The Vacant Lot
by Jesse Mardian
The lot behind our home had been a vacant sprawl of dirt for months until the motorhome appeared. A moldy, yellow behemoth, the clunker puttered around, leaving flatulent smog in its wake. It circled the grassless patch and situated itself beside our fence line, releasing a gurgling belch as the ignition died.
“So,” Lucy said, sitting up from a lounge chair.
“So, what?” I said.
“I don’t know, Ollie, maybe go say something to them, like shoo them off or something.”
I peeked over the fence and observed the giant Twinkie. Dents, scratches, a little graffiti on the side. Whatever was inside probably matched the outside, or at least I imagined.
“Eh, I don’t know, maybe they’ll just go away on their own.”
“Jesus. Do I have to do everything?”
Lucy didn’t like surprises, so it was no surprise to see her get all flustered like that. She stomped towards the back gate, paused, looked back at me, and then disappeared.
The lot hadn’t always been barren. Once there stood a charming, little house owned by an elderly couple, but they died and had no kids, so I guess the banks took over the house. I don’t know how these things work, but someone decided to bulldoze the house and abandon the lot. They had been nice people too. Talked to them once or twice. Old but nice. I called them Bill and Agnes, but they could have been Mark and Martha, or Sam and Janine. We weren’t here too long before they died, one after the other. One day here, the next day gone. Just like the house.
I took a seat in the lounge chair, sipping lemonade, and trying to figure out nineteen down on the Sunday crossword. Polite words while entering. Eight letters. Nice home? I heard three loud pounds from beyond the fence.
Lucy’s voice resonated, “this is private property, you can’t be here! Do you hear me? Hello?”
She reappeared a few moments later, her gait still exaggerated.
“And?” I said, filling in the crossword.
“And what? They didn’t come out. Get out of my seat.”
I stood and looked over the fence again. Lucy plopped down on the rattan and picked up the paper.
“Maybe they need help or something?” I said, perching my nose on the fence line.
“After you,” Lucy said.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s better to leave people to their own business.”
“No,” she said, erasing the words I had written. “Polite words while entering. AFTER YOU."
“So,” Lucy said, sitting up from a lounge chair.
“So, what?” I said.
“I don’t know, Ollie, maybe go say something to them, like shoo them off or something.”
I peeked over the fence and observed the giant Twinkie. Dents, scratches, a little graffiti on the side. Whatever was inside probably matched the outside, or at least I imagined.
“Eh, I don’t know, maybe they’ll just go away on their own.”
“Jesus. Do I have to do everything?”
Lucy didn’t like surprises, so it was no surprise to see her get all flustered like that. She stomped towards the back gate, paused, looked back at me, and then disappeared.
The lot hadn’t always been barren. Once there stood a charming, little house owned by an elderly couple, but they died and had no kids, so I guess the banks took over the house. I don’t know how these things work, but someone decided to bulldoze the house and abandon the lot. They had been nice people too. Talked to them once or twice. Old but nice. I called them Bill and Agnes, but they could have been Mark and Martha, or Sam and Janine. We weren’t here too long before they died, one after the other. One day here, the next day gone. Just like the house.
I took a seat in the lounge chair, sipping lemonade, and trying to figure out nineteen down on the Sunday crossword. Polite words while entering. Eight letters. Nice home? I heard three loud pounds from beyond the fence.
Lucy’s voice resonated, “this is private property, you can’t be here! Do you hear me? Hello?”
She reappeared a few moments later, her gait still exaggerated.
“And?” I said, filling in the crossword.
“And what? They didn’t come out. Get out of my seat.”
I stood and looked over the fence again. Lucy plopped down on the rattan and picked up the paper.
“Maybe they need help or something?” I said, perching my nose on the fence line.
“After you,” Lucy said.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s better to leave people to their own business.”
“No,” she said, erasing the words I had written. “Polite words while entering. AFTER YOU."
~
Later that night we lay in a post-coital sweat and I stared at the ceiling, working out the math in my head. To my count, this had been the thirtieth time since we tossed to the contraceptives. We had to be getting close by now. Everything was coming together nicely. Marriage. Check. Wife. Check. House. Check. Baby.
Lucy yawned and faced the window. The Winnebago stared back.
“That thing better be gone by morning,” she murmured.
Soon she was asleep. I forgot to carry a one and realized it was actually forty times. Not thirty. I went for water. It was a hot evening, and outside I could see the roses in our garden sleeping flaccidly in the darkness. Garden. Check. Past the rosebushes was our yard and then the fence, and above the fence the top of the motorhome.
Sure it was an eyesore, but one could simply forget it was there, like a sun-beaten bird feeder or a garden gnome or a coiled hose.
I was about to return to bed when I heard it. Through the slider, past the garden, and into the depths of the backyard, I followed the subtle, but unmistakable sound of a baby crying. I inched closer. A woman’s voiced cooed a lullaby. It came from the Winnebago.
Lucy yawned and faced the window. The Winnebago stared back.
“That thing better be gone by morning,” she murmured.
Soon she was asleep. I forgot to carry a one and realized it was actually forty times. Not thirty. I went for water. It was a hot evening, and outside I could see the roses in our garden sleeping flaccidly in the darkness. Garden. Check. Past the rosebushes was our yard and then the fence, and above the fence the top of the motorhome.
Sure it was an eyesore, but one could simply forget it was there, like a sun-beaten bird feeder or a garden gnome or a coiled hose.
