Love Thy Neighbor

by Mark Gilleo

  He looked up the street, the sun reflecting off the ice-covered cars stuffed into driveways barely long enough to accommodate two vehicles parked end-to-end. The original middle-class neighborhood had been comprised of classic tract housing built in the fifties. Square box homes with nearly identical floor-plans produced from cookie-cutter molds. At the peak of the post World War II expansion, one-story ramblers with unfinished basements had stretched for a mile in any direction. Clark’s parents had lived on Dorchester Lane long enough to remember when the original sod was laid.

  Clark looked down the street from his mother’s slice of paradise. He could see the changes. The last ten years had seen an explosion in the geometry of the residences. Everyone with money, and half those without, began slapping up additions with such fervor that anyone with a hammer could open a booming home improvement business. The neighborhood began to shift from architectural boredom to eclectic hell. Bathrooms jutted from the front of houses. Garages, most now stuffed with the collected crap of life, were constructed as close to a neighbor’s property line as regulations would allow. Bay windows opened next to homebuilt greenhouses, next to two-story decks. Carports and master suites melted together. The neighborhood looked as if a drunken Lego team had won a competition to ruin the original blue-collar, tract-housing charm.

  Gone were the kids who used to play in the streets. Classic games like team hide-and-seek and murder-the-man-with-the-ball had been relinquished to the trash heap of neighborhood activities. If Dorchester Lane and its neighboring houses were harboring a secret stash of children, they were hiding in the basements, plugged into their video games.

  At the incline at the end of the driveway, Clark pushed forward with his right foot and let gravity carry him to the edge of the street. He slipped and slid his way past his neighbor on the right and turned towards a slightly uphill battle on a sloping icy driveway.

  The thermometer in the window faced outward and Clark squinted from beneath the hood on his blue jacket. The red line bumped the bottom of the twenty-six degree mark. With his bare knuckle, Clark knocked on the window of the side door at the top of a small metal staircase. Icicles hung from the gutter above, the points of the inverted spikes threatening downward.

  Arthritic feet hobbled to the door after the third set of knocks. The curtain in the small window moved and an eye peered out from the crack. Mr. Stanley fumbled for the small lock on the storm door and yanked the handle.

  “Good morning, Clark.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Did you come to spread sand and salt on the driveway?”

  Clark’s eyebrows jumped. “Actually, no. But if you need me to, I will.”

  “Not necessary. I was just testing you. There’s a kid a few blocks over who usually stops by when it snows. Charges forty bucks to shovel.”

  “Not bad cash.”

  “Inflation since the last time you worked for me.”

  “Nothing gets cheaper.”

  Mr. Stanley shivered and hustled Clark inside. Clark pushed the door closed behind him and the blitz of senior citizen scent assaulted his nose. Clark took a deep breath. It was just like tearing a Band-Aid off a hairy arm. Some things you have to do quickly.

  Mr. Stanley’s was a combination old folk’s home and bachelor pad. Every molecule was frozen in motion, each electron covered in its own layer of dust. The air was warm, the lack of movement stifling. The smell was between musty and old, sweet and sour. It wasn’t anything a year with the windows open wouldn’t cure.

  “Here’s something I picked up for you in Tokyo,” Clark said, pulling a small bottle from his jacket pocket. “I meant to give it to you last night, but things kind of ended suddenly.”

  Mr. Stanley looked at the bottle and held it at arm’s length to read the label. Particles of sparkling bits moved about in the liquid at the bottom of the bottle. Mr. Stanley turned and held the small glass container to the light.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Japanese sake,” Clark said, waiting to deliver the punch-line. “It has flakes of pure gold in it.”

  “Gold?”

  “Pure gold.”

  “Why in the hell would I want to drink gold?”

  A damn good question, Clark thought. A question he had been wondering since he bought it. Clark appealed to Mr. Stanley’s more practical nature. “Just think of it as something extra to go with the alcohol.”

  “Seems like a perfectly good waste of gold to me.”

  “I guess. But the Japanese aren’t the first to consume it. Different civilizations have been eating it for years. As a metal, gold is somewhat unique. It is biologically benign. Passes right through the digestive system without any adverse effects.”

  “You know your metals.”

  “My father’s hobby.”

  “Do you want to try it out?” Mr. Stanley asked, mocking as if he twisted the cap.

  “It’s eleven o’clock Christmas morning.”

  “But it’s Christmas night somewhere. What else do you have to do?”

  “I’ll take a rain-check.”

  “All right, but I can’t guarantee there will be any left by the time you make up your mind. Except for the gold flakes in my daily constitution.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “How’s preparation for the big move?”

  “I haven’t even been home for twenty-four hours. There are some things to do. First I need to see what is going on down at ‘the hole.’ Blacksburg is a four hour drive and all my roommates are either still in Japan or back visiting their families.”

  “The hole?”

  “That’s what some of my roommates’ girlfriends have been calling the house we live in.”

  “I see.”

  “With my roommates there’s no guarantee that the house is even still there. But the rent is paid through January, so I will be moving back in over the next couple of weeks. Whatever fits in the back of the Civic. One load at a time.”

