Up her blouse my fingers crawl, the flesh of a woman half my age.  Just as I’m about to seal the deal, just when there’s no way out, my wife knees me dead center in the spine.

            “Dammit, Bonnie,” I say, turning over, pressing the pillow against my head.  “I could kill you.”

            “It’s my RLS,” she snaps, massaging her calves.

            Her Restless Legs Syndrome hits hardest on Sunday nights.  Already twice this month she’s kicked me out of sleep when it counts.  If my wife were a guy I’d tell her just what she’s done, how I came this close to doing the girl from the iPhone commercial.

            “Will you get me some water?” Bonnie asks.  “My legs are buzzing.”

            I mash my face into the pillow, willing the return of Lady iPhone.  The sharp feather quills prick my forehead.

            “Chip?”

            “Okay, okay.”  Without touching, I reach across her body and grab the plastic Red Sox cup, the player featured on the side now a Dodger.  When Bonnie’s down with RLS she’s twitchy, too manic to rest comfortably.  Some nights she’ll punch her legs into submission.  She’s told me how the “creepy-crawlies” live deep inside her bones, that barring an amputation she was cursed.  Since college, doctors have told her RLS is nothing more than a nuisance, that it’s no cause for concern, but Bonnie believes the bugs will one day find her brain.

            The seashell clock in the bathroom reads 2:00 am.  Four hours from now I’ll be shivering in the shower, wishing for a bar of Irish Spring instead of the mushy eco-friendly soap Bonnie gets at Whole Foods.  Our toothpaste comes from Maine, the washcloths all the way from Ireland.  My beloved Fenway Franks have been replaced by Tofu Pups, cow’s milk with soy.  In the kitchen we have six bins and counting, not one of them meant for trash.  Waste as she calls it goes in the compost crate outside.  This green movement began in earnest six months ago after Bonnie’s second miscarriage.  Two weeks following that loss she quit institutional sales for good, cashing in over fifteen years worth of stock options, an almost-millionaire at forty.  If I were to retire now I’d go black not green, nine to five spent in the garage painting model boats all day, drunk as a Billy Goat.

            “Can I shut your light now?” I ask, placing the cup on her bedside table.  Bonnie looks at me like she’s bored, like I’m lima beans.  I spin the lampshade.  “Bonnie?”

            “Go ahead,” she says, washing down her RLS meds.

            I click off the lamp, but can still see the whites of her eyes, my shadow against the headboard.  Our bedroom is aglow.  “Is it a full moon tonight?” I ask.

            “It wasn’t a half hour ago.”

            “I can see you,” I say, raising my arm up and down.  “Can you see me?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            I look out the bedroom window, the only one upstairs.  The sky is empty.

            “What is it?” she asks.

            “Someone’s here.”

Bonnie’s sitting upright like she does when she reads in bed, pillows stuffed behind her neck and back.  Outside, the headlights shine above our fence, against the cedar shingles where the downstairs meets the upstairs.  I spot the rectangular trench Bonnie dug out last weekend to make way for Spring flowers.  Without any growth it looks like a grave.

            “It’s a pickup truck,” I say, peering through the window.  The truck’s parked on the lawn, ten feet off the driveway.  I can hear the gurgling sound of the diesel engine.  “He’s going to kill the grass.”

            “We don’t know anybody with a pickup,” Bonnie says, biting her fingernails.  “Can you see inside?”

            I squint between the blinds, my back to her.  “No.”

            Bonnie takes her water cup, but doesn’t drink, just rolls it around her fingertips.  I can hear her ring tapping against the plastic.  “Did you lock the basement door?”

            I nod, but this is a lie.  The lock is tricky, a real hassle when you’re in a rush.  It takes several minutes to finagle and last night I was too tired to fight.

            “Did you, Chip?”

            “I bet it’s a drunk high schooler,” I say.  “Dazed and confused.”

            “No one comes up here by accident,” she says.

