Emily Regan

 

Emily Regan is a recent graduate from Northern Arizona University where she wrote for the school's newspaper, The Lumberjack, for several semesters. She received a Bachelor of Arts in English with an emphasis in creative writing. Emily currently resides in Flagstaff, Arizona and is working on her first novel.

Squirrels

 

 

They’re laughing at me again.

The squirrels, that is.

Every day since my Tom died it’s been the same. I hear their twitters outside in the trees as they plan and plot their next ambush. At night I hear them skittering through my attic, my walls, mocking me, laughing at me. It’s because I’m old. They think they can take advantage of me because I’m seventy-nine and alone. I’ll show them.

I don’t know how much of my plan they know. They can’t know much, I haven’t discussed it that much at home, mostly just at my daughter’s. She thinks I’m crazy for carrying on about the squirrels. Like this afternoon.

“Mother, the squirrels are not rallying against you,” Mary Ann says, sitting in my kitchen and trying unsuccessfully not to roll her eyes.

“Shhh!” I whisper, louder than I should. “They might hear you. And you don’t know that they’re not trying to get me!” I protest. “You don’t hear them at night, scampering around, setting their traps. You don’t see them in the trees, talking about me. Now that Tom’s gone, they want my house. I just know it.” Mary Ann sighs when I say this.

“Mother, maybe you should give Elderwood Manor some more thought.” I hate when she brings that up and tell her so. It never stops her from trying to convince me to go to that place. I’ll never go.

“I told you, if you’re going to send me there then you may as well kill me now. I’m not going to live in any goddamned nursing home with all those old, sick people and nurses who treat you like you’re five-years-old. I know what goes on in those places, Esther tells me. Her neighbors are trying to poison her jello so they can have her apartment.” This time Mary Ann doesn’t try and restrain her eye roll.

“Mother, your friend Esther’s paranoid and is convinced the nurses hide cameras and microphones in her plants. I think it’d be good for you.” I snort contemptuously, a noise I’ve perfected from having this conversation thousands of times since Tom died.

“I don’t think Daddy would’ve wanted you here all by yourself,” she tries again, softening a little when she mentions Tom. She always was her father’s daughter.

“I don’t think Tom would’ve wanted me to be in a place where old people go to wait to die,” I snap at her. She sits back in her chair, giving up the fight. For now anyway.

“Where’s Sophia?” I ask. “You never bring her with you anymore.”

“She started kindergarten last month, remember? She’s at school right now,” Mary Ann explains.

“Ah, I forgot,” I say, tapping my forehead. I’m always forgetting.

“You’ll get to see her tomorrow at your birthday party though. Mark is bringing his kids, too. I think he said Christopher is even coming home from Columbia for the weekend.” I nod, not particularly caring. I’m proud of my son and his kids and I know I shouldn’t play favorites and I should love all my grandkids equally, but I love Sophia best. She looks like a little angel with her curly blonde hair and big blue eyes. My older grandkids all try and convince me to go to that hell hole Elderwood Manor and the younger ones always seem nervous around me like little birds, ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Except Sophia. She always runs to me and gives me a big hug, even if I haven’t bothered to change out of Tom’s bathrobe that day and I don’t have my face on.

Mary Ann glances at her watch and stands from her chair. “Speaking of Sophia, I’ve got to go pick her up from school.” I start to stand to walk her to the door, but she stops me. “I’ll let myself out. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” I nod and she walks out. I wait until I hear her car pull out of the driveway before I stand. I walk quietly into the front room and look out through my curtains, to make sure she’s really gone. I turn the deadbolt in the front door and put on the chain. I stealthily creep through the house, in case the squirrels have snuck inside and are listening until I get to the window by the back door. I peek though the window at the big tree in the backyard. Two squirrels are sitting on one of the higher up branches. They’re talking about me, I know it. They want to put me out in that damn tree while they take the house. They never would’ve tried that with Tom here. He used to take his .22 and pick them one by one out of the tree in the backyard when there were too many of them. But now he’s gone and they want revenge. They think they’re so smart, picking on an old woman. I’ll show them.

