editor's note: This is #5 in the
Neighbors essays
series, begun in July 2014.
Home #5 The
Simpsons
That autumn, pregnant and ostracized from my
family, I moved to the hills of North Jersey with the man, Leo, Leo’s mother
Misty, and six puppies. We settled into
a rental house, situated at the top of a steep hill on a cul de sac with three
other houses. It was the first house I’d ever lived in. A city girl, apartment dweller, I was used to
the familiar sounds of another family, over or under me. Used to the smells of other people’s dinners,
the sounds of families laughing, shouting, fighting, bumping around. I reveled in the largeness of this new space
and the quiet of it all. We rented the house partially furnished; there was a color TV, the first I’d ever seen. There was a heavy, antique dining room table, with six chairs and velvet seats that sat on an orange shag rug. There were heavy draperies across sliding doors and even across tow small square windows, that gave the appearance of opulence when they were closed. There were three bedrooms, a spacious living room, a kitchen with a washer and a dryer. I'd never lived like that before.
The man traveled to the city every day in
my car, leaving in the morning dark and returning in the evening. I had Leo,
Misty and the puppies for company. That
winter, growing larger and more clumsy, and with two large pups we hadn’t found
homes for, I spent long hours wandering around the house, taking naps, and ultimately
writing my first poem, something dark and dramatic about being trapped in a
stark, cold, canine world. I cried a lot and smoked cigarettes and ate too much. I gained forty five pounds.
Neighbors across the street befriended us. Ann and John had two teenaged children and became surrogate
grandparents to my baby, when she was born in the Spring. Ann, grey haired and well cushioned, had a
ready smile and a good nature. She had a charming laugh and very smooth white
hands. When she held the baby, the baby was quiet and content. John used to say, with a glance in my direction,
that she was happy with Ann because “she didn’t like lying on bony laps.”
John was fleshy faced and ruddy complexioned. He liked to eat a lot of nuts and make
juvenile asides to his wife about his gastric reactions later in the
evening. On the occasional night when we
had them over for dinner, John always brought a brown paper bag and slipped it
to the man when he thought I wasn’t looking. As it turned out, the bag contained some
eight millimeter nudie films that he thought the man might enjoy in
his spare time. Would he guess that they
were set up in our bedroom for us? Fascinating;
at last I understood the “black sox” reference.
One late spring morning, John ambled across to our yard, as
I set about to plant petunias next to the walk. We exchanged pleasantries and he then took
up leaning against the car in the driveway. He smoked a cigarette and watched
as I struggled to dig deep holes with my small spade, through rocks, rocks, and
more rocks. Finally he spoke.
“Are you gonna plant them or bury them?” He threw his head back and howled laughing.
“What?” I asked, annoyed.
“You ever plant flowers before?” he asked.
“Not really” I
replied.
“Well, make those holes half as deep and half as wide, and
you’ll be okay” and back he went across the street.
Saturday Saturday 
