The History of Soul 2065

by Barbara Krasnoff

  The place needed work—the paint job was abysmal, and the bathroom had probably been designed by a refugee from 1962. And I wasn’t too sure how well I’d fit into an enclave that was overseen by an obviously nosy Irish lady.

  But it was a house. With a fireplace. And a dishwasher. And a staircase. And a lawn.

  I did one more short tour, went over to the door, put my hand on the knob and then stopped. “Should I take it?” I asked and looked behind me as if Ben would suddenly manifest there, in the living room, wrinkling his nose at the color of the walls and figuring out which tchotchkes would go on the mantelpiece. I hadn’t made a major decision without asking for his input for nearly a decade; it was hard to get out of the habit.

  Of course, he wasn’t there. He would never be there. But I knew what Ben would have said: “You like it? You can afford it? Then for god’s sake don’t spend time thinking about it—grab it before somebody else does.”

  He was right. Of course. “Okay,” I said, and opened the door.

  Mrs. Delaney was still sitting under the tree. “So,” she asked as I approached, her bright blue eyes fastened on my face, “you’ve decided to take the house, have you? Ah, well, that’s lovely. I’m sure you’ll like it here.”

  I offered her the key. “I’ll think about it,” I said, a little miffed at being taken for granted.

  She smiled and waved away the key. “Nothing to think about. Just call your real estate agent and tell her that I said to arrange for the lease. You can move in whenever you like.”

  * * *

  I wondered later if she’d heard me talking to my dead lover—the walls of those homes didn’t strike me as very thick. Still, the next morning I sent in my answer and my references; a two-year lease arrived in my email an hour later. I forwarded it to my lawyer, who told me it was a standard lease with nothing objectionable added. I signed it, sent it, and two weeks later stood outside my new home watching the movers drive away with a good chunk of my change.

  It was a Friday afternoon and the courtyard was quiet; most of the other residents were probably out at work (although I did see a few curtains twitch—no doubt neighbors trying to figure out who I was).

  I went inside, shut the door, and began to unpack.

  After a couple of hours, I sat back and contemplated the piles of boxes on the floor and on my couch. Part of me—the part I inherited from my efficient, no-nonsense mami—said that I should keep unpacking, and that the sooner I got that done, the faster I could get on with my life. The other part wanted to take a walk and check out the local bars to see if any looked friendly.

  “Nu-uh,” I finally told myself. “You can check out the bars tonight. Work first.” I reached out to another box.

  And then I smelled it. Smoky. Strong. Very unpleasant. Coming from outside.

  There were two windows in the front wall of the house, one on either side of the door. They were covered by cheap white blinds, which I had decided to keep until I got something a bit snazzier to protect my privacy. I pushed a dusty slat down and peered outside.

  In front of the house next door, a man was carefully pushing small sticks into his lawn and setting the tip of each on fire with a lighter.

  Okay. So I had eccentric people living next door. I was a New Yorker—I could handle eccentric. I decided to ignore the whole thing.

  Fifteen minutes later, I realized I couldn’t ignore it. The smell was getting intense, to the point where I had to crank open the kitchen window and dig out my fan to try to air the place out.

  Time to meet the neighbors. I went for the front door.

  Once outside, I wasn’t sure what to do or say. The man acted like I wasn’t there—just kept pushing each stick into the ground, lighting it, and going on to the next. Small plumes of evil-smelling brown smoke drifted up and dispersed throughout the area.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi, there,” I said, in what I hoped was a conversational tone of voice.

  The man turned and stared at me. He was practically a caricature of an aging Brooklyn mook: Somewhere in his 70s, with thinning white hair and an impressive paunch. “Hello.” he said, noncommittally, in the sort of gravelly, well-used voice that I always associated with construction workers and ex-cops.

  I walked over to him and stretched out my hand. “Carlos Acosta. I just moved in.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We saw.” He gave my hand a cursory shake. “Bob Halloran. Where you from, Carlos?”

