Wrong Neighborhood: Two Short Stories Read online

  “Well? Meteor? Teenagers?”

  “Moving van,” he said, his head stuck between the curtains.

  “At four a.m.?” That was enough to get Marcy out of bed and over to the window. Sure enough, a full U-Haul had pulled up to the house next door, raring to go before dawn had even thought about cracking. She flopped back into bed. “There wasn’t even a sign on that house. Did whatshisname say anything to you?”

  “No, nothing.” Tom got in next to her. “I just saw him out mowing on Saturday and waved at him.”

  “You know what that means then.”

  “Hmmm,” he nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. “No, what does that mean?”

  “Foreclosure. Bank is taking it,” Marcy said and curled back up.

  Tom considered it for a minute, lay back down and fell asleep.

  ***

  By eight-thirty, Tom had left for work, calling from his cell in the car to say the movers had pulled the back end of the truck right across the lawn and up to the front door. In Tom’s world, lawn defamation was categorized as a felony.

  Marcy had showered, dressed and peeked out the window from time to time. From her home office, she had a somewhat obstructed view of the goings-on because of a big flowering crab in the side yard but she could keep tabs well enough. In her post-coffee state, she realized that the movers must really be friends of whatshisname, since it was a U-Haul and no company she knew of got to work at 4AM. She wondered what time whosis had to be out and felt a twinge of sympathy for the guy. He seemed young, maybe thirty, although Tom swore he had to be forty, maybe forty-five. His friends looked young enough, she thought, and briefly wondered if she should offer any of them water or lemonade or something. With a glance at the outdoor thermometer, she decided against it. They wouldn’t be working up a sweat yet. She finished her coffee and closed the blinds. The movement was too distracting. She put on her headphones and got to work typing the doctors’ dictation.

  ***

  “What time did they leave?” Tom walked in the door at 5:30 and kicked his shoes off on the rug.

  “About three,” Marcy kissed him on the cheek and walked back to the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Tom sat at the table and loosened his tie a bit before tucking into his spaghetti and garlic bread. “Dan said he knew a guy that happened to.”

  “Who’s Dan?”

  “At work. Three cubicles over. At least I think that’s his name. Tall guy, red hair.”

  Marcy nodded, “Right, I think we talked to him at the holiday party. His wife was the short brunette. I remember they looked funny dancing.”

  Tom shrugged. “Anyway, he says the guy he knew had like ten minutes to get his stuff. Sign of the times, I guess.”

  Dinner carried on with talk of grocery lists and television programming.

  ***

  The following Saturday, Tom cut the lawn. He did his neighborly duty and cut the front lawn next door too. But the Saturday after that, he didn’t. If the house belonged to the bank, the bank could damn well cut the lawn. The third Saturday since the day of the move, it stormed and Tom stared at the neighbor’s lawn with a level of annoyance rarely reached by an accountant.

  “I’m going to have to cut that thing again, aren’t I?”

  Marcy shrugged, staring out the window over his shoulder. “I guess. Should we call the city?”

  “No, they’ll just stick an ugly ticket on the door and then cut the lawn too short and not edge it or weed whack.” Tom walked from the window and plopped in Marcy’s office chair.

  “Well, just don’t go overboard.”

  ***

  The following Saturday Tom mowed and edged and weed-whacked his front lawn and the front lawn of his long-gone neighbor. Other neighbors showed their approval with a raised open-hand and a nod. Tom moved to his own backyard and noticed grass growing between the wooden fence slats. He imagined the slats starting to shift from the force and having to spend the summer fixing the whole thing. “Damn it.”

  Tom walked the mower to the gate on the opposite side of the neighbor’s house, hoping it wasn’t padlocked. He pulled the handle and it opened. He looked behind it and shuddered – grass well past his ankles. He adjusted the Toro’s blade as high as possible and headed in. He passed the side of the house and mowed straight ahead to the back fence. On the return trip, as he neared the patio, a heinous smell invaded his nostrils and he choked. He shut off the mower and cursed. Something had to have died out there. He pulled his T-shirt over his nose and mouth and searched the yard. Nothing. He had worked his way to the side of the patio and noticed the back door of the house was cracked open. He rolled his eyes, collected his mower and power-walked it back to his own garage.

  “Marcy!” he yelled into the mudroom.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “Either he left all kinds of garbage in there, or there’s a squatter. It reeks to high heaven.”

  “I told you not to go over there,” she said. “You were mowing, weren’t you? Just call the cops. I don’t want some crazed maniac taking up residence next door.” He shut the door and went back to work in his own backyard.

  ***

  Two hours later, as Tom and Marcy sat in the sunroom enjoying the spring sunshine and a couple of mojitos, the doorbell rang. Tom got up to answer. The police had finally arrived. Tom recounted what Marcy had told the dispatcher. The two men moved next door and Tom and Marcy moved their mojito party to the window in Marcy’s office.

  Not more than five minutes later, the officers walked back to their door. The Crawfords met them on the front porch.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen Matthew Townsend?” the older officer asked.

  “Who?” Tom said.

  “Your neighbor,” the younger one added.

  “He moved out almost a month ago,” Marcy answered. “A U-haul pulled right up to the front door, moved everything out,”

  “You saw him leave?”

  “I saw a bunch of people. I saw a truck.” She shrugged. “Why? What happened?”

  “Was it a squatter? Dead animal?” Tom asked.

  “It was Matthew Townsend. He’s dead.”

  Tom and Marcy looked at each other, eyebrows scrunched, minds reeling. “But he moved,” Marcy finally said.

  “Nothing left in there but clothes and photos, and Matthew Townsend shot in the back of the head.” The officer took out a pad and pen. “Did you ever talk to him about the move? Do you remember anything or anyone from that day?”

  They shook their heads. Marcy went blank on the faces. Tom could only remember their defilement of the lawn.

  ***

  Within the next hour, the two officers, along with a couple of detectives had questioned everyone in the cul-de-sac, household by household. In turn, household by household, neighbors questioned the Crawfords about what they knew then tsked in disgust. They all commented reasonably. “What a pity,” or “thought it was kinda weird there was no for-sale sign,” or even “I wonder what he had in there that was so great?” But the chatter died instantly and all heads turned en masse as Matthew Townsend’s body was placed in the coroner’s van. Then, in couples, or families, or alone, however they came, they went, closing their doors behind them. As the final echo of the crime scene van door quieted and the last police car turned around and pulled down the street, Marcy and Tom Crawford stood thoughtfully on their front porch. Tom sighed and shook his head. “I wonder how long I'll have to keep up the lawn.”

  ###

  About Sarah Parker Wolf

  Sarah lives outside Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and three children. Look for her debut novel Expired in June 2014.

  Note from Sarah -

  Thank you for reading these short stories. If you enjoyed them, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer. Thank you for your support!

  Sarah

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