Neighborhood Watch

by Stuart R. West

  But did he believe she’d lost her mind? The story she had told him was preposterous with no basis in reality. Yet her eyes declared the truth. The reality.

  * * * *

  Derek’s visit with Katherine reminded him it had been a while since he’d spoken with his mother. And part of him wanted to gauge her mental abilities, having seen how fragile the human mind can become with age.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Well, hello to you, too, stranger.” The sarcasm in her voice was sharp as broken glass.

  Derek sighed. “I know, Mom. Sorry. I’ve just been busy.”

  “Busy? Busy doing what?” She never understood his working from home. Her idea of a job was an office and a suit resulting in a slip of paper with lots of zeroes constantly flowing in.

  “Work. And you know, other stuff.”

  “Too busy to call your mother?”

  “Talking to you now, aren’t I?” With her, it’s always best to cut to the chase before her constant guilt games kick in. “So how are you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. My knee’s giving me pains. Must be a terrible winter coming.” Derek waited for her verbal signature. “I’m probably going bye-bye soon.” There it is, predictable as clockwork. Ever since Derek’s father died ten years ago, she self-diagnosed new maladies every day. She practically barricaded herself inside her house waiting for death, contrary to her doctor’s generally optimistic conclusions.

  “Mom, you’re not going to die. At least not any time soon.”

  “I don’t know. I can feel it.”

  “You’ve been saying that for a long time. And you’re still healthy.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to call and say hello. And tell you I love you.” Lately, it seemed, mortality had become a major, undesirable component in Derek’s life. He couldn’t turn a corner without something ominous reminding him of his vulnerability, death being the unavoidable end result. Age, something he fought for a while, poked at him. The tides had shifted, and he felt in need of a life raft.

  “I love you, too, Derek.”

  “So, really? You’re doing okay?”

  “As good as can be expected.”

  A sudden thought occurred to him. “Mom? What can you tell me about my house?”

  She fell silent for a few beats before answering. “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “I guess I didn’t know anything about it when you sold it to me. Call me a late bloomer. Now, I’m curious.”

  Her voice brightened, the shark-like realtor swimming out of retirement. “Well, let’s see. You’re only the second owner. Remember when you moved in? I think the original furniture was still there.”

  “I remember.” The previous tenant, an elderly woman, had unexpectedly died in the house. Her children, anxious to unload the house, offered the furniture to Derek. He kept the huge white sofa and said no thanks to everything else. The windows stayed open his first week there, the house being so musty. It looked and smelled like an old person’s home.

  “Did I ever tell you it was the first house built in the neighborhood?”

  “No, don’t think you did.”

  “It was built in the forties. Before that, I believe it was an old farmhouse.”

  “Huh.”

  “Why do you ask?” Suspicion, something he recognized from all of their conversations, raised in her voice. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  “Oh, no reason, really. Just a project I’m working on.”

  “Oh, yes, your work.” He could see her rolling her eyes.

  “Anyway, thanks, Mom. Better get back to work. How about lunch next week?”

  “Sounds good. But won’t that interfere with your ‘work’?” She gave as good as she got.

  “I can get around it. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  * * * *

  Curiosity clawed its way into Derek’s mind and wouldn’t let go.

  An Internet search on his house unveiled the usual suspects; property values, appraisals, and a story about some gung-ho politician who decided to beautify Barton. Derek remembered him. He had tagged everyone on the street (including George and Dot, even though their house was brick) with a summons that their homes needed to be painted. It had been the first time Derek came close to attending a City Council meeting.

  He cast his net further and found an article on the death of his house’s first tenant, Wilma Spencer. At the age of 91, Wilma had tripped and fallen to the bottom of the basement stairs, smashing her skull. The story didn’t give the exact details, but it indicated she bled to death. Her body wasn’t discovered until a week later. A visiting daughter had found her on a Sunday morning. Derek shuddered. What a surprise that must have been.

  Their stone-walled basement was already creepy enough without tales of death and decay. He imagined how Toni would react if she found out this lurid detail. She hated going down there anyway, owing to her arachnophobia. Cobwebs hung everywhere, sometimes invisible in the dim light—until they ensnared you. For this reason, Derek took it upon himself to help Toni with her laundry, until he shrunk one of her sweaters. She weighed the evils—face spiders or have no wardrobe. Shrinking clothes trumped spiders.

  Derek viewed the basement as an obstacle course. The low-hanging ceiling, covered with an elaborate maze of old wiring and plumbing, made it nearly impossible for him not to bang his head. Every time he went down there, he kept his head low, his neck aching from the awkward position. When he could remember, that is.

  On a whim, Derek searched for Barton historical societies. To his surprise, Barton had one. Barton couldn’t be bothered to have a single decent restaurant, yet trumpeted a historical society. Go figure.

  The website contained nothing more than a photograph and short blurb about Dr. Henry Edgington, a name befitting someone with the unenviable job of fronting the Barton Historical Society.

  Clichéd to the point of absurdity, Dr. Edgington definitely looked the part as well. Dressed in a bow tie and tweed jacket, his eyes enlarged by thick bifocals, he stood in front of a map of Kansas. Ironically, he looked lost in the photo.

