Whenever my husband and I leave Carrabba’s restaurant, we drive down Branard street and I think of the place. There’s no sign of the apartment complex now. It was demolished a few years ago and replaced with a structure made of stone and stucco. The only thing still standing is an oak tree marking the spot directly behind where my apartment used to be. It's an area my kitchen window overlooked, where a little sliver of peace seemed to live.
It was a small but charming apartment. A two story, shotgun type, built in the 1920s. The rent was great, $325 a month, which for a film scout/prop master who traveled a lot was ideal. I’d moved in, bringing with me a family of mannequins we’d just used for a 30-second television spot for HL&P. A friend who worked in the visuals department at Dillard’s had loaned them out but later decided he didn’t want them back. One of the grip guys from the set said, “Man, they’d give me the creeps but I tell ya one thing... you ain’t gonna have no burglars.”
It was tight but I found the right spot for each one. I put the mother at the front door so when it opened all the way, the knob landed in the palm of her hand as cozily as a baseball in a pitcher’s glove.
I placed the father in the kitchen. In the commercial he was kneeling on one knee, peering inside a furnace. Now, he knelt at my kitchen table, peeping through the window blinds, perfectly.
Their children, a boy and girl ages five and seven, stood side -by-side in front of the bookshelves. The dog—an Airedale of medium height looking slightly downward and seemingly alert to something— was the best. I put him at the top of the stairs, where no matter how often I climbed, he’d startle me into a sometimes not-so-small spasm.
Months later during the Christmas holidays, I decided that some of the family should dress for the occasion. I wrapped the woman’s waist with my mother’s Christmas apron – the father wore a Santa’s hat.
One evening while over at my beau’s townhouse, my next-door neighbor called. “Katie, I heard something in your apartment!” she whispered. “I called the police…they’re on their way but you better get on over here!”
“Thanks, I’m on my way,” I said and slammed the phone down.
While he drove, I sat in the passenger seat, attempting to dowse my fear with denial. My neighbor was nice but she also seemed as spooky as she was snoopy. Then I felt mad. If there was someone in my apartment, I sure wanted to see the police catch the snake.
We arrived a few minutes later and found the police already there. I jumped out of the car and started toward them but they quickly instructed both of us to stand, “back and away.” Two of the policeman stood braced at the front door while two others ran around the back. From a safe distance, I followed them to the alley so I could watch.
They moved toward my apartment holding their arms straight out and guns pointing just like in the movies. As they moved closer in, I watched feeling a combination of fear and something strangely irresistible. The lead guy got about twenty feet from my back door and suddenly stopped, crouching lower holding direct aim at the kitchen window. Only then did I click.
“STOP, don’t shoot!” I screamed. “It’s a mannequin!”
I don’t know who was more relieved, the policeman or me. He lowered his gun and exhaled like he’d taken a hit from a cigarette. His partner turned and glared at me. They entered the apartment to do a walk through but luckily, found that absolutely nothing had been disturbed.
And luckily for the peeping mannequin, the Santa hat was still on top of his head.
