The house I rented was at the end of a block at the corner of two perpendicular streets. It had a little side yard which bordered the sidewalk of the less busy street. Such was the layout of my neighborhood, there was no fence; all the yards were open to the street they fronted on, so corner houses were open on two sides, their lawns and shrubberies reaching all the way to the sidewalks. It gave the neighborhood a nice expansive feel (at least at the intersections) despite the tight packing of these modest houses on their narrow lots.
Through the glass panes of my back door I could see a decent stretch of the sidewalk, and one morning I was about to go out onto the patio for my first smoke of the day when I saw a woman I recognized. She appeared from behind the bush at the rear corner of my yard, walking her dog. She was someone I preferred to avoid, so I lingered inside watching from the window until she'd progressed past the corner of the house. This took her a while, for a couple of reasons: one was the dog, who stopped to sniff or urinate on something every few yards; the other was because the woman herself was taking her sweet time--stopping to light a cigarette, checking her phone, turning in a circle to take in the view or untangle from the dog's leash--all this time glancing repeatedly over at my back door, clearly hoping to catch me coming out of the house.
One previous encounter with her had been enough, and I nodded my appreciation to the deputy god in charge of Happenstantial Coincidences for sparing me this particular morning. It wasn't that I disliked the woman. In truth I felt a little sorry for her, and suspected that she had, or formerly had, a problem with meth or some similar body-wrecking substance. She had the wasted musculature and twitchy mannerisms, along with the deeply lined cheeks and mouth. The inside of her mouth looked like an abandoned churchyard. Her voice sounded as if she gargled nitric acid every night before bed.
On the occasion we'd spoken, her conversational proficiency was limited and her speech was studded with profanity. In fact, the first words out of her mouth to me were, "Sorry, my dog's taking a piss on your yard," accompanied by a hoarse, cackling, and utterly unembarrassed laugh. I'm no prude, of course, and have a tendency to overwork my own potty-mouth whenever the motherfucking circumstances are appropriate, but I would never allow myself to present a first impression defined by unwarranted cussing.
In any case, on the morning in question, Cat (that was the name she'd told me; perhaps in her head it was Kat, but who cares) was wearing her usual sleeveless cotton summer dress that stopped midway down her scrawny thighs. Her nipples were erect as usual, as if she lived in a constant state of semi-arousal (how exhausting and tedious that must be), and her gait was particularly eccentric, suggesting she was at that moment under the influence of some substance or other. I knew she had sexual designs on me based on her lascivious talk the first time we'd met, but of course Cat (or Kat) would have bent over for the village idiot in the middle of the intersection at high noon when stoked on her 'medicine.'
I doubled my gratitude to the deputy god of Chance Encounters and waited an extra minute for safety before stepping out for my smoke. During that minute of pause, the deputy god of Mischievous Interventions (and conceivably these are all the same entity) seized the opportunity to cause my phone to ring. Since I'd left it on the sofa in the living room, I wouldn't have heard it from out on the patio.
It was another neighbor of mine, Rich Svensson from three doors down, calling to ask a favor. His wife Fran had just returned from the hospital after knee surgery and was under doctor's orders to rest up for at least the next forty-eight hours. Meanwhile, Rich had the household to run, which was no problem, he said, but one of their three dogs had gotten sick and he needed to take it to a vet.
"I wonder if you wouldn't mind coming to babysit Fran for a while?"
"Babysit?"
"You know, just be around in case she needs anything, or the other dogs, too, I guess. Most likely I'll be home in an hour, but if the vet needs to do more I don't want Fran left alone."
"Okay, I understand. Sure, that's no problem, Rich. Are you headed out now?"
"In the next few minutes, yeah. If you can't make it right away I'll just leave the door unlocked. I'll tell Fran you're on your way."
"You go ahead, Rich, but I won't be more than ten minutes."
"Thanks, Freddie, I owe you."
"Nah."
Fran and Rich were both well into their fifties--Rich possibly early sixties--and I believe for both of them it was their second marriage (at least). You could see it in their easy manner with each other. The tension that's so much the norm in most marriages was conspicuous by its absence. They both had children from their previous go-around and were in the early stages of amassing grandchildren. Their three dogs were the focus, however, and I got the sense (from Rich at least) that this would continue to be the case no matter how many offspring their kids produced. Simply put, Fran and Rich were comfortable with their lives and with each other, and while any additions to the family would be welcome, it wouldn't change the fundamental premise. I suspected this peace they enjoyed had been hard-won, and they weren't about to have their tranquil waters roiled now that the storms had passed and they'd found each other.
