AsIclimb down,Isay, “Mackenzieloves whenIshow up at her work.”Theinjuries she treated were leftover from escapades in my earlier years—like an explosion that threw me through a third-story window beforeIlanded on a car below, getting tangled in a helicopter’s external ladder when a gust of wind caused the chopper to swerve and knock me into a pole, and from tumbling out of a moving train.Notfrom standing five feet up on a ladder.
Weopen the boxes to take stock of what we’ve got, andCharlieholds up a small container. “Arethese all the clips we’ve got to attach the lights to the roof?”
Wesearch again, and thenReesesighs. “Iguess so.They’llhave some at the hardware store, right?It’snot far—I’llgo buy more.”
CharlieandIshare a glance, andIsee she’s just as concerned aboutReese’sinattention to the road asIam.Soshe says, “I’lljoin you.”
“Okay, then,”Reesesays, “it looks like we are going to the hardware store!Doyou want to come, too,Hammy?”
I’dlike to limit my time spent in a vehicle driven byReese, andI’mmore than ready to begin this project.Itell themI’llget started with the one box of clips we’ve got, give them a wave, and say, “Goodluck, have fun, and don’t die!”WithReese’sdriving,Imean the last part of the sentiment more than usual.
I’mat the top of a flat extension ladderI’veleaned against the house, starting to hang the second string of lights, when a compactSUVpulls into the driveway.WithReese’sdriving,Ishouldn’t be surprised they’re back so quickly.ButIglance over and see that it’s notReese’svehicle.
Oh, no.Thatmeans it’s likely her mom.ThisisReese’ssurprise, and she isn’t even here to see her mom’s reaction.Ineed to hide soIdon’t spoil everything.
Ihaven’t turned theChristmaslights on, so at least they aren’t lighting me up.Butif this woman hasn’t already seen me, she will when she walks into her house.Insteadof taking the time to climb down the ladder,Ipress my feet against its sides and walk it to the right so both the ladder andIcan hide in the shadow of the streetlight where the house juts out.
Whenthe vehicle’s door opens,Ihold perfectly still, barely breathing, since eyes are drawn to movement, hoping she won’t look in my direction as she heads inside.
Then,Ihear a woman say, “Whatdo you think you’re doing?”
Hervoice is sharp, andIlook down to see a woman traipsing through the snow toward me.She’swearing a pencil skirt and heels, keys in one hand, a leash in the other that’s attached to a black and whiteBostonTerrierwho’s looking far too excited about walking across the snow.Thewoman is probably in her early fifties, thin, fit, and dressed nicely.AndIsee that my attempts to hide have made me appear very guilty.AmistakeIknow better than to make.
BeforeIcan open my mouth to explain, she’s almost to me, fists on her hips, eyes narrowed likeI’ma thief in the night, and says, “Whyare you climbing to my roof?”
Herpuppy, sensing either tension or excitement, seems determined to join the action and races forward, yanking the leash from the woman’s hand.It’snot a big dog but it’s an enthusiastic one, and it’s headed straight for my ladder.
Thestring of lightsI’vejust started putting up is wrapped once around my arm so the weight of the part still coiled on the snow below won’t pull the other end from the two clipsI’vealready secured it in.Iattempt to get free of the lights soIcan better respond to the threat to remaining in my precarious position that’s coming at me in the form of a black-and-white powerhouse fur ball, but the puppy pounces into my ladder too quickly.
BeforeIknow it, my ladder is wobbling, the woman is yelling, “Spark, no,” and the dog is grabbing the string of lights, which pulls my arm and makes me completely lose my balance.
Ifall onto the shrubs below that cushion me a bit beforeItumble off them and onto the snow, right on top of theChristmaslights, the fall knocking the air out of me.Theother end of the lights breaks free from the two clips at the edge of the roof, and the string trails behind, landing on top of me.
Okay, falling from ten feet up a ladder as a fifty-four-year-old is definitely different from falling as a twenty-something.
Thewoman shrieks as the puppy dives into the mess of lights, dancing all over me and the lights.Itbarks like it caught a fugitive.I’mon my back in the snow and tangled in the lights, theBostonTerrieris now tangled in the lights, and the woman—who must feel the need to either stop theGrinchhere to stealChristmasor join the fray to save her dog—has slipped onto her rear and is also tangled in the lights.
Ipush up onto my elbows.Thewoman andIare trying to get free from the strings of lights but the puppy is soaking in every bit of fun from this game of lights-and-new-people, and the only thing we’re accomplishing is to make the lights tighten around us.Theleash that’s tangled in the mix isn’t helping, either.
Thedog must decide that “new people to play with” is the better part of the game, and it gets right on top of my chest to lick my entire face.
Thewoman is searching her coat pockets. “Where’smy phone?I’mcalling the police.”I’mtrying to lift the pup off me long enough to sit and get free of the lights, but it keeps jumping back onto me likeI’mthe best part of this new game.Thewoman stops trying to find her phone and says, “Hey,Siri.Callnine-one-one on speaker.”Thenshe says to her dog, “Spark!Stop.Licking.The.Burglar!”
“I’mnot a burglar!”Isay as a muffled-in-a-coat-pocket voice says, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
Hearingthe operator’s voice helps the woman find her phone and she pulls it from a pocket. “I’mtrapped in front of my house with a burglar!Sendhelp quickly!”Shetries to pull the puppy off me but the strands of lights hold her back.Shegives the 9-1-1 operator her address, the dispatcher says they have an officer nearby, and then the woman narrows her eyes at me. “Nicetry, but just saying you aren’t a burglar isn’t getting you out of this.Iwasn’t born yesterday.”
Ican tell she’s got a good amount of adrenaline coursing through her by her dilated pupils, fast breathing, and tense muscles.SoIsay, “I’mnot theGrinch,” in a calm voice, hoping a different tone and phrasing will work better—a trickIlearned in the field. “I’mSanta’self.”
Thisdoes get her to stop fighting against the lights long enough to look at me and say, “You’rewhat?”
“I’mnot here to stealChristmas—I’mhere to…bringChristmascheer.”Igive her a sheepish grin, hoping she buys my story, andSparkputs its own exclamation mark on my declaration by giving me a long lick up my cheek.
Shestudies me in the glow of the porch light like she’s judging my trustworthiness.Iwatch her emotions change as her eyes shift from the tangled mess of lights we’re in to the ladder that has fallen, to the one string of lights running along her roofIalready installed.Sincethey’re not on, they’re difficult to see in the dim light unless you’re really looking.Then, she gasps.
I’malso noticing how beautiful that face of hers is.Herblond and whitish-gray hair is pulled into a loose bun, andIrealize how beautiful it is, too.Nowthat she seems to acceptI’mnot a thief,Ican tell that she’s viewing me differently, too.There’sa charge of electricity between us that surprises and thrills me.Somesparks are definitely flying, andI’mnot referring to the dog.
Then, suddenly, instead of the woman’s hair being bathed in the warm glow of the porch light, it’s lit with flashing blue and red.The9-1-1 operator wasn’t kidding when she said they had someone nearby.