  “Queens. Astoria, to be precise.” He scowled at me, but I plowed on, determined to be polite. “I was just wondering…”

  And then I got a better look at the sticks he was planting, and my voice trailed off. I recognized them—they were what we used to call punks, bamboo sticks with a brown coating that were used to light fireworks. They were fun to play with when I was a kid, but they weren’t usually used as lawn decorations. What the hell was it all about? Some sort of weird religious ceremony?

  The man saw me staring. “We got an animal problem here. Squirrels, cats—they dig holes and crap on the lawn. I figure this will keep them away.” He gave a wide wave toward his lawn, which I now saw was mowed down to about a quarter of an inch, so perfectly that the grass might have been painted on.

  “Oh.” I was trying to figure out what to say to this when a large woman with streaked blonde hair and wearing a bright purple track suit came storming out of the house directly across from mine. “Bob Halloran!” she yelled, heading for us like a truck out of control. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I took a step back—she looked like she was planning to plow right into us—but Halloran just narrowed his eyes and stood his ground. “I’m minding my own business, Vivian,” he shouted back. “What is your problem?”

  “You know damn well what my problem is,” the woman huffed, stopping just short of the row of smoking punks. “I’ve got two kids coming home from school in half an hour, and all I need is for them to burn themselves on one of these…things.” She made an abortive move to kick one over, but then thought better of it and pulled her foot back.

  She looked as though she would have said more, but a thin, white-haired woman wearing curlers and a bright pink apron that read, “Grandma Cooks Great!” came running out of Halloran’s house. “Vivian, what is your problem?” she demanded. “There’s nothing dangerous about punks—you used to play with ‘em when you were a kid, and you know it.”

  After that, it became a verbal free for all. The three shouted at each other so enthusiastically that I was wondering whether I should call 911. Then Mrs. Halloran’s eyes widened. She closed her mouth and gave each of the other combatants a quick stab with her forefinger. As if given a signal, the other two immediately stopped and followed her gaze.

  Mrs. Delaney stood a few feet away, her arms folded. “I was trying to watch my programs when I heard what sounded like a flock of seagulls screaming over a piece of garbage,” she said, quietly but firmly. “And then I started smelling burning garbage. Which turned out to be those foul items,” and she nodded at the smoldering punks.

  I glanced at the three combatants. The two Hallorans looked like sullen children being dressed down by a hated teacher. Vivian looked smug.

  “That stench will pollute every living thing in the Court,” Mrs. Delaney continued calmly. “Bob Halloran, I’d appreciate it if you’d remove them.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and strode briskly back to her house. I watched her for a moment, and then looked back at the trio. Vivian smiled and nodded at me. “Come say hello when you’re ready,” she said, and went back to her own place. The Hallorans glanced at each other, and then quietly started pulling the punks out of their lawn.

  * * *

  It wasn’t over, though.

  A week after the incident with the punks, Halloran installed an electric fence two feet off the ground, which sparked unpleasantly every time a suicidal insect decided to pass by. That lasted until a small black poodle belonging to the elderly lady
in the first house on the right ran into it and scurried away uttering a frightening whine. An hour later a police officer was banging on Halloran’s door and the fence came down.

  A couple of weeks after that, Halloran placed several jars of water on his lawn because, he stated categorically, “Cats are afraid of the effect.” Somehow, the cats seemed to have conquered their fear; in fact, they saw it as a great place to get something to drink, as did the local squirrel population. Eventually, the jars disappeared as well.

  For a while after that, things were quiet. I finished most of my unpacking and dragged the less important stuff down to the basement. I put up some of my posters and one or two of Ben’s. I called Gretl once a week just to keep in touch, and occasionally chatted with Ben’s cousin Eileen, who was looking after her. I stripped the bedroom of some really vile wallpaper and painted it. And then settled down to find some serious freelance work.

  By this time, I was on friendly, although not intimate, terms with most of my neighbors. Vivian turned out to be a loud, friendly woman who worked part-time as a paralegal for a large Wall Street firm; she and her husband (an auto mechanic who collected old dime novels) and I would sit outside on fine evenings and gossip about the latest films, local politics, and the doings of the other neighbors. Sometimes, we’d be joined by one or two others.