            This is true.  Our driveway is a two hundred yard snake, a fifteen degree incline from the main road to our basement door.  Even Pizza King won’t deliver here unless the order’s over twenty-five dollars.  We moved to the woods after Bonnie got pregnant the first time, our Back Bay condo unsuitable for a family of three.  Out here the closest neighbor is a half mile south, thousands of trees away.  Sometimes the only sounds I hear are the rumblings of my own body.  Even though my commute into Boston’s an hour each direction, it’s worth it to live out of mankind’s sight.  Every day I get to pee outside.

            “You should go down there,” she says.

            “What for?”

            “Because it’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” I say.

            The driver’s side widow unrolls—an object goes airborne.  The motion light above the garage flicks on as glass explodes across the driveway.  In that flash I can see the truck is grey. 

The motion light extinguishes.  “What was that?” Bonnie says, hugging her knees.

            “Probably a beer bottle.”

            “I’m calling the police.”

            “No,” I say, ducking beneath the window, crawling towards her in bed.  I yank the phone from her hand and tuck it in my waistband.  “I’m not going to be the laughing stock of the police blotter.”

            “Then what?”

            The truth is I’d rather hide under the bed and pray, but I don’t want to collapse in front of Bonnie.  “I’ll go down there,” I say.

            “Bullshit.”

             “I’ll scare him off.”

            “Just bring up Boo,” she tells me.  “He’s all alone down there.”

            Boo’s our Dachshund, the love of our lives.  Raking a season’s worth of leaves the November before last, Bonnie discovered him hiding beneath the porch, his long hair matted and thin. We didn't think he'd ever stop trembling from the cold.  That weekend we had him dolled up by a groomer in Marblehead where I bought him a fifty dollar argyle sweater.  Bonnie ordered baby bottles full of salmon oil which promised to fortify his ailing joints, but last weekend he had reconstructive surgery on his hind legs, which is why he’s now in a crate downstairs instead of between us in bed.  We tried to keep him up here, but it killed him (and us) to be within sight and out of touch.  Come spring he’ll prance around like a puppy according to Dr. Engstrom, but until then he needs to be still so he can heal.  In May we plan on bringing him to Bar Harbor so his inaugural steps can take place on the beach.

            “Why are you changing?” Bonnie asks.

            I zip up my jeans.  “I’m not going to confront anyone wearing plaid pajama bottoms,” I say, digging through my tee-shirt drawer in search of something tough.

            Another bottle breaks—smaaaaaash.  I picture a forty ounce Budweiser in smithereens.

            “Forget this,” she says, kicking off the covers, “I’ll go down there myself.”

            I pick out a chocolate brown Hard Rock Café tank top.  “Wait, I got it now.”

            The room blackens.  “Whoa,” Bonnie says.

            I try and make her out, but I can’t even see my hands.  “What happened?” 

            “The headlights went out,” she whispers.  “They turned off.”

            “Maybe he drove away.”  I tip-toe over the carpet.  With my fingers pressed to my lips I pause before the wall, vowing to do better if only he’ll be gone.

            “Is he still there?”

            I’m about to say no when the inside of the truck illuminates, two beards ablaze beneath cigarette tips.

            “Chip?”

            “Yeah,” I say, fingernailing my gums, “they’re there.”

            “They?”

            “There’s two of them.”

            Bonnie charges for the door.  “Where you going?” I whisper-shout.

            “Down to get Boo.”

            “Get back here,” I call, but she’s already to the stairs.

            A truck door slams shut, then another.  Suddenly I can hear like a bat—Bonnie’s feet scraping across the kitchen floor, her soles still swollen from running the Cape Ann Marathon.  When she gets back I’ll explain how real criminals prefer to sneak up on you, catch you while you’re sleeping, that these guys are too loud, too obvious with their headlights and beer bottles.  They’re as scared of us as we are them, I’ll tell her.  This isn’t how these things go.