  “Hello?” He spoke in a voice as thin and reedy as his image.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Dr. Henry Edgington.”

  “Oh!” There was a shuffle of papers and several clumps. The man cleared his throat and announced, “This is Dr. Edgington. How may I help you?”

  Amused by the sudden serious change in Edgington’s voice, Derek said, “Hi, Dr. Edgington. My name’s Derek Winton, and I live at 5022 Pawnee Lane. The reason I’m calling…”

  “Yes! I’m intimately familiar with your domicile, Mr. Winton. It’s played a very important part in Barton history.” While his enthusiasm was contagious, Derek wondered just how much history Barton had, let alone important history.

  “I’m curious about the background of my house. And the neighborhood.”

  “Hold on one second.” More papers shifted and thumped down. “Okay, your house was the first one built in the entire neighborhood. It was a farmhouse before that. Let’s see…a farmer named Cabott owned it and sold it to land developers. Well, looks like maybe his children sold the land.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And…seems like before the farm, the land was a Native American reservation.”

  “Huh.”

  “Here’s the most interesting thing about your property, Mr. Winton. There’s a story about the large oak tree in your yard.”

  Derek’s interest perked up. “What’s the story?”

  “The Native Americans worshipped it. They believed it to be of a mystical nature capable of, well…” He lowered his voice to a near whisper as if embarrassed. “They thought it represented fertility.”

  “Now, that is interesting.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know if the farmer who built on the land believed the same thing or not, but he made sure to erect…um…sorry…”

  “No problem.”

  “Anyw
ay, the farmer built his farm around the tree. And so did the architect of your house. In fact, the tree is now an official landmark of Barton history.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that, Dr. Edgington. Thanks for the information. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “May I ask why the curiosity, Mr. Winton? You wouldn’t be interested in selling, would you?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Just curious. But should I choose to sell, you’ll be the first person I contact.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Dr. Edgington, if I might ask, what are you a doctor of?”

  “Oh. Well.” His previous huff and expertise deflated. “Between you and me, I just put that on the website to make it sound more official.”

  “I see.” Derek stifled a laugh. “Thanks again, Dr. Edgington.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Derek stared out the window at the tree. He knew the tree was the giant of the street, older than Barton itself. But a mystical entity? A fertility god? Could there be something to what Katherine had said about the neighborhood?

  Something sat upon the tree, something that looked like it didn’t belong. Several years back, Toni had purchased a wooden face consisting of two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. She had lovingly tacked it onto the tree, making it appear like a tree spirit. But now something replaced one of the wooden eyes.

  Walking outside, revulsion swelled in Derek’s stomach as he approached the new addition. A squirrel, tire tracks on its back side, hung from the tree, crucified with several nails in its tail and paw. Its dark, dead marbles of eyes stared into nothingness. The false, wooden face leered at him, the squirrel a grisly eye patch. Derek looked across the street. The trio of homes sat quiet, their occupants still at their jobs.

  But he knew they were responsible. They had delivered their warped idea of a neighborhood gift basket.

  * * * *

  “Derek, you don’t know it was them!”

  “Yeah, I do.” Derek sat glumly at the dining room table, pushing the turkey loaf across his plate. Eating meat seemed out of the realm of possibility, after seeing the squirrel splayed on the oak tree. “Who else would do that?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. You’re seeing shadows everywhere again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Toni?” But he knew what she meant. The topic they both feared and never talked about.

  “Nothing. It’s just…do you think it might be time to see your doctor again?”

  “Toni, I’m not crazy!”

  “Didn’t say you were.” Sometimes her calmness infuriated him. When your partner’s already moved into the calm after the storm, the storm loses some of its potency. And he didn’t feel like coming in from the storm, not just yet.

  “Not hungry.” He tossed his napkin onto the table. “Okay. Who else would nail a squirrel to our tree? In your opinion?”

  “Kids.”

  “Yeah, right. Like there’re any kids around here. And what about the weird story Katherine told me today? There’s gotta be something to it.”

  “Honey. Face it. We all get old. Sadly, I think Katherine’s mind is slipping.”

  The story did seem ridiculous in retrospect. And it surprised him how much he had been willing to buy into it at the time. “Okay. Maybe, it’s not true.”

  “Maybe nothing. Ghosts and evil neighbors nailing dead animals to the tree. You do realize it all sounds sorta…out there, right?” Even though she smiled, Derek read her underlying concern.

  “Don’t worry, Toni. I’m not going there again.” He said it, fully embracing the elephant in the room.

  Two years after they were married, Derek had fallen into depression. Didn’t realize it at the time. No one ever does. He had attributed his feelings to unhappiness with his job. But he grew paranoid. At work, he thought he was the topic of clandestine meetings, every glance and word amongst his co-workers rife with hidden meaning. Things reached a peak when he found himself at the grocery store one day, his favorite cereal out of stock. In the middle of the aisle, he had collapsed, crying, unable to make sense of his unfair world. Then, he knew he had a problem. A year of prescribed antidepressants worked wonders, and he hadn’t needed to go back on them since. But sometimes he wondered if Toni walked on eggshells around him, afraid he would relapse at any moment.

