Muñeca

A quick one about neighbors.

His retirement had gone smoothly enough, no loose ends at the office. He hadn’t talked to many people in the past few months, just let the small talk go cold. They still got him a cake, but not a card. He chose to receive the monthly checks instead of getting it all at once. He thought that was more responsible - more wise. He had cleaned out his desk the day before. All he’d had to take to his car was the picture of Edna. Beautiful Edna. He looked at her for a while in the parking lot before he drove home. He missed her sometimes, but after so long her absence had simply become a fact he worked around, much like the loose board on the porch steps that see sawed when your foot landed on it. He ate a tuna sandwich and a beer for dinner.

He woke up the next day and filled all four toaster slots with frozen waffles and stepped out on the porch to smoke. As he lit his bone, he saw the neighbor boy off to the side, standing on the other side of the yard, holding a foil-covered dish. John tossed the joint in the ashtray and walked over to him.

“Hey there, uncle,” he said.

The child held out the food.

“My mom wanted me to bring you this. It’s green beans. Casserole.” 

“Why, that was mighty nice. You’ll tell her a big thank you for me?”

He nodded and ran back into the house, arms at his sides. John took the casserole inside an finished his weed in the kitchen, staring at the foil, thinking. When the waffles were ready, he slathered each with a generous portion of peanut butter, arranged them in a pile on his plate, and tipped nearly half a bottle of syrup over the mess. When he finished, he washed his plate, drank a large glass of water from the tap, and went outside to the shed and got the shears to trim the hedges. As he worked, he felt the warmth of the sun absorbed by his dark shirt and began to whistle. He made his way around the perimeter of the yard with the shears, leaving damn good work in his wake. His concentration on the gardening had increased greatly since Edna’s passing. John had shouldered the burden with the acceptance of a marine receiving orders. It had always been her pride to have a pretty yard. She had never gone crazy with gnomes or, heaven forbid, flamingoes. Her tastes were simple and usually satisfied by well-trimmed hedges and a colorful flower bed, to which he now tended with the greatest care. He was well over two hours into his work when he went back inside for a second glass of water. When he came back out, he noticed that he had left the door to the shed slightly open, and went and shut it. As he did so, he felt a rush of air by the side of his head where his hatchet had passed and embedded itself into the door just off from his left ear. His eyes met those of the neighbor boy, who stared back for a second before running back into the house, arms pumping from the exertion. John turned and stared at it. He went back inside, leaving the flowers, and stood in the stream of the shower until the hot water ran out. He made a sandwich, which he ate on a plate at the table, and drank a glass of milk. He stared at the mildewed siding of his neighbors’ house through his kitchen window as he washed the dishes and put them in the drying rack. When he went back to the yard, he saw that his tools, save the hatchet, had been put in the shed, whose door had this time been shut and latched. John freed the hatchet from its new home with a firm tug and walked to the Lynch’s front door. He knocked, gently.

After a few seconds, Mrs. Lynch opened the door. 

“Evening, John. Is it Stuart?”

He nodded as she gave a puzzled glance to the hatchet in his hand. She called her son downstairs. He did not come.

“I’m sorry,” she said, walking hurriedly toward the steps. “Ill bring him down.”

The two of them came down, her hand gripped tightly around Stuart’s wrist. They stood before him.

“Please, Stuart, tell me what you were doing at Mr. Mason's house today.”

“I was helping him with his flowers.”

She looked at John. He shook his head.

“Stuart,” she tugged his arm, “please tell me what else you did at his house today.” 

He looked at the floor and mumbled.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“I threw his hatchet…”

“He threw it at me.”

She stepped back, looking between them with wide, wild eyes as though expecting the punch line of a joke.

“Hey, I’m okay, though. I didn’t mean to upset you. But he should just learn the damage he could have done, you know? Don’t you think?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, John. We will make sure this sort of thing never happens again.” She spoke slowly, chewing her words, her eyes fixed on her son. Her rotten son.

“Yes, well…thank you, Caroline, for the casserole. I worked up quite an appetite in the yard today. Can’t wait for supper.” He rubbed his stomach.

“Yes, John. Please. Enjoy.” Her tone told him it was time to leave. He went back into his house, back to his kitchen, and took the casserole from the counter and placed it in the oven to reheat in a while. He poured another glass of milk and went into the living room. Through the window, he could see Mrs. Lynch scolding her son in their own living room, hunched over to meet the level of his eyes. She held his upturned arm in one hand while repeatedly slapping his wrist with the other. Her arm shook from the effort. John could see her lips moving, yelling, delivering a single word with each slap. “You. Will. Not. Ever. Again…” He turned away from the window, feeling uneasy. But he did not feel sorry for the punishment of the boy. He felt something else. He went back to the kitchen and threw her casserole in the trash.