One night last March, I was jolted awake by a loud noise. It sounded like someone was shoving furniture across the floor. Groggy and half-dreaming, I thought it was a construction crew working on our renovations upstairs, but then I saw the clock: It was 3:00 A.M. On a Saturday. My two-year-old son, Smith, was snuggled between my husband and me on the bed—and around the corner 10 feet away, I could hear the heavy tread of boot steps. My sleep-furry brain grasped for an explanation. Maybe our au pair was just getting home late—our petite au pair who favors flip-flops, who glides rather than clomps, and who never, ever comes home late.
"Celia, is that you?" My voice sounded small and weak and strange to myself.
The boots paused for a long moment. And then: more stomping. I began to panic. Maybe my husband, John, was actually up, pacing the living room. But I looked across my son, tangled in sheets, and there John was, heavy in sleep.
At that moment, I realized that only four people live in our house—and whoever was stomping around was not one of them. And right then, I understood paralyzing fear. *A stranger is in my house and he heard me call for Celia, so he knows I'm here—but he's not scared, and he's not leaving.*I've had nightmares where I wanted to scream but couldn't. That's how I felt as I frantically reached over to jostle John. "There's someone in the house—you need to wake up!" I whispered. But John was too deep in sleep; he didn't budge.
• • •
"You don't fit in here," Jerry, my busybody neighbor, had told me a few months before. He had been raised in rough-and-tumble Red Hook, Brooklyn, where I've lived for the past seven years. Perched happily on my stoop on my quiet block, I just smiled—I was used to his diatribes about yuppies. Our neighborhood has undergone a wave of gentrification, and I'm definitely a part of that. I shop at the little boutiques. I go to the new restaurants. I wear heels to work.
"You aren't careful!" Jerry continued. "You don't lock your door, you leave your windows open—you can't do that around here!" As usual, I argued with him. Even though I grew up on a small farm in Great Falls, Virginia, I'm street-smart, I told him. I've never been the victim of a crime.
But I'm also not delusional. Red Hook can be a tough place. Back in the eighties, a cover story in Life magazine proclaimed it the "crack capital of America." It's home to the Red Hook Houses, New York City's second-biggest housing project, and you commonly hear about gangs and crime there. So as much as I liked to spar with Jerry, his criticism unnerved me. Part of me had refused to let go of the easy way of life I grew up with. Until that morning in March.
• • •
"John—wake up!"
As I desperately prodded my sleeping husband, a large man stomped around the corner and stopped at our bed. He wore a hoodie pulled over his head grim-reaper-style—a terrifying dark hole with no facial features.
I thought I might die just then. I thought my son might be killed in front of me.
Our bed is low, so the man's knees were six inches from my head. I could smell his dirty jeans. He stooped menacingly over me and, for what seemed like weeks, stared at me. Finally, he broke the silence: "Give me your money or I'll f—king kill you!" He yelled it over and over, jumping up and down as if he were high on drugs. That terrified me even more—how could I possibly reason with a crazy man? His hand was in his pocket, presumably on his gun—it was dark so I couldn't be sure—and he was thrusting it at me.
Despite his violent, addled behavior, I did have one hopeful reaction. My money or my life? Maybe if I gave him my money, he wouldn't kill us. But at that moment, my husband woke up—woke to a stranger in his house threatening to kill his family, woke as if from a nightmare, with a horrible yell: "No!" He bolted up and shouted it again. The intruder screamed back and lunged toward him. They looked like wrestling bears about to lock arms.
Watching them triggered some deep maternal urge. All I could think was, Get him away from the baby. I felt possessed—something overtook my fear, a purposefulness that was pure animal, protect-your-young brain. I put my hand up between them and said, in a voice so calm I surprised myself, "I have money, and you can have it all. It's over by the door. I need to reach into my bag and pull out my wallet." Get him away from the baby, get him away from the baby.
He kept yelling. I kept repeating my words. And a few moments later, he finally stopped screaming. Still, I feared at any moment he might lose his patience and shoot us. As John wisely stepped back, I got out of bed and walked across the room to the front door—away from Smith, blessedly still asleep in the bed—saying, "Here's my bag. I'm just going to get my wallet; you can have that too."
I handed the intruder $74 and offered him my wallet, saying it was worth some money. He grabbed the cash without counting it and pushed away the wallet (he'd already stolen a bracelet of mine from the bathroom, I'd later discover). I spotted the living room window open several inches—clearly where he'd entered; on it, I could see the dirty smudge of his full handprint. We got you, I thought. You will be caught. He grabbed the money and started for the window. I was in disbelief that all he wanted was a few $20 bills, that he was actually planning to leave—and that this terror was all just for $74. Then, as he put his leg through the ground-floor window, he turned back to look at us and said three things that I will never forget:
"You should lock your windows. You're only a block from the projects."
Then,"I wasn't going to kill you; I was just going to shoot you in the leg."
Finally, "I'm not a bad person. I have a family too." And he was gone.
• • •
There was no time for crying or hugging. Trembling so badly that it took effort just to move, I went straight to the phone and called 911. I didn't want this criminal to come back to ask for more money or jewelry. I didn't want him to change his mind about not hurting us.
Within moments, the police arrived. And then my son woke up (our au pair was still asleep in her bedroom downstairs). What had been the most terrifying moment of his parents' lives became the most exciting thing he had ever seen. Fifteen policemen were standing around our house; fire trucks and squad cars with their lights blazing lined the block. We explained that the police were here to protect us, and they were just checking in, and wasn't this fun? For a two-year-old boy, it was heaven on earth.