  It was, I had to admit, rather comfortable.

  On those few occasions I did see Halloran (which wasn’t often), we’d nod politely to each other, but I didn’t say anything and neither did he. A sort of truce, I thought, had been established.

  And then one afternoon, about three months after I’d moved in, I was working on a proposal, listening to the voices of some of my neighbors gossiping outside and wondering if I should join them when I was done when there was a sudden high-pitched squeal that made me jump. I rushed to the door and stuck my head out.

  Several neighbors had formed a tight circle on Halloran’s lawn, staring at something on the ground. There was another ear-shattering shriek that ran up my spine; without even thinking about it, I strode to the circle of people and looked down.

  A squirrel was lying on the lawn, pawing frantically at the grass, its back leg caught in what looked like an old-fashioned mousetrap.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked.

  “Halloran seeded his lawn with traps,” said Vivian scornfully. She was standing there, shaking her head. “He must have done it last night, or somebody would have stopped him. Now look.”

  The squirrel’s screams were terrible, but nobody else moved. It was as though they were waiting for permission, or the cops, or something. The hell with that—I was still new there, but somebody had to do something. I stepped forward. “Someone get a pair of gloves. Heavy gloves, if you have them.” I looked at Vivian; she nodded and trotted back to her place.

  I squatted down next to the squirrel.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m going to try to pull its leg from the trap. Does anyone know a vet around here?”

  “There’s an animal hospital down on Fourth Ave,” said Mrs. Vincelli, the woman with the dogs.

  “Call a car service, somebody,” I said. “As soon as we have the squirrel, I’ll take it over to the hospital. And maybe somebody has a shoebox we can put it in?”

  Vivian had returned; she pressed a heavy pair of gloves into my hands. I put them on, and reached slowly toward the trap, but even with the gloves I was nervous—it was nearly impossible to avoid the teeth of the squirming animal. “Shit!” I hissed.

  Then I realized that, except for the squirrel’s cries, it had become very quiet.

  I looked up. Mrs. Delaney was standing there, holding a small cloth bag. Without a word she sat down cross-legged in the grass next to me and, murmuring some quiet words that I couldn’t quite hear, slowly moved the bag close to the frantic squirrel. She didn’t seem worried about a nip from those sharp and possibly diseased little teeth; she just carefully pushed the bag over the animal’s head and body, and held it gently but firmly.

  Whether it was what she was saying or the darkness of the bag or the loss of blood, I don’t know, but the squirrel stopped struggling. I was able to take the metal bar of the trap in one hand and the wood base in the other, slowly separate them, and pull the trap from the animal’s leg.

  I threw the bloodied thing toward the house and sat back. I suddenly felt very tired. “Did somebody call the car service?” I asked.

  “Don’t bother yourself,” said Mrs. Delaney. “The little anam is dead.”

  I looked up. Sometime during the last minute or two, the neighbors had quietly walked back to their homes. The only people left were myself, Mrs. Delaney and Vivian. I took off the gloves and handed them to Vivian, who dropped them on Halloran’s lawn. “He can get rid of them,” she said roughly. “God knows what kind of vermin that poor thing had.”

  Mrs. Delaney had picked up the bag so that the squirrel slipped completely inside it. She looked into the bag and sighed. “Too much fright and too much blood lost,” she said, as if talking to the squirrel. “Poor thing. Not to die of age or to feed a predator, but caught in a nasty human trap.” She looked up. “Vivian, I’m sure I can trust you to let Mr. Halloran know that I would appreciate it if he would remove those traps immediately.”

  “Oh, he’ll hear from me,” said Vivian grimly.

  “Don’t yell too much at the man, dear, he is miserable enough. Carlos, walk me to my garden. I need a nice strong young man like you to help me dig a grave.”

