In Good Hands

Some years ago, I found myself propelled out of bed and standing in the middle of my bedroom, heart slamming. The clock read 3 a.m.The entire house had shaken and I was sure there had been an explosion. And I was alone… my husband having packed out and left several nights earlier.

This explosion was not out on the telephone pole, as it sometimes is. I was sure it was inside the house. I ran to the kitchen expecting flames, and saw the soft light of the dimly lit oven hood, gentle and welcoming. I ran down to the furnace. It was humming along. I went back into the kitchen and scratched my head as I tried to catch my breath.

The deck? What? Did it fall off?! I switched on the deck light and sighed with relief. The heavy terra-cotta pots that had been on the rail were smashed to smithereens, and soil was everywhere. Okay. A raccoon. A very naughty one. I got back into bed.

In the morning I crinkled my nose as I leaned over a very smelly kitchen trash can to open the door to the deck and begin my cleanup. My blood ran cold when I saw the top step. Four clean slices in the deck, and a fifth off to an angle. So clean, they looked like they were made by an electric saw. I knelt and spread my palm wide, one finger touching each deep, perfect slice in the wood.