I was about to return to bed when I heard it. Through the slider, past the garden, and into the depths of the backyard, I followed the subtle, but unmistakable sound of a baby crying. I inched closer. A woman’s voiced cooed a lullaby. It came from the Winnebago.
~
Lucy had gotten her wish, and the motorhome was gone when we woke up. Here yesterday, gone today. Like Bill and Agnes and their charming little home.
“Sorry, I freaked out yesterday,” she said, pulling the comforter to her chin.
“I get it, the thing looked like a block of moldy cheddar.”
She sighed and looked out the window, over the fence line and into the motorhomeless horizon.
I knew it wasn’t really the RV that bugged her. Lucy was tricky like that, projecting one thing onto something else. I’d need a psychiatrist to spell it out for me.
Tell me Doc, I’d say. What is it really that she’s trying to tell me?
If you don’t know I don’t know. I’m just a daydream.
Lucy’s alarm chimed and she slammed it off.
“I think we can squeeze one in before our appointment. Be quick,” she said.
“I always am.”
“Sorry, I freaked out yesterday,” she said, pulling the comforter to her chin.
“I get it, the thing looked like a block of moldy cheddar.”
She sighed and looked out the window, over the fence line and into the motorhomeless horizon.
I knew it wasn’t really the RV that bugged her. Lucy was tricky like that, projecting one thing onto something else. I’d need a psychiatrist to spell it out for me.
Tell me Doc, I’d say. What is it really that she’s trying to tell me?
If you don’t know I don’t know. I’m just a daydream.
Lucy’s alarm chimed and she slammed it off.
“I think we can squeeze one in before our appointment. Be quick,” she said.
“I always am.”
~
We arrived late and had to sit in the waiting room with two couches, a center table with month old magazines, and a faux plant that looked like it needed water for some reason. An instrumental jingle of an old Beatles song played—I think it was “Eleanor Rigby,” or maybe “Dear Prudence,” or “Happiness is a Warm Gun?” The room smelled like paint.
From the pile of magazines, I picked up a copy of Trailer Life and teased Lucy by holding up a centerfold of a vintage RV.
“I was thinking of getting one of these,” I said, playfully jabbing her with my elbow.
The doctor was a plain woman with a stoic face, her hair tied back, and a general lets-get-on-with-it attitude. She introduced herself as Dr. Patel. Lucy listened attentively, asking questions, clarifying comments, and pressing the doctor for suggestions. I examined a photo of a sailboat, battling fierce surf.
“Any questions about the scrotal ultrasound, Mr. Stenson?”
“Huh, oh, nope, got it, scrotal ultrasound.”
“Ms. Stenson, continue with the clomiphene and we’ll follow-up in a week or so. A nurse will be in shortly with the container for you Mr. Stenson.”
The doctor left and Lucy punched me on the arm. “Can you take this seriously?” she asked.
“Sorry, I don’t like doctors, or doctor’s offices. Like that sailboat picture over there. Doesn’t it seem out of place.”
“Oh, now you care about when things seem out of place.”
A light knock came from the door and a nurse entered with a kit.
“Here is everything you need. There are magazines in the bathroom, and you can leave the sample once you’ve finished.”
“Sample?”
“Yes, sir. The doctor has asked for a semen sample. There’s a medical safe box in the room, you’ll see it, just make sure the lid on the container is fastened and you can leave the sample inside.”
The porno mags were outdated and I found a Playboy that had a tasteful Vonnegut short story about bees. I suspected that it wasn’t really about bees, but I wasn’t sure what Mr. Vonnegut was getting at. Rest his soul. Although, I learned that only female bees sting, which made sense, since I knew that only girl mosquitos drew blood, and that female spiders release more venom. Something to do with maternal instincts. It made sense if you thought about it. A knock came from the door.
“Is everything okay in there?” Lucy’s voice called.
I shut my eyes and did what I came for.
From the pile of magazines, I picked up a copy of Trailer Life and teased Lucy by holding up a centerfold of a vintage RV.
“I was thinking of getting one of these,” I said, playfully jabbing her with my elbow.
The doctor was a plain woman with a stoic face, her hair tied back, and a general lets-get-on-with-it attitude. She introduced herself as Dr. Patel. Lucy listened attentively, asking questions, clarifying comments, and pressing the doctor for suggestions. I examined a photo of a sailboat, battling fierce surf.
“Any questions about the scrotal ultrasound, Mr. Stenson?”
“Huh, oh, nope, got it, scrotal ultrasound.”
“Ms. Stenson, continue with the clomiphene and we’ll follow-up in a week or so. A nurse will be in shortly with the container for you Mr. Stenson.”
The doctor left and Lucy punched me on the arm. “Can you take this seriously?” she asked.
“Sorry, I don’t like doctors, or doctor’s offices. Like that sailboat picture over there. Doesn’t it seem out of place.”
“Oh, now you care about when things seem out of place.”
A light knock came from the door and a nurse entered with a kit.
“Here is everything you need. There are magazines in the bathroom, and you can leave the sample once you’ve finished.”
“Sample?”
“Yes, sir. The doctor has asked for a semen sample. There’s a medical safe box in the room, you’ll see it, just make sure the lid on the container is fastened and you can leave the sample inside.”
The porno mags were outdated and I found a Playboy that had a tasteful Vonnegut short story about bees. I suspected that it wasn’t really about bees, but I wasn’t sure what Mr. Vonnegut was getting at. Rest his soul. Although, I learned that only female bees sting, which made sense, since I knew that only girl mosquitos drew blood, and that female spiders release more venom. Something to do with maternal instincts. It made sense if you thought about it. A knock came from the door.
