Quirky Neighbors, Macabre Friends

This story placed tenth in the Genre catagory of the 73rd Annual (2004) Writer's Digest Writing Competition. It remains my husband's favorite.


Quirky Neighbors, Macabre Friends


"Good morning, Mother!" Michael chirped as he entered the kitchen. He found his mother precisely where he had left her the night before, in the rocking chair facing the window, her empty gaze fixed on the glass. In truth, he expected no more of her.
Often times, Michael was impatient with his mother, who had been this way since the accident, but today his good mood prevailed. He'd had a glorious time with the neighborhood barflies the previous night. He'd won at shuffleboard and darts, been treated to two beers, and shared in the conversations about the beautiful autumn foliage, the many uses of alcohol in cooking, and the miserable state of the neighborhood's teenagers. Who could argue with that?
"I'm treating myself to scrambled eggs and home fries," Michael informed his mother.
She persisted in her silence.
He shrugged, turned his back on her, and began to prepare his breakfast. He hummed a tune, the words long forgotten, but the melody always teasing his thoughts.
"Yoo-hoo! Michael! Are you in there?"
"Damn." Michael glanced at his mother, but she only returned a vacant stare.
"Michael? I thought I heard your voice. I can't quite climb these steps."
"That is precisely why I chose this home, you old nag," he muttered under his breath, but he went to the door and unlatched the locks, and then stepped out onto the back porch. "Mrs. Perry! How nice to see you so early in the morning."
Mrs. Perry blushed, and then batted her false eyelashes at him. "Oh, I don't want to be a pest, but I made a batch of my homemade cinnamon rolls, and, living alone as I do, you know, of course I can't eat two dozen rolls."
"You shouldn't make so many at one time, Mrs. Perry."
"You know me, Michael. I love to make everything from scratch, and I sometimes get carried away."
Indeed, he did know her. She made her own soap, her own clothes, her own tea, and even dyed her own hair. Unfortunately, she smelled like furniture polish, seemed to be popping out of her sackcloth at every angle, pushed her awful brew on the neighbors, and went about in public with neon orange hair and a permanent orange stain on her forehead that reached all the way down to her eyebrows.
"All right, then," he said kindly. "I'll come over for them."
"Good! And bring your little jar for some more of my delicious tea!"
Michael agreed, stepping back into his own kitchen. "I'm stopping next door, Mother. Do you see, now, why I eat so many peaches?" He rummaged around in the cupboard until he found an empty jar and a matching full jar. Dropping the full jar into his pocket, he made his way over to the other side of his double block.
"I see you brought the jar, what a good boy! Now, help yourself to some tea. Be sure to fill the jar to the op. It always seems as though the canister is still full when you leave, even though I see you taking away a full jar." She bustled away to fill a plate with pastries.
Michael turned his back to her as he carefully filled his empty jar. Then, assuring himself that her attention was diverted, he dumped the contents of his other jar into the canister and mixed it through. Tucking the now empty jar into his pocket, he turned to face her, smiling.
She handed him a plate full of nearly-flat mounds of brown goo swimming in white liquid. "I gave you extra frosting!"
Michael thanked her, made excuses as to why he couldn't stay, and hurried home.
"That woman is an abomination!" he informed his mother as he dumped the sweets into the trash can. He frowned at his motionless mother. "You know, Mother, I envy that you no longer have care in the world!" Michael angrily grabbed a peach from the basket on the counter, ripped the flesh from the pit with his perfectly square front teeth, threw the pit onto a cutting board, and smashed the pit with a hammer. This was one way he dealt with his frustrations.