  “I’m not going back to…my dark place. I know it sounds like I’m seeing things where they’re not. But don’t worry.” He turned his thumbs to his chest. “I’m here.”

  “Good.” She placed her hand on top of his. “I like you the way you are now.”

  “Oh? Like? Not love?”

  She shrugged. “‘Love’s’ a given. Sometimes ‘like’ is harder.”

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Derek put on his tennis shoes, Patch bounded for the front door. The dog knew it signified time for a walk just as he knew he went to daycare every Tuesday. Derek had first found the idea of daycare for a dog silly, but given Patch’s rambunctious nature, it had proven to be a godsend. The extreme day-long socialization with other dogs wore Patch out for a day or two, allowing Derek more time to get work done. Otherwise, his days would be filled with playing catch and entertaining the dog.

  Patch tugged at the leash, dragging Derek down the steps. He cursed the fact he had never attained pack-master status. Unlike Toni. When she walked Patch, he obediently stayed at her heel, never straying out of line.

  “Patch, no!” Trotting along at a determined pace, Patch pulled Derek across the street. Straining at his collar, Patch yanked Derek toward one of Carl’s firs lining the front of the house.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Patch stopped, playfully grinding down on his forepaws. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, he let loose a sharp bark.

  “Something in the bush?” Derek lowered to the ground and looked underneath the shrubbery. The oak tree’s missing eye lay there like a fossilized gray egg.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Patch barked, as if in agreement.

  * * * *

  When Derek returned from walking Patch—although who walked whom was disputable—he saw Barbeque Bob’s car in the driveway. Lately, Bob had been returning from work earlier than usual. Not surprising, not these days. Bob worked as a pressman at a printing plant. The Internet helped put more printers out of business, printed paper becoming a relic of the past. Derek empathized with him. His company, too, had been a victim of obsolescence.

  Derek stepped out into his backyard. True to form, Bob hunkered over his grill, preparing the culinary masterpiece for the evening.

  “Hey, Bob.”

  “Hey, Derek.” Their customary greetings never deviated from the norm. Always hollering over the chain link fence, their verbal volleys about weather could be heard throughout the neighborhood. But Derek wanted privacy today. He strolled to the fence, thought about trying to climb it, and quickly discarded the notion. His fence climbing days were well beyond him. He exited his gate and entered Bob’s.

  Bob held his spatula high in greeting, a cloud of grill smoke riding the air.

  “Smells good, Bob.”

  “Yeah. Grillin’ some steaks.”

  “Tasty. Sunny’s a lucky woman.”

  “I guess she is.”

  Their conversation stalled as it usually did once bland pleasantries were exchanged. Although they had both worked for a printer, that’s where their similarities stopped. Derek suspected Bob didn’t quite understand his working at home, just as his mother didn’t. It also hadn’t taken long for Derek to discover Bob’s conservative viewpoints regarding most things American. Derek carefully avoided discussing politics for that reason.

  “Hey, about the new neighbors…”

  Bob’s smile faded, a sure sign he had left his comfort zone. He closed the grill’s hood and turned to Derek. “Yeah, I saw a little of your dust-up with ‘em on the Fourth. Kinda gettin’ carried away with the fireworks, weren’t they?”

  “Yeah, that’s an understateme
nt. Hey, have you had any…encounters with them?”

  “Encounters? What kind of encounters?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe arguments or anything?”

  “Can’t say as I have. But they’re not too friendly. I’ll say that for ‘em. And the way they were carrying on over the Fourth, well, I wanted to come out and talk to the cops, but Sunny put her foot down.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep, she said it’s best to not get involved. Went against my better judgment, but you know how the little ladies can be.” Bob rolled his eyes, swiveled his hips, and feigned a poor imitation of a woman’s voice. “‘Bob, don’t you go out there.’” Derek tried to hide his embarrassment, although by now he really should be used to Bob’s horrific imitation of his wife. “But you gotta keep the little ladies happy.” He nudged Derek with his elbow, his idea of male solidarity in the face of women.

  “Yeah, ‘spose you’re right.”

  “So, why didn’t the cops do anything? I thought I heard ‘em shootin’ off more fireworks later.” Bob gestured with the spatula across the street.

  “The police didn’t do a thing. They pretty much sided with the neighbors. They accused Patch of attacking them.”

  Bob stared over at Patch, who watched them through the fence. “Patch? He’s a good dog. What’re they, crazy?”

  “I’m beginning to think so,” said Derek under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’ve been having more problems with them lately.” He told Bob about the dead squirrel nailed to the tree and his discovery earlier of the eye underneath Carl’s bush.

  “You gonna call the cops on ‘em again?”

  Derek shrugged. “Don’t really see it’ll do any good. The cops pretty much appear to be aligned with them, and I don’t have any proof of anything.”

  “That’s a real shame. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Hey, Derek?” Bob hesitated before continuing. “You know, Sunny thinks they’re all right.”