“Is everything okay in there?” Lucy’s voice called.
I shut my eyes and did what I came for.
~
"I learned that only female bees sting, which made sense, since I knew that only girl mosquitos drew blood, and that female spiders release more venom. Something to do with maternal instincts."
A week had passed since the motorhome appeared, then disappeared, and the Sunday paper smacked on our doorstep. I awoke late to our morning intercourse appointment, having slept badly, so I made up for it with a rushed job, which Lucy didn’t seem to mind. She had a list of chores for me, so I took a good, long time in the bathroom, reading the headlines about diseases in the east, droughts in the west, and all the political gobbledygook in between. By the time I heard Lucy hollering, I was rifling through coupons and ads trying to find the comics.
“Remember to dust the blinds,” Lucy said, grabbing her keys.
“Got it,” I said, “Blind the dusts.”
“And, Ollie—”
“Yes, deary?”
“Don’t do that thing you do, you know, the mindless stowing,” she said, opening the front door.
“Shoving something out of sight doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
The door shut and I felt lonely, but only for a second. I called Carl and we talked about football. Then I rang up George and asked about the wife and kids and his hernia operation. I checked in with Mom and listened to the family gossip. I threw away a stack of old mail as I learned my sister Blair had cut her own bangs and Jimmy up north had quit his job at the startup. And I was doing okay.
By the time I got to the list, morning had become afternoon and the sun wheezed arid rays onto our thirsty lawn. I turned on the sprinklers, pruned the rosebush, swept the garage, and took out the trash. Brown spider eggs peppered the eaves of our roof, and I sprayed them with WD-40, not knowing really what else to do. While I did this, a chime came from the front door.
“Afternoon,” the officer said. His belly hung over his waistband and perspiration pooled above his lip.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no, no,” he said, flipping open a notepad. “We’ve had some complaints in the neighborhood about a squatter, specifically a junky, 1970s Vandura, yellow, plates WG3—”
“A Winnebago,” I blurted.
“I have here that it was a GMC Vandura, but in any case, so you’ve seen it?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“But you just said—”
“I just assumed, ya know, ‘Bagos being the brand and all.”
He stared at me for an uncomfortable second.
“Well, here’s my information,” he said, handing me a little card.
“Officer Grenache,” I read.
“You can call me Tim. Now just call that number if you see the motorhome, alright?”
Officer Grenache smiled, turned his back, and waddled towards his patrol car.
“Officer Tim,” I called. “Are these people dangerous?”
He turned slowly, like a globe on rusty hinges. “What makes you think they’re more than one person?”
“It is a motorhome.”
“Uh-huh. Well, no. I don’t believe so. Have a good day now.”
I watched the officer leave and returned to the spider eggs in the eaves, noticing how they looked like little cotton balls stuck together
“Remember to dust the blinds,” Lucy said, grabbing her keys.
“Got it,” I said, “Blind the dusts.”
“And, Ollie—”
“Yes, deary?”
“Don’t do that thing you do, you know, the mindless stowing,” she said, opening the front door.
“Shoving something out of sight doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
The door shut and I felt lonely, but only for a second. I called Carl and we talked about football. Then I rang up George and asked about the wife and kids and his hernia operation. I checked in with Mom and listened to the family gossip. I threw away a stack of old mail as I learned my sister Blair had cut her own bangs and Jimmy up north had quit his job at the startup. And I was doing okay.
By the time I got to the list, morning had become afternoon and the sun wheezed arid rays onto our thirsty lawn. I turned on the sprinklers, pruned the rosebush, swept the garage, and took out the trash. Brown spider eggs peppered the eaves of our roof, and I sprayed them with WD-40, not knowing really what else to do. While I did this, a chime came from the front door.
“Afternoon,” the officer said. His belly hung over his waistband and perspiration pooled above his lip.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no, no,” he said, flipping open a notepad. “We’ve had some complaints in the neighborhood about a squatter, specifically a junky, 1970s Vandura, yellow, plates WG3—”
“A Winnebago,” I blurted.
“I have here that it was a GMC Vandura, but in any case, so you’ve seen it?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“But you just said—”
“I just assumed, ya know, ‘Bagos being the brand and all.”
He stared at me for an uncomfortable second.
“Well, here’s my information,” he said, handing me a little card.
“Officer Grenache,” I read.
“You can call me Tim. Now just call that number if you see the motorhome, alright?”
Officer Grenache smiled, turned his back, and waddled towards his patrol car.
“Officer Tim,” I called. “Are these people dangerous?”
He turned slowly, like a globe on rusty hinges. “What makes you think they’re more than one person?”
“It is a motorhome.”
“Uh-huh. Well, no. I don’t believe so. Have a good day now.”
I watched the officer leave and returned to the spider eggs in the eaves, noticing how they looked like little cotton balls stuck together
~
Lucy returned home later that afternoon. Apparently, they didn’t have the color of paint she wanted for the guest room/future nursery. The things that made her tick were trifles to me, but I learned long ago to never question them—questioning them led to the deconstruction of my sympathies—always nod and agree, agree, agree.
Right Doc?
Whatever you say.
“Where’s that damn palette?” she said.
“Where did you leave it?”
“It was with the mail, right here, where’s the mail?”
The trashcan smelled like sweaty socks and I cut my arm on the rose stems I had trimmed earlier. The mail was deep and I was careful to avoid the clusters of spider eggs beside the soaking bags of garbage. I dug deep to find the mail and the lost color palette, but be damned if I didn’t find it.
