One thing about the houses in the neighborhood with Tigger signs in the windows is that they are part of Neighborhood Watch. That means that anyone can go to those houses if they are in trouble.
There was trouble, once, on the way to cello lessons at Aunt Martha’s house. A car drove close, very, very slowly like a cat slinking underneath the bird feeder or like the minute hand on a clock.
The car was a stranger car and the person was a stranger person.
It was hard to walk any faster because of the cello.
The house at the end of the block had a Tigger sign in the window. But all of the curtains were closed and there was no car in the driveway. The house looked like Baby, the tortoise, when she sleeps—all pulled inside—or like a chalkboard after the day’s vocabulary is erased. No one was home.
Even though it was a kind of lie, it seemed okay to open the screen door and pretend to open the front door. If the stranger person thought the door was open, that there were people home, good. If he noticed that no one was home, bad. It was possible to pretend to open the door by moving a hand around the doorknob and leaning into it.
The stranger car sped away as fast as a car can go, faster than a pizzicato.
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