A House by the Side of the Road

by Jan Gleiter

  She set up her tape player, chose Peter and the Wolf for its energetic passages, and worked steadily. By evening, she was exhausted, but the house seemed much more like home.

  She took a mug of coffee and went out onto the porch to lean against the railing and look out over the yard and the meadow beyond. Twilight tinged the grass with silver where the land rolled away in the distance. A faint, sweet-smelling breeze moved the leaves on the apple trees just past the fence. This, she thought, was given to me to love.

  * * *

  The next morning, she pulled on a sweatshirt and went out to count the missing pickets. A fog lay heavily over the broad valley, thick enough so she could barely see the road. A car passed, ghostly in the mist.

  By the time she had finished breakfast, the fog had begun to burn off, and by eleven o’clock it was gone. There were twenty-three pickets she would have to replace, and about forty others that needed to be fastened more securely. She wrenched a loose one free to use as a sample and went into the house to look through the Yellow Pages that the telephone installer had left earlier in the morning, when he connected her to the world. She called Christine.

  “Is Meyers Lumber and Hardware right in town?” she asked.

  “Turn left at the second light. It’s out a little ways, a half mile maybe. You get your phone in?”

  “No, I drove six miles into town to call you from a booth. Yes, I got my phone in.” She gave Christine the number. “Want some coffee?”

  “If you’re going to Meyers, stop here on the way. I just made some and some cookies, which are the best things you ever tasted. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  A half hour later, with a canister full of cookies beside her on the seat, Meg drove the rest of the way into town and found the lumberyard. A tall, rangy man got out of a red pickup truck next to her in the parking lot and passed her to hold the door open, nodding pleasantly as she went in ahead of him. He looked, in his flannel shirt and faded jeans, as if he belonged in Wyoming, but there was no drawl in his voice when he spoke to her as she stood surveying the hammers.

  “Can’t make up your mind?” he asked. His voice was deep and friendly.

  “I know I want a claw hammer,” she said. “But I don’t know how heavy.”

  “Well, if you’re framing a house, you probably need about twenty-four ounces. If you want something more all-purpose, sixteen ought to do.”

  Meg indicated the picket she’d rested against the shelves. “I’ve got to fix my fence.”

  “I have this one,” the man said, selecting a hammer with a rubber coating on the handle. “I like the balance, and it’s not too heavy to use for long periods.” He held it out. “But your hands are small. See what you think.”

  Meg gripped the handle. “No, it’s fine. Feels good. Thanks. I’m assuming they can cut pickets from stock here.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “They can match that one easy.” He pointed to a neighboring aisle. “Rust-proof nails are over there and paint’s two aisles down.”

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  “Anytime.”

  Meg watched him walk away, wishing she were more skilled at flirting and hoping that her quick glance at his ringless left hand had not been apparent. It took a while to get the pickets she needed, and by the time she moved her car to load them in the back, the pickup truck was gone.

  * * *

  The deceased citizens of Harrison who had been lucky enough to be Lutheran took their eternal rest in a particularly lovely cemetery. Behind the old stone church with its steeple and heavy wooden doors, a groundskeeper was busy mowing, but Meg was no more bothered by the noise than were the other people there. It was a pleasing hum behind her thoughts as she sat in the sunshine and looked at the inscription on her great-aunt’s headstone. “He that keepeth thee will not slumber.”

  “Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep,” murmured Meg, wishing she had known her aunt better, wishing she had visited. “You knew me much better than I knew you,” she said, running her hand across the rose-gray stone.

  * * *

  As she neared her house, Meg decided to keep driving, wondering who or what lay just beyond her own property. On her right, there was a large house that appeared to be empty. The road dipped slightly, rose again, then curved. Beyond the curve there was a small pale green house on her left. She pulled into the driveway and parked behind an old black sedan, which indicated that someone was at home.