For the next 10 hours, I answered questions. Had I locked my windows? No. Did I have an alarm system? Yes, but I hadn't turned it on. Do I know anyone who it might've been? No idea. Can I describe him? Height, yes, but facial features, no. I purposely hadn't looked him directly in the eye for fear of rattling him. (The officer, though disappointed that I couldn't recall his features, did tell me she understood my instinct to turn away.)
Meanwhile, detectives dusted for fingerprints, which I was later told weren't usable. I felt certain the guy had been arrested before. We found a crack pipe on our stoop, but because it was technically outside the house, I was told by our detective that a court would never accept it as evidence; as far as I know, it was never examined for prints.
• • •
We all wonder what we'd do in a situation in which our family is threatened. I now know this about myself: I can be calm in the face of terror. By Monday morning I was back at my job at Lucky, looking at fashion layouts and meeting about our June issue. Walking into our swanky offices felt strange after what I had just gone through. But I couldn't not show up for work—after all, we had an issue to send to press, and staying home wouldn't help catch the guy anyway. I didn't tell anyone what had happened except for my assistant, who would need to take calls from the detectives.
Still, the next day I traveled to Boston and, after a slew of business meetings, went back to my hotel room and finally broke down. I just lost it, sobbing uncontrollably by myself. Leaving John and Smith so soon after what had happened brought the whole thing into focus.
For a long time I couldn't tell anyone but my close family and friends. Pretending I was fine at work was easy; daytime was not my problem. But every night, I woke up at about the same time as the break-in, my heart beating out of my chest. Something in me had permanently changed. That man may have taken only $74, but he robbed me forever of any sense of security. I heard him on the roof. I heard him walking down the hall. I heard him opening a window. For months my husband had to get up in the night to assure me no one was in the house. We took safety precautions, of course: We installed a full-on security system—with a panic button that hangs from my nightstand—and attached security cameras on a neighbor's building trained on our house. Now that we live in a fortress, the statistics say I'm safer. But the fact that the man who threatened to kill my family was the one who had to tell me to lock my windows eats at me. It doesn't help that he still hasn't been caught.
Some friends have asked why I stay in my neighborhood. (Jerry, my neighbor, was furious with me that we almost got hurt.) Naturally, John and I discussed the idea of moving, but this is our first home. My son was born in the bed where the attacker leaned over me. And my block is a magical place—my neighbors act like family. We all have keys to one another's houses; we watch one another's pets and kids and grandmas. After it all, this is still the place where I'm happiest.
That said, I've learned some lessons from this ordeal that will stay with me as long as I live:
Some people say great, helpful things after a scare like we had. Some don't. Please don't say, "Oh, he probably didn't have a gun." You'd be surprised how many people volunteered this to me. Let me tell you on behalf of all crime victims: It's not helpful.
Every woman has more courage than she thinks. Since I became a mom, I've sometimes wondered whether I could protect my child if something horrible happened—a fire, a burglary, an alien attack. Now I know that if my child's life is threatened, I can reason through it.
Don't put yourself at risk if you can avoid it. The habits some of us grew up with—leaving windows open, keys in the car—might seem quaint, but they're just too risky these days. The thought of expecting the best from people is a nice one, until it isn't anymore.
John and I now have a new evening ritual. We go around and check every window and door to make sure all are locked. The night of the break-in, we'd had an unusually warm winter day and I'd thrown all the windows open. When I closed them, I forgot to lock them. So now we bolt everything and turn on the alarm. Despite all that, though, I love our home and our community, and I'm staying put—even if I have to admit to Jerry: You were right.
Brandon Holley is the editor-in-chief of Lucky(which is published by the same company as Glamour*). She is donating her writer's fee to the Red Hook Initiative, a nonprofit organization where she volunteers and which fights poverty among young people in Red Hook, Brooklyn, by providing career training and livable-wage jobs. To make a donation, visit rhicenter.org.*
Three tips you can learn from Holley's split-second decisions. We hope you'll never have to use them.
1. Stay calm. "A burglar is nervous," says Chris McGoey, a Los Angeles crime prevention and security consultant. "It doesn't take much to startle him." By speaking in a low tone and giving him a play-by-play of her intended motions, Holley calmed his nerves and assured him that a reward was at hand. (Cash or easily sellable items are exactly what most street criminals are looking for.)
2. Call the police immediately, as Holley did. "There's a better chance of recovering fingerprints, hair or other evidence," McGoey says.
3. Above all, think prevention. While Holley's approach worked on this guy, there's no cookie-cutter rule saying it would do the trick for another, says McGoey. So be mindful of security: If you've got ground-floor or fire-escape windows, examine the latches. "If they're not secure, you need to buy backup devices," says McGoey. Consider buying a budget-friendly alarm system, and advertise it with window decals; they make your place look less appealing to criminals (homes without alarms are two to four times more likely to be robbed). Finally, it sounds obvious, but use your peephole before you answer the door. McGoey says the number-one way invaders get into homes is through front doors—opened by the occupant.
And what to do in two more scary situations…
If you get mugged: "Take your cash out, show it to the mugger and toss it on the ground to one side at a 45-degree angle," says McGoey. The culprit's eye will follow the money, and you'll get a few steps the opposite way before he realizes you're gone.
If your car is being followed: Take a series of right turns and see if the car follows. If it does? "Remember, your car is like a suit of armor," McGoey says. "Stay in it, lock your doors and call the police." —Emily Mahaney
