I don’t normally call woodpeckers stupid. I don’t. But the incessant ringing of my doorbell for more days than I care to admit had me on the verge of either name-calling or digging my Daisy BB gun out of the bin under my bed where I keep my winter sweaters.

I figured out the inconvenient bell wasn’t a mischievous sixth grader when I detected a small hole in the push button. The next time I examined it, the hole had grown along with the ding dong ding dong ding dong which stopped every time I placed my hand on the doorknob. Of course it did. Any movement on my part probably sounded like it was coming through a bullhorn to the bird who could hear the little sounds of insects

To be fair, the few glimpses I caught of it showed that it was a cute little thing – not one of those huge woodpeckers, but a respectable bird. Still. One cannot hear a doorbell ring throughout the day without being set on edge. My eye was beginning to twitch.

I gave the situation plenty of thought. I had plenty of time because I work remotely – unfortunately in the current situation. Although I wasn’t ready to become a falconer, (which, what would they do, anyway, bring me a mouse?) I knew a hawk might go to war for me. But I had no idea how to attract a hawk to dispense of my doorbell nemesis. I was reticent to use my aforementioned BB gun because of my sign neighbor. I call her that due to the always present signs she has in her yard letting the neighborhood know what we should or shouldn’t think. The woman loved a good cause whether the rest of us did or not. And I was pretty sure my use of BBs would lead to her posting another sign and maybe having heart palpitations which I didn’t want to be responsible for. If only the woodpecker had chosen her doorbell!

Wait-a-minute! The idea that popped into my mind could lead to trouble or it could lead to peace and quiet. I chose to believe what I wanted to believe.

That afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood and nonchalantly (and in my mind surreptitiously) tossed some blueberries toward my neighbor’s latest sign. When I got back home I made a little trail of berries from below my doorbell over as far as I dared to my neighbor’s yard. I thought maybe I spied Woody (as I’d begun to think of him) hopping around them, but I couldn’t be certain. The bird seemed to make a game of evading me.

I picked up stray pinecones here and there and smeared some peanut butter and birdseed on one. If I was a sports announcer, I would’ve called my pitch high and wide; but I got better with each toss. Don’t judge. It isn’t littering when it’s nature.

Maybe it was my imagination or perhaps I was learning to tune them out, but the ringing of the doorbell seemed to be decreasing. And in a month’s time Woody had discovered a new favorite, I bought a new doorbell, and my neighbor? Well let’s just say she’s found a new cause.

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Spring was just on the other side of the threshold: icy rain on this side and sudden sun with warm petrichor on the other. He thought, as he clicked the fob of his Subaru, that his impatience for indifferent weather – weather without event – had reached its peak in the last week. Maybe it wasn’t just the weather. And it was due to his restiveness that he had decided to drive out (way out) into the country on roads that would take him out of the city’s dirty curbs and unshoveled slush.

A couple of hours led him to a small cemetery with not quite twenty gravestones showing varying degrees of weathering. But it was through the quiet site to the hill beyond it that he ventured. He descended a steep embankment and came to a stream recently released from the restrictions of ice and snow as it rushed and gurgled over cold rocks and downed branches.

Released! What a good, good word. He reached down and splashed the cold water with his hand, then yanked it out

quickly. It was freezing cold, yet pure and clear; and he supposed that’s what release from whatever burden or chain one wore, would feel like: bracing, maybe not even appealing at first, but then? Then the purity of freedom would race through his veins and into his very soul.

The afternoon spent itself as he thought over what that meant. He had a vague awareness of shemita, and, of course, a closer understanding of his own burdens and unmet desires and asked Almighty God above for such a release from something he couldn’t even name.

A cold raindrop fell, then another and another. He rubbed his arms and slipped on some gloves from his jacket pocket, then scrambled up the hill to his car. The rain changed from polite drops to the splat of threatening snow, and as he drove back to the bleakness of the city, he pondered the amount of time it took the stream to move from restriction to release.

The afternoon had done something to his tired spirit and somehow  rubbed away a little of clouded vision that had been his uninvited companion for too long. A muted future lost just a bit of its indifference. Burdens? Chains? Unseen restrictions? They would be gone! He didn’t know when or how long it would take, but he could even now feel the excitement of the early spring stream. And life again would see cleansing. Freedom. Release!