  There was no answer to her knock. She stood, hesitating, on the front porch and then returned to her car. As she opened the door, a man who looked to be in his late sixties came around the side of the house and waved. He was wearing a faded plaid shirt, stained corduroy trousers, and a shapeless blue hat.

  “Thought I heard a car come up the drive,” he said. “I was collecting some pollen in the back.”

  “Hi,” said Meg. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you; I just wanted to introduce myself. I’ve moved into Louise Marriott’s house—she was my great-aunt. I’m Meg Kessinger.”

  “John Eppler,” said the man, approaching with a hand extended. “Come on in and sit a minute.” His handshake was strong.

  “Oh, but you’re in the middle of something.”

  He gestured dismissively. “Pollen can wait,” he said. “How often do you get a new neighbor? I was going to sit down a minute anyway.”

  He pushed the unlocked front door open, took off his hat, wiped his shoes carefully on a hemp doormat, and preceded Meg into the house. His hair was snow-white, and he was a striking-looking man.

  “Come on to the kitchen,” he said, passing through a cheerful living room with furniture in chintz slipcovers and a low table bearing jars of honey in various sizes, each with a neatly printed price label on the top. He walked energetically, his back poker-straight. “Have a cup of coffee.”

  Meg followed him through the dining room, where a parakeet startled her by fluttering overhead to land on a curtain rod, into a large, bright kitchen. Mr. Eppler took a delicate flowered china mug with a thin gold rim out of a cupboard, filled it with coffee, and put it on the enameled kitchen table. Refilling a thick yellow mug proclaiming that today was the first day of the rest of his life, he asked if Meg wanted milk or sugar.

  “No, nothing, thanks,” said Meg, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Company gets the pretty cup?”

  He opened the cupboard door and indicated five mugs that matched Meg’s crammed onto a shelf next to an assortment of considerably less lovely ones.

  “Got plenty of ’em,” he said, “but I don’t see the point in using such fancy ones. My daughter, Ginny, she’s trying to get me to throw out the others. She lives in Philadelphia now, brought these out last fall. When she left, I found eleven perfectly good ones in the trash.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine that? She just threw ’em away.”

  Meg didn’t have any trouble imagining it but thought it wiser to be noncommittal. “Mmm…” she said. She sipped strong coffee and looked out the kitchen window at a row of stacked white boxes about thirty yards from the house. “You’re a beekeeper, I take it. This a good area for bees?”

  “Near perfect,” he replied, sitting down across from her. “Plenty of alfalfa around, and clover in the meadows. I’ve got vitex shrubs in the back to keep ’em happy in July, when the tulip poplars are through. You ever need honey or pollen or bees, you just come see me. The county calls me when somebody needs a hive removed from an attic or gets panicky over a swarm, so I got no shortage of bees.”

  “Good to know,” said Meg.

  “I was sorry to hear about Louise,” he said, shaking his head resignedly. “Not surprised, mind. She must have been, what? Past ninety, I guess. We’ve had our share of passings along this road.” He shook his head. “Hannah Ehrlich last fall, then Louise. My bees took care of Hannah’s arthritis; couldn’t do too much about her heart.”

  Meg looked questioningly at him. “Took care of her arthritis?”

  He put down
his mug and held up both hands. “Before I started keeping bees, my hands had gotten so bad, I could hardly hold a spoon.” He flexed his fingers. “See that? Beevenom therapy. Beekeepers rarely suffer from arthritis.”

  “Bee stings?”

  He nodded. “Most people figure they’d rather have arthritis. Phobias, you know. But Hannah, she said sure, let’s try it. Worked, too.” He nodded again, this time sadly, and looked out the window. His mouth twisted. “Sure do miss Hannah Ehrlich. Knew her for thirty-five years.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meg.

  The man turned his gaze back to her. “Course, it’s too bad about your great-aunt, too. She was in the home so long, we kind of lost touch. But she was a fine woman. A fine woman.” He took a swallow of coffee. “She loved that place of hers, that’s for sure. Too bad she had to leave it.”

