresh coffee--black, two sugars--and a bowl of bran flakes. He ironed his suit; brushed his teeth, flossing twice; dressed; combed his hair three times until the part stayed straight; paused at the front door, surveying the outdated furniture and dust-free surfaces, empty of pictures newer than fifteen years old; and left for work. At five-fifteen, he came back and made spaghetti. He dried his plate and put the remaining pasta in the top right corner of the fridge specially reserved for leftovers. He checked his watch. Six thirty-one. He should’ve left a minute ago. Carefully ripping the grocery list off the pad on the fridge, John wondered how he could make up the lost time, but nothing was forthcoming. As these thoughts buzzed around in his head, he hurried out of the house and shut the door behind him. Night had settled over the town when John returned home. As he got out of the car, he noticed the curtain move behind the living room window. He froze, thinking somebody was in his house, but quickly decided it must have been the heater kicking on. He scooped up the bags into one hand and walked up the steps. Holding the screen door open with his back, John slid the key into the lock and turned the handle. The door wouldn’t open. It was unlocked, he had heard it click, and the handle turned fine, but despite how hard he pushed against the door, it refused to budge. Bewildered, John set the groceries down and slammed his shoulders into the door. Nothing. The window slid open, creaking from disuse. “Don’t bother,” said a deep, raspy voice from within. “There’s a bookcase in front of it. It’s not going anywhere.” “Who are you?” John asked, his voice wavering. “How did you get in my house?” He walked off the small concrete porch onto the grass to get a better look inside, but the lights were off. “You left the door unlocked,” the man said. “No, I didn’t,” John said, though he wasn’t sure. He had been too distracted by the time when he left. Maybe he had left the door unlocked. “Then somebody did,” said the man, “cause I certainly didn’t break in.” There was a spark behind the curtain, followed by a tiny red glow. John heard the man exhale slowly. “You can’t smoke in there,” John snapped. “Suit yourself,” the man said. The screen opened and the stamped-out cigarette was tossed out the window. John bent forward to pick it up, stuffing it in his pocket, and wished he had a cell phone to call the police. But, having no friends or family, there had never seemed to be a need for one. “Get out and let me in my house,” he said. He checked his watch (six fifty-five) and, remembering the food, grabbed the groceries, as if someone might run up and steal them. “No.” “You have to let me in. It’s my house. The food’s going to go bad. Please.” “You can buy more food.” For an absurd moment, John considered this. He thought about dipping into his savings or the money allocated for bills, but he would have to replace the money in either one, which would put him behind, and he would never catch up and save as much as he had planned on saving for the year. What if he needed that money? What if something happened and that bit of money made the difference between success and financial ruin? His heart accelerated, his breaths coming out in short bursts. He didn’t have any more grocery money--he had spent the last of it tonight. He wouldn’t get paid until Friday, but he refused to borrow money from his savings. John looked at the bags of food in his hand, as if checking whether they’d spoiled in the last five minutes. The groceries. The groceries had to be put away. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty-two. He should have been practicing the piano. Now, he was going to be late doing that and then he wouldn’t get to bed on time and then he might wake up late in the morning. The October air felt too cool, his skin clammed up. And what if he was so late he would get fired? And he still hadn’t put the groceries away because he couldn’t get into his own house. His stomach rolled. A ringing filled his ears, muffling all other sound. Breathing faster, he said, “Please,” before his head began to spin and he swayed sideways, falling onto his well-kept lawn. Bright lights glowed overhead. John sat up, peeling his sweaty skin off the table. He was in his kitchen. “The groceries,” he mumbled. “They’re put away,” the raspy voice said behind him. “You have one hell of an organized place.” John would have smiled, but he saw the plastic bags scattered on the counter. He leaned forward to push himself up, but the man stepped forward, resting his hand on John’s shoulder to hold him down. John flinched, almost sliding off his seat. “Don’t touch me,” he said. “All right,” the man replied, walking around the table to sit across from John. “Don’t want you straining yourself. That wasn’t a soft fall.” The man leaned back in his chair, the front legs lifting off the ground. John pictured the chair breaking in panic. Grey peppered the man’s black hair and beard. The bottom of some sort of tribal tattoo peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his tattered grey t-shirt. His green eyes crinkled in either diffidence or a smile, John couldn’t tell. “Who are you?” John asked. He could hear his heart thumping in the silent kitchen. “Name’s Rudy,” the man said. “Why are you in my house, Rudy?” “Just needed a place to stay for the night. I’ll be gone in the morning. Heading for the ocean. Got family on the coast.” “I could call the police on you, you know,” John said, looking at the table and sliding his hands up and down the tops of his legs, trying to keep calm. “For breaking and entering.” “I told you, I didn’t break anything. The door was unlocked. Besides, I have both the house phones.” He held them up as proof. “What if I have a cell phone?” John asked. “You don’t. If you had, you’d have done it already.” Sheepish, John looked down, caught in his bluff. He didn’t know what to say. “You got any family?” Rudy asked. “No,” John said. He glanced at Rudy and looked back at his hands. After a moment’s silence, he added, “They died.” “That sucks,” Rudy said, frowning, his chair dropping to the ground with a thunk. “How’d happen?” “My parents died in a fire. Our apartment building. I was at school. My grandparents died fifteen years ago. They raised me. Left me this house.” “No cousins or kids?” “No,” John said, his cheeks warm. He realized how long it had been since he had said so much about himself. He looked at Rudy’s clothes--dirty, patched in places, and emitting a rather unpleasant stench of body odor. Rudy folded his arms across his chest like he could sense he was being examined. John stood up. “You can stay here for the night,” he said, walking to the fridge. “Are you hungry?” He smiled. “Already ate,” Rudy said. John looked in the sink. A spaghetti sauce-covered bowl and fork sat there. John filled them with water so they could soak. “Follow me,” he said, walking up the stairs. He showed Rudy the bathroom and guest bedroom and grabbed him clothes to sleep in. As the shower turned on, John went downstairs to wash the dishes and pick up the books that had been knocked off when Rudy pushed the bookcase back in place. As he picked up the plastic bags and stored them in a container under the sink, he glanced at the knife block on the counter, debating whether he should take one just in case. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out the paring knife and carried it upstairs. It felt wrong removing it from its rightful place, but he would rather be safe than sorry. John set it on his bedside table, changed, and crawled into bed. The cloudy morning streamed in through the thin curtains. The alarm buzzed at seven. John sat up, rubbing a hand over his prickly cheek. He saw the knife on the table and remembered Rudy. Hopping out of bed, he went into the guest room. It was empty. He checked downstairs, but no one was there. Rudy had gone. John’s shoulders slumped, and he was surprised at his disappointment. He sank onto the couch, watching the languid morning light filter in through the windows, listening to the silent, empty house. A few minutes passed and he sighed and stood to turn on the coffee machine. Seven months later, John sat at his table, reading the instructions on his new cell phone, trying to figure out how to put a photo with a person’s contact. Frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair, messing up his part. John stood and left to grab the mail, rifling through it as he walked inside. Shoved between two bills was a postcard with a picture of a long pier jutting out into the ocean, waves breaking around it. In yellow letters at the bottom, it read “Virginia Beach, VA.” All that was written on the back was “Made it. Thanks for your help. Rudy.” Smiling, John it hung on the fridge. |
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