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Boy, this was going to be good. He’d thought it over for years. It would be the home of a lifetime! He had begun with the foundation – solid and broad enough to hold whatever he dreamed up. And dream he did. Along the top of the foundation, he engraved a logo he used in his business; a mark of ownership consisting of interlocking half-circles.

Eight steps led up to the portico (portico!), and he made sure the first story had a stone-look design. Three arched windows were placed on either side of the arched entry door. They were perfect for letting in sunlight and sparkles. For years, he’d admired the porte-cocheres off mansions on Summit Avenue. His house must have one, so he added one at the side of the house.

The second story was peppered with windows: Six on each side of the building – twenty-four in all. Next came an outdoor winding staircase. How he’d thought of it, he couldn’t say, but he prided himself on the creativity he’d used in its design.

At one point – as he munched on a grilled cheese and red pepper sandwich – he decided his house (house? In his heart he began thinking of it as a castle! Didn’t they say a man’s home was his castle?) needed a third story. He made certain the exterior matched the second story, and it did with precision.

He had thought it was complete, but as he observed it from a distance, he decided it needed turrets. So what if such things were from another era? He would have them! And he did, placing one at each corner of the structure. They would be perfect for looking at things going on outside. He imagined a window seat or low desk would be just the thing for doing so.

Finally it was complete. His gaze followed every inch of the structure. He recalled the initial foundation and how excited he’d been with engravings along the top of the base. And he loved the arches on the first story! He’d always been partial to them and was glad they could be included. His eyes moved to the very top. No, not the roofline, although its asymmetrical silhouette made him smile. Sometimes it was brilliant to go against expectation, and this was one of those times. But the top – the points of the turrets . . . Well, the depth of his satisfaction could not be described.

He sat in a chair, soaking in the design with admiration. It was everything he’d ever imagined and more. He was tempted to say it was the accomplishment of a lifetime!

And just after the sun had set in a brilliant blaze of oranges, pinks, and gold until the sky faded to dusky blue, the ocean’s waves which kept time with  their soothing sound rose to high tide and washed it all away.

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The darkness was suffocating; the kind that made you feel as though it was something almost living and surrounding you, waiting to pounce. If I hadn’t stumbled – and when I say stumbled, please take me literally – on the poor soul in front of me, I would’ve been out of here.

But there he was – lying in a heap on the sidewalk about four blocks from my house. And what had started out as a pleasant evening walk on a late fall day had turned as quickly as had the sudden mist dropped the temperature and the light dimmed. By the time I’d turned the last corner, it was uncomfortably dark. And then I nearly tripped over the man I hadn’t seen.

“Sir?” I whispered. Then more loudly, “Sir!”

I touched him, then poked him. I leaned closer to see whether he was pale (Pale? In the dark? I don’t know what I was thinking.), shook him slightly, then pushed him from his lumpy state onto his back. There was no response. I checked for a bump (none) and bodily fluids in the vicinity (none, to my great relief – so much of a relief, I felt like dancing except for the unfortunate situation). I looked around at the empty street for help, at the houses; their cheery lights reaching into their yards, but no farther. I didn’t blame them. If I were a cheery light, I’d prefer the familiarity of my own yard, too.

“Help! Someone! Someone needs help here!”

Nothing. I reached for my phone before recalling I’d left it at the house, thinking (at the time) how much I needed the quiet of nature as I walked. Oh, I’d gotten some quiet alright; just not the kind I needed.

As I pressed on his neck and wrist, yes, feeling a faint pulse, I noticed headlights in the distance and (praise be!) growing nearer. I ran as far as I dared into the street and waved and shouted. The car pulled over and stopped, and a tired-looking man got out.

“What’s your problem, Miss?”

I pointed. “There’s a man passed out on the sidewalk. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I can’t rouse him.”

As an afterthought I added, “I can’t just leave him, you know?”

The driver looked at the man, then at me, and answered, “Oh. I know.”

I thought to myself he must wish he was home even more than I was wishing it. But he had a car and I didn’t. He was stronger than I was. And though we both seemed to feel some sort of obligation, neither of us was glad of it.

He pulled his phone from a jacket pocket and talked as he walked to the stranger on the sidewalk, checking for a pulse, sniffing his breath, and looking up at me.

“Help me get him into my car. I’ll drive him back to the hospital.”

“Back?”

“I just got off a twelve-hour shift.”

We half lifted and half pulled until the man was slumped into his backseat.