            “I can tell he’s freaked,” Bonnie says, placing Boo’s crate on the bed.  “He knows something’s wrong.”

            “Jesus, nothing’s wrong yet,” I say.  “He’s on a ton of meds.  He doesn’t have a clue.”

            I still can’t see her well, our bedroom only a shade above pitch.  And this is for the best because Bonnie’s dread is contagious.  When I panic during airplane turbulence, she stays calm as a stewardess, able to breeze through SkyMall while I assume crash position and recite the Lord’s Prayer.  But if she were to ever show me a hint of alarm I wouldn’t even bother with Our Father because I’d know we’re fucked.

            Backing away from the window, I crouch before the bed, before Boo’s cage.  I inhale his floppy ears, the aroma better than any bakery.  He’s too sedated to lick my face so I massage his neck, saving the smell for later.  I could live in Boo.

            Glass shatters, the sound of a dropped xylophone.  Someone shouts fuck.

            “Oh my God they’re in the basement,” Bonnie says, slapping my head.  “That damn door.”

            I snag her cell from my pocket and dial 911.  As it rings I really hope Bonnie understands that even had I locked the door last night it wouldn’t have mattered to men who punch through window panes.

When the operator says 911, I whisper hurrrrrrrrry. 

            “Let’s jump out the window,” Bonnie says.

Without hanging up, I set down the phone.  “It’s too high,” I say.  “We’ll splatter.” 

            “Why don’t we have a gun like everybody else?”

In the dark I grab Bonnie’s goose-bumped arms, my lips against her ear.  “Listen, you and Boo hide in the crawl space by the dormer.  I’ll lock you inside the eaves.”

            “God, what do they want?”

            The thermostat clicks off.  The heat vents hush, the electricity cut.  Bonnie pinches my sides.  “Shhh,” I plead, pressing my face into her hair.

            Up close she smells like lavender, like the Peaceful Mama Tea we drank during both pregnancies.  We were saints then, not a drop of alcohol from conception to miscarriage, but two baby bungles in a row have convinced her she has a misshapen uterus, certain that’s why she can’t bear a child, though Bonnie’s had four opinions and not one of them has confirmed her diagnosis.  I’ve tried to cheer her up by delving into the abstract, citing metaphysical happenstance, stressing how reason can defy explanation, but when it comes to rejection Bonnie’s response is pugilistic.

            Now we only screw when the fertility monitor flashes green, a signal in decline.  Since the last foul up I wonder if the blame is mine, my own polluted mess.  Even though the doctors assured us I have plenty of sperm per millimeter of semen, I sense my swimmers might be handicapped.  Back in seventh grade I was infamous for stuffing bowls full of pot seeds once the bag was finished.  No one ever wanted a hit off that pipe, warning I’d fry my balls haywire.  In middle school I was six inches shorter than I am now, fifty pounds lighter, a body in bloom.  I should’ve waited until after I’d broken through my cocoon, at least until high school.  Never have I confessed to Bonnie the extent of my early-early drug use—the seeds, the acid trips on Halibut Point, the ecstasy sleepovers.  Yeah, it’s all in the past, over a decade before I even met her, but in the dark I suspect those childish stunts led us here.

            “Jesus, Chip, where are you?”

            “I’m thinking.”

            “Stop thinking,” she says, poking my chest.  “What are you gonna do while we’re in the eaves?”

            “I guess I’ll have to kill them.”

Inside the eaves Bonnie sits Indian style.  Next to her is Boo’s cage and the squat filing cabinet containing years worth of tax returns and our honeymoon pictures from Haiti.  Back then we eschewed the idea of a vacation—we wanted to sleep on dirt and save the world!  Now, ten years later, it’s rum punches at Sandals Jamaica.

            “Don’t ever come out.”

            “This can’t be it,” Bonnie says, shaking her head.  “No way.”