“Voilà!” I said triumphantly, holding it in the air like Willy Wonka’s last golden ticket.
Lucy snatched it from my hands and shook her head.
“What did I say before I left?”
“Something about how your love for me—?”
“When are you going to grow up, Oliver?”
That night there was no coitus and I couldn’t sleep knowing, but not knowing, the flaws in my being that led to this moment. I mean, it wasn’t really that big of a deal, and I fixed it, didn’t I? Staring into the darkness, I made a mental note for another thing to consult a psychiatrist about.
Can people really change, Doc?
Why do you keep asking me these things? I’ve told you. I’m just a figment of your imagination.
A mechanical purring came from outside, and I stumbled out of bed. Lucy snored. I watched the Winnebago return, situating itself beside the fence line once again. I stepped into the night and listened. No sounds except for the low buzz of power lines. My feet moved before my mind could catch up and I found myself outside the gate, tiptoeing towards the Winnebago. A dim light shone inside, but no people could be seen. When I was close enough to feel the heat of the engine, I heard the whispers clearly.
“I don’t know,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is the best spot, end of the street, vacant lot, out of the way, not bothering anybody,” said a man’s voice.
“But what about them?”
“What about them?
“I don’t know, we are close to them, they can see us, maybe hear us, I think it’s better to stay moving,” the woman said. “And that rude woman pounded on the door and told us to leave.”
“Listen: I’m tired of moving. Christopher doesn’t like it, and it would be nice to rest for a while. Until I find work again. We can easily move on if we have to.”
The voices faded, and I thought I heard kissing happening, but maybe I just imagined it. I lingered until the light turned off, and then made my way back into the warm house and cold bed.
Right Doc?
Whatever you say.
“Where’s that damn palette?” she said.
“Where did you leave it?”
“It was with the mail, right here, where’s the mail?”
The trashcan smelled like sweaty socks and I cut my arm on the rose stems I had trimmed earlier. The mail was deep and I was careful to avoid the clusters of spider eggs beside the soaking bags of garbage. I dug deep to find the mail and the lost color palette, but be damned if I didn’t find it.
“Voilà!” I said triumphantly, holding it in the air like Willy Wonka’s last golden ticket.
Lucy snatched it from my hands and shook her head.
“What did I say before I left?”
“Something about how your love for me—?”
“When are you going to grow up, Oliver?”
That night there was no coitus and I couldn’t sleep knowing, but not knowing, the flaws in my being that led to this moment. I mean, it wasn’t really that big of a deal, and I fixed it, didn’t I? Staring into the darkness, I made a mental note for another thing to consult a psychiatrist about.
Can people really change, Doc?
Why do you keep asking me these things? I’ve told you. I’m just a figment of your imagination.
A mechanical purring came from outside, and I stumbled out of bed. Lucy snored. I watched the Winnebago return, situating itself beside the fence line once again. I stepped into the night and listened. No sounds except for the low buzz of power lines. My feet moved before my mind could catch up and I found myself outside the gate, tiptoeing towards the Winnebago. A dim light shone inside, but no people could be seen. When I was close enough to feel the heat of the engine, I heard the whispers clearly.
“I don’t know,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is the best spot, end of the street, vacant lot, out of the way, not bothering anybody,” said a man’s voice.
“But what about them?”
“What about them?
“I don’t know, we are close to them, they can see us, maybe hear us, I think it’s better to stay moving,” the woman said. “And that rude woman pounded on the door and told us to leave.”
“Listen: I’m tired of moving. Christopher doesn’t like it, and it would be nice to rest for a while. Until I find work again. We can easily move on if we have to.”
The voices faded, and I thought I heard kissing happening, but maybe I just imagined it. I lingered until the light turned off, and then made my way back into the warm house and cold bed.
~
“It’s back,” Lucy said, shaking me awake.
“Yes, honey, the sun revolves,” I yawned.
She pinched the delicate area between my ribs and armpit.
It was Monday, which meant work, which meant the robotic routine of sipping coffee, tie tying, and a general sense of loathing that could only be alleviated by knowing that time never stops. The motorhome lounged in the vacant lot where there had once been an orange tree.
Orange tree, yellow RV. Bill and Agnes. Motorhome man, motorhome woman. And baby?
We sat at the dining room table, eating eggs and toast. Lucy was gazing out the kitchen window, chewing the same piece of bread over and over.
“I think I’ll call in sick today,” I said.
“And why is that?” Lucy turned from the window, finally swallowing.
“I just don’t feel like it, and why not?”
She shook her head, stood up, and rinsed her plate in the sink.
“And you think you are ready?”
“I’m never ready, that’s precisely why I’m not going.”
“Not about that.”
“I’ve got plenty of sick leave. The data can enter itself today.”
Lucy scoffed and went about her business. A spider had made a web from the rose bush to our patio umbrella, and a fly dodged it. Someone had once told me flies live for only twenty-four hours. If that was true then I had just witnessed a major life event.
“Will you deal with this please?” she said pointing out the window. “If you do one thing today, make it that this piece of junk leaves and never comes back. I hate looking at it. It’s ugly.”
I never told Lucy about Officer Grenache’s visit, and I felt like this was the time to let her know. But on impulse, I let it be, maybe because it would create more problems and I liked things simple.
A lie is the disease of marriage, the imaginary psychiatrist said in my head.
Oh, now you have advice. Shut up, you’re not real, remember?
