It was a dark and stormy night....

It was a dark and stormy night...  What a trite phrase. It calls to mind campy old movies featuring fearful, defenseless women trapped in a spooky house while the thunder crashes and the knife-wielding murderer slashes.

When I was in high school, I worked part-time at the same restaurant as my mother. It was a pretty good setup because we only needed one vehicle to get back and forth. On a Saturday night, we headed home from the regular 5-9 shift. It was probably 9:30 by the time we left, having everything cleaned up and put away leaving the restaurant ready for the breakfast crowd. 

A fierce storm has blown up, and we drive with extra caution as the wind buffets the car and horizontal sheets of rain beckon us to follow them off the road. At home, the rain has intensified. 

We are faced with a 30-yard dash through the deluge. This involves a Herculean leap over a large puddle where water pools on the slab in front of the garage because over time the cement has settled some. Up one shallow step, through the gate, and a mad race up the sidewalk under wildly whipping tree limbs while nonstop lightning illuminates our path. The biggest challenge is right before the steps up to the door. During my entire life, the gutter has never had a downspout attached to it. The opening is at the corner of the house and water pours out of it onto the sidewalk. Even in a gentle rain a lot of water rolls off the roof. On this night, the cataract resembles the release of floodgates at a reservoir.

I splash behind the curtain of water, which is shooting clear across the walkway. Water is two or three inches deep because it can't flow away from the house as fast as it is gushing out of the gutter. Efforts to avoid puddles have been in vain as cold water floods my shoes. I take the steps in one stride and yank the door open. Mom is right behind me with her head down, clutching her purse and the strings of a plastic rain bonnet protecting her hairdo. Up two more steps and into the kitchen where we stand dripping on the spotless linoleum.

Mom kicks out of her orthopedic support shoes that waitresses and nurses everywhere wear while I toe my soggy white tennies off.  Shivering, we blot our faces and arms on kitchen hand towels, and I help Mom with her zipper as she shrugs out of her sodden uniform. I am reaching behind my back for my own zipper when

BANG BANG BANG.

Someone, disregarding the torrential downpour, is beating on the outer storm door.

Mere seconds have passed since we got out of the car. Our driveway is half a mile long. There were no headlights behind us. No strange vehicles lurked in the circle turn-around in front of the garage. I glance out the window over the sink trying to spy another car, but it's raining so hard I can't even see the garage.

Mom is in her slip and pantyhose, and I read headlines of murdered women in her expression. Thoughts of the Clutter family streak through my mind. A shriek escapes my lips before she shushes me.

Not only is a storm raging; we are also all alone. My father and brother left earlier in the day for a weekend fishing/camping trip. Her horrified expression scares me more than the racket outside. Lightning, followed by another deafening clap of thunder that rattles the windows, reveals two indistinct shapes on the steps. The kitchen wall facing the door is all windows, and my first instinct is to turn off the light so whoever is out there can't see in. Adrenaline surges through my veins as my body prepares to defend itself.

Pasting on an expression that says whatever is out there should be more afraid of her than she is of it, Mom flicks the switch for the outdoor light and yanks the kitchen door open just in time to witness my dad and brother trying to squeeze through the storm door at the same time.

"I knew it was you!" she yells at Dad as he elbows onto the landing in front of my little brother and kicks off his boots. "No self-respecting burglar or rapist would have knocked on the door."