            I reach in and squeeze her thigh, the muscles taut.  “How’re your legs?”

            “Numb.”

            The door at the base of the stairs cracks open; I push her deeper into the eaves.

            “Where the fuck’s 911?” she asks.

            I begin to close her inside.  “They’re coming.” 

            “I cheated on you,” she blurts, keeping the cubby door open with her foot.  “More than once.”

            I tell her it’s okay, that I figured as much, that she really needs to stay quiet now.

            “I never did it in our house,” she continues.

I tell her I can forgive her.

            “I’m not apologizing, Chip.”

            “So what then?”

            “So maybe what’s happened inside me hasn’t been your fault.”

“Shut up,” I whisper, shutting her in, a sliver of space keeping us in touch.  “They’re almost here.”

            “Maybe they don’t know we’re home,” Bonnie says.

            “They know.”

            She taps the cubby door.  “Come in with me.”

            “We’ll be sitting ducks.”

            “Come in anyway.”

            The bathroom faucet turns on, the one closer to the tub; Bonnie’s sink.  I hear them rummage through our toiletry bags.

            “Who was it?” I ask.  “Who was the guy?”

            “Which time?”

            “Jesus,” I say, wishing I’d taken the same chance.  “Do I know any of them?”

            “No.”

            I point at the door, though she can’t see me anymore.  “Are these them?”

            The faucet turns off.  One of them coughs, then spits somewhere.  I imagine the rugged work boots of big men, denim overalls and greasy fingers.  What my wife says next I can’t decipher, my ears on the men approaching our door.  I leave her and Boo behind.

            From inside the drawer of my bedside table I find Atlas Shrugged, a novel I’ve been trying to finish for years.  Only a few chapters remain and this now hits me like failure.  The goddam book is over a thousand pages long, a veritable tour de force, the only decent hand weapon in our bedroom.  When I was a teenager I kept a Rambo knife underneath the mattress, when it was just my mom and me.  I remember every little nighttime noise shook me after my father left.  The summer of ’85 I even paid for an alarm system with the money I earned schlepping the New Haven Register door to door.  Toking on a joint, my mom told me I was too young to worry so much, that it wasn’t healthy for a boy my age, but women can’t see it’s them who deliver us with fear, their labor screams forever ringing in our ears.

            The thin stream of a flashlight shines under the bedroom door, over my pale toes.  Sirens wail down Pleasant Street, the sound of salvation only minutes away, and I hope like hell Bonnie can hear this rescue in the cubby.  High above my head I hold Atlas Shrugged like a bludgeon.  One of them knocks on the door, a curiously polite rap of knuckles.  I hear a TV turn on, the shrill sound of infomercials blaring from the guest room, the space Bonnie plans to convert into a healing studio.  As I thumb up and down the book’s binding, it strikes me how this bedroom is the only place that’s ours, the one area we share entirely.  No one but Boo’s ever been in here, our bare feet the only skin to touch this carpet.  And it’s this sudden point of privacy which compels me to open the door.

            I trip over their big feet and bang into my mother-in-law’s Shaker end table.  The Chinese lamp we bought in Toronto shatters as it hits the ground, the hallway a black hole of flesh and bone.  Then it’s hands over my eyes and mouth, palms that stink of campfires.  They grunt like pigs as they try and tame me. 

When my fingers find the banister I swear I’ve made it, freedom only a short flight of stairs away.  The cops will shoot them and like Redwoods these men will fall.  Tomorrow I’ll take a personal day from work, drive an hour north to that diner Bonnie likes in New Hampshire, the only place she’s ever found gingerbread waffles.  I’ll order a four-egg omelet full of brie cheese, a black and white shake for us to share.  Maybe then she’ll let me forgiver her.  Maybe we’ll see tonight was just what we needed. 

And I buy this happy ending right until I’m pried loose from the banister, my windpipe kinked like cheap hose.

Stay quiet, Bonnie.