5:02:37PM

by Andreea Ceplinschi

Alice poured herself the last of the Cabernet and set the empty bottle next to recycling bag by the front door. Alice did not have a drinking problem, only a “coping with reality” problem. She rubbed the fist-shaped bruise on the side of her chin as the clock read 4:28PM. Dwindling December daylight coated the kitchen counter. The ground beef, onions, garlic, potatoes, green beans, cutting board, knife, wineglass all looked romantic in the twilight. Gary was going to be home from work in an hour. Alice needed 1.5 minutes to take out the recycling along with incriminating empty wine bottle, 42 minutes to make the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, 15 minutes to plate, wash the pans, put them away, 30 seconds to open her second bottle for the evening and welcome her husband with a perfectly timed Cabernet-stained kiss.

Gary was the town’s Public Health Inspector. His job involved a clipboard, impeccably pressed suits, and assessing food establishment cleanliness, from the grease factor on the inside of hood fans to tablecloth whiteness. He was known for his degree of strictness, feared when he entered an establishment. Gary enjoyed that. He also enjoyed entering his spotless home at precisely 5:28PM every weekday, to a warm dinner served with the appropriate tableware and utensils set a thumb-length from the edge of the table, over an impeccably white tablecloth, in the company of his warm, obedient wife who knew the importance of clean and neatly scheduled dinners. 

4:30PM. Alice zipped up her winter coat and slipped into her rubber-soled slippers. The wooden bin housing the trash and recycling barrels for the condo development was at the end of a long driveway leading out of the cul-de-sac. Nor’easter Sonya was currently pelting said driveway with sustained winds of 35 miles an hour, but Alice was confident she could do a recycling drop in 45 seconds. She stepped outside, head down, paper bag hugged to the chest, and started shuffling her way against the squalls. The streetside electric transformer buzzed and whined, streetlights flickered with every wind gust. 

The five buildings in the cul-de-sac were dark, except for Alice and Gary’s and the next-door neighbor’s. Mr. Garamond was the only other year-rounder in the development and Alice often wondered if he was ever suspicious of her recycling rituals or if he had any coping mechanisms he needed to keep to himself. She unlatched the wooden bin at the top of the driveway, made her drop, and turned back towards the house, wind pushing from behind. She hit the front steps like a triumphant marathon runner, reached inside her coat pocket for the keys, and felt her heart sink. 

“Well, fuck!” Alice muttered under her breath and instinctively checked the same empty pocket for the phone, while remembering that her phone was exactly where it was every night at 4:30PM – on the kitchen counter, to the left of the cutting board, next to the knife, towel, and wineglass. This was an unexpected turn, and now she couldn’t tell time anymore. Gary’s not going to like this! She needed to call the security company. Now! The possibility of Gary coming home to a 4-minute wait for dinner was starting to make her feel nauseous.

Alice stared at Mr. Garamond’s windows lit with the moving glow of a TV, considering the socio-emotional implications of knocking on his door to use a phone. She concluded it might be more comfortable to explain her situation to Mr. Garamond than explain to Gary why dinner is late. Alice wasn’t good at explaining herself when Gary got annoyed. 6-minute wait!

She crept over to Mr. Garamond’s doorway, cleared her throat, and lifted a fisted hand three times before attempting a gentle knock. Mr. Garamond had always been pleasant, but not exactly friendly. If anything, he was as private as she was, a retired film producer quietly enjoying his retirement with a variety of single-use male companions, home-delivered by the local cab. Whenever they ran into each-other they exchanged civilities as required, but Mr. Garamond kept to himself with a well-mannered coldness that suggested he wasn’t the kind of neighbor you could casually ask for a cup of sugar. 

Alice thought about the cab outside his door earlier in the day. She scrunched her toes inside her slippers and shuddered at the thought of “interrupting.” The temperature was now in the low 30s, but no way to tell without her phone. She also couldn’t get inside her house without a phone. Or tell time! She gave another knock and this time she meant it.

“Mr. Garamond, I’m sorry to bother you …” she paused to steady her voice. “I locked myself out of my house. I was wondering if I could use your phone?”

Nothing.

“Mr. Garamond?” Alice lifted her hand to knock again but grew uneasy at the faint sound of feet scuffling away inside. She looked around at the other dark homes in the development. The next closest neighbor was at least two miles down the road. Walking that in slippers would be uncomfortable, and it would probably take too long. It was either Mr. Garamond’s phone or no dinner. She knocked again, forcefully, what Gary would have called “a cop knock.” From inside – a muffled thump. Perhaps a scotch tumbler dropping to a shag rug. A toe stubbed on the side of the couch. Still, no answer. 