Lucy left for work and I called my boss with a nasally voice. I spent most of the morning reading parts of the newspaper I had missed yesterday. In El Paso, a man died of a strange respiratory illness. East coast, World Series had begun and one of the Sox did well in the ninth.
Stocks fell. Stocks rose. And a girl named Yoshida won the national spelling bee. The winning word was ALBUMEN.
Around noon, I rummaged through the dresser, looking for Officer Grenache’s calling card. I found it crumpled inside a pocket along with some dirt and lint. I dialed the number and tossed the card onto the coffee table.
“This is Officer Grenache.”
“Hi officer, I uh, this uh, well you came to my house yesterday about a Winnebago.”
“And who is this?”
“Oliver Stenson, Willoughby Avenue. End of street. Next to the vacant lot.”
“Yes, I remember. So what can I help you with?”
I looked out the window and noticed a young man perched above the motorhome with what looked like a garden tamper. His shirt was off and tied around his head like a castaway.
“Oh, I was just wondering if you had found it yet,” I said.
“Listen: I don’t have time for this. You call me if you see it, not the other way around. Am I clear?”
“Clear as quartz.”
The receiver went dead, and I went to the window where I could watch the man.
He was young, but maybe my same age, he just seemed young because he was skinny and agile.
I guess age is relative anyway. Like that fly I saw earlier. It could have been eight hours old, only two-thirds of life left.
The man was pouring soil into a plot and it was obvious now that he had some sort of garden on top of the RV. There seemed to be solar panels, too. I spied tomatoes as I strode out through the yard and when I neared the fence, I called out, “Hello, neighbor!”
The man turned quickly, staggered, and shrieked as he fell. Thud. A woman screamed and a baby wailed and I ran around the fence.
The man lay clutching his arm, and the woman looked around frantically. I stood there, mouth agape.
“I’m so sorry, I thought he saw me, I was just—”
“Oh my god, Billy, your arm!”
The man wailed, “It’s busted, Marie.”
“Let me take him to the hospital; it’s all my fault,” I said.
“No, no,” the man said through clenched teeth. “No hospitals.”
“I love you baby, it’s going to be okay,” she said, kneeling beside him and kissing his sweaty head.
Billy’s arm was an S. The infant cried and cried.
“Here, let’s get him inside then,” I said.
“Yes, honey, the sun revolves,” I yawned.
She pinched the delicate area between my ribs and armpit.
It was Monday, which meant work, which meant the robotic routine of sipping coffee, tie tying, and a general sense of loathing that could only be alleviated by knowing that time never stops. The motorhome lounged in the vacant lot where there had once been an orange tree.
Orange tree, yellow RV. Bill and Agnes. Motorhome man, motorhome woman. And baby?
We sat at the dining room table, eating eggs and toast. Lucy was gazing out the kitchen window, chewing the same piece of bread over and over.
“I think I’ll call in sick today,” I said.
“And why is that?” Lucy turned from the window, finally swallowing.
“I just don’t feel like it, and why not?”
She shook her head, stood up, and rinsed her plate in the sink.
“And you think you are ready?”
“I’m never ready, that’s precisely why I’m not going.”
“Not about that.”
“I’ve got plenty of sick leave. The data can enter itself today.”
Lucy scoffed and went about her business. A spider had made a web from the rose bush to our patio umbrella, and a fly dodged it. Someone had once told me flies live for only twenty-four hours. If that was true then I had just witnessed a major life event.
“Will you deal with this please?” she said pointing out the window. “If you do one thing today, make it that this piece of junk leaves and never comes back. I hate looking at it. It’s ugly.”
I never told Lucy about Officer Grenache’s visit, and I felt like this was the time to let her know. But on impulse, I let it be, maybe because it would create more problems and I liked things simple.
A lie is the disease of marriage, the imaginary psychiatrist said in my head.
Oh, now you have advice. Shut up, you’re not real, remember?
Lucy left for work and I called my boss with a nasally voice. I spent most of the morning reading parts of the newspaper I had missed yesterday. In El Paso, a man died of a strange respiratory illness. East coast, World Series had begun and one of the Sox did well in the ninth.
Stocks fell. Stocks rose. And a girl named Yoshida won the national spelling bee. The winning word was ALBUMEN.
Around noon, I rummaged through the dresser, looking for Officer Grenache’s calling card. I found it crumpled inside a pocket along with some dirt and lint. I dialed the number and tossed the card onto the coffee table.
“This is Officer Grenache.”
“Hi officer, I uh, this uh, well you came to my house yesterday about a Winnebago.”
“And who is this?”
“Oliver Stenson, Willoughby Avenue. End of street. Next to the vacant lot.”
“Yes, I remember. So what can I help you with?”
I looked out the window and noticed a young man perched above the motorhome with what looked like a garden tamper. His shirt was off and tied around his head like a castaway.
“Oh, I was just wondering if you had found it yet,” I said.
“Listen: I don’t have time for this. You call me if you see it, not the other way around. Am I clear?”
“Clear as quartz.”
The receiver went dead, and I went to the window where I could watch the man.
He was young, but maybe my same age, he just seemed young because he was skinny and agile.
I guess age is relative anyway. Like that fly I saw earlier. It could have been eight hours old, only two-thirds of life left.
The man was pouring soil into a plot and it was obvious now that he had some sort of garden on top of the RV. There seemed to be solar panels, too. I spied tomatoes as I strode out through the yard and when I neared the fence, I called out, “Hello, neighbor!”
The man turned quickly, staggered, and shrieked as he fell. Thud. A woman screamed and a baby wailed and I ran around the fence.
