Decision made, I walked to the shed. An ancient padlock dangled across the side-by-side door handles but wasn’t locked. When I pulled it off I saw it was so rusted that it probably hadn’t been usable for years. I looped it through the handle attached to the jamb and opened the door.
The inside looked like every shed in Florida. A beach umbrella and sand chair leaned in one corner. A spare propane tank was tucked into another. Rakes, trowels and a broom hung from a Peg-Board, while spray bottles of mold remover, tins of fire ant poison and a bag of garden fertilizer sat on a shelf. The only possible source of information was a stack of newspapers on a moldy, lopsided wooden table. I stepped through the doorway. Whomp! I felt a ferocious smack to the back of my head. I dropped forward, landing on all fours. The door closed behind me. There was a vague scraping noise I couldn’t identify. For a few woozy seconds I thought a rough wind gusted in from the Gulf and slammed the flimsy door shut, knocking me down. But I knew that couldn’t be right.
I tried to get up but my legs were unsteady. Standing wouldn’t be an option for a minute or two. I rummaged through my purse and patted my pockets looking for my cell phone. I’d left it in the car. Stretched out on the floor, I must have looked like Gulliver invading Lilliput to the dusty green salamander who stopped to look me straight in the eye before he scurried behind the sand chair.
And then I heard the hiss and noticed the sharper-than-gasoline smell of propane. I pulled myself up, leaning heavily on the old wooden table, which creaked ominously as it rocked on uneven legs. I knew I should check the propane tank, but the door was a couple of feet closer. With one hand on the table I took a wobbly step and reached out to push the door open. It was stuck. I moved closer and, mustering up what little strength I had, pushed with both hands. The door was definitely blocked.
The propane smell was getting stronger, so shutting off the tank became my new priority. I shuffled to the tank and leaned close until I isolated the hissing sound. It was coming from the valve, which, no matter how hard I tried to turn it, was stuck. My lungs began to gasp for air. My head was pounding. Last thing I wanted to do was die in Delia Batson’s shed. My brain started to fog and I fleetingly wondered if Bridgy would bury me with Ophie’s buttermilk pie recipe.
If I couldn’t turn off the tank, I would have to get the door open. I threw my weight against it a couple of times. It moved enough for me to see the smallest sliver of daylight between the door and the jamb, but it wouldn’t open.
I pressed my face against the tiny gap and tried to breathe clean air from outside the shed. I imagined I could smell salt wafting inland from the Gulf. I called for help, all the while banging on the door. If any of Delia’s neighbors heard me, they must have thought I was someone’s television with the sound turned way up. No one came. No one so much as yelled for quiet. I was dog tired and not able to think clearly. Involuntarily I slid to the floor. Then I saw a window at the back of the shed, too high for me to reach. Its frame was touching the garage, but if I could break the glass, that would let some air in, or at least let some gas out. I struggled to stand up on my rubbery legs.
Finally I was standing. I leaned against the door and looked for something that would smash the glass in a window so high over my head. I wasn’t lucky enough to spot a toolbox. The thumping in my head was getting louder. The rake or the broom. Either should do it. I bobbed and weaved my way to the back of the shed, first holding on to the table and then grabbing the broom off the Peg-Board and using it, brush end down, as a walking stick. The few feet to the window seemed like miles. It was harder and harder to breathe.
I’d have to hold the broom in both hands and aim for the pane that seemed to have the most room between it and the garage wall, the bottom left.
I held the broom like a spear and bounced it against the glass. When I pushed, the window moved with the broomstick and bounced back. Vinyl. The windowpanes were vinyl.
I looked around for a screwdriver, gardening shears. I needed a sharp point. No luck. My breathing was shallower and my arms and legs were feeling heavy. Cady. As soon as Cady heard my message, he would come. He’d get me out of here. I turned and in a determined fury stabbed the broom handle at the edge of the door right where the sliver of air and hope was, and shouted, “Cady. Come and find me.”