Thirteen Ladders

Her mom was superstitious but Lucy had a plan to shatter these long-held beliefs.

- Christine Sutton

LUCY closed the garden gate and looked around. Along the street, a woman up a ladder was watering a hanging basket. Lucy waited until she went back inside before going and standing underneath the piece of equipment. She looked up, artfully framing the basket between the rungs, then took a photo on her phone. Click. No lightning bolts rent the sky, no thunderclaps rolled around her ears, just a drip of water landed on her head. One down, twelve to go.

Entering the park Lucy headed for the children’s slide. She took a shot of herself through the ladder’s metal steps, then another of her dancing through the climbing frame. Seeing a ladder propped against a tree she went and crouched under it.

“ You see, Mom ,” she crowed, taking another selfie, “four ladders down and I’m still as safe as houses.”

“Not to mention daft as a brush,” said a disembodied voice. Lucy jumped up so quickly she hit her head on a rung. Peering down at her through the foliage was a man.

“Bit old for climbing trees, aren’t you?” she mumbled, rubbing her tender scalp.

“I’m not climbing,” he said. “I’m lopping. This tree was struck by lightning last week. I’ve got to take the branch off before it falls. You’re the one dancing in the kids’ playground.”

“That’s because I’m trying to prove, once and for all, to my superstitious mother that walking under ladders isn’t going to bring some terrible calamity crashing down upon my head,” she said primly.

“It might’ve done if I’d started sawing,” he reasoned.

“I think the sound of the chainsaw just might have alerted me.”