The man lay clutching his arm, and the woman looked around frantically. I stood there, mouth agape.
“I’m so sorry, I thought he saw me, I was just—”
“Oh my god, Billy, your arm!”
The man wailed, “It’s busted, Marie.”
“Let me take him to the hospital; it’s all my fault,” I said.
“No, no,” the man said through clenched teeth. “No hospitals.”
“I love you baby, it’s going to be okay,” she said, kneeling beside him and kissing his sweaty head.
Billy’s arm was an S. The infant cried and cried.
“Here, let’s get him inside then,” I said.
~
"A lie is the disease of a marriage . . ."
It took a while but the old painkillers I had must have kicked in and Billy lay asleep on the couch, his arm in a makeshift sling and a damp rag on his forehead. Lucy would be home soon and I dreaded the moment. The woman, Marie, bounced the baby on her hip and paced aimlessly, only stopping to examine a photograph here and there.
“He’s going to need surgery,” I said, not really knowing, but feeling like it was true.
“That arm is in bad shape.”
“Your wife?” Marie said. She held a photo of Lucy and me underneath the Eiffel Tower.
Beside it were several more pictures of our time abroad.
“Yes.”
“Must be nice to visit places like that. Must be a lot of money,” she said, still holding the frame. “But it doesn’t look like that is a problem for you.”
“Listen: there’s been a cop over here asking about you; are you in some sort of trouble?”
Her eyes darted towards Billy and she placed the photograph back on the mantel.
“Trouble is a good word. We always seem to be in trouble nowadays. Like we are cursed or something. Wasn’t always that way. We was like you and your wife and things were good. I mean, not France good, but we had what we needed. I guess that is just how life works. Things are good until they’re not. Started with Billy being discharged, then he got mixed up with—then his parents—then my parents—no work—no apartment—nothing seems to go right anymore. And now this.”
She started to cry, and I felt bad. But I had to ask.
“No, I mean, are you in trouble with the law?”
The baby made garbled noises, and she dabbed his face with a duck-printed apron.
“You got kids?” she sniffled.
Billy groaned and turned on his side.
“Trying,” I said.
“I guess that is the one good thing we got. Christopher is healthy. And Billy, bless his soul, always positive, you’ll see when he wakes up, he thinks the best even when it’s the worst.”
As Billy rested, I made Marie a sandwich and we ate silently at the table. I cleared the plates and sat back down unsure about what to do next.
“I gotta feed him,” she said.
I stood there stupid for a second until I realized she meant she needed privacy to breast feed the baby.
“I’ll just be in the bedroom, then.”
Part of me was suspicious to leave the strangers alone in my living room, but Billy was in no place to do much, and Marie had the baby, so I took my chances. The phone rang and it was the office of Patricia Patel, M.D.
“Yes, the doctor has asked that you and your wife come into the office, does tomorrow work for you?”
“Uh-huh, yes, let me confirm with the missus and get back to you,” I said.
“Well, can you get back soon; the office closes in a couple hours.”
“Uh-huh, couple hours, got it.”
I heard a thump, footsteps, and the front door open and close. My heart dropped into my bowels and I peeked around the corner. The phone slipped from my hands and fell to the floor.
No Lucy. Which was good. But no Billy either. Or Marie. Only Christopher, wrapped in his little blue blankie, waving his stubby arms into the air.
I looked around again, confused, and then the baby began to cry. He was warm in my arms, gurgling as he sucked on his fingers. I bounced him lightly, not knowing what else to do.
And then I met his little eyes, feeling his little heart beating rapidly against my chest. Both our hearts beating together and something very strange came over me, and I started to understand Lucy and the things she said earlier that day. But I was ready. See. Here. Now. I could do this.
We could do this. Christopher could be ours. Baby Christopher, so sweet in his blue cap. The door opened and I turned, beaming with pride to show Lucy our baby. But it was not Lucy. Marie hurried towards me.
“Sorry, so sorry, Billy came to and wanted to be in the RV, I couldn’t juggle them both, it was only a
second.”
She took Christopher and his warmth lingered on my chest. A second. So much in a second, and I fumbled over my words as Marie headed towards the door.
“He… hospital, Billy, baby,” I heard myself saying.
“Thank you for the sandwich.” And she was out the door.
She crossed the lawn, grazing the tip of a rose as she passed. The petals floundered to the earth and she disappeared behind the gate
“He’s going to need surgery,” I said, not really knowing, but feeling like it was true.
“That arm is in bad shape.”
“Your wife?” Marie said. She held a photo of Lucy and me underneath the Eiffel Tower.
Beside it were several more pictures of our time abroad.
“Yes.”
“Must be nice to visit places like that. Must be a lot of money,” she said, still holding the frame. “But it doesn’t look like that is a problem for you.”
“Listen: there’s been a cop over here asking about you; are you in some sort of trouble?”
Her eyes darted towards Billy and she placed the photograph back on the mantel.
“Trouble is a good word. We always seem to be in trouble nowadays. Like we are cursed or something. Wasn’t always that way. We was like you and your wife and things were good. I mean, not France good, but we had what we needed. I guess that is just how life works. Things are good until they’re not. Started with Billy being discharged, then he got mixed up with—then his parents—then my parents—no work—no apartment—nothing seems to go right anymore. And now this.”
She started to cry, and I felt bad. But I had to ask.
“No, I mean, are you in trouble with the law?”
The baby made garbled noises, and she dabbed his face with a duck-printed apron.
