Love With An Axe

Short Story by Holly Ellison

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My cell phone vibrates. It feels like grasshoppers hopping across my stomach. Sleep dissipates with an angry jolt. I glance at the number in a hazy fog, hitting “end” when I don’t recognize it. My head flops back onto the downy pillow, and I roll over.

Realizing that the house phone is ringing, my eyes snap open. I fumble for the receiver; my voice is groggy, cracking from sleep. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Anderson?” A woman’s voice sweeps through the phone line.

I wait for the sales pitch, ready to snap a heated rebuff at whoever is begging for money or soliciting something nobody wants. 

I’m annoyed that my nap on this quiet Saturday afternoon has been disrupted.

“This is ADT. We need to speak with Mrs. Anderson concerning an alarm.”

I arise halfway, resting on an elbow while trying to untangle the ancient phone cord. The phone slips perilously close to the edge of the night table, and I grab it before it falls. I’m now as twisted as the cord, hands trying to hold the phone and legs half off the bed. I haven’t entirely managed to sit up. My head collapses back onto the pillow.

“What’s this about?” I grunt, trying to sit up. I push the phone back and untwist myself into a sitting position.

“Are you Mrs. Anderson?” This time, the woman sounds less friendly.

“Yes,” I say, a little breathless.

“An alarm has been set off at Ms. Anderson’s house, and we’ve been trying to reach her without success. Your name is on her emergency call list.”

“I’m her mother. What kind of alarm?” I ask empty-headed.

“It seems someone has breached her side door entrance.” 

“She’s in New York at a wedding. No one’s staying at her home,” I informed the woman. Worry is starting to niggle at me. I try not to look at the images of a ransacked home forming behind my eyes.

“We’re about to alert the police, but we wanted to inform you before we do.”

“Let me try to reach her. Can you give me a minute or two?”

“Of course,” she replies, “Please call me back at this number.”

I scramble for a pen and scribble the number down on a scrap of paper; hanging up, I immediately try Maggie’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I left a message begging her to call me; otherwise, the police would be sent to her house.

I text her. “Where are you? Call me! It’s urgent!”

I wait a minute and call the woman back from ADT. She answers on the first ring.

“I can’t reach her. Call the police.”

“We’ll keep you informed,” the woman assures me. “If you hear from your daughter, please ask her to contact us right away.”

“I will.” I disconnected the call and tried Maggie thrice, leaving a more urgent message than the last with each call. Panic is now swallowing up any common sense. I text her between calls. 

“Where are you? Your house is being robbed! You need to call me!” 

Not exactly how a mother should communicate with a daughter over thirty, but I don’t care! I want to hear from her. I pace the kitchen, round and round the counter. I pace the hall, my Teacup Yorkie prancing at my feet, thinking we’re playing some sort of game. I go outside, holding my cell phone, pacing up and down the street in my slippers. If the neighbors are watching, they must think I’ve lost my mind.

My phone rings. I look at the number. It’s ADT again. I hit the answer button.

This time, the voice is a man.

“Mrs. Anderson, this is Mr. Markus at ADT. I’ve been informed that the police have discovered a male suspect sitting in your daughter’s living room. He claims he’s a friend of your daughter’s, but we can’t verify this because we haven’t reached her. Are you familiar with anyone named Bruce Fielding?”

I rack my brain. “I don’t recall anyone she knows by that name. I know a lot of her friends, but that name doesn’t sound familiar. What was he doing in her house? She’s out of town. It seems odd to me.” 

My mind has settled now that they’ve detained the robber.

“Well, that’s the thing. The police found him sitting in your daughter’s living room.” Mr. Marcus hesitates. I hear him take a deep breath and blow it out. 

“Mrs. Anderson, the police found him with an axe. He claims he isn’t a burglar, but we can’t contact your daughter, and an axe is unusual, to say the least. The police will take him in on suspicion of burglary with a deadly weapon.”

“Oh, my God! Do you think he was planning to kill her?” I screech.

“No—there’s really no evidence of that. We just wanted to keep you informed. The officer in charge will contact you, Mrs. Anderson.”

I hang up the phone, and it immediately buzzes in my hand. I look and see a text message. It’s from my daughter!

 “I’ll call you—everything’s okay!!

She must not realize that someone’s entered her home—with an axe! She could have been killed. Thank God she wasn’t home! I’ll try to convince her that her neighborhood isn’t safe and that she should move.

A minute later, Maggie is calling me. 

“Thank God I reached you! You won’t believe what’s happening!” I start.

“Mom. Mom. It’s okay!” She’s laughing.

“It’s not okay! Someone was in your house—with an axe! He could have killed you!”

“Mom, it was Bruce. The guy I started dating a few weeks ago. I just spoke with the cops. They were still at the house, thank God. I explained everything, and everything’s fine.”

“What are you talking about? Why would a guy you just met be in your house without you, and what would he need an axe for?” I scream at her. I’ve now started to pull my hair out of my head. I notice spittle flying from my mouth.

“He thought he would surprise me and chop some wood for the fireplace. He got in with the key I gave him. He thought the alarm would be off because my dog sitter came today.

When he realized the alarm was set and didn’t know the code to disarm it, he tried calling me, but I’d been helping Cindy prepare for the wedding, and my phone was charging in the hotel room. By the time I got back, I had fifteen calls from Bruce, a bunch from ADT, and a pile of calls from you. I thought someone had died!”

I had nothing to say. Stunned, I sat down. A balloon of tension deflated inside me, and I felt light and giddy. Laughter burst out with a snort.

“You’re telling me this is a guy you’re dating?”

“Yup! I feel so bad for him. I asked him why he didn’t just hightail it out of there. He told me he just sat on the couch and waited to be arrested. Sammy loves him. He got up on the couch with him and put his head on his lap. When the police arrived and saw him sitting there with the dog, they knew something wasn’t quite right. At least I called them before he was hauled out in handcuffs!”

“You sure know how to make a Saturday afternoon exciting,” I laughed.

My daughter and Bruce have been married for several years now, and yes, they still have the axe.

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Born and raised in New York, Holly was fortunate enough to live in various countries, including France, where she wrote lyrics for French singers and jingles for radio stations. Holly now enjoys retired life in Montana and continues pursuing her passion for writing, incorporating her life experiences with a little spark of fiction.