Judy dozes in a sunbeam splayed across the sofa. She’s more relaxed than I am on Sunday mornings, especially now that our daughter Jenny has left for college. I pick up and lay down the newspaper, shuffle to the kitchen for more coffee. Check the clock, unnerved by the hours ahead.
A thud shakes the house. I launch to my feet. Judy opens one eye.
“Did you hear that?”
“Crows.” She pulls a cushion over her face.
But the crows that peck on our skylights upstairs never rattle the house. “Was it an earthquake?”
Judy raises herself up on an elbow. A sound like faraway thunder trembles through the ceiling. We stare at each other.
“Raccoons?” she guesses.
I climb the steps, following scraping and dragging noises. Then, improbably, footsteps.
“Someone’s in the attic!” I’ve read about intruders—phroggers, they’re called—squatting in attics.
Downstairs, our back door slams. “George, come here!”
In the backyard my wife stands on the grass craning her neck upwards. I follow her gaze, expecting to see a regretful cat or escaped pet parrot.
Instead I see a man.
But not exactly a man: a gangly teenager in a white t-shirt and baggy gray jeans. He’s crouched on the slant of our roof, apparently as shocked to see us as we are to see him.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” I yell.
The boy squints at me like he’s struggling to identify a strange species of bird.
“Come down this instant!” This teenager could tumble off my roof to his tragic death. Then I cringe at how I sound like a character in a mid-century screwball comedy.
The boy turns his head toward a sound on the street, and I recognize his profile. He parked next to me every day when I picked Jenny up from school, pulling his Jeep into the adjacent space then scrolling on his phone and blasting rap music. Who was he waiting for: a sibling? A girlfriend? I never bothered to inquire.
Now I assume he’s here for my daughter.
“Jenny’s at college!”
The boy frowns, confused. “What’s wrong with you?” I shout. Is he having a mental health crisis?
“I’m getting the ladder.” I stomp to the garage, haul out the contraption, and walk it to the side of the house.
I climb fast and with purpose. Almost to the top, I glance up to see the kid inching higher and grinning down at me.
Then, for some reason, I look down.
The ground seems miles away. I begin to shake, terrified and enraged. My body breaks out in sweat. I’m stuck between inching my way back down and scrambling blindly up to strangle this shithead invading my peaceful home.
“George, are you okay?” Judy calls.
I close my eyes. It’s my duty to deal with this situation. “Hold the ladder!” The structure stiffens as my wife grabs hold of the base. I continue to ascend, one rung at a time.
At the top, I step onto the roof and sink to my knees. From here I can see the lake, the shopping center, the freeway cutting through town. I grip the sandpapery roof tiles. The boy watches me with amazement.
“Who are you to Jenny?”
The boy seems to consider the question when Judy shouts up.
“Alexander! Why are you here?”
I whip my face down at my wife. My world, laid out in miniature below, spins.
“You’re Alexander?” I ask the boy. He nods. “How do you know Judy?”
He shrugs.
“How do you know my wife?”
The pieces scramble to fit together. This boy is having an affair with one of the women in my family. If it’s my daughter, Judy knows about it. If not, it’s with Judy herself.
“Judith, tell me right now what’s happening.” I no longer care about saving this roof-climber from himself. I want to know how I’ve been duped.
“I just recognized him. He’s the barista at Cavern Coffee. Alexander, it’s Judy! Soy double-shot cinnamon latte?”
The boy waits for my next move. I prepare to crawl toward him. I’ll push him off the house if I have to.
The slam of a screen door at our neighbor’s house makes us both jump. My neighbor Sean emerges from his front door.
“Psst. Hey.” The young man on my roof speaks for the first time. He’s lost the color in his face. “Don’t let him see us.”
I turn to watch Sean climb into his car. Though I’m tempted to shout and wave my hands, I tilt my head down at Judy and put a finger to my lips.
Alexander and I crouch six feet from each other, rigid and exalted like gargoyles. Whatever he’s playing at, I’m invested now.
Sean’s silver Mustang roars to life. He peels away from the curb and runs the stop sign at the end of the block. The car zigzags through a maze of streets until it disappears.
The back door of the neighboring house squeaks open. Sean’s wife, Crystal, steps into the backyard. She looks up at us.
At Alexander.
“Thanks for everything,” the boy says. His voice is huskier than I expected. He scrambles monkey-like down the incline, grips the eave, and swings down, landing hard on his feet on the ground. He jogs across the strip of grass and up Sean and Crystal’s driveway. Crystal leads him into the house and shuts the back door.
Left behind on the roof, I take in the view of the town again: the distant hills, a blue strip of bay, Jenny’s elementary school. Then I inch my way back toward the roof’s edge. Going down will be more terrifying than coming up.
“Hold the ladder,” I call. Then I see Judy’s been gripping it the whole time.
I climb down slowly but without incident. On the ground, my wife and I face each other somberly. The rest of the day stretches out ahead of us.
Stacey Gordon is an emerging writer of literary short stories, women’s fiction, and detective mysteries. Her novel The Pearl Farmers is forthcoming from She Writes Press. Her short fiction has been published in Avalon Literary Review. She has also published three non-fiction books. Originally from southern Ohio, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and manages product writing teams for a tech company. Visit her online at StaceyGordonAuthor.com.
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