“You got kids?” she sniffled.
Billy groaned and turned on his side.
“Trying,” I said.
“I guess that is the one good thing we got. Christopher is healthy. And Billy, bless his soul, always positive, you’ll see when he wakes up, he thinks the best even when it’s the worst.”
As Billy rested, I made Marie a sandwich and we ate silently at the table. I cleared the plates and sat back down unsure about what to do next.
“I gotta feed him,” she said.
I stood there stupid for a second until I realized she meant she needed privacy to breast feed the baby.
“I’ll just be in the bedroom, then.”
Part of me was suspicious to leave the strangers alone in my living room, but Billy was in no place to do much, and Marie had the baby, so I took my chances. The phone rang and it was the office of Patricia Patel, M.D.
“Yes, the doctor has asked that you and your wife come into the office, does tomorrow work for you?”
“Uh-huh, yes, let me confirm with the missus and get back to you,” I said.
“Well, can you get back soon; the office closes in a couple hours.”
“Uh-huh, couple hours, got it.”
I heard a thump, footsteps, and the front door open and close. My heart dropped into my bowels and I peeked around the corner. The phone slipped from my hands and fell to the floor.
No Lucy. Which was good. But no Billy either. Or Marie. Only Christopher, wrapped in his little blue blankie, waving his stubby arms into the air.
I looked around again, confused, and then the baby began to cry. He was warm in my arms, gurgling as he sucked on his fingers. I bounced him lightly, not knowing what else to do.
And then I met his little eyes, feeling his little heart beating rapidly against my chest. Both our hearts beating together and something very strange came over me, and I started to understand Lucy and the things she said earlier that day. But I was ready. See. Here. Now. I could do this.
We could do this. Christopher could be ours. Baby Christopher, so sweet in his blue cap. The door opened and I turned, beaming with pride to show Lucy our baby. But it was not Lucy. Marie hurried towards me.
“Sorry, so sorry, Billy came to and wanted to be in the RV, I couldn’t juggle them both, it was only a
second.”
She took Christopher and his warmth lingered on my chest. A second. So much in a second, and I fumbled over my words as Marie headed towards the door.
“He… hospital, Billy, baby,” I heard myself saying.
“Thank you for the sandwich.” And she was out the door.
She crossed the lawn, grazing the tip of a rose as she passed. The petals floundered to the earth and she disappeared behind the gate
~
"Trouble is a good word. We always seem to be in trouble nowadays."
“You had one thing to do,” Lucy said.
She plopped a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and dodged my kiss. Outside, the Winnebago tanned in waning sunlight.
“Doctor called, we need to make an appointment for tomorrow.”
“I mean it, Ollie, that thing out there needs to go. We didn’t buy this house to look at city trash like that. Next thing there’ll be more, and all of sudden we’ll have an RV park in our back yard. Septic tanks leaking shit everywhere!”
“Is this really about the motorhome?” I asked.
“Ugh. You are unbearable.”
She marched out of the room. I really wished that I knew more about the human psyche.
The hidden meanings. The space between the lines. My list for the shrink was getting long and I didn’t even know where to start.
I get the feeling that who I am isn’t who she wants anymore.
Dude, I don’t know what you want me to tell you, I am not real.
We ate dinner in silence as evening fell and the Winnebago became a harvest moon. I worried about Billy’s arm and what they would do. I worried about Lucy. And I worried about having to go back to Dr. Patel. I also worried about all those damn spider eggs in the eaves, what they would hatch and what I’d have to do to get rid of them. If only Lucy had seen me with Baby Christopher, she’d understand. But the more I tried to formulate that conversation the more ludicrous it became.
Lucy continued the silent treatment all the way into bed where she flicked the light off, turned on her side and tightened her shoulders as I kissed her goodnight. As I lay, I resolved that in the morning I’d tell them they would have to go. Maybe I’d give them a little money if they’d take it. In the morning.
She plopped a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and dodged my kiss. Outside, the Winnebago tanned in waning sunlight.
“Doctor called, we need to make an appointment for tomorrow.”
“I mean it, Ollie, that thing out there needs to go. We didn’t buy this house to look at city trash like that. Next thing there’ll be more, and all of sudden we’ll have an RV park in our back yard. Septic tanks leaking shit everywhere!”
“Is this really about the motorhome?” I asked.
“Ugh. You are unbearable.”
She marched out of the room. I really wished that I knew more about the human psyche.
The hidden meanings. The space between the lines. My list for the shrink was getting long and I didn’t even know where to start.
I get the feeling that who I am isn’t who she wants anymore.
Dude, I don’t know what you want me to tell you, I am not real.
We ate dinner in silence as evening fell and the Winnebago became a harvest moon. I worried about Billy’s arm and what they would do. I worried about Lucy. And I worried about having to go back to Dr. Patel. I also worried about all those damn spider eggs in the eaves, what they would hatch and what I’d have to do to get rid of them. If only Lucy had seen me with Baby Christopher, she’d understand. But the more I tried to formulate that conversation the more ludicrous it became.
Lucy continued the silent treatment all the way into bed where she flicked the light off, turned on her side and tightened her shoulders as I kissed her goodnight. As I lay, I resolved that in the morning I’d tell them they would have to go. Maybe I’d give them a little money if they’d take it. In the morning.
~
"I met his little eyes, feeling his little heart beating rapidly against my chest. Both our hearts beating together and something very strange came over me, and I started to understand . . ."
