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Fiction Short Story

by Wayne Scheer

Late Night Heroics

My wife sleeps peacefully beside me. I lie awake, afraid of something. A nightmare? Fragments of a schoolyard fight dissolve in my mind like a movie fadeout.

Perspiration soaks the back of my neck. I flip the pillow searching for a cool, dry spot. Stripping off my pajamas offers no relief.

I tiptoe to the bathroom and stare into the mirror, squinting at white hair and stubble growing like weeds on cracked terrain. Water splashed on my face fails to wash away the bad dream.

A creaking sound. Unsure if it's a footstep, I stand as still as possible and listen. Is this what woke me? I remain at the doorway of the bathroom, naked, my heart pounding.

Is someone lurking in the darkness, standing as still as I? Will he retreat out the front door or will he attack? Does he have a weapon?

Do I call out, "Who's there?" and add, "I have a gun." No. I'm quite certain my voice would fail me, cracking like the cry of a schoolboy pleading for help. Do I slip back into the bedroom and call 9-1-1? I think of the embarrassment if the sound is just my imagination. And I'd frighten Mary. Besides, if there is someone in the house, I don't want him following me into the bedroom. I imagine an unknown figure raping Mary as I, tied to a chair, watch helplessly.

My mind drifts back to the schoolyard nightmare. The Otis twins bloody my best friend Paul Newsome. Paul cries for me to help him. I turn and run, too afraid to even call a teacher. I can still hear the Otis boys' taunting laugh.

Another rustling sound from the front of the house. I feel my knees buckle.

I can't stand it any longer; I have to do something. Squinting furiously, I look around the bathroom for a weapon. I grab the plunger and hold it, arm-bent, as if it were a rifle. Perhaps in the shadows it might deceive the intruder.

Stepping from the security of the bathroom, I feel like a child leaving the safety of home base, knowing I could be tagged "it" at any moment. But this isn't a child's game. I want to flee to the bedroom, crawl under the covers, and pretend none of this is happening.

A tapping sound interrupts my cowardly fantasy. My hands shaking, I head towards the noise, clinging to the plunger like a soldier to his weapon.

"Who's there?" I shout, surprised by the clarity of my voice.

Silence.

"Who's there, damn it?"

Silence.

I make my way to the front of the house and, with a jolt of courage, turn on the living room light. I see the front door still latched, windows locked shut, everything in place. Checking the other rooms, I breathe normally for the first time since I awoke.

I close a window in the study I remember leaving open. The blinds stop rustling.

"Honey," I hear Mary call. "Is everything all right?"

I turn to see her staring at me. Her eyes tell me she suspects my early senility. "I just heard a noise. But it's nothing. I left the window open is all."

"My hero," she says, laughing.

I'm reminded that I'm a sixty-year-old naked man holding a plunger in his right hand like it's an M-16.

"Let's get some sleep," I say, wrapping one arm around her shoulders while twirling the plunger with my free hand and placing it in an imaginary holster. "My work here is done."


About the Author
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal, Smokelong Quarterly, Pindeldyboz, The Potomac, Art and Understanding, Monday Magazine, Stone Table Review, Triplopia and Free Verse News. Wayne lives with his wife in Atlanta and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.