They moved in quietly; he, wearing denim overalls and directing the movers as though he, himself, was doing the heavy lifting; she, wearing sweatpants and a terrycloth short-sleeved v-neck, hunting through the backseat of their car and carrying in boxes of what looked to be files and pictures.
I had watered their plants once a week after my neighbors moved out because I didn’t want whoever was coming after them to lose the beauty of peony bushes and spring flowers.
The day after the moving van, I rang their doorbell, plate of sugar cookies in hand.
“Hi, I’m from next door. I thought you might like a welcome to the neighborhood pick-me-up!”
The woman took the cookies and peered at them.
“I’m Mel.”
“Mel.”
The woman cleared her throat and her husband came from the other room, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Mel, is it? Name’s Gordy.”
“We’re glutton-free, both of us,” the woman said.
I took a step back. “I . . . I’m sor…”
“We can take them to work!” the man interrupted with a smile.
I nodded, tried to smile and went back home, glad I’d put them on a paper plate and not something I valued.
The next morning I chewed on my toast and thoughtfully sipped my tea with cloves and cinnamon as I watched out the window at my new neighbor digging up the peony bushes and spring flowers I’d watered before they’d moved in. They owned them now. They could do what they wanted. It shouldn’t matter, right?
I didn’t see either of them go to work – only putter around their house and yard, removing what I considered vestiges of beauty I’d grown accustomed to but didn’t own. I can’t say with complete confidence that they didn’t go to work, because I did and was only witness to changes that occurred at the house next door before I returned home. I started closing my curtains on that side of the house. Out of sight, out of mind. It didn’t help.
Saturday morning I decided to treat myself at Heddy’s Cafe. I got there early enough to get my waffle without much of a wait. They had only one small waffle-maker, and if you were there with a friend, you wouldn’t get your waffles at the same time. One of you would have to wait. But they were the best waffles I’d ever tasted. Herb, the owner strolled over to my table to chat and I told him about my new neighbors. He nodded, then winked, and wished me good luck. Maybe he thought I’d had enough bad luck that he should make certain I knew what kind of luck he was wishing me. And it wasn’t exactly bad luck, I’ll admit. It shouldn’t have even felt like an offense. It was just – unexpected.
As unexpected as, say, the light wash purple they were painting their house upon my return. Gordy waved his paintbrush my way and I waved back. The woman who still hadn’t given me her name ignored me and kept painting.
to be continued . . .
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