Back in my little house, I double-checked the lock, took a quick shower, and put tea on to brew. And as I made sure the cheery lights from my house reached all the way to the street, I sat in a cozy chair and thought about pleasant evening walks, the quiet of nature, and unsettling situations. I thought of strangers who make bad decisions and cause those who make good decisions unmitigated trouble. I wondered which type of stranger the driver thought I was. I sipped my tea, loving how it’s warmth traveled from first sip deep into my veins. And I thought about the kindness of strangers.

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I had a knock knock joke all prepared for when we met with Birch and Aldo; this time at a park on the east side of town. The whole cloak and dagger realm tired me no end and I had to tell a joke before I went nuts; not really nuts, just sliding into a slightly discombobulated sense of unwellness.

And I did. I told my joke. They didn’t laugh. Those guys had no sense of humor. Ava handed them the notes we had taken from the party and they told us to forget everything and walked away.

Well! said Ava in a huffy voice.

They just wanted information from strangers who they thought could get it for them without anyone noticing. We were as useful as a chocolate wrapper.

I thought Birch was . . .

Ah ah ah. No cute comments allowed. No nothing. They said forget everything, remember?

For someone who remembers quite a lot that’s going to be hard.

For both of us.

And it was hard, because the thing about memory is the triggers. You can think you’ve forgotten something, but maybe a scent or event or sound or phrase . . . well I could go on and on. But that’s the thing. Memories might be dismissed, but they’re usually floating around somewhere in your brain. What they should have said is keep it a secret. That would’ve been a truer request. Still, both of us did. Not a word to a soul. It’s too bad Birch and Aldo didn’t honor their own advice. They remembered plenty, because it wasn’t the last we saw of them.

Anyway, that’s how we accidentally became NOCS. That one night turned into a year and then two of assignments slipped to us on scraps of paper or whispered during an innocent trip to the coffee shop, and every time – every time – we were promised was the last time. We lost something dear to both of us: some, not all, but some of our trust – in others and in ourselves. And we wanted it back. We’d become adept at little white lies, both telling them and identifying them. The first one was uncomfortable, the last one made us numb. That was the day we looked at each other with identical understandings. We figured out that our lives were becoming as expendable as the chocolate wrapper I mentioned earlier and that the near misses – starting with the semi that crossed the center line that first night – were just threats. Or maybe not. Maybe the people given harm and maim assignments were just as inept as others thought we were at being sophisticated. And we weren’t, you know. We would never be fancy folk because we didn’t care to be. We just wanted to be ourselves.

We were DONE. We made it clear in no uncertain terms that we would NOT be NOCS, we had never wanted in and we wanted out pronto and no one was going to decide that for us. We’d already decided it for ourselves, and any threats coming our way would be shared with the nearest barista. They tried to strong arm us like the first time (we were in a parking lot), but we were at a point where causing a ruckus was preferred to staying quiet and not attracting attention. We didn’t hear from them again.

Life is regaining some of its simple delight. Slowly. Knock knock jokes still don’t hold the same carefree abandon for me as they once did, although -c’mon – the one about the interrupting cow will never not be funny.

With some of the money that found its way to us during the last couple of years, we’ve begun taking a few classes learning classical antiquity; which looks like it’s going to take up the time Ava would have spent watching mindless T.V. Unlike some of our former forays, we haven’t had any scrapes or cuts, though eyestrain isn’t off the table yet. Some days when we grow tired of it, we play Rummy Roots, which helps our Greek and Latin and during which we are unspeakably unsophisticated. Ava’s begun carrying her mini backpack again – the orange and pink one with the poodle pin. And I couldn’t care less; because in the grand scheme of things, unhidden plain truth is better than a million sophisticated lies.

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It was surprisingly easy to crash the party, because the person at the door was in deep conversation with someone nearby and others were milling around the large room. We were greeted by a few party-attendees like they thought we belonged there. Is it really possible to be so unsophisticated that others think it’s an act? Apparently it is.

I’ve never had Beef Wellington. I love it! 

We were driving back from the party, and Ava was gushing about the experience in general. We’d stayed later than planned. I guess that’s not unusual if you’re with Ava at  a party; but since we’d not been invited in the first place, I thought we’d spent longer than necessary. In my world, making a discreet list of who was there and who was talking to whom would take all of less than thirty minutes. In Ava’s world, chatting with party-goers was part and parcel of the evening. I shouldn’t complain. We were the first to leave.

