Two
“I just don’t understand why that woman can’t park in front of her own house.”
Sarah kept her eyes on the television and pretended not to hear her. Kathy stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring out at the street. “It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room in front of her own house. Why does she have to park here?”
Sarah heard this conversation approximately three times a week for the last 12 years that Jean had owned the house next door. True, it was somewhat odd that this woman chose to park in front of their house instead of her own, but Sarah didn’t see what the harm was. And yet, her mother would become irate at this transgression, one of many that made Jean the Worst Neighbor Ever, but only to Kathy.
“Steve? Steve, did you see this?” Sarah noticed that her father was also staring at the television, as if hoping that the football game would somehow grant him immunity from involvement in his wife’s rant against the neighbors. “That woman,” Kathy practically spat, “is parked in front of our house again.”
“Hmmm,” Steve said noncommittally. He hoped that this would be interpreted in whatever way would get him into the least trouble.
“Steve!”
“What?”
“Do you even hear me?” Kathy’s hands were now on her hip.
“We can all hear you,” Sarah muttered under her breath.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Kathy practically shouted. “You don’t care that her old clunker of a car makes this house look like a disgrace.”
“Everyone in the neighborhood knows it’s not our car,” Sarah noted. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
“Oh jesus,” her father muttered. “Here we go….”
“Not a big deal? Not a big deal! I can’t believe you!” Kathy stomped into the house and stood between Sarah and the television. “Don’t you realize that someone might drive down the street, maybe visiting one of our neighbors, and they might think that her horrible car belongs to us?”
“What would people think?” Sarah and her mother said in unison. Sarah started to giggle.
“This is not funny! You had better keep this in mind when you’re old enough to drive, young lady.” Her mother turned and abruptly headed for the kitchen. Sarah could hear the familiar cadence of her grandmother’s phone number on the rotary dial. Wshhhh. Wssssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssh. Wsssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssssssshhhhhhhhh. Without introduction, her mother launched into the tale that had been told a thousand times before. “That woman has parked her car in front of our house again.” Sarah could practically recite both parts of the conversation in her head. “I know; it’s a disgrace. What must people think?”
Sarah made eye contact with her father, who rolled his eyes as they both mouthed the familiar refrain: “what must people think?” They knew better than to risk being overheard.
It always amazed Sarah that her mother could get so upset about things that were completely beyond her control. To Sarah at 14, it was one thing to be concerned with your own life, or even that of your own family. It was something entirely different to spend your time and energy dwelling on things that you couldn’t control if you tried.
Once, Sarah caught her mother making notes in a large notebook that she forever referred to as the Journal of Infractions. In it, her mother would make lengthy notations about perceived wrongs that would somehow (in her mind) affect the world’s perception of her as a wife, mother, daughter and homeowner. In it were “encoded” entries like, “October 10. Failure to rake leaves at 1252 results in leaves blown into our yard. Must rake again for the second time today.”
Why she had to refer to the houses by number was another great mystery. Anyone who read the Journal of Infractions would quickly realize that she was referring to the home of the elderly Eleanor Davis, and that her middle-aged son Wayne, who came to visit and mow her lawn on weekends, wasn’t around midweek to keep up with the onslaught of brown leaves falling from the enormous oak in their front yard. No one would have thought twice about it, or even expected that Kathy and Steve’s lawn would be pristine and leaf-free in the height of foliage season, but Kathy remained convinced that neighbors discussed these things behind her back. Worse still, she was even more convinced that they believed it to be a sign of failure in her upbringing, and that word might reach Dottie’s neighbors one block away. No, she jut couldn’t let that happen. So while Steve was at work, Kathy would make a point of dragging the leaf bags out onto the lawn, and casually mentioning to each passer-by that she had just raked the leaves that morning, and she was having such a terrible time keeping up with the leaves from that enormous oak tree on Mrs. Davis’s front lawn.
