There Could Be Tigers

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There Could Be Tigers
By Doris Ruth Mackey

         I met Jason Cantor four years ago when I moved to New York City. He was a quiet man with a frightened look in his pale blue eyes.

         The first time we met was by the mailboxes, as he was picking up his mail. When I said,"Hello," he jumped, dropping his keys and mail on the floor. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Casey O'Hannan. I just moved in today." He smiled, thanked me for helping him pick up his things and then he hurried into the elevator.

         "That's Mr. Jason Cantor, and I'm Mike Felter." I turned to see a tall man in a black overcoat extending his hand to me. As we shook hands he continued speaking, "He's a strange one. He always acts like he is going to jump out of his skin. I don't think he ever leaves the building."

         "Oh, he must leave to shop for groceries, run errands or go to work."

         "Nope. He works in his apartment, and has everything delivered."

         My curiosity was piqued, and Mike seemed eager to tell all he knew. "What's he do for a living?"

         "He writes books of some sort, mysteries or something, not that I've ever read any of them."

         Jason Cantor, I thought. The name sounded familiar; he wrote murder mysteries. I wanted to know more. "Why doesn't he ever go out?"

         "Don't know. You might try asking him, that is if you can get him to talk." Then with a grin Mike added, "I've noticed he uses the laundry room on Monday nights, when it's empty, and he picks up his mail once a week on Fridays."

         I said goodbye to Mike, and headed back to my apartment. I was determined to get to know Jason Cantor. I laughed to myself as I thought how Mike had made that last bit of information sound as though he was daring me to do it.

         On Monday I watched through the peep-hole in my door to see Cantor taking his laundry into the elevator. I allowed enough time for him to get his wash started; after all I didn't want him to be able to run off. I had it carefully planned. I put a copy of his last book on top of the clothes in my basket; I hoped to use it to open a conversation.

         When I entered the laundry room, he was sitting in the corner writing in a loose leaf binder. He looked up as I walked in, so I took a quick breath and started, "Hello. Remember me? I'm Casey, your neighbor in 805."

         He smiled and nodded, then went back to writing.

         I kept talking as I put my wash into the machine by the door, "I moved in about a week ago. When we met Friday, I didn't realize who you were. I love your work," I held up the book.

         He looked up and smiled again, but this time he spoke, "Thanks." He paused, then added, "Would you like me to sign it?"

         "Yes, I was hoping you would." I handed him the book, and as he signed it I continued, "I've read every book you've written. Are you working on a new one?" I pointed at the binder.

         "I'm just making notes," he said as he picked up the binder. "Just a few ideas, maybe I'll find another story in them."

         The rest of our conversation was about writing and his books. I had found the key. I made a point of doing laundry on Monday nights, and I found reasons to be coming or going from the building, and passing the mailboxes on Fridays when he picked up his mail. At first we only exchanged nods, but more and more he would stop to talk. After a few weeks it was clear; I had won a friend. Finally, I invited him across the hall to my apartment for dinner. He hesitated before answering, but accepted the invitation.

         Dinner was nothing fancy. I made a roasted chicken, some vegetables and potatoes,but for dessert my specialty, black forest cake. I had to admit, I really liked the guy, and wanted to impress him. I made sure to have all his books prominently displayed, and I was glad that I would be able to honestly say I had read them all, more than once.

         The door bell rang, and when I opened the door, he was standing there holding a cardboard box. "I believe," he began, "that when one comes to dinner, it is customary to bring a gift for the hostess. I didn't have any wine, but I thought if you like to cook, you might like this." He held the box so I could look inside, and see that it held a planter with an assortment of herbs.

         "Thank you, Jason. It's a beautiful gift, and I have just the place for it, by the window in the kitchen."

         The evening went well. After dinner, we sat and talked. We found we had many more things in common than just a love of mystery stories. Dinner together became a weekly thing; sometimes in my apartment, sometimes in his. We both began to look forward to these evenings together.

         For three months, we talked about many things,but I could never bring myself to ask why he never left the building. Then one evening when he came over for dinner, he seemed nervous. I was puzzled, because I thought we had gotten past that. "What's wrong, Jason? You seem upset."

         "It's nothing, I'm just a little distracted tonight." He sat down on the sofa and stared at the floor. I sat down next to him, and urged him to tell me what was wrong. "My publisher wants me to do a book signing for my new book," he began, still staring at the floor." He says my fans should get to know me, the author. I've told him I can't do it, but he's insisting. I tried to explain, but I don't know how to make him understand that it's not possible."

         I felt sorry for him, now I had to ask, "Jason, I've never asked you before, but why don't you ever leave the building?"

