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"Carol, there is someone outside your bathroom window."
"I heard a woman's voice outside your bathroom window," my good friend Connie said as she whispered down the hallway to the den.
"What did you hear?"
"Kind of a cry-like voice."
She was visiting from Louisville and, being from the big city, she has the mindset that if a noise is heard outside a window, it is not a good thing. I, on the other hand, find plausible excuses.
"Are you sure you didn't hear the wind?"
"I think I'd know the difference."
I sneaked to the bathroom and squatted below window level. Slowly, I raised up to take a peek outside. My eyes were barely above the window seal (in case someone was looking back). The dark hindered my view, but I certainly didn't hear anything. I couldn't ask my husband to investigate because he wasn't home.
What are two women to do late at night with a crying sound outside the bathroom window?
"I'll get the flashlight," I said.
"Do you think we should go out there?"
"What else are we going to do? Call the police?"
"What would be wrong with that?"
"Come on," I said.
Without turning on the front porch light, the two of us sneaked down the steps and around the corner of the house with the flashlight illuminating into the trees. Just like Tom and Huck on an adventure, I led with her close behind. Growing up, she was the brave one in our group of friends, but city life has ruined her.
"Are you sure we need to be doing this?"
With each step the leaves crunched under our feet. If a woman had been there, she was long gone, unless, of course, she was lying under the bathroom window, cut up and bleeding.
As slick as two detectives without badges, we rounded the overgrown rhododendron bush and eased our way to the potential crime spot.
"I don't see a thing," I whispered behind me as I shined the light against the cold ground, under the window and up the brick wall and then circled the light around the area.
"I'm telling you I heard a woman's crying voice. It wasn't my imagination," she, adamantly, whispered behind me.
"Well, she's gone now."
I cast the light into the backyard and across the ditches. We steadily edged around the corner to the back of the house and threw light across the porch and into the tree-lined boundary. Nothing.
I was still sure that what she had heard was part wind, part critters and part imagination.
Not long afterwards, we had settled into a movie and I took a bathroom break. As I opened the bathroom door to come back to the movie, she dashed down the hall. "There. Listen. I hear it again. Don't you hear that?"
"That crying sound."
"Connie, that is the commode singing. According to my husband, air gets into the pipes and makes this gurgling sound when it's flushed. I've lived with this for two weeks. Is that what you heard?"
"The commode? That noise came from the commode? I could have sworn it was a woman crying." I forgot to mention that Connie doesn't hear too well.
Not many people can say they own a commode that cries like a woman.
We later told my husband Guy about his crying commode (all household fixtures that don't work are considered "his") and the fact that we were out in the dark with nothing but a flashlight to protect us.
Feeling safe likely comes from living in a small town as long as I have. If I lived elsewhere, I might not be so relaxed. However, nothing replaces common sense and neither one of us showed a "lick" that night.
As for the singing commode, Guy performed surgery and it is now humming like a normal one.