That night, when I hear the squirrels scampering in the attic, I know the backyard is clear. I’m still wearing Tom’s dark blue bathrobe, but I’m worried my gray hair will stand out in the dark. Squirrels have good eyesight for that sort of thing. The only hat I have in the house is a white baseball cap Christopher gave from his university and that’d only make things worse. I settle on draping a pair of black pants over my head to hide my hair. I haven’t been to the hairdresser’s in a while and it’s starting to get a little unruly so it takes a minute of adjusting the pants in the mirror before I’m satisfied. I walk quietly through the house, stepping over the bottom stair that squeaks, careful not to alert the squirrels to my presence. After retrieving a flashlight from the hall closet I sneak to the back door. I turn the lock slowly, silently, until I hear the soft click. I turn the door handle barely an inch at a time, staying as quiet as possible. Squirrels have good hearing for that sort of thing. I start to open the door when it emits a terrible creaking noise. I freeze. Do I try and do it slowly and risk a long creak or open the door quickly and get it over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid? I deliberate for several minutes, the cool night air seeping in through the thin opening between the door and the frame like tiny frozen breaths. I finally decide to just get it over with and so I take a deep breath, hold it, and yank open the door. Cold air washes over me as a loud creak breaks the night. I don’t move for nearly ten minutes, waiting until I’m sure the squirrels have written off the creak as nothing more than a nighttime noise of the house settling.

There’s hardly a fingernail sliver of moon left in the sky as I step out of the house and into the backyard. As soon as my foot touches the wet grass I realize I’ve forgotten shoes but it’s too late to go back. Besides, Tom hardly ever wore shoes and if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. I start the slow journey across the backyard, moving my feet only a couple times per minute. The mumbling night noises surround me, embracing me with each slippery step I take. Finally I reach the shed in the back corner of the yard. My fingers fumble with the latch but I finally get it undone. I pause, knowing these hinges will creak, too. Like the backdoor, I yank open the shed door but surprisingly it opens with only the faintest sound of a whisper. Mark must’ve oiled the hinges the last time he borrowed equipment from me. I should get him to do the backdoor. I step inside the shed, feeling the dusty concrete beneath my toes; the dirt sticking to the dew on my feet. I pull the door closed behind me and flick on my flashlight. The illumination is shocking to my eyes and I have to close them for a moment to let them adjust to the bright. I open them again, blinking, and scan the shed. Almost instantly I see what I’m looking for: Tom’s old hunting gear. I open the gun cabinet and start to reach for the .22 when I notice the shotgun. I grab that instead. This time we’ll get ‘em, Tom. On the shelf next to it are two boxes of shotgun shells. Propping the gun against the cabinet for a moment I empty one of the boxes into my bathrobe pockets, the gold on the ends of the shells glinting in the beam of my flashlight like tiny eyes, watching me. I pick up the shot gun again and turn back to the door. I’m about to open it when I remember my flashlight and turn it off. I give my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dark before pushing open the door. My feet, now dark with the dirt from the floor of the shed, step back out onto the grass and I carefully close the shed door before making the same, slow, deliberate path back into the house. The tree is silent and the leaves are unmoving. The fuckers are probably in the attic.

The next day I awake to strange sounds in the backyard. I clamber out of bed and rush to the window, checking for a squirrel brigade but instead only see Mary Ann and her husband setting up for my party. It’s today, I forgot. I breathe a sigh of relief and glance back at my bed. I lift the lacy dust ruffle and check for what feels like the millionth time to make sure the squirrels haven’t stolen Tom’s shotgun. Last night after I retrieved it from the shed I loaded it so it’s ready to go. Hopefully Mary Ann won’t find it; she’d just take it away.

I crawl back to the window and poke my head over the windowsill to look at the tree. I squint to see through the leaves and there are four squirrels sitting on a branch. So that’s their plan. They must’ve changed it because of the party. They’re going to combine to make a mega squirrel to wage their final attack on me. Once I’m out of the way they’ll have full control of the house and then who knows what they’ll do. The neighborhood won’t be safe. They think they’re so smart, but they don’t know that I know. I’m ready for them. Mary Ann walks in as I’m still crouching by the window.

“Mother, what—,“ she starts to ask, but then stops when she glances out the window. “Oh, Mother,” she says, rolling her eyes. If she keeps doing that they’re going to roll right out of her head. “Mark is on his way to pick up Christopher from the airport and then he and the kids are going to head over here. You should get dressed.” I stand and start to reach for Tom’s bathrobe when she stops me. “Mother, why don’t you dress up a little? After all, it’s your party.” I sigh and roll my eyes at her.

“At my age, no one cares what you look like.”

Mary Ann ignores me and disappears into my closet before emerging with a pair of navy pants and a white blouse. She lays them on my bed and tells me to come downstairs when I’m dressed. She turns on her heel like a general or something, thinking she can order me around, and walks out of my bedroom. I contemplate yelling after her about how I don’t need her to pick out my clothes for me. I’m not a child, she’s my child. Instead I reach for the blouse.

