Chapter One

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The house is still, except for the cicadas chirping loudly in the trees that adorn our front yard. I plug in the Keurig, empty the contents of a water bottle into the reservoir and insert a Donut Shop K-Cup into the holder. As I wait for the coffee to brew, I lean against the kitchen sink and gaze through the bare window at the large fenced-in backyard, imagining the boys burning lots of energy with outdoor activities.

Tom has promised to set up the above ground pool by the weekend, which should placate the kids and hopefully, help our oldest boy Stephen stop pining for our old home in West Virginia. Unlike us, the neighbors on our left have an in-ground swimming pool.  Lucky them!

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The Keurig makes a deep humming sound that crescendos into minor spluttering, with hints of hissing. I retrieve the warm drink and return to the window, my attention captivated by the elderly neighbor behind our property. He has on a grey t-shirt tucked into khaki shorts, and held in place with a brown belt. He is wearing white sneakers with white knee length socks. I notice that he stoops as he walks. The old man circles one of the several apple trees in his backyard. Moments after, he enters a nearby shed and emerges with a fruit picker pole. He plucks at least thirty apples, shoving them into the empty grocery bags at his feet. His actions are slow and deliberate, and I watch with yearning. My entire family loves apples. The sourer the apple, the more we love it.

 

I leave the empty cup in the sink and start unpacking the boxes, occasionally returning to the window to check on the neighbor. His long hair is winter-white and I wonder how old he is. I hope I am this agile when I am his age. I finish the unpacking just as Tom joins me, stretching and yawning wide enough to swallow a whole egg.

 

     “I want to go back to bed but I know there is work to be done. How come you woke up so early, did you have trouble sleeping?” he says, and then plants a kiss on my cheek.

     “I wanted to work on the kitchen before the kids woke up.” I reply as I pop an Italian Roast K-Cup into the Keurig. Tom helps me dismantle the empty cartons, as he waits for his beverage to brew. He adds milk and sugar, takes a long sip and sighs with satisfaction.      “Thanks for the brew. This should help wake me up.” A sound outside draws our attention to the window. The old man is riding an ancient mower that groans its way across the yard.

     “That grass is not that high! I would have waited at least a week before cutting,” Tom exclaims. “I hope we have not moved to that kind of neighborhood! I wouldn’t have the time to mow the grass that frequently.” Tom’s voice has a worried tone.

     “Well, we first have to purchase a mower, preferably a modern version of that guy’s antique. This yard is too large for a push mower.”

     “We can only afford a push mower at this time, which is not necessarily a bad thing. It will be a way of getting some much needed exercise.” Tom adds and leaves for the garage. I open the fridge, hoping that the sparse ingredients would generate inspiration for a meal that the boys wouldn’t sneak into the trash can when they think I am not looking.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

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It is a gorgeous 70 degree Saturday. Stephen, Brandon and Nick, ages 8, 5 and 3 respectively, are on the patio, being creative with Play-Doh. I agreed to Stephen’s request to use my cutting board, rolling pin and cookie cutters. Tom threw away all their accessories before the move and has banned the use of Play-Doh in this new location. It had been a challenge cleaning the carpet in the boys’ room in our old home, because of the caked dough in the carpet therefore, when an irate Tom decreed that all Play-Doh was banned from the new house, the boys and I had to be creative.

 

As the kids engage in play, Tom barks out instructions as I try unsuccessfully to assist him in mounting the pool. My preference would have been to lie in the hammock and finish my novel on Quantico, but as Tom had asked for my help, I was forced to acquiesce. Truthfully, I don’t think he needs my assistance because he keeps redoing the bolts I have tightened.

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I notice the old man come out of his backdoor. He is wearing his trademark khaki pants with the grey shirt. He returns my wave and I use the opportunity to abandon my post. I arrive at the fence dividing our compound before he does, and proceed to introduce myself. He touches his ear as if to say he cannot hear what I am saying. I wait patiently for him to arrive.

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     “I am sorry, but my hearing is not too good. My kids think I need a hearing aid but I hope I don’t,” he chuckles. “Do you know that feeling you have when you come out of the pool?”

     “I do. I get frustrated when I cannot get all the water out promptly,” I say.

     “Exactly, my doctor has given me some ear drops but I don’t think it is working.”

     “I am sorry to hear that,” I commiserate.

     “Looks like you guys moved in last weekend, welcome to the neighborhood.”

     “Thank you! We moved in last weekend.” Pointing toward our yard, I introduce the rest of the family. “That is my husband trying to fix the pool, and those are our three boys. I am Marcia.” I offer my hand and receive a warm handshake.

     “I am Roger. What is your husband’s name?”

     “He is Thomas but you are welcome to call him Tom,” I say, and hear Brandon speaking behind me.

     “Is that an apple tree?”

     “Yes it is. Do you like apples, son?” Roger asks.

     “Are you kidding me? Of course I love apples. Is it okay for me to climb your tree and get some apples?” I pat Brandon on the shoulder to temper his enthusiasm.