  “Son, you know you probably don’t have to move back home. Your mother should be fine, if you wanted stay in Blacksburg for a few more months.”

  “I probably would if Aunt Betty hadn’t broken her hip. My mom is not getting any better. Or younger. It is time. I see her slipping.”

  “Ahh. We’re all slipping a little, and someday, even you will start to slip.”

  Clark forced a smile and nodded towards the sake bottle. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Stanley.”

  “Merry Christmas, son,” Mr. Stanley responded, feeling as if he had crossed some unspeakable boundary. He changed the subject. “Could you help me with something?”

  “Of course.”

  Clark followed Mr. Stanley to a small bedroom down the hall that had long ago been converted to a study. There were piles of books in the corner. Enough paper was scattered around the room to take out an acre of timber. Crossword puzzles covered the desk. A magnifying glass rested on yesterday’s edition of The New York Times. A high-watt sunlamp was clamped to the edge of a bookcase behind a leather chair. A painting rested on an easel in the corner, the portrait of a woman almost complete.

  “Who is the woman?” Clark asked.

  “It’s my wife when she was young.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of her at that age.”

  “Certainly not an oil portrait. There is only one in existence as far as I know, and you are looking at it.”

  “Nice.”

  Mr. Stanley pulled a box from the top of the small bookcase under the window.

  “Can you help me change the ceiling light in the hall? I broke the cover over a month ago.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I was cleaning and put the end of the broom right through it. Forty years that thing has been up there. Took me forever to find a replacement. Most of them are made of plastic these days.”

  Clark pulled the light cover from the small cardboard box. “No one’s coming by to help you around the house?”

  “I don’
t need any help.”

  “What about your nephew?”

  “He stops by once in a while, but hell, he is more helpless than I am. Fifty years old and he can barely take care of himself.”

  “You could have asked Nazim.”

  “I don’t trust that guy. Never did.”

  “What’s not to like? He’s quiet, helpful, and keeps his property clean. I mean, we got people parking their cars on cinderblocks in this neighborhood, in case you haven’t noticed. This guy actually plants grass in his yard every year.”

  “The neighborhood is not what it used to be.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think a neighbor would turn you down if you asked for help.”

  “I don’t want that guy in my house.”

  Clark shrugged his shoulders then removed a pile of books from the seat of a wooden chair and dragged it into the hallway. He removed the remnants of the previous light shade, carefully catching the few inches of glass near the screw in the center. He put the new cover in place and tightened the screw.

  “What are your plans for the day?” he said, stepping off the chair.

  “Going to my brother’s in McLean.”

  “That’s good. Family is good.”

  “Family is good. The in-laws that come with that family can be hell.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You want something to drink?”

  Clark didn’t, but tried to be polite. “Water would be great.”

  “Water? Hell. You will join me in a coffee.”

  “Then a coffee would be great.”

  Clark followed Mr. Stanley as he walked backed through the house to the kitchen. Clark turned at the dining nook and looked at the backyard. Old trees and rusted chain-link fences marked the territory of his neighbors’ properties. Mr. Stanley’s old metal shed leaned to the right, remnants of the last snow following the slant in the roof.

  “I see the neighbor finished his construction.”

  “Coleman’s Castle?” Mr. Stanley asked from the kitchen.

  “Is that what they’re calling it?”

  “No, that’s what I’m calling it.”

  “Well, it’s one hell of an addition.”

  “They’re calling those McMansions.”

  “I know,” Clark said.

  “Everyone on the street has some kind of addition, but Mr. Coleman’s house takes the cake. Two and a half stories, including the loft. A nice big chimney with huge glass windows. It looks like an addition from Better Homes and Gardens. Something you would see in a ski chalet. Except his neighbors in the back are the only ones who get to enjoy the view. And the only thing Coleman gets to look at is the ass-side of our property. From the front of his street, the house still looks like a rambler. A one-story rambler with a big penis sticking up out of the back. The damn thing looks ridiculous.”

  “He has the right to build on his house.”

  Mr. Stanley continued his rant. “In fifteen years there will be no middle-class neighborhoods left within a hundred miles of D.C. It’s going to be either a million dollar mansion or a flop house where you chase the roaches away long enough to fall asleep. You know, two blocks away four houses were just bought and bulldozed for the lot. Some software CEO. The real estate market may have crashed, but not for the rich.”

  “People don’t have to sell.”

  Mr. Stanley chose not to hear Clark.

  “Rich people are funny. Even the rich like to claim they are middle class. Families with three kids, five cars, seven cell phones and ten televisions. Ask any of them and they will tell you they are middle-class.” Mr. Stanley paused to see if Clark was listening, then continued. “I’ll tell you right now, if you can’t see in at least one of your neighbor’s windows, or can’t hear your neighbor giving the goods to his wife through the walls, you are not middle-class. If you own two homes, and I don’t care if one of them is a shack in the mountains, you are not middle-class. Middle-class neighborhoods are defined street by street and block by block. People who live month-to-month and have to save to rent a house for a week at the beach for their summer vacation.”

