Strange Perceptions Read Online Free PDF

get a migraine from bifocals.
    Glasses on, vision clear, Esther verified, yes indeed, a boy stood on her neighbor’s house. He was on the roof’s peak, one hand on hip, the other pointing a sword to the sky. The boy wore red tights, with a blue cape fluttering in the wind.
    He couldn’t have appeared in a flash of light. Ludicrous. It must have been the sun playing tricks on her eyes.
    Esther shook her head. Boys will be boys. Playing super heroes was harmless, but not on a roof. If he fell he’d break his neck.
    She removed her glasses, dropping them to her chest, and crossed the kitchen to the telephone. “I better ring the Chapmans, George. Tell them what their boy … what’s his name? Jimmy? No. Similar to Jimmy.”
    She spoke to a small, aged, framed photo on the wall of man in uniform, George Smythe, her childhood sweetheart. George had never come home from the war. They never married. They didn’t grow old together.
    “Billy. That’s it. Billy Chapman. Didn’t know he was back from hospital. Poor dear. Good news he’s home though, but he shouldn’t be up on the roof. Not in his condition. Oh dear, now I can’t recall just what type of cancer he had.”
    She stood lost in thought for a moment.
    Now what was I doing? Must remember to call the repairman.
    The Grants had been kind enough to lend her a space heater while her furnace was on the blink. She heated her bedroom at night with it.
    Did I leave the heater on?
    She noticed the telephone. “Oh yes. Call the Chapmans.”
    She put on her up-close glasses and opened her address book to the letter C. She ran a finger down the list to the name Chapman, and dialed the number, double-checking each digit as she dialed.
    Ring.
    Leukemia. That was the cancer.
    Ring.
    Nice family. A boy and girl, man and wife. A good balance.
    Ring.
    Good neighbors. Quiet neighbors. She always bought the candy the kids sold for school or scouts or what have you. Even though she couldn’t stomach sweets anymore.
    Ring. "We're sorry. We're unable to come to the phone—"
    Esther disconnected. “Bloody machines for everything these days.” She caught herself. “Sorry George.”
    She went back to the window above the sink and swapped eye glasses. The boy still stood in the same spot, posing, like a hood ornament on an automobile.
    She’d have to go over there herself and tell the boy to get down.
    Esther made sure the stove’s burner was off for the second time since taking up the kettle. One couldn’t be too careful. Did I turn the electric heater off?
    She fetched her jacket from the hall cupboard and her purse from the kitchen counter into which she placed the photo of George. Ever since Margerie Kimball’s flat was burgled eight years prior, Esther never left home without George. She eyed the umbrella hanging next to the door. It wasn’t raining; it was sunny—wasn’t it? No matter. Umbrellas were always handy. She grabbed it and hooked it over her arm before working the door locks.
    Going to ask Billy Chapman to get down from the roof. He had Leukemia. I live at Number 18 Eddington Way. If you repeated facts and actions in your mind it kept you mentally sharp. Years ago she had learned the trick from her dear friend Edith, God rest her.
    Before removing the door chain Esther checked the stove’s burner again. Can’t be too careful. She looked through the door’s peephole. No stranger lurked on the doorstep. She stepped outside, put on her far-away glasses, and looked up and down the street. No neighbors working in their gardens and, most important, no ne’er-do-wells lay in wait. Across the street, the boy still stood on the house, sword extended.
    Going to ask Billy Chapman to get down from the roof. He had Leukemia.
    Esther switched to her up-close glasses, closed and locked her front door. She removed a toothpick from her purse and stuck it in the doorjamb, beneath the middle hinge. Another trick from Edith. The toothpick would fall if anyone opened the door