     “Brandon, how about you first introduce yourself to Mr. Roger before making demands. Besides, it is not polite to force him to give you apples.”

     “He can’t eat all those apples by himself. I bet he would love to share some with us,” Brandon exclaims.

     “I would love to share some with you, but these apples aren’t really sweet. I am sorry.”

     “They are sour apples! Oh my gosh, you have sour apples! Stephen! Nick! This man has sour apples. How cool is that?”

     “Brandon, his name is Mr. Roger, …” I start to say.

     “Mr. Roger, can we have some sour apples, please, please, please?” Brandon pleads.

     “I am so sorry Roger, I…” The old man  waves off my apology.

     “I am very happy to share the apples with you. I don’t like them very much myself. I usually harvest them for the ladies at the church. I wouldn’t mind sharing with these three fine boys!”

     “Yaaaay,” all three boys cheer. Tom joins us and introduces himself.

     “May I come over and pick the apples?” Stephen asks.

     “Sure, that is fine with me, if your parents have no problem with that,” Roger says. I shrug in response.

     “Me too, me too!” Brandon pleads.

     “And me!” Nick adds.

     “I will bring them over,” Tom offers.

     “Daddy, we can just jump over the fence,” Stephen suggests.

     “There will be no jumping over fences. Daddy will walk you guys over,” I say.

     “Go clean up your play area and let’s go. Last one to get the gate is a rotten tomato,” Tom taunts. This elicits squeals from the boys as they race back to the patio. “I will see you shortly Roger,” Tom says and goes indoors… most likely to change his sweaty clothes.

     “Have you lived in this neighborhood for long?” I ask.

     “Since 1986. I am the only one who has lived here the longest. So many people have moved in and out over the years. I am as old as dirt you know.” He smiles wryly, and I notice his dull blue eyes.

      “You are very active. I see you every day doing something in your yard,” I compliment him. “Look around, there are no twigs lying around and your compound is filled with trees!”

     “Well, I have the time. It is just me now. Gosh how I miss my Samantha!” He wipes a lone tear with crooked fingers. “I am ready to join her but while I am here, I like to do everything I can to keep the value of the house. Once I am gone, the kids can do what they want with it.” He grows pensive for a bit and I search my mind for a way of escaping the awkward silence.

     “Do your kids live in this town?”

     “Only one of them does. The oldest is in Washington State and the youngest is in Florida. He just got promoted and is the athletic director of a high school,” he beams with pride.

     “Congratulations Roger, you must be proud.”

     “They are all good kids. They have their families and responsibilities but they do try their best to keep an eye on me.”

     “Well, I hope that when I am your age, I can be as active as you.”

     “Some days are better than others, I will tell you that. Some days, I feel the full weight of my 87 years on this earth.” 87 years! WOW! He is older than I thought.

     “Have you met any of the other neighbors?” he asks.

     “I have met the family on our right. They have two girls and a boy and I think the wife is pregnant right?” He nods in agreement and gives me some history on Phillip, the minister in a Methodist church, who lives with his wife Tammy and their kids.

     “To our left is Scott and Daphne. They own a gym in town,” Roger points to the houses as he speaks. “The house behind Scott, which is adjacent to mine, is owned by Phillip’s parents. His dad is also a retired minister in the same church,” he informs me.

     “No way!” I exclaim and he smiles. Tom and the boys have arrived at Roger’s and his attention shifts to them. I walk back to the patio and slide into the hammock. I am green with envy that the young couple next door have babysitting help a stone’s throw away. Neither my parents or my husband’s live in this country!

 

I hear Brandon’s excited squeal and I turn to look at the apple pickers. Roger is handing apples to Brandon who drops them into a bag. I can’t imagine the rich stories that make up this distinguished old gentleman’s life. He moved to this neighborhood when I was only eight years old. He lives by himself, keeps a keen eye on his surroundings, taking life a day at a time till he can join his wife. I shudder at the thought of constantly waiting for death.

 

“Is today the day? Nope, perhaps tomorrow. Am I still alive? Oh brother!” Is Roger is scared of death? Sure he can’t wait to see his wife, but what if death is really the end and there is no Samantha waiting for him on the other side? How must it feel to spend your days just waiting for death?

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I need to stop thinking about this topic! I go inside to use the bathroom in the master bedroom. I hear people talking and part the curtains to investigate. The neighbors to our left are outside—the gym owners that Roger had talked about. The woman, probably Daphne, is wearing a bikini. Her skin is glistening and her body looks perfect, probably a requirement for her job. Her firm, perky and rounded breasts have me involuntarily tightening my brassier straps to force my own droopy two, upright. The woman puts on her sunglasses and lays on a chaise lounge. A beer bottle and a glass are on a table by the chair.

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The man, Scott I am guessing, is standing bare-chested by the pool, swinging his arms and slapping his body. He reminds me of a younger Pierce Brosnan, but one who spends all his time in the gym. I cannot tear my eyes away from the man’s abs. My husband, while not flabby, does not have a six-pack. With a husband like this, Daphne must be under tremendous pressure to remain fit.

