Stowing the empty can in my cup holder, I climbed from the car and trudged through more knee-high weeds to the front door. Knocking on the screen door, I automatically held tight to my small purse. Its strap was slung over my shoulder. I was poised. If I saw even one whisker of a broom I was out of there. After waiting a few moments I rapped again, hoping against hope that she wasn’t home and I could just post the notice. Greg could mail the 72-hour notice but because of the extra mailing time the tenant was allowed six days’ leeway instead of three. When rent was late, sometimes that just didn’t pan out, especially for Greg who wasn’t known for his patience anyway.
Relieved that no one was there, I dug in my pocket for my Scotch tape. As soon as I stuck the tape on the paper and reached for the screen door handle I heard shuffling footsteps on the other side. I dropped my hand and waited. A woman with a tired face and a well-smoked cigarette dangling from her lips swam into view from the darkness beyond. The screen door was still between us. There was a big rip in the mesh down by my knees but I didn’t think I could hand her the notice from that angle. It just didn’t seem polite. I could drop it through the hole, but it was always better to actually see the notice in their hands. No questions later. If she took it, then the deed was done. I’ve always liked things wrapped up neat and tidy.
“Gail Mortibund?” I asked.
“Yeah?” She waited as if expecting bad news. I got the feeling she’d received a lot of it in her life, and I hesitated.
One moment I was debating whether to even give her the notice, the next a pit bull was charging toward the door at full bellow, heading straight for the rip in the screen. I pivoted and ran before my brain even locked into gear. The woman screamed at the dog to no avail. I pounded toward the Volvo. The beast was barking its head off and sounded right at my heels. The eviction notice flew from my hands. I leapt for the car. The dog snapped at my jeans, brushed my ankle and caught a piece of my left Nike as I hurled myself atop the hood of my car. Arms flailing, I landed in full sail. My stomach hit with an oof and all the wind burst from my lungs. I sprawled in classic starfish position for one heartbeat, then yanked up my legs at the knees while the monster snapped and snarled beneath me. With an effort I pulled myself to safety on the center of my hood.
My heart hammered like a woodpecker on steroids.
So, where was Gail The Tired now?
I glared at the house. The front door was solidly closed. She’d left Woofers out here to bark and lunge and bare his nasty teeth. I snarled back at him, and that sent him in paroxysms of dancing around and clawing at my paint job.
“Stop that!” I yelled in fury.
His wrinkled mouth revealed canines that sent visions of ripped, bloody tissue across the screen of my brain. I shivered, hugged my knees tighter and considered.
Five seconds of intense thought ensued. A lightning bolt of remembrance. That hard pain against my hip bone was my cell phone. Jammed into the pocket of my black pants. I pulled it out and examined its LCD, tracking the battery life. Only one little miniature battery icon was left. I had enough time for one, maybe two, calls. I mentally castigated myself, telling myself to plug the damn thing into the portable charger as soon as I was back inside my car.
First I called Marta’s office. Her receptionist snottily told me she was, as ever, in a meeting. I sighed inwardly, wondering what drives me to piss people off. Certain personalities just beg me to annoy them. I told her that I wanted to leave a message and was snottily told to go ahead. Meanwhile, Woofers prowled and growled somewhere along the edge of the car. My heart still thundered in my ears.
“Tell Marta I can’t make the three o’clock with her today. Something’s come up.”
“Could you be more specific?” she asked in a tone that held a world of judgment.
“Why won’t ‘I’m busy’ just cover it?”
Woofers began barking furiously again, having trotted back a few feet to spot me on top of the hood. The receptionist couldn’t help but hear. “Is that a dog?” she asked.
“Could be.”
“Just a moment.”
I was clicked off for a second. Woofers was really going to town. I was going to have a headache before this ordeal was over and the hood was blistering hot. I shaded my eyes, glancing toward the door again. Gail was back. Her figure stood like a wraith in the deepened shadows behind the screen door. I waved at her, but it was more an acknowledgment. She had me treed with her miserable, vicious dog.
Marta snapped on. “I’m in a meeting, Jane.” She sounded totally irritated.
“I didn’t ask to be put through. I was just leaving a message.”
“Yes?” she said tensely.
“I’m sitting on the roof of my car. There’s a vicious beast barking its head off—”
“I can hear.”
“—and until its owner decides to CALL IT OFF!” I yelled, “I’m stuck.”
“Fine. I’ll tell the client you can’t make it. That’s what you want, right?”
“As soon as I’m free, I’ll be there,” I said, growing irritated myself. “Trust me. I’d much rather be with you than here.”
“You need to be here on time, Jane.”
“Do you get that I’m in a bind?”
“Well, figure it out,” she ordered and hung up. I clicked off with a certain amount of righteous indignation, pushing a few extra buttons in the process. The phone beeped at me as if in distress before the deed was done. I sat cross-legged, debating what to do next. Should I call someone else? There was still some battery life left.
The only person who came to mind…the only friend I knew who would really drop everything and help me out…was Cynthia Beaumont. Cynthia worked in an art gallery in the Pearl District in northwest Portland. She was a sometime artist, specializing in watercolors of evil cats peeking through dense forests thick with red, blue, mustard yellow and violent purple flowers and fanglike hovering grass. I considered it a plus, given my current situation, that she seemed to understand the animal mind.
“Cynthia! It’s Jane. I need some help.”
“Jane?” Her voice came in stuttered cell phone static.
“Yes! It’s Jane! Can you hear me? I’m stuck on top of my car and I need you to come help me escape.”
“What?”
I repeated my words, debating on whether to mention the dog at this juncture. Despite her drawings Cynthia wasn’t exactly the model of heroism when it came to ferocious animals. Neither was I, come to that. Muzzles were invented for a reason and this slavering monster now lying in silent wait somewhere over the edge of my car sure needed one.
“I can’t hear you,” Cynthia said in fits and starts. I heard more static. There was a bit of whining in her tone so I had to get stern.
“I need your help!” I yelled directions into the phone, praying she’d hear them. “And don’t get out of the car. Just pull up beside me.”
“Okay…”
