(The wife knew that the husband had sent angry complaints to the Crescent Lake Farms Homeowners Association. He had tried to call, but there was only voice mail, which was never answered. And the e-mail complaints were answered automatically, with a promise of “looking into the situation.”)
Often then in the days following, intermittently and unpredictably through the day, there came the sound of teenagers practicing basketball, playing amplified rap music, exchanging shouts. It seemed clear that the Jester children had visitors—the shouts were various, at times the several young voices were quite distinct.
No words, only just sounds. Raw brash crude sounds.
And the dogs’ nonstop barking, that continued after the young people left, often into the night.
(Were the dogs tied outside? Were no other neighbors disturbed? How could the neighbors-through-the-trees fail to hear and be disturbed, themselves?)
(Wasn’t it cruelty to animals, to keep dogs tied outside? Ignoring their barking in the night?)
It was astonishing to the wife and the husband, how loud these noises were; how close-seeming.
“It’s like they’re just outside our house. They couldn’t be any louder if they were inside our house.”
“Maybe—we should go away. Sooner than August.”
They’d planned two weeks on Nantucket Island, in August: in a rented house on the ocean, to which they’d been returning for decades. But the husband was furious at the suggestion of being driven out of his own house, by neighbors.
“I wouldn’t want to give them the satisfaction.”
“But they don’t know anything about us—they don’t know us.”
“They know that they have neighbors. They know that their noise must carry through the trees. And what of their neighbors on West Crescent Drive? You’d think that they would have complained by now.”
“Maybe they have. Maybe nothing came of it.”
“Listen!”—the husband lifted his hand.
For now, there was the sound of a younger child, crying. Or screaming. Sobbing, screaming, crying.
Other childish voices, shouts. The teenagers’ raw-voiced shouts. Must have been a game of some kind involving physical contact.
And the dogs’ barking. Louder.
The husband and the wife left their house earlier than they’d planned for dinner in town. The husband could barely eat his food, the ignominy of being driven away from his own house was intolerable to him.
At least when they returned, the noise through the trees had abated.
Only nocturnal birds, bullfrogs and insects in the grass. And high overhead, a quarter-moon curved like a fingernail.
In gratitude and exhaustion, the husband and the wife slept that night, in their dreams twined in each other’s arms.
“LISTEN!”—THE HUSBAND THREW down his newspaper, and heaved himself to his feet.
There came a child’s cries, another time. Quite clearly, a girl’s cries. Amid the coarser sound of boys’ voices, laughter. And the barking dogs.
“But—where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going? Over there.”
“But—there’s no way to get through. Is there?”
“It sounds like a child is being harassed. Or worse. I’m not going to just sit here on my ass, for Christ’s sake.”
The wife followed close behind the husband. She had not seen him so agitated, so activated, in a long time.
They were descending the lawn, in the direction of the gate. The grass had been cut recently, not in horizontal rows but diagonally across the width of the lawn. The air smelled sweetly of mown grass, that had been taken away by the lawn crew.
Rarely opened, the gate was stuck in grass and dirt, and had to be shaken hard.
The husband was very excited. The wife felt light-headed with excitement, and dread.
For this was a violation of Crescent Farms protocol. No one ever approached a neighbor’s house from the rear. It was rare that anyone “visited” a neighbor’s house uninvited.
“There’s a girl who’s hurt. And that hysterical barking. Something is terribly wrong over there.”
“We should call 911.”
“We don’t know their house number.”
“The police would find it. We could tell them the situation—approximately where the Jesters live . . .”
“‘Jesters’ is not their name.”
“I know that. Of course, ‘Jesters’ is not their name. We don’t know their name.”
“And we don’t know their address. We can’t even describe their house.”
“But we know—”
The husband had managed to get the gate open. It was a surprise to see that, like the fence, it was badly rusted.
They made their way then into the thicket of trees, onto township property. Here were scrubby little trees and bushes and coarse weeds, thigh-high. And there was the median, where the power lines were, that looked as if it hadn’t been mowed for weeks.
Somewhat hesitantly the husband and the wife made their way into the woods on the other side of the median. Here, there were many trees that appeared to be just partially alive, or wholly dead; there had been much storm damage, broken limbs and other debris heaped everywhere.
There were no paths into the woods that they could discover. No one ever walked here. No children played here. It was not the habit of Crescent Farms children to wander in such places, as the generation of their grandparents had once done.
About fifty feet into the thicket, they encountered a fence. The six-foot fence belonging to their neighbors-through-the-trees.
They were panting, very warm. They peered through the fence but could see nothing except trees.
The noises from their neighbors had abated, mostly. The girl had ceased crying. The other voices had vanished. Only a dog continued to bark, less hysterically.
“Maybe we’d better go back? We don’t want to get lost.”
“Lost! We can’t possibly get lost.”
The husband laughed incredulously. A swarm of gnats circled his damp face, his eyes glared at the wife like the eyes of a man sinking in quicksand.
“The fence is like our own. Unless we’ve gone in a circle, and it is our own fence . . .”
