And I was quite annoyed since whoever it was probably wasn’t heeding my semi-miraculous “No soliciting” sign. (Miraculous when it works.)
Since I still haven’t managed to train my puppies not to run at bark at the doorbell, they called, “There’s someone here, Mom!” as though I didn’t already know from the doorbell.
So much for hiding until they leave.
“Is it someone you know?” I always ask them.
“No,” they said.
At that point, since only a deaf person would believe no one was home, I peeked out the window. I’ve been known to brazenly ignore salesmen even when I know full well they know we’re home. I even walked openly past the window once, until the dude, after several rings, finally took the hint and left.
Not my finest moment.
Or was it?
But when I peeked this time, I knew I had to open the door. There was a cop, with the cop car in the driveway just to confirm.
I opened the door and greeted him with, “This can’t be good.”
He didn’t flinch, but he looked a bit sad, which made me nervous. Was this the visit I always feared? Did I need to shoo my children to their rooms and tell them to shut the door? (In other scenarios I tell them to run out the back door, hop the fence and high-tail it to a neighbor’s house. But not this scenario.)
He checked his clip board. “Do you know a Roger Jones?” (Not the real name.)
“I’ve never heard of that person,” I said, looking him in the eye and feeling inexplicably guilty. I HAD never heard of him, but I couldn’t help worrying that my discomfort made me look like I was lying, kind of like at church when your pastor decries some evil and you shuffle in your seat even though you know full well you’re innocent.
“May I ask how long you’ve been at this address?”
“Hmm.” He checks his paper again. Apparently that didn’t add up.
Are my armpits sweating? Why am I sweating?
Then he tells me that Roger was involved in a hit and run. (Shame! Shame on you, Roger!) And this was the address listed.
I screw my lips to the side. “No, that can’t be right.”
He seems to believe me. Phew! He puts a hand up as if to say, Thanks for your time.
I say, “So my husband didn’t die in a car accident?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “No, you’re fine.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “Good luck,” I tell him, but I don’t feel truly settled until he drives away five minutes later.
When I relayed this story to my husband and got to the part when the cop said my husband was fine, the hubs said, “Did you add, ‘Good because my husband’s name is Roger’?”
I laughed. “No, but that would’ve been hilarious!”
He said, “I’m sure the cop wouldn’t have thought so.”
Good thing I didn’t think of saying that. I might’ve been tempted.
Have cops ever showed up at your door? What happened? Nothing horrible, I hope.