  “I love it, too,” said Meg. “Already.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Eppler. “Place like that shouldn’t be rented out. Just goes downhill. But Louise wouldn’t sell it. Been plenty of people interested.” He frowned. “Mike Mulcahy tried to make her sell, thinking lawyers know better what’s good for people than people do themselves. But she wouldn’t let it go. She got rid of her nice furniture and all that, but not the house. I imagine you’ve got your work cut out.”

  “That I do,” said Meg. She cupped the pretty mug in her hands, feeling warmth on her palms. “It’s a bit run-down.”

  “Louise tended to save her money,” said her neighbor, nodding. “And what she spent, she spent on books. Then, when she went into the home, she wasn’t near careful enough about who she rented to. I’d think the hot-rod kid didn’t help the place any.”

  “Who?” asked Meg.

  He looked disgusted. “Bit of nonsense who lived there before you. She’d barrel down this road in her fancy sports car like she thought she was at Indy. Nearly run me down the morning she left while I was coming home from the hives I keep across the way. Didn’t see me in the fog, I guess. A morning a lot like this one—we get fogs like that every so often. Oh, she was a pretty thing, all blond hair and big eyes. Kept to herself. But I never saw her doing a lick at Louise’s place. And she drove too doggone fast.”

  * * *

  Meg unloaded her purchases, dumping them onto the grass near the driveway, and unlocked the kitchen door. She went through the house and into her bedroom to change into older jeans before spending the afternoon kneeling on the grass.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed to unlace her shoes, facing the squat, ugly dresser she had kept to put in the toolshed but hadn’t yet moved. The bottom drawer was not quite flush with the ones above it. She stood up and shoved at it, but it wouldn’t fit in place. Turning, she kicked it with the bottom of her foot. No use. When she pulled on the drawer above, it moved smoothly, almost loosely, in its tracks.

  She yanked the loose drawer all the way out and set it on the floor, then removed the bottom one. They looked to be exactly the same size, but they probably weren’t. Reversing them solved the problem. Both drawers closed all the way.

  She sat down again and pushed off her shoes, glancing out the window at the honeysuckle and the side yard. It was a beautiful afternoon. It was pleasant to live here, not to worry about shutting and locking the windows when you left the house just because the screens could be slid out of their tracks by an eight-year-old. Except on the chilliest nights, she could leave the window open a good foot all the time.

  She looked at the dresser more carefully. No, she told herself. Don’t be stupid. If anyone had come in, he would have done more than remove the drawers from a dresser and accidentally reverse them while putting them back. Besides, why would anyone want to remove the drawers from a dresser?

  Still, she got up and went into her study. The computer, the only valuable thing she owned, was just as she’d left it, her desk seemingly untouched.

  I guess being alone can make your mind do funny things, she thought. But she found she was shivering, although the room was warm.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, the missing pickets had been replaced and the loose ones reattached. The tedium of the work had been relieved by a game of catch with Jane. Still, it had been too many hours of bending and wrenching and pounding nails. Meg straightened and sighed, a dull ache tensing the muscles in her lower back. She looked around. When the fence was painted, it would look good.

  A red pickup came along the road, crossed into the wrong lane, and stopped on the shoulder. The driver rolled his window all the way down and leaned out, lifting a Pittsburgh Pirates cap as he did so.

  “Looks like the new hammer worked pretty well,” he said.

  “Sure did,” replied Meg. She was unreasonably pleased to see him again.

  “So this is your place? There used to be another woman living here.”

  “She moved,” said Meg. “It’s mine now, fence and all.”

  “Well, welcome, neighbor.” He smiled. “My name’s Jack Deutsch. Like a Hollander, but spelled e-u-t-s-c-h. I’m about a mile down this road.” He pointed ahead of him. “On the other side.”

  Meg shifted the hammer to her left hand and held out her right across the fence. Jack stretched out of the cab to shake it.

