Scott Nicholson - Curtains

Herman sat, uncomfortable, wondering if dried mud filled the cracks on the bottoms of his shoes.

“You heard about Tennessee,” Peter Reynolds said.

“Did you kill her?”

“I’m surprised you’d ask something like that. I would have taken you for a man who minded his own business.”

“Did you bury her like you did the cat?”

“You should worry about your own problems instead of going around being suspicious of everybody.”

“I don’t have no problems.”

“That you’ll admit, anyway.”

“No worries nothing.”

“You’re old and alone and it’s slipping away. The last thing you have left to fight for is that patch of grass up there”-Peter Reynolds waved at the dark window in the direction of Herman’s house-“and a picket fence. And it’s getting harder to keep that fence standing straight, isn’t it? The winds keep coming, a little stronger every year, the snow leans on it, the neighborhood kids get a little bigger and bolder, and a fence starts looking like a dare instead of a warning. Yes, Mr. Weeks, I understand fences. I’m territorial myself.”

The hippie’s gray eyes, which were the same color as the carpet, seemed far too old. “All I want is a place to spread out, a yard for my dog to dig in, a roof over my head, and no barbarians at the gate.”

“Barbarians at the gate,” Herman repeated, as if he had the slightest idea what the hippie was going on about. He had a fleeting image of one of those old chariot movies, where the Romans were always punished because of nailing Jesus to the cross. You never saw John Wayne in a toga, that was for sure. Charlton Heston, maybe, but that was a different nut altogether.

“I’m a loner like you,” Peter Reynolds went on, standing across the room even though his guest was sitting. “I take care of what’s mine. That’s why I was so upset when I saw you had fixed my leaning fence post. It was an insult, you see.”

Herman could see that plain, now. At the time, he’d thought the hippie has bone lazy, without a stitch of pride. But the truth was the hippie was just like Herman, proud to the point of stubbornness. Ready to fight for home ground.

“I didn’t mean nothing,” Herman said. “But from where I come from, you set your fences straight.”

“I’m tired, Herman. I don’t mind burying a trespassing cat once in while.” The hippie gave Herman a look that said maybe cats weren’t all he’d buried. “But I don’t want to run anymore. Every time I think I’m settled in for good, that I’ve staked out a place to call my own, along comes some lousy neighbor to spoil it all.”

Herman didn’t want to think that he was spoiling anything for Peter Reynolds. Because the hippie’s left eyelid was twitching just a little.

“Well, I’m not running anymore. This time, I’m trying to recruit an ally. A good neighbor. A man who respects the property rights of others.”

“I’ve always been a good neighbor,” Herman said.

“You’ve got more to fight for than any of us do, since you’ve been here the longest.”

“I’ll fight to protect what’s mine. I registered for the draft, though I had the bad luck to come of age between Korea and Vietnam.”

“You don’t have to go overseas to find the enemy,” the hippie said, and those gray eyes had gone even darker, on toward charcoal. “The barbarians are right at the gate.”

Herman’s stomach was in knots and his bowels gurgled, scoured raw by fiber. He didn’t like the distant anger in the hippie’s voice. That was a murderer speaking, someone who could deprive another human being of the ultimate in property rights, the right to possess a living and breathing body. He flinched when the hippie spun and stormed toward the computer.

“It’s a technological age we live in, Herman,” Peter Reynolds said, tapping some keys. “All the public records are right here on the county Web site. Birth certificates, deaths, deeds, criminal charges, tax liens. And look here. Building applications.”

Herman squinted, trying to see around the hippie’s back, that long pony tail nearly down to his rump. From behind, wearing a dress, he could have passed for a girl. Assuming he shaved his legs. But he heard women didn’t hardly do that anymore. Barbarians at the gates was right.

“Next door,” the hippie said. “The Devereaux heirs have been busy.”

“The dentist’s boys?”

“Yes. They’ve sold the lot to an outfit out of Texas. Highland Builders LLC.”

“Damn. I knew that was going to be developed sooner or later. Wonder who the new neighbor is going to be?”

“Neighbors,” the hippie said. “Plural.”

“Do what?”

“Apartment complex. Six buildings. A hundred-and-fifty-two parking spaces. Legal occupancy of up to 122 unrelated persons.”

Herman dug a finger into his ear, as if wax buildup prevented his brain from accepting the words he’d just heard. “No way. You can’t fit that many people on such a little scrap of ground.”

“You must have missed the zoning hearings. This application says the property was zoned for multi-family back in the 1980s.”

“Oh, that. We didn’t go to none of those. We stayed away as a protest against zoning.”

“They zoned anyway.”

“Tarnation.”

“A foreign developer like that has absolutely no respect for the neighbors. Oakdale would be changed forever. For the worse.”

“I’ll say. How we going to keep all them people off our property?

“You know what they say. A good fence is the first line of defense.”

Herman wasn’t sure he liked the gleam in the hippie’s eyes. Those were Osama’s eyes, the look of a man who would just as soon bury you as nail up a “No Trespassing” sign. He thought of the fence post with its embedded razor, the barbed hook big enough to snag a cat. He wondered what sort of contraption the hippie could cook up to deal with a major invasion.

“I’ll bet they’ll put up crooked fence posts,” Herman said.

“No doubt. A Texas developer wouldn’t know the first thing about building in the mountains.”

“And those apartments will have kids.”

“Lots of kids,” the hippie agreed.

“Squalling, squabbling little yard monkeys who will wear a path in your grass deep enough to bury a mule.”

“Or bury a person.”

Herman looked at the window, at the dark, empty field. Fireflies blinked above the ragged vegetation. A crabapple tree swayed in the wind. Headlights cut twin yellow arcs across the small plot of land as a pizza delivery car cut into the neighborhood. Herman tried to picture the security lights, the view-wrecking walls, the cars crowded around the buildings. Four stories of noise and strangers. Bad neighbors.

The best way to stop bad neighbors was with good fences.

Fences like the hippie made.

“Want to see my shop?” Peter Reynolds said.

“You bet.”

Herman was sure it was full of sharp, shiny things and heavy, black hammers. He got up from the couch, feeling younger than he had in years. His heart, which usually beat in a tired and uneven rhythm, now burned with pride and a sense of duty. There was work to be done and fences to be mended. Herman, as old as he was, figured he could still learn a thing or two about handling property disputes. They could beat this problem together.

After all, what else were neighbors for?

Bud Millwood pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, something he’d probably seen in a detective movie somewhere. Herman let the door stand open, and though the October air was brisk, he didn’t invite the deputy in. Herman had nothing to hide, but a man’s home was private property and Bud was here as an officer of the law, not as a friend. Plus, his breakfast was getting cold, and nothing went down rougher than cold oatmeal.