Alice’s anxiety started to bubble. She checked her reflection in the dark window by the door to make sure she didn’t look crazy. Beyond the window, Mr. Garamond’s living room seemed alive in the shape-shifting light of the television. She knew the way “good neighbors” can be hard of hearing when a woman needs help, but she’d never knocked on Mr. Garamond or anyone else’s door before. Never! Alice pressed her face to the window with a sudden urgency to be acknowledged.

“Mr. Garamond, I know you’re in there! I just need! To use! Your phone! Please!!! Mr. Garamond!” 

Alice’s fists rattled the window in its frame. She lifted both hands up to the sides of her face and stared inside, her breath fogging up the glass. She normally thought such an act to be incredibly rude, but so was Mr. Garamond. She could see him, the shape of his torso lying in a plush armchair next to the couch. She could see his profile, his toned bicep molded in a ribbed long-sleeved shirt, his neat haircut, his chiseled chin, slightly slack with sleep resting on his chest, even though Alice was convinced she’d heard him walk around inside. She’d surely seen his shadow move across the living room. 

The guest!

It occurred to her that it might be his guest she’d detected moving around inside. Interrupting their cozy post-coital naptime seemed vulgar, but time was of the essence, and she couldn’t afford another dinner failure with Gary. Alice squinted through the window, trying to spot a clock. The only thing moving was the light off the TV and the back door curtains swaying through a slightly ajar door. Fuck it, Alice sighed and started around the side of the building to Mr. Garamond’s back deck. 

The sliding door to his kitchen was open, showing burgundy floor-length curtains. 

“Hello? Mr. Garamond? It’s your neighbor Alice. Alice McGoxley?”

Silence.

“Could I just come in and use your phone?”

No answer. She walked in through the velvet weight of the curtains, their golden fleur de lys embroidery not going unnoticed to Alice’s trained homemaker eye. Mr. Garamond’s kitchen and living room were decorated with a little more taste than hers, and with a lot more money. Money made everything bigger, from the kitchen island to the plush sectional, flat screen TV, and the oversized, russet-colored recliner Mr. Garamond was dozing off in. 

“Mr. Garamond” Alice whispered, her impulse for polite pleasantries rolled tight into a ball of embarrassment down in the pit of her chest. She was already behind schedule and would have to rethink the dinner menu into something quicker, burgers maybe, but she had to put something on the table by 5:28, or else! Gary would find it hard to believe she was stupid enough to lock herself out of the house, as much as her stupidity was often the topic of their arguments.

Mr. Garamond’s TV was playing the news at low volume, casting a dim blue glow over the elegantly appointed couch area. Alice spotted an iPhone on the glass-top coffee table, next to a wooden caddy housing five remotes. Two more than Gary, she noted; it seemed that men, her husband included, loved having a separate device for every media function, each operated by its own remote. She also noted the cerulean blue porcelain tray holding a little ball of tinfoil, a bent silver spoon, and a monogrammed Zippo lighter she almost picked up before the outline of the phone reminded her she needed to know the time.

“Could I… could I use your phone? I’ll be quick,” she whispered as she tiptoed closer. If Mr. Garamond was going to sleep though it, that was fine. Tomorrow they could both pretend nothing even happened at all. 

Alice picked up the phone. The time was 4:52PM and her chest started thrumming erratically. Gary! Dinner! The screen lit up with “Swipe up for Face ID or Enter Passcode.” Gary! Dinner! Being rude with Mr. Garamond was the most insignificant of her concerns now. She swiped the phone screen and when it lit up, she placed it in front of his sleeping face.

Travis Garamond’s face was a ghostly pale gray. His eyes were half-open, staring at a spot where the shag rug ended and the hardwood floor began, over the lip of the glass coffee table. Foamy pink spittle filled the space between his purple lips and dribbled down his chin, soaking a dark spot into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt above the thin syringe still hanging by its needle from Mr. Garamond’s forearm.