  “Meg Kessinger,” said Meg, “I’m glad to meet you.” She wished she weren’t still wearing her Boy Scout shirt which, by now, was looking rather disreputable, and that she had on a better pair of jeans. “I just moved in a couple of days ago.”

  “Met the Ruschmans?” he asked. “Next place down?”

  “Yes,” she said. “All four of them.”

  “You couldn’t have better neighbors. The people in the next house on your side”—he pointed over his shoulder back down the road—“don’t live here much of the year. But if you need something Christine doesn’t have, feel free to bang on my door. My name’s on the mailbox by the road.”

  “Thanks,” said Meg, confident that thinking of something Christine didn’t have was a challenge she was equal to. “And I’ve met John Eppler and Michael Mulcahy, who is, I guess, kind of across the road from you.”

  “I’m a little further,” said Jack. Meg got the impression he’d been tempted to add “not further enough.” “Anyway,” he went on, “if you run out of nails or need a heat gun…”

  Meg laughed. “I’ll definitely be needing a heat gun, though there are places where I may just opt for a sledgehammer.”

  “Got that, too,” he said, grinning. He settled his cap more firmly, pulling it down over sandy hair. His eyes were blue, and they crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

  Meg watched the truck until it disappeared around the curve, then turned toward the house. On the far side of the driveway, the ugly brown dog stood watching her.

  “The yard looks better, doesn’t it?” asked Meg. “It’s going to have a puppy in it soon, and you’d better be nice to him. Or her.”

  The dog’s tail relaxed toward the ground.

  “See, you’re getting used to me,” said Meg. “I don’t see any reason for us not to be civil to each other.” She walked up the steps to the front door.

  When she came outside again after dinner, coffee cup in hand, the dog was still there. She was lying under a maple tree near the driveway but sat up as Meg emerged.

  “I’ve got some cookies,” said Meg in a singsong voice, putting a small plate down on the porch and then walking slowly toward the gate at the side of the yard.

  The dog didn’t move as Meg opened the gate, turned back, and sat down on the steps.

  “They’re really good cookies, from Christine’s house,” she said conversationally. “Harding didn’t get any. He wanted some awfully badly, but he didn’t get even a bite. Unless Teddy gave him some. I suspect Teddy gives him anything he wants. Do you know Teddy?”

  The dog did not reply, but she was standing now and had moved closer.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. You must. He lives right over there.” She pointed toward the west. “If you wanted just a little bit
e, I could spare it.”

  She broke off a corner of cookie, stood up, and tossed it lightly. It landed a few feet on the other side of the gate. The dog took several steps, sniffed at the offering, and then took it delicately.

  “There’s more,” said Meg, looking out toward the road. “But I think it’s terribly rude to expect to be served. If you want to share, you should come close enough so I wouldn’t have to get up.”

  She ought not to feed someone else’s dog. Some people felt strongly about such things. Tough. The dog was watching her hungrily. She tossed half a cookie onto the grass about six feet away.

  “You can have that if you want,” she said quietly but in a cheerful tone. “I’m paying hardly any attention to the fact that you’re even here. You can tell, because I’m not looking at you. I don’t really care if you want it or not. But it’s really, really good.”

  She turned her back on the dog and started to whistle Eine kleine Nachtmusik. The dog walked into the yard and ate the cookie, then sat down calmly and looked at Meg.

  “You like Mozart?” asked Meg, glancing toward the dog and then away. “Good for you. Some dogs don’t like anything but country and western. I’m glad to see you have broader tastes, since it appears we’re neighbors.”

  The dog didn’t move.

  “All right,” said Meg. “One more. But then you have to go home to your own house. Your person, or your people, may be worried. Feel free to come back anytime.”

  She held out a whole cookie, gazing off to the dog’s left. The dog stood up and stretched and then walked slowly forward. She stopped and reached for the food, taking it gingerly from Meg’s hand.

  “So, good night,” said Meg. She stood up. The dog backed away slightly, holding the cookie in her teeth. Meg went into the house.