Middle of the Night

The K-Mart cashier stopped halfway through checking out my purchase to change the fluorescent light tube in the ceiling. I was already steamed as Big Guy got to drive the semi-truck and I was stuck driving the plywood clad, homemade pick-up truck camper. I began scrutinizing the other checkout lanes to confirm that I was as unlucky as I thought. Then the phone rang. And I woke up. 1:30 a.m. I grabbed the phone. It was Birdie calling the home phone from her cell phone. She wasn't holding down a bench in the emergency room, but rather tucked in bed in her room across the hall. "Mom," she whispered, "did you hear that noise? Oh my gosh, it was a really loud low note!" "A low note?" I echoed. "Yes!" she cried. "A low note on the piano! Send dad to check it out." While Big Guy can snore up a symphony, I didn't think he would wake up for a solitary low note crisis. So I committed to "listen hard" for more low notes. Birdie, her fears eased, went back to sleep. I lay still thinking about ghosts, goblins and other things that go bump in the night. Then the bedroom door burst open. I gasped. I eased the covers up around my shoulders and squinted my nearsighted eyes toward the door. I saw nothing. Big Guy slept. In my heart, I knew the low note and the wide flung door were the mischief made by cats, loose in the house and bored. But a tiny part of me wondered if criminals, werewolves, vampires or witches might tickle the ivories and then wander in search of sleeping souls. Then I realized Big Guy slept closer to the door. He would be one pounced upon, first. And munching on Big Guy's bones would take a while. Cozily protected, I went back to sleep. This time, I didn't shop at K-Mart. I knew better.