“This isn’t our fence, don’t be ridiculous. Our property is behind us, on the other side of the median.”
“Yes, but . . .”
The fence did resemble their own fence. It was (possibly) not so old as their fence but it was rusted in places and had become loose and probably, if they could locate the gate, they could force the gate open, and step inside.
Hello! We are your neighbors on East Crescent Drive.
We don’t want to disturb you but . . . We are concerned . . .
The husband held back now. The husband was having second thoughts about his mission now that the alarming noises seemed to have ceased.
Again the wife said maybe they should turn back?
It seemed an extreme measure, to approach their neighbors’ house from the rear, like trespassers. To come up to their neighbors’ house from the rear, uninvited.
For this would be trespassing and Crescent Lake Farms expressly forbade trespassing.
THE CHILDREN CALLED. One by one, in sequence.
As if the calls were planned.
First, Carrie. Then Tim. Then Ellen.
The husband told them that things were fine, more or less. Except for the God-damned neighbors-through-the-trees.
The wife told them that things were fine, more or less. Except for the neighbors they’d never met, across the median on West Crescent Drive.
“For God’s sake—Mom, Dad! Don’t you have anything else to talk about except the neighbors?”
Their children were exasperated with them. Laughed at them. The husband was furious, and the wife was deeply wounded.
“But—you don’t know what it’s like, with these people. Your father is under such strain, I’m worried about his health.”
And: “If you’re unhappy there, you can move. The house is much too large for two people. The maintenance must be out of sight, especially in the winter . . . Mom? Are you listening?”
No. She wasn’t listening.
Yes. She was listening, politely.
Into one of those retirement villages? Your father would never survive.
They explained that they were not unhappy in their house, which they loved. In fact they were very happy.
Only just upset, at times. By their neighbors-through-the-trees.
“THE JESTERS! God-damn them.”
Another party on the back terrace. From late afternoon until past midnight.
Amplified rock music. Throbbing notes penetrating the dense thicket of trees. The Jesters were thrumming with life: there was no avoiding the Jesters who penetrated the very air.
The wife returned from her chemo treatment ashen-faced, staggering. Fell onto a bed and tried to sleep for three hours during which time she tried not to be upset by the amplified music-through-the-trees and by her own nausea. The husband had shut himself in his home office.
Crack!—crack! Crack-crack-crack!
(Was it gunfire? From the Jesters’ property?)
Hunting was forbidden in Crescent Lake Farms. As were firecrackers, fireworks—any kind of noisy activity that was a disturbance of the peace and privacy of one’s neighbors.
Middle of the night, uplifted voices. Waking the husband and the wife from their troubled sleep.
The adult Jesters were arguing with one another, it seemed. A man’s voice sharp as a claw hammer, a woman’s voice sharp as flung nails. At 3:20 A.M.
(Were the children involved in the argument? This wasn’t clear, initially.)
(Yes, at least one of the children was crying. A forlorn sound like that of a small creature grasped in the jaws of an owl, being carried to the uppermost branches of a tree to be devoured.)
“We have to speak with them. This can’t continue.”
“We should file a complaint. That might be more practical.”
“With the Homeowners Association? Nobody there gives a damn.”
“With the township police, then. ‘Disturbing the peace’—‘suspicion of child abuse.’”
“No! The Jesters could sue, if we made such allegations and couldn’t prove them.”
“Then we should speak with them. Maybe we can work something out.” The wife paused, trying to control her voice. She was very shaken, and close to tears. “They’re decent people, probably. They don’t realize how disturbing they are to their neighbors. They will listen to reason . . .”
In their bedroom, in the night. The husband saw that the wife was ashen-faced, and trembling; the wife saw, with a pang of love for him, a despairing sort of love, that the husband was looking strained, older than his age; beneath his eyes, bruised-looking shadows. Yet he tried to smile at her. He took her hand, squeezed the fingers. He was like an actor who has forgotten his lines, yet will make his way through the scene, eyes clutching the eyes of his fellow-actor, the two of them stumbling together.
“I’m so sorry this is happening to us. Now you’re retired, you should be spared any more stress. I wish I knew what to do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It isn’t up to you. I should be more forceful. We can’t let our lives be ruined by the Jesters.”
It was quiet now. The terrible quarrel had flared up, like wildfire, and abruptly ceased. There had been a sharp noise like the shutting of a door.
Tentatively the husband and the wife lay back down in their bed, the wife huddling in the husband’s arms. By slow degrees they drifted into sleep.
SLAP-SLAP-SLAP. The boys had returned to their basketball practice, early-morning. The dogs were barking. Someone shouted words that were nearly distinct—Don’t! God-damn you.
“IF YOU’RE COMING with me, come on.”
“But, are you sure . . .”
“We have no choice! We’ll talk with them, and if they don’t cooperate we’ll file a formal complaint with the township police.”
Bravely the husband spoke. The wife hurried to keep up with him, headed for their car. She saw that the husband had shaved hastily and that tiny blood-nicks shone in his jaws.
The husband always drove. The wife sat beside him, sometimes clutching at the dashboard when the husband drove quickly and erratically and spoke as he drove, distracted.