In her dreams, Alice pictured herself reacting to high-stress life-or-death situations in a heroic manner. She would perform CPR, jump in front of the bullet, pull the baby out of the burning building, talk the suicidal woman off the ledge, get commended by police and first responders, and have her picture in the paper, front page. This was clearly a death situation, yet she found herself perplexed that dreaming hadn’t amounted to real preparation for a heroic response. If this was reality, she wanted no part of it. She did not want to perform CPR, she didn’t even want to touch the body of what she had thought to be a very attractive man up until just moments ago. He looked like a used skin suit, slack and empty. There was also a smell that revealed Mr. Garamond must have voided his bowels into the seat of the stylish russet recliner that would probably have to get thrown out. 

She was still holding Mr. Garamond’s phone and considering the cleaning rituals required for a living room somebody dies in, when she heard footfalls in the hallway by the kitchen and remembered that the guest must still be in the house. The thought locked up inside her knees, pinning her in place as the sound of footfalls grew closer and closer. It sounded like Gary! Gary! Gary! Gary!

No, not Gary, this isn’t your house! Gary would in fact arrive next-door in 34 minutes, and there was no dinner! The wild animal core inside Alice woke up and she sprung into action with the agility of a terrified squirrel. Still clutching Mr. Garamond’s phone, she ran past the mouth of the hallway, slippers flying off her feet, as a man-shaped shadow started growing out of the darkness. He’s coming for you! She dove headfirst through the burgundy curtains, onto the back deck, down the stairs. He could have a weapon! Her sock-clad feet landed ankle-deep in a puddle under the bottom step, the cold impact sending searing pain up into her legs. 4:54PM, she had no time to scream. She caught a glimpse of the shadow man through the blood-colored fabric now billowing out the open door above and took off running towards the six-foot fence separating Mr. Garamond’s backyard from hers. 

As the fence got closer, Alice considered for the 968^th time that she should start a regular exercise routine. She had it all planned out, how she’d wake up and go for runs early mornings when the whole world would just be hers. She even bought three pairs of running shoes, racerback tees and color coordinated athletic tights, the fancy kind with pockets for your phone. But then 4:28pm would roll around every day, and she had to make dinner. And have a glass of wine. And Gary would come home and they’d eat together and she’d have more wine, then they’d sit comfortably on the couch while he discussed what movie they should watch and she’d have more wine, and then he’d watch FOX and she’d play Candy Crush and the thought of waking up early to go running would get rescheduled for the next available morning. 

The reality of the situation was a sober reminder that Alice was not a runner, and she was far from in shape. Her hips were already screaming on the verge of locking up, her ankles creaked with every step, her chest burned, her teeth hurt from sharp irregular inhales of cold air, and she really wanted to look behind her, but her instincts knew, superstitiously, that should she turn around, the shadow man would be inches away. 

She got to the fence and reached up. 4:57PM. She tossed Mr. Garamond’s phone over, grabbed for the top of the fence, and pulled herself up, screaming. Sweat was pouring down the sides of her face, stinging the acne blemishes she compulsively picked at when Gary ran his index finger over the top of the door frames or checked the whiteness of the bath towels against a 98 bright sheet of paper. 

Alice watched a lot of horror movies, but in reality, she was no final girl. He’s going to grab you by your slow-moving feet! She lifted her body up with adrenaline-fueled arm strength and scaled the fencepost in spite of her frozen feet. He’s going to stab you with Mr. Garamond’s Wüsthof Chef’s knife! She came up victorious over the top of the fence, stretched her legs out as low as she could, and lifted her ass cheeks, pushing away. He’s going to bash your head in with a framing hammer! As she pushed off, a vice-like grip snatched the hood of her winter coat, stopping her body mid-jump. He’s going to strangle you with his madness-driven hands!

Panic took over. Alice’s bladder let go. She screamed and instinctively lifted her arms over her head for protection, which made her slide out of her coat and hit the ground sideways, knocking the air out of her lungs. She lay there stunned, wondering how much slower time passed inside her head compared to the crazed, killer-filled reality. He’s already on top of you! He’s got a gun! She took several big gulps of icy air and felt for the phone through the wet grass. 4:59PM. It took her several tries to engage the Emergency Call button with numb fingers. She was at the bottom of the stairs to her back deck when the call connected.

“What’s your emergency?”

“My neighbor,” Alice fought to engage her vocal cords. Her teeth were chattering and getting in the way, her jaw muscles kept locking up. “He’s trying to kill me.”

“Your neighbor is trying to kill you?”