  We walked slowly towards Mrs. Delaney’s house at the back of the Court. “I shouldn’t have allowed them to move in,” she said, as much to herself as to me. “I knew they were troubled souls, but her mother came from the same county as my father’s first wife, so I asked no advice but welcomed them in. And see what that has brought.”

  We had reached the tree. She stopped, shook her head and stared at me. “I hope you will always pay attention,” she said sternly. “Listen to those who love you and want the best for you.”

  I shrugged. “Not too many of those,” I said, perhaps a bit offhandedly.

  “Of course there are,” she said, and then before I could say anything else, looked up to a lower branch, where a mockingbird sat and scolded us for coming too close to her tree. “Do you like mockingbirds?” Mrs. Delaney asked.

  “I guess so,” I said. “They’ve got nerve. They’re not big birds, but if you go anywhere near their nest, they’ll attack, no matter how big you are. And they are wonderful mimics. My abuela—my grandmother—used to say that when my mother was young, she had the choice of being as beautiful and tuneful as the mariposa or as fierce and clever as the sinsonte—the mockingbird—and she chose the latter.”

  I paused, remembering. “Ben and I…” I paused for a moment and then plowed on. “My friend Ben and I would sometimes go birding in Central Park. He was better at it than I was, but I could always identify the mockingbirds.”

  I waited for the questions, or the sideways glance, but it never came. We just stood in the quiet Court, listening to the bird go through its repertoire, until Mrs. Delaney smiled. “Now, if that wasn’t a car alarm,” she said, “I’ll eat my hat. What a very smart bird it is.”

  She continued to walk back toward her garden; I followed. “There’s a spade against the wall, behind that bush,” she told me. “You can dig a small hole there, in front of the window. Just deep enough so that cats don’t find her.”

  The soil was soft, so it took only about 15 minutes to dig a hole, deposit the tiny corpse into it, and cover it up again. Just as I was finishing, Mrs. Delaney came out of the house with a glass. “Iced tea,” she said. “Tetley, with a bit of fresh mint in it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I drank it gratefully and handed the glass back. Mrs. Delaney regarded the small grave thoughtfully. “Something will have to be done about that Halloran,” she said, more to herself than to me, it seemed. “Dedication to your garden is a worthy thing, but he is causing trouble and pain, and th
at must stop.”

  She looked back at the mockingbird, which was now fastidiously grooming its wings. For a moment, it seemed to look back at her. One of the corners of her mouth raised just slightly. “The thought occurs to me,” she said. “You said you like birds. Wouldn’t you like to put up one of those bird feeders? There’s a pet store over on Third Avenue, run by a friend of mine—Animal Crackers, it’s called. Tell him I sent you. He’ll set you up.”

  She turned and walked back into her house without another word.

  That night, I thought about her suggestion—order, rather—to put a bird feeder in my front garden. The idea was silly, to say the least. A feeder in my tiny lawn would look absurd. And the mess it would make—not to mention the care it would take—would be a pain in the ass.

  However, that Saturday, I found myself walking the seven blocks to the pet store.

  * * *

  The feeder didn’t come with any instructions, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out how to assemble it. And the next morning, when I opened my front door, three small brown birds who had decided to breakfast at the new establishment took off in a panic.

  I watched them fly away, charmed. For a moment, I pictured myself spending the warm evenings in a small deck chair, a beer at my side and a guide to New York City birdlife in my lap. Then I thought about the daily outdoor gossip sessions and the constant parade of neighbors, delivery people and kids that pass through the court. There would be no quiet birdwatching here.

  Still, each morning, before I even made coffee, I would go replenish the feeder. And I started to keep my living room blinds open so that, during periods of relative quiet, I could watch the birds fighting over the seed outside.

  A couple of weeks later, I was on a call with a client when somebody pounded on my door as though they were trying to knock it down. It startled the hell out of me—I thought maybe there was an emergency of some sort, so I asked the client to hold, put the phone on mute, and opened the door to find Halloran standing on my threshold in an obviously foul mood. “I need to talk to you about your birds,” he rasped.