Harper Avenue Blackout

By Patrick Ryan

The last bulb popped above George Tolson's head. He watched the remaining light evaporate from his overhead foyer lamp--turning first to a rusty brown, then charcoal black. His wife, Beverly Tolson, struck a match and lit a candle. The low, flickering flame illuminated the stress creases under her fifty-year old eyes. She was a delicate, thin-framed housewife who had given up looking twenty, instead settling for a modest amount of make-up to cover the effects of suburban aging.

As the darkness nestled around her, she studied her husband's panic-stricken face.

“Don't worry,” she said. “We have enough water.”

George's white hair glistened in the candlelight, but his sagging cheeks kept their form under heavy shadows.

“It's not the water I'm worried about,” George said.

“What then?”

“Security system.”

“The doors are locked, aren't they?”

George grabbed the candle and walked into their dark kitchen, passing ceiling-anchored cookware and high countertops on his way to the back door. As he jerked on the door handle, he had a brief moment of assurance.

“Yeah, of course they're locked.”

George looked out their kitchen window at the powerless stretch of neighboring suburban homes--empty facades swallowed by darkness, where scattered flashlights bounced behind windows like disoriented fireflies.

“Whole block out, just like that.”

George's hand shook with nervous tension. Beverly grabbed the candle from his restless fingers.

“They can pull a switch and knock out a whole street,” he said.

“Who's ‘they'”?

“Thieves. Killers. You watched yesterday's news, didn't you, Bev?”

“What about it?”

“The Barker hold-up.”

And that's when the color drained from Beverly 's face. “Oh no, you're right, you're absolutely right.”

George liked it when his point was made. “That's why we stay inside. The Barker family got shot and killed up there in Westchester . Family jewels, right?”

“I think so. They wanted the diamonds.”

Beverly sat down on the kitchen table. Her mind was busy piecing together the possible scenario, but her thin eyebrows couldn't fight off her burgeoning doubt. “Honestly, I don't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't think anybody's gonna break in. This is a good neighborhood and--”

“That's exactly the problem. Maybe it's too good. Someone thinks they can do a copycat of the Barker job. Maybe bigger and better.”

“Tell me who could get away with it.”

“Well, anybody. How's that for an answer?”

“Pretty vague.”

“I don't have to trust everyone, okay? The minute you start trusting people, they do things you least expect.”

“Name one person. Somebody we both know.”

George thought hard about it. “Last year, Kyle Sanford from the block party, you remember him? He was arrested for skimming those account ledgers at the city bank and I was ready to hand him my taxes. Never would've heard the end of it if I did.”

“Fine. I give you that one. But someone like Kyle Sanford isn't quick enough to knock out a whole neighborhood block.”

“I'm trying to make a point, Beverly , not put together a list of suspects.”

Irritated, Beverly stood up from the table and opened the doors beneath the kitchen sink. She pulled out a radio and checked it for batteries.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding out what's really going on in the world.”

Beverly flipped on the radio, static filtered through the speaker. She searched the dial until stopping on a local news station.

Through the speaker came a disembodied voice. “Westchester Police are urging local area residents to stay inside their homes under lock and key during this power outage, citing the recent Barker homicide as an incident that could have been prevented...”

George's emotions boiled to the surface as the bulletin echoed through his head.

“That's it, I've had it.”

He rushed out of the kitchen, leaving Beverly gripping the radio, ill-stricken.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

George didn't respond. She waited as his thundering footsteps trampled up the stairs. Beverly lit another candle and cautiously pulled the small drapes over the kitchen window.

She turned around and found her husband standing two feet from her, a .45 automatic in his hand.

Startled, she let go of the candle.

George cocked the gun, then quickly picked up the fallen candle. “Wanna cause a fire, Bev?”

“You scared me.”

George laughed.

“We should be used to one another's company by now.”

“Yeah, we should,” Beverly said, dry.

George gave her a curious gaze.

“What's with the tone, Bev?”

“You're making me paranoid, that's all.”

George rubbed the barrel of the gun against Beverly 's shoulder.

“No, you're holding something in. I can tell.”

Beverly grew uneasy.

“Put it away.”

“This is for our protection.”

“I said put it away.”

George finally shifted the barrel, then looked out the kitchen window. Something caught his eye. He bounced back, alarmed.

“I think they're coming over here.”

“Who?”

“Bill and Lorraine .”

“What do you think they want?”

“I don't know, but I'm not letting them in.”

“George, you're being ridiculous.”

“Somebody could be watching, waiting for us to open the door. Think about it.”

George and Beverly sat in silence, listening for the knock. When it came, Beverly was the first to approach the front door. George held her back.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Don't move. They'll go away.”

They waited, the knocking continued.

A man's voice yelled from outside. “Hey, you two--it's just us, Bill and Lorraine .”

“Let them in, George.” Beverly snapped.

George hesitated, Beverly grabbed him by the arm. “Do it. We know them.”

George reluctantly walked through the foyer and stepped to the front door, gun at his side. He approached the peephole like an old woman weary of a meat salesman.

“Bill?” George whispered.

Outside, Bill replied, “George, are you in there?”

