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By Susan Verrochi
Copyright 2011 Sue Verrochi
Neighbors
“Taking care of business, Edith, that’s the ticket,” said Albert Ionescu, never taking his eyes off the road before him. His silver Buick LeSabre inched along the center westbound lane of the crowded rush-hour expressway. Cars passed him on both sides, sounding their horns. Had he for a moment taken his eyes from the road, he’d have seen more than one middle finger aimed in his direction. But this never happened. He traveled along at 45 miles per hour, which he remembered had once been the speed limit on this stretch of highway. Albert saw no reason for the limit to have been raised to 65, so he adhered to the old standard. Enveloped in the quiet of his car, hearing aid batteries long since expired, he was untouched by the world that surrounded him.
Up ahead on his left, in the illegal U-turn area that connected the east and westbound lanes, he saw a state trooper sitting in his car. Albert wondered if it was Officer Williams who had pulled him over twice for obstructing traffic. He’d yet to issue a ticket. Mrs. Ionescu had, after all, been his favorite teacher in elementary school.
“You’ve got to move with the flow of traffic, Mr. Ionescu. You’re slowing everybody down and they just want to get home to their families!” Williams had told him on the second occasion.
“Snot-nosed kid,” Albert muttered at the memory of the middle-aged police officer’s warning. “All these kids think they’ve got everything figured out, but I tell you Edith, they don’t know their asses from a -.”
He stopped himself in mid sentence.
“Sorry honey! I’ll put a quarter in the jar when we get home.”
Albert pulled the LeSabre off the highway at exit 15, where the dry cleaner was located. He went inside and picked up his clean shirts, dropping off the dirty ones. He did not speak to Mr. Li other than was absolutely necessary to the exchange of business despite the fact that the two elderly gentlemen had seen each other twice weekly for the past seven years. That was what Albert liked about Li’s Laundry and Dry Cleaning; the proprietor did not feel it was necessary to befriend his customers.
His errand complete, Albert steered the car back onto the eastbound highway now where there were fewer cars, never varying from his slow and measured pace.
“I know why you’re being so quiet,” he said. “You’re still mad about what happened with that punk next door, aren’t you?” Albert kept his eyes glued to the road and chattered on. Edith had always been the quiet one.
“Look, Edie honey, somebody had to teach that jackass a lesson. Oops, there goes another quarter!”
When Albert and Edith Ionescu had first moved into the house on Far Acre Road, they’d had no neighbors for a mile in any direction which was how Albert had liked it. Over time, though, the owners of the fallow fields surrounding them had sold off their land and humanity had begun to encroach upon the old farmhouse the couple had lovingly restored.
Last year, The Punk, as Albert thought of him, bought the last remaining plot of land directly to the right of the farmhouse and built a monstrosity of stucco and pillars that was completely out of character in the Connecticut woods. Albert himself had been before the town zoning board many times complaining about the row of arborvitae, which he was sure had been planted on his side of property line and about the detached garage that housed an enormous speedboat in the off season. This too, he was convinced, had been erected partially on his land.
The final straw had come this summer when The Punk had begun construction on his outdoor oasis, or whatever the hell it was. It involved a stone fire pit, a hot tub, and a gazebo, all brightly illuminated and wired with stereo sound. This time Albert had taken his complaints right to the Board of Selectmen. The lights and noise were keeping him awake nights, he grumbled. They assured him that they were “looking into the matter.” But as far as Albert could tell, nothing had come of it. In protest, Albert had ceased payment of all motor vehicle and property taxes to the town.
Last week, The Punk had come to his door and tried to make amends.
“Mr. Ionescu, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he’d begun as he fidgeted awkwardly on the pineapple welcome mat Edith had placed there years ago.
Albert, a small, trim man, stood in the doorway with arms folded across his sunken chest and regarded his hulking, slovenly neighbor with repugnance. From the look of his shorts and tank top, he appeared to have just come from a basketball game. His flabby body shone with sweat and his overlong curly brown hair was damp at the neck. Albert waited for him to continue speaking. In his working years as manager at Valley Electric and Gas, he’d learned that silence made people much more uncomfortable than any form of verbal confrontation.
“Did I catch you at a bad time? Looks like you’re on your way out somewhere,” his neighbor ventured, noticing Albert’s light wool grey slacks and white button down shirt. This was, however, his standard attire. Since dinner was over, he had removed his tie.
“Was there something you wanted?” Albert asked.
“Yeah, well,” The Punk continued. “I just wanted to explain. All I’m trying to do it to make the house more homey, that’s all. I mean, it is my property. Still, I hope there aren’t any hard feelings, Albert. Can I call you Albert?” He was speaking loudly, due either to nerves or a suspicion of deafness on the part of his elderly neighbor.
“You can call me by my nickname,” Albert said after what he felt was a pause long enough to cause extreme discomfort.
“What’s that, then? Al? Bert?” The Punk suggested.
“Mr. Ionescu,” he said as he slammed the door.
Albert smiled at the memory as he drove leisurely along the highway.
