The neighborhood of desperate connivers

The shiny blue van in front of Mrs. Bradley's house leaves when we leave. Are they following us, and, if they are, why do they bother? To follow us to the ice cream store or the grocery? I'm flattered to think our lives are that interesting.

What about the night the cops flashed a light into Suzie's garage as she packed her winter things, asking if she lived there. Have for 20 years, she said. You must be new on the force. A neighbor heard a prowler, he said. Had to check it out.

What about visitors who ring our bell and knock on our knocker,  yet who say they only want to see their childhood bedroom (before the house was remodeled and the pink, dotted wallpaper of their infant dreams long gone). I've just come back from a business trip and am not receiving visitors today. Call ahead: make an appointment, I tell them.

What about five-year-old George, perky as ever, who wants to borrow a cup of flour for his mom's Sunday cake at 9 a.m. (admitting, he knows it's too early to call on good, clean people such as myself) and I'm still in my flannel nightgown.

What about the snooty girl in braids and overalls who parades her doll carriage around the neighborhood with her guinea pig strapped into the rider's seat, (which is dressed to the nines, in a frock and cap), demanding I let her in for a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice, just like her mother makes.

What about neighbors who wave and smile as they walk by, yet do not stop to talk: they'll say they're too polite to ask how we're doing (but I know this, too, is just a dirty lie - all they really want is to pry, pry, pry) and so, they snoop and sneak, and talk, talk, talk behind one another's backs.

Did you hear about Mabel? She wouldn't let the kids play hoop on her front lawn and so she called the cops. She even gave away her seven kids. We're not going to invite her to the block party. We'll say, it's  ‘small', for close friends only. It will be noisy: she'll want to be out for the evening. Let's drive her from the neighborhood, is the secret rallying cry.

Did you see Dorothea ride her bike again without her helmet? What would her mother think? Her mother's at the office, working late, tending patients. It's her father you should call. Either him or the Nanny. You call. Her kid brother answered the phone and hung up. You tried. Another failed commmunication, arising out of good intentions.

The large corner house has a new high school graduate and she's having her party tonight. Her mom gives ample warning: We're having her class over for the entire night. It will be noisy, she says. At least, she tells it like it is. You smile and thank her, invite her for coffee but she declines and says, next week will be much, much better, when the party's finally over.

What's up with Mr. Z? He talks on his cell outside his house, as women come and go, speaking of unstated libido, unfulfilled dreams. He matches them up for next week's square dance. His wife of 25 years, helpmate and friend, sports a flouncy western skirt in colors too bright for her pale demeanor. He takes too many business trips, she says, in a worried, sidelong glance, afraid to suspect the truth. Mr. Z. wonders when he will get his reward, when it will finally be his turn to dance. He talks too loudly on this hot summer night: all windows are open now that the central AC has conked. You cannot sleep.

A police car drives by, sees that everything is as it should be. Shutters shuttered, doors locked, cars in the garage, off the street. It is 1 a.m. Nobody should be out at this hour. Nearby, a pretty, young couple is walking their Great Dane.  Nothing is as it seems. You pull the blind and hope for a short night. They're up to no good.
 

 Copyright ©  2007, Kathryn Esplin-Oleski

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