Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

I ran some of the new pages past my niece Claire, and she said they “sound like an IKEA catalog, only boring-er.”

Another downside of not having our things — and trust me, there are plenty — is that we haven’t been able to prepare meals, since our pots and pans have been wending their way back from the boardwalk. For the first few days we lived on takeout, and that got so old that I found myself missing Mac’s culinary abominations. 80All I wanted was something from my own kitchen, so we resorted to microwave cookery. As luck would have it, the nice microwave in the big kitchen died the second I tried it, so we’ve been using the antique one in the basement. Said microwave is perfectly functional, but I’m afraid it’s going to go all Hot Tub Time Machine on me and send me back a few generations every time I nuke a hot dog.

But now the moving truck is here at long last, which means the neighbors have been alerted to our presence. Somebody’s at the door, and I may be even more excited than the dogs, who are leaping and howling at the possibility of visitors. I can’t believe I’m finally living in a place where I’ll know my neighbors. I’m not the kind of gal who’d run next door to borrow a cup of sugar, but after so many years of being anonymous in the city, I’ve taken a shine to the prospect of brief, friendly chats with other homeowners when we’re getting our newspapers in the morning. 81I’m cool with the idea that someone might keep an eye on our place when we go on vacation, not because they have to, but because they want to. I’m a little bit enamored by the idea of trick-or-treaters, and I’m thrilled with the notion that someone might sell me Girl Scout Cookies. 82

When I was growing up, the street where we lived looked run-down and depressing, yet a closer-knit community could not be found. Sure, a few families allowed their dirty children to play outside at night in their pajamas, but even so, every single adult in the neighborhood watched out for those ragamuffins. We banded together to shovel Mrs. Kingery’s driveway, and we picked up Mr. Signorelli’s arthritis medicine once he got too old to drive, and brought casseroles every time the Kubiaks had a new baby. 83If indeed it takes a village, Spring Street was that village.

As we make our way to the door behind two elated, scrambling dogs, I quiz Mac. “What do you think we’re getting, a fruit basket? Maybe a pie? Ooh, I hope it’s wine!”

“I’m dying for a nice, heavy casserole, with ground beef and macaroni and cream of mushroom soup.” Mac rubs his stomach. “I can’t eat another hot dog. I can’t.”

I settle the dogs and smooth my ponytail, running my tongue over my front teeth to make sure there’s no stray lipstick before I make my first impression on our new neighbors… and possibly our new friends.

I grab the door handle — hmm, that feels a bit loose — and I swing open the door. Not too enthusiastically, mind you. Don’t want to appear desperate, just welcoming. “Hello! I’m Mia! And this is Mac and Duckie and Daisy,” I say, pointing to each of them.

A small, fastidious middle-aged man stands in front of me. He’s wearing undersize round tortoiseshell glasses, and one of those tweedy blazers with the sewn-on leather arm patches, and… Oh, Jesus Christ, is that an ascot ?

No, wait. It’s just a scarf.

But still, it could have been an ascot. How badass is that?

Seeing my neighbor here dressed like it’s casual Friday at Harvard Law School makes me laugh about how far I’ve come from Spring Street. The only jackets neighborhood men wore were of the Carhartt variety, except for state occasions such as christenings and weddings, which called for synthetic sport coats festooned in plaids best described as “tasty.”

Mac and I stand next to each other in the doorway, two dogs sitting nicely behind us, all waiting for our new elbow-patchy neighbor to say something. I can’t help but notice his well-manicured hands are empty, but maybe his wife’s on her way with something potable or macaroni-based and delicious? Mac and I grin briefly at each other and then back at our neighbor.

“Would you like to come in?” I offer.

“Are you the new owners?”

I’m a bit taken aback by this stranger’s brusqueness. But maybe he’s cranky because he couldn’t find his ascot? Self-consciously, I try to knock the excess dust off of me. I bet my stupid yoga pants and dirty hoodie are throwing him off. We’ve been busy cleaning and I must look a mess.

Mac’s detected something off about the man’s voice, too, and I notice he pulls himself to his full height. Duckie stops wagging his tail, and Daisy slinks down to the floor. “We are. Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can help me. You can help me by taking care of your diseased tree, southeast corner, three paces in.” The man whips out a digital camera and begins to scroll through the photographs of limbs and sticks. “Here, you see the flagging on these branches? And the brown streaking in the sapwood here? And this bark beetle gallery! Ugh! Listen to me: I will not lose my elm tree because you people refuse to service your property, and I’ve already reported this to the city.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Mac says, and gestures at the team carrying in our couch. 84“We’re just now moving in.” At this point Daisy slinks away and Duckie’s hackles raise.

“It’s my understanding that you’ve been here for a week. My expectation is that you would have taken care of this the first day.We have standards around here, and you’re already in violation.” With this, Mr. Elbow Patch removes his glasses and gives them a quick polish with his handkerchief.

As Mac’s drawing his breath to set him straight, 85I surreptitiously pull him back a step and attempt to defuse the situation. I don’t want to be disinvited from the block parties for the next twenty years because we’re tired, dirty, hungry, and sore from sitting on bean-based furniture for most of the week. “Yes, of course, I’m really sorry. We’ll take care of this immediately. Is there a landscaping service you can recommend?”

Elbow Patch’s disgust is almost palpable. “Hiring a service? We keep our gardeners on staff around here.” And with that, he spins on his heel and marches up our driveway.

Mac makes a stern face at me and repeats, “‘We keep our gardeners on staff around here,’ ” and we both crack up, causing the dogs’ moods to lighten as well.

“Who says stuff like that?” I wonder, wiping my eyes.

“People who wear elbow patches,” Mac replies.

I glance down, noticing a small splotch of mustard on my jacket, and I absently scratch at it with my thumbnail. “I guess there’s one grumpy person in every neighborhood. Although I can’t remember who the meanie was on Spring Street.”

“Didn’t you tell me that Babcia used to confiscate all the balls that landed in your yard and would then sell them back to kids at garage sales?”

“Ha! Yeah, I forgot about that. I guess she always had entrepreneurial tendencies.” Nothing used to make Babcia’s blood flow quicker than a stray baseball or Frisbee in our grass. She’d practically vault over the ottoman to get around to the door in order to snatch the wayward toy before its rightful owner could get to it. Babcia fetched balls faster and with more vigor than a purebred Labrador retriever. “I wonder if people thought she was the neighborhood crank?”

Before Mac can answer, the bell rings again.

“Showtime!” I exclaim. We move toward the door, and I’m a tad more reserved when I open it this time. This time, the dogs don’t follow because we’ve put them out. A woman about my age stands in front of us. She sports the kind of sassy haircut made up of points and flips that no one over a hundred pounds can get away with. She’s all done up in Lululemon togs. Aha! I knew people had to wear athletic gear up here at some point.