         He looked into my eyes, as though he was deciding if he should answer, "I'm afraid."

         "Afraid? What do you mean?"

         "Every now and then, I do try to go out, when I go out; I start to shake. I feel like I can't breathe, and I feel so panicky, I can't think."

         I put my hand on his arm as he talked,"It sounds like agoraphobia. People with this problem can get help. You don't have to live like this."

         He shook his head, "It's not agoraphobia. I'm just too afraid to go out."

         "What are you afraid of?"

         He went back to staring at the floor, "If I tell you what I'm afraid of you will think I'm crazy."

         "Try me."

         "Tigers. I'm afraid of tigers. I know it's ridiculous, but that's it. I have this recurring dream. I'm walking down the street, and suddenly there he is, all gold and black with fiery eyes. I start to run, and the tiger pounces. There is blinding pain and I wake up screaming. When I try to go out, I keep feeling as though he's watching me, getting ready to attack." He looked up at me. "There now, you think I'm crazy. Don't you?"

         "Jason, you do realize that it's just a dream. You know there are no tigers running loose in the city."

         "Of course I know!" He stood up and began pacing back and forth, "It doesn't change how I feel."

         "I understand that," I said as I took hold of his hand. He sat down again next to me. "Jason, you need help. Will you let me help you?"

         I got him to agree to see a doctor friend of mine; provided of course I could get the doctor to come to him. I also got him to promise to take daily walks with me.

         I'll never forget that first walk. As we rode down in the elevator, he began telling me about the book he was writing. He was very excited about this book and continued talking as we walked down the street. When we had gone a little less than two blocks, he became very quiet. He was shaking and nervously looking around. His voice was barely audible, "Casey, I can't go any farther. I have to go back."

         As we walked back to the building, I kept trying to reassure him that everything was going to be all right. In spite of his fear, he didn't try to back out of his promise to take those walks with me. He kept trying.

         After a number of sessions with the doctor and some medication for anxiety, he began going to the doctor's office for his appointments. From that point onward, he made real progress and was soon able to go out and do the things we all find so routine and easy. He told me that he had even stopped having the dream.

         His publisher was very pleased. When Jason finished his next book, he not only was able to do a local signing; he also traveled to other cities for signings, interviews and other things related to his writing. As our friendship was growing, I went with him on these trips.

         It was on one of these trips that he asked me to marry him and I said yes without any hesitation. We planned our wedding for June. The day we bought the tickets for our honeymoon, he waved them in the air saying, "Look at this. Not so long ago I couldn't even leave my apartment, and now we're going to Europe."

         The wedding and honeymoon were story book perfect. When we returned to New York City, we moved into Jason's apartment. We were so happy and sure that we were going to, as they say in so many stories, live happily ever after.

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         We continued our habit of taking walks together. The day it happened, we were taking one of our daily walks, holding hands and talking. We had gone only two blocks. Suddenly Jason stopped walking, he held tightly to my arm pulling me back. I looked at his face. He was pale and his eyes were wide and staring. He whispered, "Casey, don't move." When I looked where he was looking, I couldn't believe my eyes. There was a tiger, a real live tiger. Jason continued whispering, "When I tell you to run, run back three doors down to the deli and get inside."

         "But Jason, what are you going to do?"

         "Don't worry, just do as I say. You get inside as fast as you can. Whatever happens, promise me, you'll do it."

         "All right, Jason, I promise."

         "Get ready," he let go of my arm and began edging to the left. The big cat's eyes followed him as he moved. When Jason was about ten feet away from me, he yelled, "Casey, run!" and he began running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. The tiger followed him.

         I couldn't move. It was as though I was frozen to the ground. I watched as Jason ran for his life. He tripped and fell. The tiger sprang into the air. I heard myself screaming, and then I heard guns firing. I turned and saw two police officers with guns drawn.

         I ran to Jason. He was sitting on the ground staring at the tiger lying only inches away from him. Except for a broken ankle, he was fine. The tiger was dead.

         A few hours later, when we had returned from the hospital, Jason sat on the couch with his broken ankle propped up on pillows. He put his loose leaf binder and pen down on the coffee table and started laughing.

         "Ok Jason, let me in on it. What's so funny?"

         "I was thinking," he said, "that I should write about our little adventure, but if I were to put it in one of my books, people would say, 'That's not possible. It couldn't happen.'"

         "But it did happen."

         Laughing even harder, he caught hold of my hand and pulled me down beside him on the couch, "Yes, it did happen and I hope you've learned a lesson from it."

         I was puzzled. "And what lesson would that be?"

         "Well, my love, the next time someone tells you that there could be tigers, you had better believe him."


2,109 words

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