Saturday Morning
by Dennis Phillips
Under the evened dawn of a massive lenticular cloud, a man who wants to forgive you
walks the early streets of an orderly neighborhood. Orange blossom scents the cold air.
His feet move slowly.
So far he has knocked on dozens of doors, waking startled sleepers from their
dreams of comfort and conquest. Most shout at him through closed and bolted doors to go
away. A few peer at him through windows, and, shaken at the fright they see in his face,
slip into the recesses of their homes.
Inevitably the authorities are called. They arrive in a phalanx of cars marked and
plain. Red and blue lights and the crackling of official radios create a tableau where
before there had been only houses on a tree-lined street. A few denizens emerge from
warmth, some in plaid bathrobes. Cautiously they approach the cars. They chat among
themselves with binding familiarity, even if they have never spoken before, their voices
low in reverence. They see that the man is speaking to a pair of officers whose pistols
have been replaced. Other officers, not quite ready to leave, cluster casually away from
the interrogation, relieved, off-guard.
Only the two officers and you can hear what the man says and he speaks only in
answer to their questions.
What is it you think youre doing?
I was knocking on doors.
Why would you want to do a thing like that, especially at this hour?

Saturday Morning
Dennis Phillips
dennis@dennisphillips.net

I was looking for someone.
Who were you looking for?
But now the man seems agitated. He looks into the faces of his interrogators with
an expression they cant decipher. The youngest feels for the pistols comfort.
Who were you looking for?
There is a long silence that somehow alerts the other authorities that their
assistance might be needed. The older interrogator turns to reassure them.
I didnt realize that I had done something wrong, the man says.
One of the older neighbors approaches the activity with a tray. But just at that
moment, responding to a particular radio message, the assembled officers get into their
cars and speed way, leaving only the interrogating pair with the man. The sudden
departure neutralizes the charge of the scene. For some reason the show seems over. The
witnesses begin to feel the chill. They return to their homes. The tray bearer pauses, takes
a step toward the interrogators and their subject, but thinks better of it and turns back.
Another, more urgent radio message alarms the officers. The city needs them.
Look, says the older officer, a male, we dont want you knocking on any more
doors, OK? I dont want to have to come back here. Do you understand me?
Yes, says the man to their retreating backs. I understand you quite well.
Perhaps it wasnt such a good idea.

Saturday Morning
Dennis Phillips
dennis@dennisphillips.net

With practiced care, the man unlocks and enters his home through the back door. His
family is still asleep. The twilit house is quiet. When the water boils he is careful to pull
the trigger of the kettle to keep the steam from whistling.
As he replaces the top on a jar of desiccated coffee, he is arrested by the image on
the jars label. In well-registered inks, the face of a contented coffee drinker, eyes closed
in pleasure, hovers above the oval of a cups mouth from which wisps of steam dream
upward from the deep brown depiction of rehydrated drink.
A tide of cushioning sadness overtakes him. He sets down the jar. At the white
kitchen table he sips silently from his cup, eyes open.
Shadows appear. The diffusion is gone and bright horizontal light sharpens the
room. He can hear birds outside and wonders, is it the shift of light or have they been
there all along?
Above his cooling beverage he can picture but wont disturb two boys asleep in
separate rooms and in a third room his wife, far away in her dreams of tranquility and
surrender.
In the vestibule he pauses at the interior side of his front door. Opposite, he looks
past a large mirror, but dwells for a moment on the empty wrought iron hooks at either
side.
In the cold interior of his car, the man passes the relocked back door on his way
toward the street. But at the frontier of his driveway, checking the deserted avenue for
traffic, he changes his mind and slowly backs into his place. He doesnt move.
A bathroom light goes on and he realizes that, but for the presence of his family,
the house is much the same as it was before he had been born.