Entering Through the Narrow Gate

November 2012 The rumbling from the 6:30 am train usually woke me each morning at this same time; and from sleep that left me more tired in the morning than when I went to bed. Plagued by insomnia, I didn't think that I had ever really slept soundly. I could recall as a young child getting up in the middle of the night to draw pictures on the wall and getting punished for it the next day. My parents would eventually paint over the wall and I never understood the real damage. But in my abode now the distant sounds were so far away -- as my attention toward it increased, it seemed to be pushing and humming along outside my bedroom window. Cha-choo, cha-choo. Its pounding and barreling along reminded me of the sounds that I used to hear while growing up on a farm in Virginia. I wonder where those happy and carefree times went. Hearing the train many miles away represented the stillness and tranquility in the country. Now, suburbia here in Ohio is bustling with teenagers' loud cars and annoying music blaring from stereos. Yet, there is still in the early morning hours, birds outside my window chirping incessantly and pecking until I am too awake to go back to sleep. Neighbors constantly complain about the birds residing in the shutters, but as I've heard, birds living in or near your home is a sign of good luck, and if that's the case, then I should have a lot of it. Today was my 39th birthday—not a big birthday, but a little closer to 40... and I didn’t care. As I awoke, bleary-eyed and not ready to begin the day, I pondered what I could do today. I had no big plans. That was the problem –nothing to do since I no longer had my full-time teaching position. Just an adjunct teaching position, but something nevertheless that brought in a little spare change. I had this weird feeling that I couldn't shake that something out of the ordinary would happen, but I couldn’t fathom what. I brought my thoughts back to what I needed to do today to get my life back into some semblance of normalcy. I was planning to stay home and watch a good movie and talk to friends who would be calling me to wish me a happy birthday. And I had my miniature collie, Sylva, whose name meant “rest,” that spent hours lounging in the living room, curled up on the loveseat. I would swear that dog could understand everything that she saw on TV. If Law and Order came on, she would crouch down and put her head down, seemingly mesmerized by the action and intently pricking her ears up whenever she heard the ba-boom ,for each scene. Sylva means “rest” so the name was appropriate for a lap dog whose only skill was in discerning a person's intentions. She would convey her approval or disapproval with a lick, a slight turn of the head, and a nudge if she approved, and a grimacing of teeth if she disapproved. She also loved licking my fingers after I had just made some fried chicken. So anything she did was adorable to me and I loved her nonetheless. I was content to stay home and be alone, although secretly I wished that I had someone who would surprise me with a romantic evening with my soul mate whoever he was. But that wasn't meant to be – at least not this year. My mind was reveling in this silly fantasy when the pounding on my door and doorbell made my arms jump and my head snap from my pillow. Funny I thought, “Oh, here's the big surprise that I was just imagining and daydreaming about. Who on earth was paying me a visit?” Funny it were the man that I had been dreaming about the night before. Slightly dizzy, I pushed the blinds open just enough to see an unmarked car and two men who looked like they were here for official investigation. Looking around my bedroom, I threw on some old sweatpants and sweatshirt and rushed down the hall, panting and knowing that this was serious. In my socks, I slipped down the carpeted steps, unlocked the door to find the two men holding FBI badges –both with ominous expressions. I pretended to check out their badges but was too nervous to actually look at the details of the black and gold-lined badges set in plastic covers that they scooped in their palms as if not to allow in the neighborhood to see . . . . but still conspicuous. I unlocked the door and allowed them to come in. They simultaneously put their badges away, and pulled open the storm door that swung open on it squeaky and oily hinges. After a quick look, the men immediately put their hands in their pockets and peered at me with such inquisitiveness as if to bore a hole in my eyes. I looked the two men over wondering why they would unexpectedly show up on my doorstep . . . Two FBI agents in my home. Unable able to breathe. One breath, two breaths, three breaths. “Madison Hauck,” Yes, I nodded. The brusque man on the left said, “Ms. Hauck, we'd like to ask you some questions.” They followed me up the stairs in two seconds flat. The stout man on the left lagged behind at the door while the lean man on the right swished in and trudged up the steps behind me at an uncomfortably close distance. The bottom of his coat swished as the tips touched the back of my calves. I could feel his eyes staring at my body, and turning my head slightly over my shoulder, I could see that he was indeed checking me out from top to bottom. An agent, but still a man. And men will sneak a peek if they can. He said matter-of-factly, “We have to check out everything that is reported to us, no matter what it is –that's our duty. And we talk to a lot of people.” I said, “I bet.” I somehow implied that the other people they interviewed were different than I was. They made their way up to the steps for a series of questions that would only be the beginning of the tumult to come.