I must’ve drifted into an uneasy sleep because a loud bang wrenched me upright some time later. I looked around, disoriented, and heard another bang—coming from the direction of Mrs. Jones’s house— followed by a cut-off shout and the squeal of tires. My bedside clock read 12:30 as I unwrapped myself from the sheet. The wooden floor was cold against my bare feet as I raced toward my door. Pulling it open, I peered toward Mrs. Jones’s house. A line of vertical light slit the darkness on her veranda—her door was open. Uneasy, I headed across the yard separating my apartment from her house. Acorns and twigs cut into my feet and I hoped I didn’t stumble into a fire ant hill in the dark.
“Mrs. Jones?” I called as I got closer.
Nothing.
I put my foot onto the bottom step and felt something sticky. Oh, my God! Blood? I scrambled up the steps to push the door wider but stopped when I saw a crumpled form lying across the threshold.
Mrs. Jones.
Chapter Eight
THE OLD WOMAN LAY HALF IN, HALF OUT OF THE door, a thin form in a floral flannel robe. I knelt beside her and groped for her wrist. A pulse hammered under my fingers. Thank God. I kicked backward at the door with one foot to open it wider and get more light. I didn’t see any blood. The sticky stuff on my foot seemed to be pumpkin, and now that I looked around, I saw chunks of pumpkin scattered across the veranda and steps. I didn’t have time to figure out what had happened; I was afraid Mrs. Jones had had a heart attack. I rose and was about to enter the house to call 911 when a hand closed around my ankle. I jumped.
“Grace?”
Mrs. Jones sounded confused and querulous. I knelt again so she could see my face.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m going to call nine-one-one. I’ll be right back.” I brushed a tendril of wiry hair off her face.
“Oh, don’t bother them,” she said, pushing up on one elbow. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. “Does your chest hurt? Your left arm?”
“I haven’t had a heart attack, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, reaching up a hand. “Pull me up, there’s a dear.”
I helped her to a sitting position, still unsure about what to do.
She gathered the robe around her. “It was just the suddenness of the explosion,” she said. “I admit it gave me quite a jolt. I must have fainted. I can’t think how I came to do that; I never do so.”
“Explosion?” I was anxious to know what had happened, but first things first. “Never mind. Let me at least help you into the house and make you a cup of tea. If you won’t go to the hospital, I think I should stay with you tonight, make sure you don’t have a concussion or something.”
“That’s sweet of you, Grace,” she said as I put an arm around her waist and helped her up.
For someone who wasn’t much more than a bundle of bones, she weighed a lot. I guided her to the pink damask sofa and steadied her while she sank onto it. Spotting a crocheted afghan on the nearby love seat, I spread it around her frail form.
“You don’t need to stay,” she said. “I can call my niece Varina and she’ll be happy to come over. She’s an RN, you know. And her son is just about your age. Have I told you about him? He’s an architect.”
Even injured she was still trying to fix me up. I smiled as I studied her face. She was paler than normal, but her blue eyes were bright and her pupils seemed to be the same size. “I’ll call her,” I said, reaching for the phone.
After the phone call, I traipsed through what seemed like half a mile of halls and rooms to reach the kitchen, where I poured water into a dented copper teakettle and set it on the gas range to boil. Ransacking the cupboards, I didn’t find any tea but came across envelopes of instant hot cider. I emptied one into a mug and inhaled the tangy apple steam when I added boiling water. Carrying the steaming mug back to the parlor, I found Mrs. Jones lying on the couch, a cushion under her head, fast asleep.
Varina, a short, no-nonsense-looking woman in her early sixties, arrived before I had to make a decision about whether or not to wake Mrs. Jones to make sure she was all right. “That cider will hit the spot,” she said, taking the mug from me. She gazed fondly down at Mrs. Jones. “Aunt Genny’s going to have to slow down one of these days, but I don’t want to be the one to have to tell her!”
I told her as much as I knew about what had happened and she nodded her gray head. “Halloween pranksters, no doubt. I raised three boys of my own and it’s a wonder they got to adulthood with all their parts still attached and no police record.” She took a noisy sip of cider. “Boys just don’t understand the damage some of their ‘funny’ pranks can do. You go on back to bed, Grace. I’ll take care of things here.”