I wish they would’ve been bigger.

But then there wouldn’t have been room on the trays for the quiches, petite fours and cheeseca . . . WATCH OUT!!!

I swerved to miss a semi that crossed the center line. Maybe he was sleepy.

We managed to get back home without any further trouble, although my heart was still hiccupping from the semi incident.

After a cup of lemon balm tea at Ava’s to settle my nerves, and back in my own familiar apartment, I crawled under my covers and fell asleep, though not without the coffee shop, party, and the drive home playing over a few times like a movie in my mind’s eye. My drowsy thoughts wandered back to the person who had been at the entrance, and I suddenly realized the identity of the person he was conversing with: it was the man who had jingled the door at the coffee shop. He cleaned up nicely, but what triggered my memory was the scent of cigarette smoke that still hung lightly around him.

The following day, Ava came over for scrambled eggs and bacon and that pastry – oh, you know the one – the Danish Kringle from Racine, Wisconsin. Funny how you remember trivial details if you give yourself a minute. I recalled the town because the grocery clerk had told me she knew a gal who lived in the town the pastry was made in, and since I’d gone to college with someone from that very town, it stayed with me, I guess.

After we ate (She had two helpings. Who could blame her? I’m no slouch when it comes to making scrambled eggs. It’s because I add a little nutmeg, like the French do.), Ava was all business. She pulled out notes she’d made from the party and we scoured them, adding details as well as we could. When I told her I recalled the man with the cigarette in the coffee shop parking lot was talking to the guy at the door, she dropped her pen. She hadn’t noticed. That led to a twelve minute conversation about whether or not he was on the side that Birch and Aldo were on. They had pretty well convinced us their request was a simple one that could help a lot of people. I began to wonder if the word help was always good the way I thought it was.

No, Ava hadn’t noticed the details of the conversation as we entered, but it appeared she had noticed everything else, including not only who was talking with whom, but who appeared to be more than platonically involved with whom. Ava was one for recognizing those types of things. Not me. A couple could be newlyweds, and I would mistake them for two people on the same church softball team – or maybe opposing ones. Not that they couldn’t be that, too; but you know what I mean. A person sees what they want to see, I guess. Delete that. It’s not a guess. It’s as true as the blue in a July sky.

to be continued . . .

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I drove past them and past my apartment and straight to Ava’s little bungalow. I didn’t knock (I’d had enough of that word already today), but went straight to the patio door and let myself in.

She was slouched in an easy chair in her living room, one leg dangling over the arm, reading a book. Ava looked up.

Was the thought that came into your head too much to text?

I sank into the couch. It was a deep, buttery leather that made me want a long nap.

Birch and Aldo were sitting in a car a block from my apartment.

Ava sat up.

That doesn’t sound very good.

No, it does not. That’s why I came directly here.

Ava jumped up and looked out her front windows, then jumped at a knock on her door, and looked at me. Oh. My. Word. Had they followed me?

We had a very fast whispered consult as the knocking continued. It ended with us concluding that if someone was determined to believe we were non-official cover operatives, why not let them think it? Maybe we’d get rid of them or maybe we’d have a little adventure. At any rate, it beat Ava becoming zombified by binge-watching some ridiculous show.

She opened the door just as Aldo began another knock.

Who’s there? I laughed breezily while Ava said, Can I help you?

May we come in? Birch asked.

Before I could reply to the contrary, Ava had opened the door wider and motioned them in. They sat on the deep and buttery leather couch. I hoped they’d fall asleep.

The conversation started out pleasantly enough – much better than the brief one we’d had at the coffee shop – until they pulled out two pages and handed them to Ava. She motioned me over, to look. It was a set of numbered directions along with a map.

I sat back down and we looked at each other.

Don’t deny your status, one of them said. I think it was Birch, but I’d been wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and was glancing down to see if it left a mark.

Due to our whispered agreement before Ava let them in, what was there to deny? However, I was beginning to think the “let them think it” idea had its drawbacks.

There are conversations in this wide world of ours that, though seemingly innocent enough, take you to places your would have never agreed to go. But by the time each of us had nodded a couple of times and said yes once (to a seemingly innocuous comment), we seemed to be up to our eyeballs in a plan to crash a party two towns over in order to find out who was there, who talked with who and what about.

I don’t know if these guys are legit, I said after Ava let them out and closed the door.