“No.” Alice looked back at the fence and the sight of her winter coat hanging by its hood on a fencepost pumped another wave of panicked adrenaline through her thighs. He knows you’re calling the cops! She took the stairs two at at time. The winter coat looked like a dead body hanging. Her back touched the smooth surface of the sliding glass door, the only thing standing between her and the warm kitchen with all the dinner ingredients neatly laid out on the counter. “He’s dead,” she heard herself say, thinking is this real? “My neighbor is dead!”

“What’s your location?”

“I’m at 35 Race Road Extension. My neighbor is dead. The man who killed him, he’s after me! Help me!” Alice shouted. 

He’s after you! The world was swimming around her. 5:00PM. There was a propane tank under the Weber grill on the deck. Gary’s grill. Gary! Alice pulled the tank out, raised it up to her chest, and threw it with the last of her might at the glass door. The tank hit the tempered glass with a metallic thunk, pulling the grill behind it on its wheeled stand. The door didn’t shatter like Alice had expected, it just vibrated in its frame and slid open two inches.

“Motherfucker!” she cursed out loud and yanked it open, then shut it behind her and turned the lock. Her house was bright and scented with a faint mix of bleach, fresh paint, and cotton scent Yankee Candle. 

“It’s going to be ok,” Alice whispered. “They’re on their way.” She stared at the naked glass door and in the mirrored image of her bright kitchen, she saw a man-shaped shadow reaching for the door handle. He’s…

“I’ve called the police, they’re coming!” Alice yelled at the door, picked up her own chef’s knife from the dinner mise-en-place, and pointed it sternly at her reflection. She felt a little more confident now that she was inside, the doors were locked, and everything was going to be ok. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen counter and started backing down the hallway, knife still pointing at the kitchen. 5:02PM, five missed calls, three texts, all from Gary. THIS is real! Her heartbeat turned violent. Staring at the screen, she rushed down the hallway. 

The split second of 5:02:37PM slowed down enough that Alice could witness all the three things happening in it as separate planes of reality from a floating place on the hallway ceiling. First: the storm-whipped electric transformer out in the street gave a loud crack and plunged the entire neighborhood into lightless void. Second: the bathroom door opened into the hallway and a growing man-shaped shadow came out towards Alice’s physical body stunned at the gaping mouth of the open door. Third: the right hand of Alice’s physical body thrust the chef’s knife forward, plunging it into the shadow man’s stomach to the hilt. The shadow man groaned and fell backwards, his head hitting the toilet bowl with an echoing bonk. Alice pulled her astral self down from the ceiling, slammed the bathroom door shut and raced to the end of the hallway, where she locked herself inside the bedroom closet. He was going to kill you!

But help was on the way. Police officers were going to rush in with their flashlights and perhaps their guns drawn. They would find Mr. Garamond dead in his living room. They would find the intruder dead in Alice’s bathroom. They would find Alice heroically hiding in the bedroom closet, not at all embarrassed about having peed herself. Reality would go back to normal, she was going to be ok, and she’d make front page news, and Gary wouldn’t be mad at her for not making dinner. She dared wonder if he could grab takeout on his way home. She was suddenly in the mood for a carb-heavy meal, a pepperoni pizza, or even one of those frozen microwave lasagnas that are ready in no time. Call Gary! She could hear faint sirens in the distance, growing closer. They almost sounded like Gary’s Vivaldi Spring ringtone, so close they seemed to be right in the hallway. She stepped out of the closet. Her numb feet were waking up and starting to burn. Inside the phone, the outgoing call was still ringing. The sirens were growing closer. Outside the bedroom door, violins screeched louder and louder until Gary’s voice came on inside the phone “You’ve reached Gary McGoxley with the Department of Public Health, I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave…” Alice hung up and opened the missed messages. 

“I’m heading home early because of the storm. I’m sorry about this morning, I love you.” 

Outside the bedroom window, Alice could see flashing police lights. 

“I’m home, where are you? I hope you have a good reason for being out.” 

There was a loud cop knock on the front door. 

“I’m going to jump in the shower. You better be here by the time I get out, I’d hate to have to come looking for you.” 

Alice stared at the phone. At 5:13PM the phone screen and her reality faded to black.

Andreea Ceplinschi is a Romanian immigrant writer of poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her work can be found in Solstice Literary Magazine, 86logic, One Art, Wild Roof Journal, The Quarter(ly), The Keeping Room, and elsewhere. You can learn more about her at www.poetryandbookdesign.com