Sirens. I awoke with a start and reached for Lucy. She was gone. Outside, there were flashing lights. Blues and reds. And I shot up and shuffled to the kitchen. Lucy stood, peeking out the window. In her hands she held a card. Officer Grenache’s card. And she turned and looked at me with something malicious in her eyes.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she said, returning her gaze to the scene outside.
“What did you do?”
Marie and the baby stood beside a patrol car as Officer Grenache spoke with someone out of sight. I moved toward the window and saw Billy handcuffed, sitting on the curb. He was wincing and shaking his head. His arm had to be in excruciating pain bent behind his back like that. Another officer took notes, while another patrol car parked. Our neighbors all stood on their porches, watching.
“I can’t believe they have a baby in there,” Lucy said.
“Christopher,” I muttered.
“Who?”
Billy was put in the patrol car as Marie tried to push her way through an officer.
Eventually Grenache sauntered to our door.
“Thanks for calling,” he said. “Have you noticed anything missing from your home? Any valuables? Jewelry, and things of the like.”
Lucy looked at me and I shrugged.
“I don’t believe so, Officer,” she said.
“What will happen to the baby?” I asked.
Officer Grenache looked back towards the street and scratched the hair under his cap.
“Ah, that’s for the DCFS to decide,” he said. “I just protect and serve, sir. If you notice anything missing, just give that number a call and we’ll have some forms for you to fill out.”
He swiveled and began to make his way back to the street when Lucy called out, “and the RV, what will happen to the RV?”
“You two be safe now,” he said, waving a hand.
“But they didn’t do anything!” I said.
Lucy stared ahead as he joined the other officer. A feeling came over me and I looked at the couch where hours earlier baby Christopher had reached for me
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she said, returning her gaze to the scene outside.
“What did you do?”
Marie and the baby stood beside a patrol car as Officer Grenache spoke with someone out of sight. I moved toward the window and saw Billy handcuffed, sitting on the curb. He was wincing and shaking his head. His arm had to be in excruciating pain bent behind his back like that. Another officer took notes, while another patrol car parked. Our neighbors all stood on their porches, watching.
“I can’t believe they have a baby in there,” Lucy said.
“Christopher,” I muttered.
“Who?”
Billy was put in the patrol car as Marie tried to push her way through an officer.
Eventually Grenache sauntered to our door.
“Thanks for calling,” he said. “Have you noticed anything missing from your home? Any valuables? Jewelry, and things of the like.”
Lucy looked at me and I shrugged.
“I don’t believe so, Officer,” she said.
“What will happen to the baby?” I asked.
Officer Grenache looked back towards the street and scratched the hair under his cap.
“Ah, that’s for the DCFS to decide,” he said. “I just protect and serve, sir. If you notice anything missing, just give that number a call and we’ll have some forms for you to fill out.”
He swiveled and began to make his way back to the street when Lucy called out, “and the RV, what will happen to the RV?”
“You two be safe now,” he said, waving a hand.
“But they didn’t do anything!” I said.
Lucy stared ahead as he joined the other officer. A feeling came over me and I looked at the couch where hours earlier baby Christopher had reached for me
~
When I look back over the year, after that night, after my diagnosis, and after all the money spent, stress, fights, and failures of in-vitro, it isn’t much of a surprise that my marriage failed. A month after the Winnebago was towed, construction began on a new house and just like that the lot was no longer empty. The place was nice, Spanish-style, and a young couple with twins moved in. I never got their names. I called them Remus and Romulus, but by that time Lucy was in no mood for jokes.
I was fired from my job in the fall and Lucy left soon after to stay with her sister up north. Around that time the spider eggs must have hatched because all a sudden there were webs everywhere. Money was tight and I was quoted too much by the exterminator, so I just dealt with them myself. One of the suckers got me and it must have been a female too, for my arm swelled and grew infected. I wrapped my arm in gauze and lay on the couch, staring at the mantle where there were no more photographs.
My head was on fire and I felt drunk, but not good drunk, sick drunk. I began to see the room as if through a smeared lens. My arm throbbed. Lips dry. Tongue like a leather strip.
The psychiatrist appeared, sitting on the armchair beside me, biting the end of a pencil. Or was
it Lucy?
We have quite a bit to talk about, she said.
So much I should have said, so much I should have done.
A ball bounced over the fence and I could hear Remus and Romulus shouting at each other.
“You go over there.”
“No you go.”
The ball remained and the spiders hid in the eaves.
I was fired from my job in the fall and Lucy left soon after to stay with her sister up north. Around that time the spider eggs must have hatched because all a sudden there were webs everywhere. Money was tight and I was quoted too much by the exterminator, so I just dealt with them myself. One of the suckers got me and it must have been a female too, for my arm swelled and grew infected. I wrapped my arm in gauze and lay on the couch, staring at the mantle where there were no more photographs.
My head was on fire and I felt drunk, but not good drunk, sick drunk. I began to see the room as if through a smeared lens. My arm throbbed. Lips dry. Tongue like a leather strip.
The psychiatrist appeared, sitting on the armchair beside me, biting the end of a pencil. Or was
it Lucy?
We have quite a bit to talk about, she said.
So much I should have said, so much I should have done.
A ball bounced over the fence and I could hear Remus and Romulus shouting at each other.
“You go over there.”
“No you go.”
The ball remained and the spiders hid in the eaves.
Jesse Mardian earned his MFA degree at San José State University. His works have been featured in The Surfer’s Journal, Gambling the Aisle, The Rumpus, and Three: An Anthology of Flash Nonfiction. Currently, he is working as an educator in Long Beach, California.