  “What about the preacher at your church? Rumor has been for years that he has a second house.”

  “That man is going to hell. You can’t be a man of the cloth, claim the souls of your parishioners to save, preach against the seven deadly sins, and have a beach house. It just doesn’t work that way. If you have enough money to help yourself to a beach house, you have enough money to help those in need. Bastard.”

  “I don’t know about calling a man of the cloth ‘a bastard.’”

  “Excuse me. I meant stingy, greedy, reverend bastard.”

  Clark tried to end the bitching that old men seem to perfect over the course of their lives. He looked at the small bird that landed on a bird feeder in the middle of the yard. A sea of seeds were scattered on the ground under the feeder.

  “Been bird watching?”

  “I have a pair of big blue jays visiting the yard that I haven’t seen before. They are just remarkable.”

  “Shouldn’t they have migrated?”

  Mr. Stanley looked genuinely offended. “Smart ass.”

  Clark looked up at Mr. Coleman in the distance as the neighbor entered the tower of his castle and sat down. A few seconds later Coleman tipped a bag of junk food upward and the orange foil of the bag covered his face.

  Clark stared out the back window as Mr. Stanley delivered the coffee. They reminisced about the neighborhood and the time Clark hit a yellow jacket nest buried in the back yard with the lawn mower. Twenty-two stings and a trip to the emergency room in a Cadillac going ninety.

  They heard a car door shut and both men looked across Nazim and Ariana’s back yard. Ariana was standing at the end of the driveway. A large box lay on the ground next to the car.

  “Aren’t you going to go help your neighbor?” Mr. Stanley asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You could have some of that gold sake and leave the heavy work to her husband.”

  “I gotta get going anyway.” Clark pulled the zipper on his jacket to just below his chin.

  Mr. Stanley didn’t want his guest to leave. “How is everything else?” he asked, touching the coffee cup adorned with a Christmas tree to his lips.

  “Well, I will be twenty-six soon and I’m spending my winter break moving back into the basement of the house where I grew up. Granted this is a small improvement over last year when I was still reeling over my dad. I have spent the last six months taking a double load of classes so I can get out of school as fast as I can to start working, which according to everyone I know, I will probably hate. And, oh, I found a stack of letters in the kitchen from the IRS, who is threatening to sue my mother unless she can explain discrepancies in my father’s tax returns for the last five years.” Clark thought about mentioning his mother’s mental capacity, but that was like flogging a horse that was never going to find its feet. “Things really couldn’t be much worse,” he added.

  “Things can always get worse.”

  “Good morning,” Clark called out making his way down his third slippery driveway of the morning. “Can I help you with that?”

  Ariana’s eyes opened wide and she stole a glance over her shoulder. Her heart raced and her blood ran fast through panic-stricken arteries and veins. One end of the box was on the rear-seat and she was pushing the other end with both hands. Two smaller boxes were on the ground near the trunk of the car.

  Clark approached smiling. “I was visiting Mr. Stanley and saw you with the boxes from the window,” Clark continued as he balanced on the icy ground with his arms.

  Ariana pushed the large box across the back seat of the car and shut the door with authority. As she turned to greet Clark she flashed her best housewife grin. Small beads of sweat formed under her eyes, beneath her thick black-framed glasses.

  “Good morning, Clark. Merry Christmas.”

  “Happy holidays,” Clark answered.

&n
bsp; “How is your mother doing?”

  “Fine, fine. Thank you for your help last night.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Clark looked into the car at the large box. Ariana smiled again.

  “Can I give you a hand?”

  Ariana paused for a moment. “Sure. Thanks. There are only two boxes left.”

  Clark walked to the back of the car and Ariana opened the trunk. He bent at the knees and grappled with the bottom corner of the box.

  “Where’s Nazim?” he asked through a half-grunt, putting the bottom of the box on the edge of the trunk.

  “He took Liana for a walk. He said the cold was invigorating,” Ariana shook her head as if her husband were alive and crazy.

  “I hope Liana is wearing ice skates.”

  Ariana watched as Clark picked up the second box and the bottom sagged.

  “Just put it anywhere.” She held her breath and hoped the obvious questions would remain in oblivion.

  “What’s in the boxes?” Clark asked innocently as the last box thudded into place in the trunk.

  “Old stuff I have been meaning to get rid of.”

  Clark nodded. “I have a bit of that to take care of myself,” Clark said.

  “I thought today would be a quiet day. A good day to get some end-of-the-year cleaning accomplished. And with my husband out of the house, I can throw away a few things. Or at least put them in the car.”

  “It’s a good day to be inside if you ask me.”

  “Unless you want to be alone outside.”

  Clark cocked his head to the side and a hint of perplexity showed on his face. Ariana ignored the reaction and noticed Clark wasn’t wearing gloves.

  “Well, next time you should make Nazim carry the heavy stuff. Those boxes are pretty hefty.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  As Clark walked away, Ariana’s eyes pierced his backside. Helpful neighbors could be a bitch.