I have to admit, Aldo’s kinda cute.

Stop! What did we just agree to?

I think I’ll wear my pink mini. You should wear your swooshi midi. With boots.

I didn’t smile.

Oh come ON, Sadie. You wanted to pivot. We’re pivoting!

Against anyone in their right mind’s better judgement, that evening we pivoted to a party an hour from home that we hadn’t been invited to. I talked Ava into leaving her mini backpack with the poodle pin at home. Too identifying. (What was I becoming?!) I didn’t wear my swooshi midi. I wore white Spanx and a lightweight brown leather jacket. With boots.

to be continued . . .

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I’m going to ask this once and I expect the complete truth, the guy who had stopped me stated matter-of-factly.

It was annoying, but I wasn’t as annoyed with him as I was with myself for letting him drag me back into the coffee shop just to avoid a scene. People sometimes do weird things when feeling the way I was feeling; and that was that I was focused on feeling rather than thinking, which is what can get people into trouble. So I can’t exactly say what got into me. Other than confronting Ava about her binge watching a boring series, I’m normally easy to get along with. But one: I hadn’t even been able to finish my macchiato which, even though it’s not my favorite, it was, after all, a morning cup of coffee. And now I didn’t have it because we had left and I’d tossed it in the trash on our way out. And two: who did these guys think they were, telling us we had to talk to them, hmm?

Slow down, bucko. I don’t even know your name.

The second guy looked at the first guy – I suppose curious regarding his response. It was good he didn’t look at Ava, who was digging through her mini backpack for her phone.

She leaned over next to me and said, Selfie!

I smiled reflexively. I also noticed she had her phone backwards. She’d actually taken a picture of the men sitting across from us. Go, Ava. But they both had their heads down, apparently looking for something on the floor. Touché.

Birch.

Birch?

My name is Birch.

And? I looked at his friend.

What’s it to you?

With a sweep of my hand, I motioned to the two of them sitting across from us and raised my eyebrows.

Aldo.

Ava and I looked at each other. That was her father’s name. And, of course, one of the gorillas in The Planet of the Apes; not that either of us would say so.

Birch remarked. We couldn’t help noticing your false. . .

False?

False lack of . . ., he searched for a word, sophistication. He cleared his throat. Are you NOCs?

Who’s there? I asked, while wondering why he actually thought our lack of sophistication was false. Can anyone say “poodle pin”?

The bell jingled on the coffee shop door and apparently it was someone Birch and Aldo had been waiting for, because they left immediately without so much as a “Sorry for interrupting your morning téte-a-téte”.

Ava was busy with her phone, so I went to the counter to get her another macchiato and (something I could actually enjoy) a green tea latte for myself.

Before I’d even sat down, she said, It means non-official cover.

What does? I asked as I pushed her coffee in front of her.

Among other things, NOC stands for non-official cover.

Of what? I sipped my latte, noticing the barista had used matcha. It was okay with me. Maybe they were out of green tea.

Ava impatiently slammed her hand on the table.

Sadie! Pay attention! Those two guys asked about NOC. I looked it up . . .

As I kindly replaced our drinks.

. . . as you kindly replaced our drinks. It has to do with espionage! She whisper-shouted it across the table.

I scrunched my eyes. The thought of either of us being spies was a bridge too far.

Finally, I replied, I mean – maybe. Sometimes you think someone is the very thing you are. They could’ve been projecting. They did look down when you took their picture.

Exactly.

Let’s go back to what to do as a pivot. After all, they left.

Ava’s gaze searched the parking lot. Mine didn’t have to, because I’d just noticed the fellow they left with – the one who jingled the coffee shop door – was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

Smoking is a dirty habit, I commented, nodding toward the man.

Ava leaned in. Is that the guy they left with?

I believe so.

I was growing impatient. This is ridiculous.

Agreed. Let’s bump him on our way out.

Ava always did have a bit of mischievousness in her.

Or we could wait in the bathroom until the coffee shop closes, I countered.

We ended up compromising. After an hour – a very long and embarrassing hour as we nodded to everyone who came and went – we peeked out of the door and found he had left. At least that’s what it looked like.

We went our separate ways, too, with Ava promising to leave her television off and me promising to text  with any new thought that came into my head. It didn’t take long, because on the drive home, I saw the guys from the coffee shop now parked a block from my apartment.

to be continued . . .

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