The next morning I woke gloriously next to Thad, feeling like the beginning of a coffee commercial. I had missed having him there, missed listening to him breath, missed smelling his smell, even though it had only been a week.
I got up and started breakfast. It was lovely April morning, sunny but not too hot.
After my oatmeal I went to get the Sunday Paper, which I still read in bed like a proper American. As I walked back up the big porch steps, I noticed something askew: some of the porch furniture had been moved, but nothing appeared missing. I scanned the porch up one side and down the other, standing rigid, eyes darting.
Living in a college neighborhood I immediately assumed it was some of the drunk students that lived up and down the street, as about once a year during some random big party things would go missing from my porch, or I would find car tracks rolled through my flower gardens. As I surveyed, something seemed strange, gone; but I could not put my finger on it.
And then like in one of those horror movie scenes where it’s a tight close up of the hero but then the camera pulls back at like a thousand miles an hour, I realized my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover was gone! It had sat out on the far porch pier, like a lighthouse on a promontory. But now the spot lay bare, empty. I scanned around to make sure it just hadn’t been knocked off or just moved, but alas, no.
In my bathrobe, my eyes tightened. It appeared the only thing missing.
Those drunken bastard kids!
Stomping back into the darkened bedroom to dress, Thad mumbled a “Morning.”
“Yeah…” I said, fumbling in the dark.
“What’s up?” he said, rearranging the pillows. He slept a lot. I mean a lot, even for a fairytale princess.
“We’ve been burgled,” I said.
“I don’t know what that means,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know what that means,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Pinched, pilfered, popped, robbed. Someone has stolen my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover! And I loved that chicken!”
“From the porch?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. It was probably the Garden Rapist, mad you wouldn’t let her have any more irises.” He yawned, rolling over. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Sure, sure, whatever.”
And standing there in the dark, the stark horrible ponytailed reality came screaming to me and I knew he was right; it made perfect sense! And I knew what I must do.
Within five minutes I was on the phone with the police.
“And what was taken, sir?” the receptionist said with audible boredom in her voice.
“A terra cotta chicken planter full of clover.”
“A what?” She repeated.
“A terra cotta chicken planter full of clover. I’ve had it for fifteen years. It was very sentimental. It was quite big, about the size of a 1980’s microwave, and probably weighed a good 30 pounds. It was worth about $75 or more. It was swiped from my front porch. I mean, I just don’t want to live in a neighborhood where we can’t have nice things out on our porches…”
“So it’s a potted plant? You had a potted plant stolen?”
“Yes, but a very large, old potted plant.”
“So an old potted plant. And it looked like a chicken?” she repeated.
“Yes. A terra cotta chicken planter full of clover. And I think I know who took it.”
“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “I’ll send a squad car out there in a minute to get your report.”
I went back into the darken bedroom.
From under the covers Thad mumbled, “Please God tell me I didn’t I just hear you talking to the police.”
“Well, yes,” I said justly, head out and up like a knight of yore. “You are totally right. That heathen woman took it!”
“Oh good,” he rolled over.
“It’s totally the Garden Rapist. She took it, mad that I wouldn’t let her have any more flowers.”
Thad folded the covers down to show his face, “So you called the police over a missing planter?”
“Yes! I will not be intimidated by her and her stupid gardening fork. I mean, how dare her come back over here and sneak up on the porch in the middle of the night and take the nicest pot out there. That is trespassing! We even saw her scoping out the house late last night.”
“It was 8 PM.”
“Well, that’s late for us now.”
“True,” He sighed. “Are the police on their way?”
“Yes, and I will need to find an appropriately civic-minded outfit to greet them in.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” he sighed, covering his head as I flipped the overhead bedroom light on.
As I dressed, I felt proud for having the courage to call the police, for putting this act of thievery on record in case it happened again, or she came back and threatened us. But I also, secretly, wondered if I was acting rashly because of my nerves. I was tense about leaving tomorrow for Gaga and doubly still crazy anxious about getting my stupid lab results back. Maybe I shouldn’t have called the police, and just let it go…it was just a potted plant…and an old one I had gotten for free at that…but it was too late to think like that now: the police were on their way.
The cop was large and bald with a long Polish name and a big gun. We stood in the living room, me now in a respectable civic-minded collared shirt and khaki shorts ensem.
“So all they took was the chicken pot?” he asked.
“Yes, the terra cotta chicken planter full of clover. And I think I know who did it,” I said in my deep, heterosexual voice.
“Who?” he asked, looking up from his notepad.
“Well, we call her…” I stopped. “Well, I guess that’s not important. But it’s this crazy woman who came by a while back and wanted to do an iris exchange-those are flowers.”
“Yes,” he said, “I am aware what irises are.”
“Okay, sorry,” I smiled, wondering if he had little sugar in his britches. “She seemed kinda nuts. But then she came back last evening as we were on our way out and she wanted to do another flower exchange. And I told her no, and she looked very mad when she left. And then we saw her driving by after we got back from dinner, so I think she did it to get even with me.”
“And what is this woman’s name?” the policeman asked.
“Angelique, but I don’t know her last name.” I smiled weakly, suddenly realizing the flaw in my great story: I knew next to nothing about her.
“Oh,” he said with a frown. “Do you know anything else about her?”
“Not really…” I said, looking down, suddenly very embarrassed.
Thad walked back into the room and asked, “Who you talking about? The Garden Rapist?”
The Policemen looked at me and I blushed and said, “Yes, she never told us her last name did she?”
“No,” Thad said, “but remember she said she works at the dairy over on Porter. You could probably find her there.”
The Policeman looked back to me and I felt a rush of stupidity: I had called them to report a missing old porch plant and I was fingering a culprit I had no solid information on.
“I guess that’s not very helpful,” I said with a weak smile.
“No. No, it’s not, ” the policeman said shutting his notebook.
“Well, you could go by the dairy.” Thad said, “I mean how many garden-crazy, pig-tailed, wall-eyed women named Angelique do you think they got working there?” He smiled like he had been a very helpful witness on CSI New York and walked out of the room.
“I’ll see what I can do with this information.” The policeman said running a hand over giant square jaw. “If this woman that you think stole your pot comes back, I would not engage her. I recommend putting your name on the bottom of all of your outdoor items, and bringing in anything that’s sentimental or valuable to you. Outdoor decorations often walk off, especially in a college town. Is there anything else?”
“No, and thank you for your time.”
“No problem, and have a nice day.”
We shook hands. He had very big hands.
“Thanks!” Thad called over the TV from the Den. I distinctively head the Lw & Order “Dum Dum.”
As I watched the policeman drive off, Thad came back into the room.
“Does he think he can get it back?
“Probably not,” I said. “I didn’t even think about the fact that we don’t even know her last name.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I didn’t even think about the fact that we don’t even know her last name.”
“Manson?” he smiled.
“Probably! So now I’m out one terra cotta chicken planter full of clover. And I really liked it. I had had it since you and I lived together over on Park Street in 1995.” I sat down. “It’s just weird to know she stalked out the house and then came up on the porch while we were asleep and took it. I mean it’s creepy. Just flat creepy.”
“Well, don’t let it bother you. It’s over now.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is. I can replace it.”
And with that I started to digest the crime and make myself let go of my anger and fear over the act of thievery. But as I did the specter of my impending test results again reemerged its vile, poxy head.
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