Now, The Punk was erecting some sort of ornate waterfall fountain, ten feet tall if it was a foot. From the diminishing privacy of his screened in back porch, Albert watched his neighbor wire a string of multi-colored LED lights along the marble sides of the hideous eyesore which now obscured his view of the northwest mountains.
“Idiot’s going to fry himself one of these days,” Albert had predicted. That, he realized as he creeped along in his silver LeSabre, was when the idea first took hold.
“You see, Edie, it was such a simple thing. It really was!” he insisted. “You heard him and that strumpet of a wife talking last night. Can’t help but hear them gabbing out there at all hours, sitting in that hot tub drinking beer like they’re on vacation in Key West.” He shook his head at the irresponsibility of it all. “She said she was taking that fat daughter of theirs to a cheerleading competition in Rhode Island today. Said she’d be gone all day. Why cheerleaders have their own competitions now is beyond me. Trying to turn it into a sport instead of a spectacle.”
“She told him to get that waterfall working while she was gone so it would be ready for another one of their loud parties. When they went inside at last and we could have finally gotten some sleep, the stupid punk left the blasted lights on. They were shining right in the window! I know I could have closed the curtains, but in this heat, they’ve got to stay open or we’d suffocate.”
He paused in his monologue for a moment so he could open the window and stick his hand out, waving the tailgater behind him on ahead. It made him nervous, removing a hand from the steering wheel for even a second, but this joker was practically on top of him. The car passed him and the driver of the other car shouted something out the window. But Albert did not notice, lost in thought once again, both hands firmly on the wheel, eyes glued to the road.
The events of last night were so vivid. Lately he’d had trouble remembering where he’d left his reading glasses, whether he’d fed the cat or taken his heart pills. But he found he could easily recall every second of that evening.
When all had been quiet for an
hour and sleep would still not come, Albert got out of bed and put on his slippers and robe. Feet silent on the wide plank floor, he made his way down the stairs and out the kitchen door to the side yard. From there, it was just few short steps to the side door of The Punk’s house. Albert lifted a plaster garden gnome, below which he found the key he had seen Mrs. Punk use several times when she’d forgotten her keys.
In a moment, he was standing in their darkened kitchen. With distaste, he took in the green granite counter tops, the stainless steel appliances. A kitchen should be white, he thought. White with walnut cabinets, like Edith’s kitchen. He thought of it as Edith’s kitchen, since that was where she could generally be found, sitting at the simple farmhouse table, grading papers and drinking mint tea.
He’d opened a door he thought must lead to the basement but it turned out to be a pantry full to brimming with boxes, cans and bottles. Everything these people eat comes out of a box, he reflected. He remembered the time years ago when The Punk had first moved in and Edith, dear, kind Edith, had brought over a bag of zucchini, tomatoes and peppers from their garden. Mrs. Punk had opened the door and looked confused, then took the bag, thanking Edith profusely.
Later that week, Albert had noticed the bag, still unopened, sitting on top of their garbage can at the curb on pickup day. He hadn’t told Edith. She’d been feeling poorly anyway, and the last thing he wanted was for her feelings to be hurt.
Albert opened another door, and this one led down into the basement. With surprise, he noticed he held a flashlight in his hand, having taken it from the drawer in his own kitchen before leaving his house. He walked purposefully down the steps, his path well lighted and his steps sure. At the bottom of the stairs, he shone his light around at the various pieces of exercise equipment, most of it unused. Against one wall, he saw what he was after.
He moved to the electrical panel and opened it wide. He reached into his robe pocket and took out a pair of wire clippers. Working with the flashlight in his mouth, so that both hands were free, he clipped a wire here, fastened a circuit there, affixed a label on one side, removed a label on another side.
“Easy Peazy, Edith,” he said. He glanced down at the digital clock on the dashboard. “By now, it should be a done deal.” Albert had long since gotten off the expressway and made the several familiar and winding turns that led to Far Acre Road. He could see an ambulance and a police car in the driveway of his neighbor’s house.
Slowly, deliberately, he eased the LeSabre into his driveway. He got out of the door and opened the back seat to take out his dry cleaning. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that an officer was walking across the grass toward him. It was not Officer Williams.
“Excuse me, sir,” the uniformed officer said respectfully.
Albert stood up, bagged shirts in hand and smiled at the policeman.
“Yes? Has something happened?” he asked, motioning toward the assortment of emergency vehicles parked at The Punk’s house.
“Your neighbor, sir. He’s had an accident.”
“Oh my goodness!” Albert exclaimed, “How terrible! Can I help?”
“Do you know where his wife and daughter are? We’re trying to track them down to tell them the bad news.”
As he said this, two EMT workers wheeled a stretcher out from behind the house. On it was a figure covered in a white sheet. Even from several yards away, the stench of singed human flesh and hair was unmistakable. His nose wrinkled.
“I think I heard her mention she was spending the day in Rhode Island,” he supplied helpfully as he went around to the passenger side of the Buick.
Laying the bag of shirts on the hood of the car Albert shook his head and said, “What a shame!” He opened the door and leaned in. With loving care he withdrew the framed photograph of Edith, dead now from cancer these seven years. He never travelled anywhere without his wife. It was such a comfort having her to talk to.
The End