As I’m walking downstairs the front door swings open. My breath catches in my throat. The mega squirrel! I turn and start to hurry up the stairs to get Tom’s gun when I hear Mark’s voice. I glance over my shoulder when I reach the top of the stairs and see Mark with his wife walk in with their four kids in tow. My breath releases with relief but I keep a wary eye on the front door until Mark closes it, making sure no squirrels sneak in with them. None do. They might already be inside, in the walls. Mark and his family all greet me with hugs and wishes of happy birthday. Christopher looks taller than he used to but maybe I’ve just gotten smaller. We make our way through the house to the backyard where Mary Ann has set up lovely decorations and tables for all of us. I don’t see any squirrels and it makes me uneasy. They’re hiding. That’s not good.

I step out on to the grass, this time with shoes. They’re hiding my still dirty feet, victory medals from last night’s recon mission. I hear a small voice cry “Grandma!” and I turn just in time to see Sophia running towards me in a stiff-looking white party dress. Clearly her mother’s doing since Sophia never wears anything but shorts unless forced. She barrels into me, blonde curls bouncing as she wraps her small arms tightly around my legs. When she finally releases me she scurries off with one of Mark’s sons to see some potato bugs he found behind the shed. I settle into a chair next to Christopher, watching nervously for the squirrels. I don’t like being outside unarmed. Christopher starts talking to me, going on about his classes. I nod as if I’m listening but my peripheral vision wanders as I try and look for the squirrels. Still no sign of them. Sophia kicks off her party shoes and plays in the dirt at the base of the big tree with her cousin, much to Mary Ann’s annoyance. I watch her out of the corner of my eye; she’s too close to the tree. If they try anything with her I’ll kill them, each and every one.

After everyone has sufficiently caught up with each other’s lives, Mary Ann announces she will return shortly with the cake. I take this opportunity to excuse myself to the restroom. I don’t like the one downstairs, it’s the one everyone uses when they come visit me, so I climb upstairs to my bedroom to use mine. When I’m done I start to walk towards the bed to check on the shotgun when out of the corner of my eye I see leaves rustle on the tree branch near my window. I gasp and drop to the floor, landing harder on my knees than I would’ve liked. Ignoring the dull throb I crawl closer to the window and peer over the ledge. The leaves are moving and I see three of them sitting together on a branch. Those sneaky bastards, they planned their attack for my party! They thought they could get away with it, thought they could trick me. Fury and fear flame in my belly but I force myself to control it as I reach for the latch on the window. It sticks hard and no matter how I jiggle it, it refuses to budge. Shit. Tom was going to fix it, but he never did. Or maybe he did and the squirrels jammed it again, I can’t remember now. I crawl back to the bed and pull out the shotgun, thankfully still there. I grab the shotgun and hurry down the stairs as fast as my aching knees will allow me, one hand gripping the banister, one hand brandishing the weapon above my head. I push past one of Mark’s daughters as she comes out of the downstairs bathroom, accidentally knocking her into the wall. I throw open my creaking backdoor, the hinges announcing my arrival like a war trumpet but I don’t care. This is one war I’m going to win. As I hobble for the middle of the yard to face the tree I see Christopher, his mother, and another one of Mark’s kids dive for cover under the table Mary Ann has set up with my birthday cake. I plant my feet on the grass and resolutely position the gun against my shoulder, switching off the safety as I do. With a deep breath I take aim and fire.

The recoil of the shotgun knocks me backward and my shoulder gives way to a sickening pop. It feels like my whole arm has come undone. The grass is still damp and it’s seeping into my shirt as I clutch my arm. My mouth opens but I can’t make a sound it hurts so bad. I realize my grandkids are screaming. I force myself to pull my head off the ground to look at the tree, my shoulder protesting with each tiny movement. I want to see the dead squirrels. This is my house and they will not win. Using my good arm I pull myself up on my elbow to get a good look. The branch is empty but I think I hit a couple of the little bastards. Sophia and Mark’s son are still underneath the tree. Mark’s boy is sitting in the dirt and Sophia stands rigid next to him, her little arms wrapped around herself. Both are screaming and spattered with what’s left of a squirrel or two. Mary Ann and Mark’s wife rush to the children, cradling them as they continue to wail. I fall back to the ground. Shit, my shoulder hurts. My breaths come out in ragged gasps but I use my good arm to pat the smoking gun lying on the ground beside me. I did it. We did it. The warmth of the shotgun reminds me of Tom. Sleeping next to him was like sleeping with a furnace. Mark appears above me and I feel him taking the gun from me. I try to resist but, pulled out of my memory, the pain in my shoulder shoots back into my brain and causes me to give in. Somewhere near the patio table I hear nervous laughter.

Goddammit, they’re in the cake.