"Are you going somewhere, Michael?" Mrs. Horowitz called out from her position on her glider.
Michael's stomach muscles clenched.
"Are you lying in wait for me, Mrs. Horowitz?"
"Pardon?"
Michael smiled, changed his direction, and mounted the steps to her front porch. "I said I was on my way to the market!" He had to shout because Mrs. Horowitz's white poodle had begun to jump and yip the moment he had emerged from his own house.
"Shush!" she scolded the dog, who ignored her. She looked back at Michael and shrugged. "What can a mother do?"
Michael kept on smiling. "I see you've got Missy dressed in pink today!" he shouted.
"She's going to a birthday party."
"How nice." Michael wondered how Mrs. Horowitz would maneuver her massive bulk off the porch. Of course, he'd always wondered how she even got out of bed, never mind dressed the crazy little bitch in different outfits every day.
"But I was hoping you'd help me out later today." Her neck flab flopped like a fish out of water whenevr she spoke.
"Oh? What do you need?"
"I feel a draft coming in from my attached garage, and I don't want my Missy to catch her death from cold. Could you possibly put sealant on the window in there?"
"Weather stripping on the garage window? I don't know . . ."
"I know I'm always asking you for these little favors, but . . . shush, Missy! Mama's talking! But you are so handy, Michael, and I was hoping that while you're at it, you could . . . now, Missy! See what happens when you get excited? Mama's gonna' have to put another dress on you. And this is your favorite party dress, too. Now, shush up and let Mama talk. Anyway, Michael, I was hoping you'd see to the lock on the door in there, too. Remember I told you it sometimes sticks?"
"I'd be happy to. In fact, I'll pick up some supplies right now. When are you leaving for the party?"
"Not until six tonight. Well, I'll probably start to leave a little earlier than that. You know how long it takes my old jalopy to warm up."
"I'll have everything ready for five thirty."
"Oh, Michael! You're such a dear. Now, Missy, would you like to wear your overalls and help Michael this afternoon? Don't worry, I'll get you all done up for the party later."
Michael smiled even more broadly, then hopped down the steps. He nearly skipped along the sidewalk as he hummed that same old haunting tune.

"Michael! How 'bout a game of darts?" Fred called.
Michael entered the door cautiously, pausing for just a moment to savor the swell of joy he felt. "I'd love to, Friend." Friend. Friend!
"Here, you go first, my man. Good shot! What aim! You'd make a good hunter."
Michael blanched. He stepped back, his heart beating wildly.
"My turn. Let's see if I can get my little harpoon right into the heart of 'er!"
Michael sat down with a thump.
"Hey, Michael. What is it, pal? You look faint!"
"Listen. Could you not be so macabre?"
"So ma . . . what?"
"Please. Stop speaking in sanguine euphemisms."
"In what?"
"Just no more talk of bloody bodies. Please?"
"Geesh, Michael. I didn't know you was so squeamish."
"It's just that I . . . there was an accident . . . my mother . . . she had a knife and I . . . ." Michael closed his eyes. He would not allow his thoughts to go there.
"Hey, man. I'm sorry. Want to stop the game?"
"Yes. Please. I think I'll join the conversation at the bar." Michael felt Fred's eyes on him as he walked to the bar, so he straightened his shoulders. He climbed onto the only empty barstool and accepted the readily produced glass of his favorite brew.
"They're taking turns buying pitchers for the bar," Stan, the bartender, said nodding toward the others.
Michae nodded toward them while lifting his glass, and then tuned into their excited conversation.
"There was that guy in Texas that grabbed a woman from the car wash," Rita stated.
"Like I says, ain't no place safe," Barb lamented.
"I heard'a one guy who liked to cut off his victims' nipples," Joe contributed.
Michael shuddered. More talk of violence. What was with these peopl tonight? What happened to the palatable conversations of last night?
"There's enough serial killers now to have one in every town!" George declared. "Why, there was one over by the bay that liked to hog-tie girls and cut crosses in their chests."
Michael shivered, swallowing stomach acid. He glanced over at Fred who was leading that behemoth, Gabe, to the dart board.
Joe had another killer to describe. "I heard'a one that liked to tattoo nursery rhyme characters on 'em."
Gabe's first dart struck home. Thump.
Barb chortled. "Here's the worst, fellas. Some guy in England, I think, dressed as a woman, skinned his victims alive, and made soup of their organs!"
Whack. Another dart.
Rita gasped. "And I thought cutting nipples was bad."
Stan weighed into the conversation. "No worse'en the guy upstate that grabbed men and hacked off their penises to eat 'em. Said it raised his libido!"
Whack.
Michael stumbled across the worn wooden floor and into the men's room. He had never been in there before, but instinct led him to the sink where he splashed cold water onto his face. The chill helped him breathe again. How could people talk so casually about brutality?
He reached up and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, patted his face, and then looked around. Debris from the bar was piled in one corner of the dimly lit room. Narrowing his eyes and taking one step closer, Michael could see that most of the garbage piled in the corner were remnants of a party: crumpled paper napkins in bright colors, torn crepe paper streamers, and cracked plastic cups. Smeone had used paint to write on the cups. He could make out "Good Luck" and "Happy Birthday." Michael vaguely wondered how these trimmings had ended up in the men's room. Surely, the party wasn't held in here! He shook his had to dislodge the nonsense that rattled around inside his mind. That's when he saw it: a rat caught in a trap, its head nearly severed by the snap of a spring-relase snare.
Michael reeled, slamming his back against a wall. Fred's voice came to him out of a whirl of noise. "I didn't know you was so squeamish." How could anyone not react to so much physical violence? Stabbings, beatings, mutilations. These were not things to take in stride! The human body was so beautiful, how could anyone maime it, or even speak of disfiguring it?
He looked again at the rat. Every body deserved respect. Every life deserved to end with its vessel of flesh intact.
Michael's focus blurred, then came back sharply, fixed on a carton with a handle of a spoon sticking out of it. He stepped closer to the counter and turned the box around. Rat poison. Fury ripped through him. There was no reason to use that hideous device when there was poison available! What was wrong with these people?
He slammed his fist on the edge of the sink, causing a plastic cup to jump. Michael read the words painted on it. "Carpe diem."
He drew a deep breath. "I must get hold of myself." He picked up the cup and then told his reflection, "You must be more neighborly!"
When Michael emerged from the men's room a few minutes later, he was already in better spirits. "Barkeep! A pitcher or two, if you please! I wish to personally serve my neighbors! And a glass for you, too, my good man! Yes! Thank you! Present your glasses, lads and ladies! I'll be coming 'round to fill them. Let's just throw caution to the wind!"