I must admit I found them inspirational. My own marriage had tanked badly and left a bitter taste, and I'd since concluded that married life wasn't for me after all. My post-divorce single life had proceeded accordingly, but the knowledge that, at one point, I
had
wanted it, that it had seemed the only right way forward in my life, had never faded. I just ignored it now, of course, but as I'd got to know Rich and Fran over the course of a few months as neighbors, I derived a distinct comfort from observing their situation. I knew deep down that what they had together wasn't in the cards for me (I often wonder how and why I'm so sure of that, but there it is), but I derived a kind of vicarious reassurance in seeing such dogged optimism in life rewarded. It contrasted sharply with my own cynicism towards 'love.'
Rich's Subaru was already gone from the curb in front of their house. I climbed the steps to the porch then knocked on the front door, pushing it open to call, "Fran? It's Freddie. Fran?"
From above I heard, "Up here, Freddie. Come on in."
"Oh," I said up the stairs, "are you still in bed?"
I heard a laugh and then, "Yes, I'm still in bed, I'm stuck here! Come on up!"
She summoned me again when I reached the top of the stairs, her voice softer now at normal volume. "Front bedroom, Freddie." And I felt a familiar thump in my chest that was all wrong, all out of place given the situation. ("No, Freddie," I said to myself. "Absolutely not. No.")
It was a king-size bed, taking up the lion's share of the front wall of the house, centered on the large window. Small night tables were tucked in close on either side. The head and foot of the bed were elaborate, curving, carved wooden pieces suggestive of flowing water or ocean waves. The headboard in particular was a detailed three-dimensional flourish of intricate carving; it looked like a static representation of a breaker meeting rocks at the shoreline. It must have cost a fortune.
Fran was propped up in front of the headboard against many pillows, her long hair piled into a large bun that was in the process of disintegrating tress by tress. Her broad, cheerful face looked pale and tired, and if it hadn't been for her bright red lips puckered into an amused, coquettish pout, I'd have said she was ready to sleep for days.
The pout gave way to a broad smile of greeting and she said, "It's so good to see you, Freddie. Please forgive my appearance." She looked down at her cotton nightdress, white with a pattern of tiny blue flowers, elbow-length sleeves, and an open neck with three unfastened buttons spaced down to her sternum. Even from the doorway I could see the sun-freckling on her skin there. "I told Rich not to bother you but he's been fussing like an old woman since I got home. He insisted he couldn't leave me alone."
"It's no bother, Fran. How did everything go? Was it an emergency, or...?"
"It was a corrective procedure. I had this knee replaced last year," she tapped the orange quilt above her left leg, "and something wasn't quite right. They needed to go back in and figure it out. I don't know, tighten some screws or something. They seemed happy with how it went."
"That's good. Rich said you have to be off it for two days?"
"Yeah, but that's so the incisions can heal. They put a brace on to immobilize it, but I can stump around like it's a wooden leg when I have to. Although when I tried it I fell over." She shrugged and smiled. "That's why I have those," she said pointing at a pair of metal crutches leaning against the night stand.
"So are you bored to death?"
"Almost. By this time tomorrow I'll be tearing my hair out. I don't think I can stand to watch any more of that." She pointed again, this time at the wall opposite. I turned and saw a huge TV mounted to the wall. "I guess I have my phone to play with, and my books to read."
"And going downstairs is out?"
"No, I can go down, it's just so much bother that it'll have to be really worth it. So far it hasn't been."
"Is there something I can get you?"
"Thanks, but no. Rich set me up with all kinds of things before he left. What you can do is keep me company for a while."
"I can do that."
"There's coffee over there on the dresser. Rich brought up the coffee-maker. Help yourself. And come over and sit."
"Thanks. Hey, are the dogs okay? Need to be let out or something?"
"They're out already. This time of year they like to be out all morning. They can't get far with the fences out back."
"I was just thinking earlier about how my place is open on the front and the side. No fences at the corner lots."