Lorraine 's June Cleaver voice followed.“We're out of batteries.”

“Go around the back, both of you,” George said. “And be quiet.”

He pressed his ear to the door, listening as Bill and Lorraine 's footsteps tapered off.

He rushed back into the kitchen, passing his confused wife.

“What's going on?” she asked.

George motioned her to be quiet as he ran to the back door and let his neighbors inside.

Bill and Lorraine Whitaker were physical carbon copies of the Tolsons--Caucasian suburbanites on the upside of fifty years of age with a seemingly aloof manner that supposed a night out in the big city occurs only once a year.

Bill noticed the gun in George's hand and the sweat on his brow. “Is that a Browning Colt?”

“Did you see anyone outside?” George asked.

“No. Why?”

Beverly stood up from the kitchen table, feigning the part of hostess. She offered her chair to Lorraine . “George thinks someone is out to get us. You know, like the Barker robbery.”

Lorraine shook her head, declining the chair. “There's a lotta speculation. We just came to see if you were alright. We're out of batteries,” Lorraine said.

“I think I might have some in the study,” Beverly said.

“Only if it's not too much trouble.”

“It's not, really.”

And with that, Beverly covered the candle with one hand and led Lorraine out of the room.

Bill stood uncomfortably, tapping on the kitchen counter. His eyes were riveted to the gun in George's hand. He bellowed out a nervous, desperate laugh. “Are you gonna pocket that thing or what?”

“I'm really worked up, Bill.”

“C'mon, it can't be about the Barker robbery, can it?”

“Could be about a lot of things.”

“You know, I'm sorry we came over, our flashlights went dead and, well--“

“You don't have to apologize. I'm glad you came. I mean it, really.”

Bill started to loosen his shirt collar. “So what's got you worked up?”

“I dunno. Trust issues. Now, I know I can trust you , but this whole situation stirs me up inside.”

“How?”

“Just getting paranoid, that's all. Everything's starting to bug me.” George looked out into the next room, waiting for Beverly 's voice to die off. He turned to Bill, moving close to his ear. “Bev's ice to the touch, you know? Like she's been getting warm somewhere else.”

“Is that why you have the gun?”

“No. Just homeowner's instinct.”

“Well, you're pointing it at me.”

“I'm sorry.”

George spun the gun on his index finger then handed it to Bill.

“Feel better?” George asked.

“It's okay. It's normal to get defensive. You're a normal guy.”

Bill took a firm grip on the gun, tapping George in the stomach. “And we've all got our suspicions, right?”

“About what?”

Bill's nostrils flared. “Next door, the Kilborns...”

“Yeah. So?”

“Know what they're doing right now in this blackout?”

“Tell me.”

“They're locking up those printing machines of theirs.”

“Printing machines?”

“Funny money.”

“Counterfeit? C'mon, Bill. Not on Harper Avenue .”

“Listen, when the power goes off and the security system resets, patrol has to individually check each home. You think the Kilborns want anyone near their base of operation?”

“You got proof?”

“New car every week. We've both seen it.

“Anything else?”

“There was a package laying on their front porch last week. Paper, industrial size packaging. I saw it when I went jogging. What kind of person needs industrial size paper delivered to their home?”

It was a tough pill for George to kick back. “How do you know, for certain?”

“I don't like the Kilborns, okay? I think we should do something.”

“I don't even know the Kilborns.”

“Which is exactly my point. Aren't you a bit curious?”

Maybe George was. He bit his lower lip, anxious. “It's good to know if things really are safe around here, so maybe you're right.”

Bill handed the gun to George. “You wanna leave this here?”

“No. Take it with you. You've got my lead.”

George called out to his wife, “Bev!”

She hurried back into the kitchen, Lorraine behind her.

“What's wrong?” Beverly asked.

“Lock the door after us.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don't ask. Just do it.”

Bill smiled at Beverly , his expression appeasing. “We'll only be a minute.”

Beverly seemed more confident with Bill's answer and opened the back door for them.

George and Bill stepped out into the night air, leaving Lorraine and Beverly uncomfortable and weary in the dark.

“What are they doing?” Beverly asked as she locked the door.

“Bill thinks the Kilborns are crooks.”

“Really? I never talk to them.”

“Exactly. Smoke?”

“Oh, sure.” Beverly grabbed a cigarette pack off the kitchen counter and handed it to Lorraine .

“You're not gonna join me?” Lorraine asked.

“Trying to quit.”

“Trying is the optimum word, isn't it?”

Beverly sensed hostility from Lorraine as she removed a lighter from a drawer. “Is something wrong?”

“Maybe this whole situation's got me buggered up.”

“Buggered?”

“British slang. An annoying or troublesome situation.”

Beverly smiled sarcastically as she gave Lorraine the lighter. “I don't think you're saying it right. You forgot I taught English eight years.”

Lorraine kept silent, inhaling the cigarette. She inched closer to Beverly .

“You know, I smelt your perfume on him.”

Beverly fanned the smoke away from her face. “Excuse me?”

“Bill. It was on his shirt collar. That same Chanel rip-off you're wearing now.”

“I don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, you do. Last Thursday. Bill had a business dinner. He came back at one in the morning. Bill's always in bed by eleven. And he smelt like you.”