Complaining loudly, Michael carelessly adjusted his mother's head so that her absent eyes might get a btter view of the softly falling snow. His patience with her was growing thin.
"Mother, how long, do you think, does it take a car to run out of gas? A big old one, like our neighbor's?"
His mother gave no answer, no hint of comprehension.
His annoyance grew. "Is there absolutely nothing in that empty head of yours?"
She showed no sign of life.
Exasperated, Michael threw up his hands and stomped across the kitchen. "I'm making lunch," he announced. "Fish sticks, I guess. With applesauce." He banged around the cupboards, pulling out a cookie sheet, dumping the frozen fish onto it. He ate applesauce right from the jar while the fish baked. The smell of the fish and the cool sweetness of the applesauce mollified him.
"Sorry I'm so impatient with you, Mother. It's just that sometimes, well, I wish I'd get more from you than that hollowed-eyed blank expression." He sighed. "I promise to be more patient. Would you like me to adjust you better?"
As he moved toward her, he heard a door bang. He frowned.
"It's been so quiet here all week. I can't begin to explain how happy I've been. No yapping dogs, no busybodies with homemade crap to thrust upon me, no brawls spilling out from the corner bar. It's been heaven on earth!"
A woman started screaming.
Michael glanced out the window, and groaned. "That miserable wretch's daughter is making a racket next door, Mother. Our wonderful peace and quiet is destroyed." He sighed heavily. "We'll have to move again, Mother, but don't you worry. I promise that I will find us a place to live where the neighbors aren't quirky and my friends are never macabre. I'll find a neighborhood where everyone is normal."
Quietly, efficiently, Michael retrieved the old, hard box-like suitcase from the closet, and carefully, lovingly, packed up his mother, one bone at a time.