The problem was genetic. Sarah knew that her grandmother—while not nearly as methodical about it—had her own mental list of grievances. She was still holding grudges against people for things that had happened when they first bought the house in the 1960s. Ironically, though, Dottie had always had a hard time remembering names. She knew the people when she saw them, but when she discussed the grievances with Kathy, it was always, “Well, what do you expect from Mrs. Whatsit? You remember the trash can incident, don’t you?” Mrs. Whatsit was actually Mrs. Randolph two doors down, and the “incident” stemmed from a particularly stormy day in 1974 when Mrs. Randolph’s recently emptied metal garbage can became airborne on a strong gust of wind, hitting and denting another neighbor’s Oldsmobile (the long-gone neighbor’s name and specific model of car having been long since forgotten). Most of the neighbors took pity on Mrs. Randolph, who had been having a string of bad luck; her oldest son had died in Vietnam just months before. Nonetheless, Sarah’s family quickly forgot the mitigating details, and Mrs. Randolph lived in infamy for that careless incident. In fact, it was often cited by her grandmother as one of those Important Lessons to Live By: Never, ever leave an empty garbage can at the curb for more than a few minutes, because you just never know when those Nor’easter winds will suddenly kick up. Both Dottie and Kathy would watch for the garbage truck, and as soon as it turned the corner—not a minute before, because you didn’t want the garbage men to think that you were watching them—they scurried to the curb to remove all signs of the can and any wrappers or packaging that had somehow managed to escape the grip of the compactor and find their way into the gutter.
Kathy finished with her phone call and returned to the living room. She stood, arms crossed, pretending to watch the football game for approximately three nanoseconds before giving the recap of the conversation with Dottie. “Mother says that it’s completely ridiculous for that woman to be parking in front of our house.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Steve and Sarah said in unison, still feigning interest in the fact that Michigan had lost yardage and was now at 3rd and 12 with less than three minutes left to go in the game. “Field goal won’t do them any good now,” Steve said to no one in particular.
Kathy stepped forward and turned the television off. “That’s it,” she commanded. “No more football.”
“Why?” asked Sarah.
“Because I said so. Now go clean your room.”
“I already did!” Sarah protested.
“I’ve seen the layer of dust on that dresser. The dust cloths and mop are in the closet. I want that room spotless, otherwise you can’t have any friends over this week. I’d hate to think of what they must tell their mothers about the condition of this house.”
Sarah looked pleadingly at her father, but his face remained expressionless. He had completely tuned out and heard none of this. “This isn’t fair!” Sarah cried.
“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”
Sarah kept her eyes on the television and pretended not to hear her. Kathy stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring out at the street. “It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room in front of her own house. Why does she have to park here?”
Sarah heard this conversation approximately three times a week for the last 12 years that Jean had owned the house next door. True, it was somewhat odd that this woman chose to park in front of their house instead of her own, but Sarah didn’t see what the harm was. And yet, her mother would become irate at this transgression, one of many that made Jean the Worst Neighbor Ever, but only to Kathy.
“Steve? Steve, did you see this?” Sarah noticed that her father was also staring at the television, as if hoping that the football game would somehow grant him immunity from involvement in his wife’s rant against the neighbors. “That woman,” Kathy practically spat, “is parked in front of our house again.”
“Hmmm,” Steve said noncommittally. He hoped that this would be interpreted in whatever way would get him into the least trouble.
“Steve!”
“What?”
“Do you even hear me?” Kathy’s hands were now on her hip.
“We can all hear you,” Sarah muttered under her breath.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Kathy practically shouted. “You don’t care that her old clunker of a car makes this house look like a disgrace.”
“Everyone in the neighborhood knows it’s not our car,” Sarah noted. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”
“Oh jesus,” her father muttered. “Here we go….”
“Not a big deal? Not a big deal! I can’t believe you!” Kathy stomped into the house and stood between Sarah and the television. “Don’t you realize that someone might drive down the street, maybe visiting one of our neighbors, and they might think that her horrible car belongs to us?”
“What would people think?” Sarah and her mother said in unison. Sarah started to giggle.
“This is not funny! You had better keep this in mind when you’re old enough to drive, young lady.” Her mother turned and abruptly headed for the kitchen. Sarah could hear the familiar cadence of her grandmother’s phone number on the rotary dial. Wshhhh. Wssssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssh. Wsssshhhhh. Wssh. Wssssssshhhhhhhhh. Without introduction, her mother launched into the tale that had been told a thousand times before. “That woman has parked her car in front of our house again.” Sarah could practically recite both parts of the conversation in her head. “I know; it’s a disgrace. What must people think?”
