The Knock

Knocking on Heaven’s Door

In 1979, I was living in a patched-together triplex with my first husband in Missoula, Montana. This crumbling, heat-leaking structure was so badly constructed that it didn’t have a functioning doorbell for any of the units. I was waiting for my state residency to kick in so I could get in-state tuition at the University of Montana. There was only one friend who dropped by regularly. Dan was my sister’s boyfriend, then her ex-boyfriend, and he rarely knocked. He just came on in. That was how close we were. But other people came by, Colleen and her skeevy carny boyfriend Kelly, or friends of my sister’s, hunting her down. So when a knock came, I always opened the door.

One spring, I opened the door to a pair of young men in black slacks and white shirts with ties, fresh-faced Mormon missionaries. They were all over Missoula that year, and I was so lonely that I usually let them come in, sit down, and talk for a while. They were a break from my boredom, and I was a break from having doors shut in their faces. We would spar. Unfortunately, they thought I was a candidate for conversion and stepped up their visits. I began to dread their knocks. I’d ignore them, even though I was sure they could hear my television going from the hallway where they stood.

They got the message and stopped knocking.

Knock Knock. Who’s There.

In 1982, I lived in a patched-together duplex with my second husband and our new baby girl in Portland, Oregon. This duplex, created from an abandoned house, also didn’t have a functioning doorbell. That was fine because no one ever came over to our rough neighborhood without calling first. When an errant knock came, it was Almitra, our drug-dealing neighbor. She didn’t have a phone. I usually let her in because I was home with a new baby, and once again starved for company. After a few long-distance charges showed up on our phone bill, we decided not to let her in anymore.

She got the message and stopped knocking.

The No-Knock Rule

Since 1988, I’ve lived in the same house. It has a functioning doorbell, but most of the six dogs I’ve owned since living here have gone absolutely insane at its chime. Luckily, it’s set off to the side of the door in an odd place. Most people don’t see it. I have a sign up in my window telling everyone to beware of dogs, and that all types of soliciting are unwelcome. The addition of red, white, and blue trim seems to have done the trick. It’s a rare solicitor who taps on my door.

I’ve left up the sign, even though there are no dogs here. Very few people drop by, because apparently people just don’t do that in Oregon. But my grandson’s father is seeing his son over here at this time, so a couple of times a week I hear his tentative knuckle taps on my door. Was that a knock, I wonder, is someone here? I open the door and greet him, the only person who knocks at my door.