No. It’s someone he knows. It has to be.
And that offends him.
He won’t hit them with his bat. He’s not a violent person. He’ll scare them, sure, whoever it is, this man and woman. Maybe it’s someone playing a joke, but until he knows that for sure, he’ll just brandish the bat and puff himself up real big. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
He opens the bedroom door quietly.
The hallway is empty.
He steps out of his room.
He thinks, kitchen, kitchen, kitchen.
He avoids that one spot in the hall where the floorboards under the carpet always squeak. He’s been meaning to fix that. It bothers him.
The door to the spare bedroom is open.
It’s empty too.
As is the bathroom.
There’s bland art hanging on the wall, a bowl of fruit, a sailboat on an open sea. He doesn’t remember where he got them, but he’s always had them. He doesn’t even really like them, but can’t seem to find the will to take them down.
The hallway leads to the living room. The kitchen is off to the left. The front door is to the right. There’s an aluminum-framed sliding glass door at the rear of the kitchen that leads to the small fenced backyard. Sometimes they have barbeques out there. Burgers and beer and everyone is happy.
The radio sits where it always has, next to the bookcase, heavy and silent and dark.
In the living room is his Barcalounger chair. Sean teases him that it’s his old-man chair because he takes naps in it while listening to his radio on Saturdays. There’s a small couch next to it that Mike will sometimes stare at, wondering how it would feel to lie on it with Sean on his chest, their voices quiet as they whisper little nothings to each other while the jazz plays low in the background. Sometimes he imagines it’s snowing and there is a fire in the fireplace, a heavy wool blanket covering them, and they live together. They come home to each other. He thinks about that a lot.
There’s no one in the kitchen.
The sliding door is closed.
The front door is closed.
He says, “What the hell.”
He’s at the front door. Opens it. There’s no one there. There’s no one on the streets, and why would there be? It’s after eleven and everyone is at home. There’s lights on in some of the houses on the street, but most are dark.
He shuts the door.
He thinks about locking it for the first time.
He doesn’t.
He’s at the sliding door. He’s in the backyard, the concrete of the patio warm under his feet. There’s nothing back here, no one hopping over the fence. He can hear a dog barking in the distance; it sounds like Rex, who belongs to Harvey Beckman, and Rex is loud, louder than a dog his size has any right to be.
But that’s it.
Aside from Rex and the stars and moon above, there’s nothing there.
He turns back to the house.
His feet whisper across the patio.
He starts to slide the aluminum door shut.
He stops.