The Lamppost

There was a single lamppost lit in the back alley that led to Rosie’s destination. It flickered in the dark, casting strobe-light shadows in the rain puddles that danced with ripples as drops fell from the sky.

“What do you want?” said a voice from inside. “I have a shotgun, a bat and a hungry Rottweiler!”

Rosie had expected this kind of greeting and knew there was no threat of gun, bat or dog behind the door.

“Irene, it’s Rosie. I need a place to stay.”

The door opened immediately. The woman stood in her nightgown, with a cigarette in her mouth, her gray hair falling past her strong shoulders. Irene had been a bartender in her younger years, but now she owned one of the breweries on the boulevard and lived in the apartment above it by herself.

“Where’s the dog?” Rosie asked jokingly as she walked into the foyer. “I take it you make to intimidate late night knockers in hopes of getting to bed early?”

“You know I can’t sleep before 3 a.m. All those years of closing the bar, my circadian rhythm has never recovered,” Irene said with a smile. “Maybe next time I’ll bark before I mention the Rottweiler to make it seem more menacing.”

“That would be a nice touch,” Rosie agreed.

“You know I’m not one to ask questions,” Irene said. “The extra bedroom is down the hall to your left. Clean sheets and towels in the bathroom. Make yourself at home.”

It was well known that Irene had an extra bedroom for guests, but only bartenders were welcome to stay. If for any reason a bartender couldn’t get home late at night or needed a nap between shifts, Irene’s was the place to go.

Rosie collected her sheets and towels and stripped off her layers of soaking wet clothing. Her curly brown hair was frizzy and disheveled. She crawled under the covers, setting the alarm clock early enough to get to work before the boss in order to clean the mess she’d left behind hours ago.

“I think you need to see this.”

Rosie’s alarm hadn’t gone off, but Irene was shaking her to wake up. It was dark in the hallway as she followed Irene to the front room where the television was showing the 5 a.m. news. Despite her grogginess from little sleep, Rosie slowly understood what the newscaster was saying.

He was at the scene of apparent burglary; the glass storm door of the house behind him was shattered. Only shards of glass rimmed the edges, like an open mouth with jagged teeth.

“Police were called to the scene after neighbors noticed the damage this morning on their way to work,” said the reporter. “It appears no one is home and police found no one inside when they arrived. Police have been unsuccessful in reaching the victim. The name will not be released until the victim has been notified.”

But Rosie didn’t need the reporter to tell her the victim’s name. She already knew. He was standing in front of her house.

“I need to go,” Rosie said as she headed back to the room to gather her things. She looked at her cell phone for any missed calls, but the battery was dead. This is why they couldn’t reach me, she thought. But then she remembered Carter’s note. It had been for her.

Did he know her house was going to be burglarized last night? How had he known that and what had happened to him last night? Rosie had planned on going back to work this morning, but after seeing her home on the news, she knew her boss would understand.

“Do you need me to go with you?” Irene called from the front room.

“Unless you really do have a shot gun, a bat and a dog to chase down whoever broke into my house last night, I think I’ll have to do this alone,” Rosie said as she opened the front door. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Rosie.”

Irene saying her name forced her to stop in her tracks.

“Did you know this was going to happen? Did you know you were in danger?” Irene asked carefully. Irene never questioned her guest’s motives for needing a place to stay. But the severity of the scene of a broken house on TV brought her to question the safety of her friend.

“I had no idea.” And Rosie closed the door behind her.