The wide, wooden steps creaked under Martin’s feet as he stepped down from the porch. The crickets in the nearest bushes stopped chirping. Martin stepped completely off the porch into the grass. Behind him, he heard Susan go inside and close the door.
At least she left the light on, Martin thought. And at that exact moment Susan switched off the porch light leaving Martin standing in the darkness of his yard. In the bushes, the crickets resumed chirping.
On the other side of the hedges, street lamps along the road provided some illumination. Martin could see light streaming through a ragged opening in the hedges where the raccoons had run through.
Martin walked forward and bent to examine the opening. I’ll never fit through there, he thought. He straightened and walked to the edge of the hedgerow. From the corner of the hedgerow, he turned and looked back. On the other side of the hedges, the raccoons could have turned right, gone straight across the road or turned left.
I don’t think they would have turned right, Martin thought. That would have taken them back toward the house. They’d know I might have seen them. They’d either go straight across the road or turned left and came this way.
Martin looked around. There were no marks on the sidewalk, and the grass along the road looked fresh and undisturbed. But, Martin reminded himself, if the raccoons had run in the street they would have left no marks.
Then Martin saw a small shape across the road. He heard music. In the circle of light from a street lamp a squirrel was sitting up against the curb playing guitar. Martin walked over.
The squirrel had a small electric guitar. Martin thought it looked like a Stratocaster since he didn’t see a whammy bar he assumed it was a Telecaster. A good jazz choice, Martin thought. And the squirrel was playing a quiet kind of jazz, odd, complex chord progressions that sounded clean but just a little tinny through a small, battery-powered practice amp. Martin looked both ways but the road was empty in the middle of the night. Martin crossed the street to talk to the squirrel.
The squirrel was singing quietly as he played –
“The night will open like a door
nobody wants to walk through
and if you don’t get done
whatever you doing by dawn
you might not be able
to walk back through
’cause the door of the night
might be locked on you.”
Martin felt around in his pockets. He found some folded money and took it out. He had a ten and three ones. He considered what to do, then smoothed out the three singles and put them in the squirrel’s guitar case. The bills just fit.
“That was a nice song,” Martin said.
The squirrel continued playing, but he looked up. He gave Martin a long stare, then made a clicking noise with his teeth. “I notice,” the squirrel said, “that you had a ten and three ones. And you gave me the ones. Is that a comment on my playing?”
Martin smiled. “It occurred to me that the best use a squirrel could make out of money would be to shred it and help insulate a nest. I figured you could get more use from three singles than one ten.”
The squirrel laughed. He stopped playing and began checking his tuning. “You’re one of them people that’s always thinking, huh?” the squirrel said. “Insulate my nest, huh? Well, I guess that’s as good an answer as any.”
“I’m looking for a pack of raccoons,” Martin said. “They would have come out of those bushes a few minutes ago. I think they either ran across the street or they ran off down the street. Did you see a pack of raccoons run this way or that?”
The squirrel finished tuning and played a few random chords. “Man, don’t put me in the middle of your troubles. Nobody wants raccoons mad at them. I didn’t see raccoons run across the street or run down the street. I’m just sitting here trying to get my old hands working on these six strings, just trying to get my old voice to disappear into the night without bringing down the stars. I appreciate the paper you passed my way, but I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you.”
“The raccoons have something of mine,” Martin said. “I want it back.”
The squirrel laughed. “If the raccoons have something of yours it belongs to the night, now.”
“I’m going to get it back,” Martin said.
“Good luck,” the squirrel said. “Don’t let my playing and singing keep you around here yapping if you’re after some raccoons.”
Martin was going to say something else, but thought better of it. He glanced both ways along the road then turned to follow the curb guessing the raccoons had turned left exiting the hedgerow. “Thanks for your time,” Martin said to the squirrel. “I did like your song.” Martin started away.
The squirrel played a fast scale and then stopped. “Hey. I’ve told you everything I’ve got to tell. But there’s some mice down the other direction. A couple of street lamps along. They might have seen more. They might not have seen anything. But I’d guess it’s something you might want to take up with them.”
Martin looked over his shoulder. That was back in the direction of his house. The mice must have been right across the street from the hole in the hedges the raccoons used to leave his yard.
“Thanks for the tip,” Martin said. He started back up the road.
The squirrel returned to his song –
“The night will open like a door
nobody wants to walk through
and if you don’t get done
whatever you doing by dawn
you might not be able
to walk back through
’cause the door of the night
might be locked on you.”
(Tomorrow: Martin’s Sweater #3: The Mice)
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