The husband was saying that there have been “primitive cultures” in which the populace cut down trees year after year—decade after decade—until at last there was but a single tree remaining on the island—(evidently, these were “island aboriginals”)—and this tree, they cut down.
Then, there were no more trees. The people were amazed.
Amazed and mystified. For there had always been trees.
Where had the trees gone? Had demons cast a spell? The belief of centuries was, there had always been trees.
The husband said grimly, “You do not question inherited beliefs. That is blasphemy, and blasphemy will get you killed.”
The husband laughed, “Yet: where are the trees?”
The wife had no idea what the husband was talking about. She had missed his initial remarks, as they’d climbed into their car, in haste and yet in determination.
She thought Does he mean, we have no idea what will happen to us next? Or does he mean—we can alter our future, before it’s too late?
The husband drove along East Crescent Lake Drive, and at Juniper Road he turned right; a half-mile north on Juniper, and a right turn onto a smaller road, then another small road, then West Crescent Drive.
“These houses are beautiful. And the landscaping . . .”
The wife spoke admiringly. The wife was very nervous, both of the husband’s driving which was too fast for the circumstances, and of their impending destination.
The husband said, “West Crescent isn’t any different from East Crescent. The houses are no more beautiful here. The landscaping is similar. In fact, some of the houses are identical with houses on our road. Look—that Colonial? It’s a replica of the Colonial a few doors down from us.”
The wife wasn’t so sure. This Colonial had dark green shutters, the Colonial on East Crescent Lake Drive had dark red shutters.
They came to 88 East Crescent Drive. The road curved as their road did, and the cul-de-sac resembled theirs. To their surprise, the mailbox at the Jesters’ house was made of white brick and stainless steel, exactly like their own, but the Jesters’ mailbox door was opened, and the interior of the mailbox crammed with what looked like an accumulation of rain-soaked junk mail.
Growing in a little patch at the base of the mailbox were ugly, coarse-flowering weeds. In a little patch at the base of their mailbox the wife had planted marigolds as she did every year.
“Oh my God! Look.”
“What is . . .”
To their astonishment, the house they believed to belong to the Jesters resembled their own, though not precisely. It was a sprawling country house of weathered shingle board, large, with a horseshoe driveway like their own, but badly cracked and weedy. The elegant plantings in the Jesters’ lawn had been allowed to grow wild. Rotted tree limbs lay scattered in the weedy grass.
The husband and the wife were stunned. The husband and the wife were nearly speechless. For it seemed that the Jesters’ house had been damaged in some way, and was boarded-up.
“Do you think—no one lives here?”
“That isn’t possible . . .”
The husband had parked their car at the curb. Cautiously now they were making their way up the driveway, staring.
Waiting for a dog to rush at them, barking . . . Two dogs.
It was so, the shingle-board house was shut up. Seemingly abandoned. No one lived here, or had lived here in a while. There was a dark stain across half the façade, like scorch.
It was scorch—smoke damage.
; As the husband and the wife approached the house, they saw that there was a faded-yellow tape around it, at least so far as they could see. On the tape were repeated DO NOT ENTER BY ORDER OF HECATE TOWNSHIP FIRE DEPT.—DO NOT ENTER BY ORDER OF HECATE TOWNSHIP FIRE DEPT.— in black, badly faded.
The fire could not have been recent. But how was this possible?
Boldly the husband approached the house, stooping beneath the yellow tape. The wife protested, “Wait! Where are you going? It’s a violation of the law . . .”
“No one is here. No one is watching.”
“But—maybe it’s dangerous.”
(It might not have been correct, that no one was watching. Just outside the cul-de-sac, at 86 East Crescent Drive, there was a large putty-colored French Provincial house with numerous glittering windows. And a vehicle parked in the driveway.)
The husband approached the front door, stepping on debris on the stoop. As if to ring the doorbell, though obviously there was no one inside the wreck of a house.
They could see now that the fire damage was considerable. From the road, it had not been so evident. Much of the house had collapsed, at the rear; downstairs windows were boarded up, somewhat carelessly; part of the roof, burnt through, had collapsed. The wife was shivering in the midsummer heat. Did anyone die in the fire? How many? The wife did not want to think Was it arson? And when? Beside the heavy oak door there were inset windows, of stained glass, which were partly broken but not boarded up; through these, the husband and the wife stared into the house, into a foyer with a silly, forlorn-looking crystal chandelier, a badly stained tile floor, miscellaneous overturned furniture.
A chair lying on its side. A crooked mirror, reflecting what looked like mist, or gas. Smoke stains like widespread black wings on the once-white wall.
A smell of something terrible, like burnt flesh.
“Please! Let’s leave.”
“No one can see us.”
“People have died here. You can tell. Please let’s leave.”
The husband laughed at the wife, irascibly. In the reflected light from the stained glass his skin was unnaturally mottled, rubefacient; his eyes narrowed with thought, a kind of frightened animal cunning. His nostrils widened and contracted as if, like an animal, he was sniffing the air for danger.
Lovely, Dark, Deep: Stories Page 26