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 His warm up completed, Scott dives into the pool. The splashing sound reminds me of my original mission and I turn to the toilet to relieve my bowels. I catch a glimpse of my nonathletic body in the mirror and depression assails me. Thank you very much Scott and Daphne!

 

 

Chapter Three

The school bus drives off with Stephen and Brandon, and I walk back to the house dreading the work ahead. Tom left the country yesterday with some students. They will be away for two weeks, building a public bathroom in a Honduran village. He procrastinated with cutting the grass and then had no time to do so before their departure.

 

     “I promise I will make it up to you when I get back,” he cooed at the airport. The bribery did not work. I am still upset an hour later when I pull into the garage. I carefully carry Nick into his bed and walk to the shed, hoping to complete the task of mowing before Nick wakes up.

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I pull the Husqvarna out of the shed and check the gas level. Full! Yes! I start the machine and nothing happens. What on earth is going on? The gas is full and the oil is not low. Why wouldn’t this thing start? I close the oil tank, say a prayer and try one more time to start the Husqvarna. My prayers remain unanswered. Feeling inadequate, I look at Phillip’s but both cars are not home. All our neighbors cut their grass yesterday, making our yard look even more unkempt. Am I going to have to hire someone? This is an unbudgeted expense. I pull the cord one more time, willing the machine to come to life. Nothing.

 

     “Are you having trouble?” I jump, and then relax when I Roger leaning on the fence that divides our property. What a surprise! He changed his clothes! He is wearing a blue t-shirt with plaid shorts!

     “Yes, Roger, I am. I have checked the oil and the gas, both of which are filled to the max. I do not know what else to do!”

     “Have you pumped the choke?”

     “The choke?”

     “Yeah, that is what you push to get it to start,” he explains patiently.

     “I have never had to pump anything. I simply pull this cord and it usually starts,” I say.

     “Sometimes, when the grass is too long, the blades are not able to turn. Perhaps, push the mower to the garage and start it on the cement. If that fails, you may borrow mine. I know it is really old but it gets the job done. Sometimes it refuses to start too, but once I push the choke several times, it usually works,” Roger says.

     “Thanks for the offer, but that means riding your mower around the block, just to get it here,” I observe, and he agrees that the lack of a gate in the fence makes the task of loaning me the mower more challenging.

     “How about I come over to take a look. I am not a very smart person when it comes to modern machines, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look,” Roger offers.

 

We agree to meet in front of my house. I push the mower to the driveway and wait for Roger. I can’t help but smile at the thought of an 87-year-old coming to rescue me. I check on Nick, who is thankfully fast asleep, clutching his new transformer toy. I return to the mower to find Roger almost there.

 

     “Sorry I took so long. I do not walk as fast as I used to. I am never in a hurry anymore. Well, I can’t wait to join my Sam, but otherwise, I have no deadlines,” he says with a dry smile.

     “I appreciate your help Roger,” I say.

He lifts a hand, “Do not thank me just yet. I am not sure I would be of any help.” He pulls the cord a few times without success. He looks unsuccessfully for the choke and decides to check the filter. I feel bad watching him slowly and painfully kneel on the floor to look under the mower. He confesses once again that he is not smart enough to know what is wrong with a new machine. He struggles back up, bracing himself with the mower.

     “I am sorry Marcia,” he apologizes as he pulls the cord one last time and the mower hesitantly sputters to life.

     “Yaaay!” I shriek and Roger beams with pride.

     “I will be darned,” he smiles. He hands me the mower with the motor running. None of us want to let it go off. Just then, we hear sirens, followed by the sight of an ambulance careening down the street. It stops at Scott and Daphne’s. I allow the mower to go off, curiosity getting the best of me. Daphne rushes out and leads EMTs into the house.

     “Why will an ambulance come to their house? They are both fit as a fiddle,” Roger remarks.

     “Perhaps one of their parents visited and got ill?” I suggest.

     “I dunno,” he shrugs.

 

Together, we stare at the neighbors’ house. Roger starts walking towards the ambulance and I follow suit. Other neighbors join us. We all wait outside, praying silently for whoever might be sick in the house. There is a unified gasp when a gurney is rolled out of the house with a body bag.

     “Someone is dead?” Roger exclaims. Daphne comes out of the house, being restrained by one of the EMTs, yelling “Scott, you cannot leave me, SCOTT!” The shock at learning the horrible truth is evident on every face.

     “Scott is dead?” Roger demands, anger flashing on his wizened face. “How can I still be here, and Scott be dead?” He turns around and storms toward his house mumbling. I am certain he planned to storm off, but his steps are no faster than we arrived at my house a few minutes ago. His wizened face does looks graver, upset, furious.

 

I am unsure whether he is mad that Scott has attained a goal for which he has been pining, or whether he is upset that a virile, athletic, gorgeous young man is dead too soon. Perhaps both?

 

Dazed, I return to the mower which surprisingly roars to life at the first pull. The ambulance drives off, sirens blaring, taking with them, a once muscular, healthy looking Scott, now dead!

 

Roger is still en route… storming off to his house.

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The End