“I'm sure I'm not the only woman who wears this perfume.”

“So you're saying Bill's having an affair? You're saying I'm not good enough?”

Beverly backed away from Lorraine ,. “You should go home. Have you been drinking?”

Lorraine grabbed Beverly by the wrist. “The truth is easier to see in the dark. You're shaking.”

“You're not yourself, Lorraine .” Beverly pulled her off and inched further back along the kitchen counter. Her left hand drew close to a cutlery set. She trembled as her nervous, defensive instincts kicked in.

#

At that same moment, the back window of the Kilborn basement shattered as Bill retracted the butt of George's .45 from the broken pane and unlocked the door. He quietly pushed the door open and stepped into the dark basement. He looked around the room, catching faint sight of computer hardware covered in plastic.

“This is it, I know it.” Bill said.

George walked cautiously behind him.

“I don't see any bogus bills.”

“It's too dark,” Bill said as he got down on his hands and knees, scouring the floor like an exterminator.

Suddenly, the floor creaked above them. Footsteps neared the basement staircase. Bill held George's gun tight. The basement door opened.

Through the darkness, a thin, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. His facial features were subdued in the shadows, but he wore a wool knit cap, the only thing Bill could make out before hiding behind a basement column.

“Who's down there?” the man called.

Bill's mind was a time bomb waiting to go off. He kept silent at first, but then got the shakes.

The man stepped down, closer.

Bill couldn't take it. He spun around the column and fired a shot.

George instantly raced for the door, making it outside as Bill let off another round. He had only a few seconds to catch his breath before Bill stumbled out--his face sweaty, his hands slow to keep still.

“I think I hit him,” Bill said.

George couldn't shake the panic. “Gimme the gun,” George said.

“No,” Bill bounced back.

“Why not?”

“Let me take the responsibility. Okay?”

The thought of George's prints on the gun and Bill's blood-thirsty attitude was enough for him to concede.

#

Beverly stood frozen over Lorraine 's body, her icy grip clutching a butcher's knife that had made its mark in Lorraine 's side.

George pounded on the kitchen's back door. “ Beverly ?!”

She tried to collect herself, but there was no hiding the dead body at her feet. As she stepped over Lorraine and opened the door, Bill was the first to see the body.

“W... what happened?”

“I don't know,” Beverly muttered. “It was an accident.”

“Accident?”

“She...she tried to choke me.”

George took a glance at the contorted Lorraine as Bill leaned back against the wall, grief-stricken. A hysterical laugh fell upon him before he pointed the gun at Beverly .

“Doesn't matter, now does it? Everything's all he said, she said, this whole block.” Without further thought, he fired a shot at Beverly , hitting her square in the head.

Before her body could hit the floor, George lunged at Bill, attempting to force the gun from his hand.

“What's gotten into you?!”

“Don't play the sympathy card. You told me yourself she was ‘ice to the touch'.”

George didn't back down. He continued to pry Bill's fingers loose. “Bet that makes it right in your mind, doesn't it? Doin' me a favor?”

“That's my Lorraine on the floor.”

“Two dead people in here. Who knows? Maybe three.”

Suddenly, a hard pounding on the back door broke up the scuffle.

Against the window, the silhouette of the man in the wool cap appeared. He smashed through the window and reached for the door handle, trying to unlock it.

“Kilborn,” Bill uttered under his breath as he aimed the gun at the man's hand.

“Thought you shot him,” George asked.

“I did.”

Bill fired a round.The bullet went through the man's palm. No sooner could Kilborn retract his hand when Bill let off a second shot. This time, the bullet struck him in the stomach.

Bill peered through the broken window at his hit, but he didn't get too long a look as a bullet struck him in the chest. The last and only shot Kilborn fired before dying in the Tolson's backyard, a home defense revolver in hand.

George watched vacantly as Bill took one last gasp of air and collapsed on top of Lorraine .

#

Minutes turned into hours as George sat there with the dead, trying to determine his role in the homicides. Another knock from the front door broke his moment of solitude. He cautiously kept his finger on the trigger and walked through the dark foyer. His eye met with the peephole, where he caught sight of a uniformed officer, flashlight in hand.

George placed the gun behind his back and opened the door, his face withholding emotional evidence of the murders.

The officer smiled, pleasant and cordial.

“Evening. Just wanted to let you know that power should be restored to Harper Avenue within the hour.”

“Finally... good news.”

“We're also doing a cursory check to make sure everyone keeps their doors locked, due to the possibilities of theft.”

“Thank you. It's already taken care of.”

Suddenly, a bead of sweat produced on George's temple. The officer noticed. “Hey, it's nothing to get upset about, just precautionary measures. Don't wanna see anything bad happen in a good neighborhood.”

“No, of course not. We're fine. We're all fine, thank you.”

The officer tipped his hat and George closed the front door. This time, he left it unlocked.

He sat down on the stairs in the dim foyer and released the gun from his hands, resigned to its uselessness, and accepting of the stillness around him.

As the power finally returned to the house, only the walls could hear the words George uttered under his breath. “We're fine. We're all fine.”