Sarah made eye contact with her father, who rolled his eyes as they both mouthed the familiar refrain: “what must people think?” They knew better than to risk being overheard.
It always amazed Sarah that her mother could get so upset about things that were completely beyond her control. To Sarah at 14, it was one thing to be concerned with your own life, or even that of your own family. It was something entirely different to spend your time and energy dwelling on things that you couldn’t control if you tried.
Once, Sarah caught her mother making notes in a large notebook that she forever referred to as the Journal of Infractions. In it, her mother would make lengthy notations about perceived wrongs that would somehow (in her mind) affect the world’s perception of her as a wife, mother, daughter and homeowner. In it were “encoded” entries like, “October 10. Failure to rake leaves at 1252 results in leaves blown into our yard. Must rake again for the second time today.”
Why she had to refer to the houses by number was another great mystery. Anyone who read the Journal of Infractions would quickly realize that she was referring to the home of the elderly Eleanor Davis, and that her middle-aged son Wayne, who came to visit and mow her lawn on weekends, wasn’t around midweek to keep up with the onslaught of brown leaves falling from the enormous oak in their front yard. No one would have thought twice about it, or even expected that Kathy and Steve’s lawn would be pristine and leaf-free in the height of foliage season, but Kathy remained convinced that neighbors discussed these things behind her back. Worse still, she was even more convinced that they believed it to be a sign of failure in her upbringing, and that word might reach Dottie’s neighbors one block away. No, she jut couldn’t let that happen. So while Steve was at work, Kathy would make a point of dragging the leaf bags out onto the lawn, and casually mentioning to each passer-by that she had just raked the leaves that morning, and she was having such a terrible time keeping up with the leaves from that enormous oak tree on Mrs. Davis’s front lawn.
The problem was genetic. Sarah knew that her grandmother—while not nearly as methodical about it—had her own mental list of grievances. She was still holding grudges against people for things that had happened when they first bought the house in the 1960s. Ironically, though, Dottie had always had a hard time remembering names. She knew the people when she saw them, but when she discussed the grievances with Kathy, it was always, “Well, what do you expect from Mrs. Whatsit? You remember the trash can incident, don’t you?” Mrs. Whatsit was actually Mrs. Randolph two doors down, and the “incident” stemmed from a particularly stormy day in 1974 when Mrs. Randolph’s recently emptied metal garbage can became airborne on a strong gust of wind, hitting and denting another neighbor’s Oldsmobile (the long-gone neighbor’s name and specific model of car having been long since forgotten). Most of the neighbors took pity on Mrs. Randolph, who had been having a string of bad luck; her oldest son had died in Vietnam just months before. Nonetheless, Sarah’s family quickly forgot the mitigating details, and Mrs. Randolph lived in infamy for that careless incident. In fact, it was often cited by her grandmother as one of those Important Lessons to Live By: Never, ever leave an empty garbage can at the curb for more than a few minutes, because you just never know when those Nor’easter winds will suddenly kick up. Both Dottie and Kathy would watch for the garbage truck, and as soon as it turned the corner—not a minute before, because you didn’t want the garbage men to think that you were watching them—they scurried to the curb to remove all signs of the can and any wrappers or packaging that had somehow managed to escape the grip of the compactor and find their way into the gutter.
Kathy finished with her phone call and returned to the living room. She stood, arms crossed, pretending to watch the football game for approximately three nanoseconds before giving the recap of the conversation with Dottie. “Mother says that it’s completely ridiculous for that woman to be parking in front of our house.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Steve and Sarah said in unison, still feigning interest in the fact that Michigan had lost yardage and was now at 3rd and 12 with less than three minutes left to go in the game. “Field goal won’t do them any good now,” Steve said to no one in particular.
Kathy stepped forward and turned the television off. “That’s it,” she commanded. “No more football.”
“Why?” asked Sarah.
“Because I said so. Now go clean your room.”
“I already did!” Sarah protested.
“I’ve seen the layer of dust on that dresser. The dust cloths and mop are in the closet. I want that room spotless, otherwise you can’t have any friends over this week. I’d hate to think of what they must tell their mothers about the condition of this house.”
Sarah looked pleadingly at her father, but his face remained expressionless. He had completely tuned out and heard none of this. “This isn’t fair!” Sarah cried.
“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”
posted by Ali at
3:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home