Page 5 of Wildest Dreams

A white card on the wooden floor catches my eye and I remember I have the homeowner’s number. I pick it up with shaky hands and dial.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounds like a teenager.

“Hi, um, I’m trying to reach Kendall Abbey?” I say, reading the name on the card.

“That’s me. Who is this?”

“Um, I’m renting a house from you.”

“Oh! Hi.” She sounds confused.

“Yeah, um… I have a situation. I’m not sure what to do.” I try to steady my voice, but it’s no use.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“There’s an alligator in the backyard,” I blurt out.

“Oh! That’s Bertha.”

The alligator has a name. Of course it does. She doesn’t even sound surprised or remotely concerned.

“Okay, well, Bertha has trapped me on the back deck, and I don’t have the key on me so I can’t get back in. Is there an animal control for me to call, or do I?—”

“No, no, no,” she says. “There’s one animal control guy and he’s, like, eighty years old. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right over.”

My stomach drops. I don’t need a young girl to rescue me. Nor do I want photos of me hiding from an alligator to show up online. For all I know, she could use this to earn a quick buck selling pictures to a tabloid.

I shake my head. This will be on TMZ by tomorrow morning. I just know it.

“You don’t have to?—”

“No, really. I can handle Bertha. Hold tight. I’m on my way.”

“Am I safe? I have the deck gate closed.”

“Probably.”

Probablyis not yes.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to die and photos of an alligator carrying my body to the river will be all over the internet until the end of time.

“I’m leaving now. Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” I can’t. There’s ten-foot-long alligator looking at me like I’d make an excellent dinner.

She hangs up and I watch Bertha stalk back and forth across the yard. The sun is high and I start sweating through my shirt.

So much for country life. I’m a joke. Harriett was right. This is what I get for thinking things would be better outside LA.

After what seems like an hour, but is probably closer to fifteen minutes, a small Audi SUV comes flying down the driveway and stops in the back yard, a cloud of dirt trailing behind. The sunroof opens and out pops a tiny woman with long chestnut hair, holding what looks like a small basketball.

“Bertha!” she yells in a cute, mousey voice. This scene is so absurd that I can’t help but laugh to myself.

She unwraps the little package and I realize it’s a chicken - a small rotisserie chicken.

Bertha, like a trained dog, makes her way toward the SUV and the girl rears her arm back and hurls the chicken across the yard towards the river. Bertha responds, turning her attention to the meat rolling down the hill and close the water. She takes it in her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp, and walks away.