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I have never really committed to exercise, but since they’ve been here, I walk every evening, so as not to miss anything. Tonight I see a man dressed in work clothes. He looks at me, as if he wants to say something. He looks like a handyman. All sweaty and dirty. What would he have to say to me? More to the point, what would I have to say to him? I keep on walking, though truth be told, I should stop to ask about the renters. He probably knows plenty. Looks like he works until he gets tired, then he sleeps at the house. Must be some major renovations going on inside. Must be somebody rich who can afford to employ the handyman full time.
The next night I walk the circle again. I see the handyman. He waves, and I stop to talk. Do you know the owners? I ask. Yes, he says. Are they nice? I ask. Pretty nice, he says. Well, I’m not going to like them, I say. They’re moving into my house. That’s too bad, he says. They would have liked you.
Just like that, brazen and bold. Making assumptions about who might like whom. He should stick to putting in windows and door sills. He should take out the rot underneath the roof eves and not bother about my business.
The next night the handyman stands in the circle, staring at the little house. My house. He says hello, and waits for me to stop to chat. I appease him. What are they like, the couple moving in? I ask. He says the man’s name is Rod, and he is a musician, and the lady’s name is Julie, or something like that. The boy’s name is Hawk, like the bird, which I find to be extremely suspicious. Why would a boy be named after a bird? He holds out his hand in greeting. I shake it. We exchange names. Rod, he says. My name is Rod.
Deception! I think. He deceived me by allowing me to think he was a handyman, when he turns out to be the new owner. He says his wife and child will follow along in a couple months, once the house is ready. I nod my head, as if I care, but I don’t. I don’t need another friend, especially not one who lies by omission. He should have told me straight away his relation to the house. He should have known I would mistake him for a worker. He should have introduced himself on day one. He should have stayed where he came from.
CHAPTER FOUR
The weather has turned cold. Florida cold. I haven’t walked lately, so I suppose I have missed the arrival of Julie and The Bird. I stay to myself, mind my own business, go to work, come home, go to bed, and start all over again. I spend time with my husband and children. I spend time with my grandchildren. There’s no more room for anyone else. So, that’s that.
It’s dark when I get home from work. Not late, really, but dark. Winter. But this one night, my little corner of the circle is aglow in lights. Christmas lights! I think. The little house has Christmas lights! But no! Instead of Christmas lights, they have hung a peace sign that nearly covers the entire front wall of the little house, shining bright white, house dressing for the weary, reminders for lost souls, symbols of what we all could be, if only we all tried just a little harder.
My car idles in the street, facing the sign. I sit there watching time standing still, then flying backwards, reminding me of everything I had ever believed in: The West Village, my hippie dreams of crafting silver jewelry, writing poetry, and living in a loft. But that was when I was still young enough to be naïve and hopeful, nostalgic for another time and place.
And that is how Julie and I meet. The man, Rod, stands at his front door waving, cleaned up, majestic under the lights of his peace sign. He looks different. Better. Cleaner. His entire demeanor seems oddly transformed, confident, understanding, patient. Perhaps I have misjudged him. Or perhaps not. His cleanliness should not be my barometer to his character.
His wife walks over to my car, without hesitation, unwavering, on a path not yet revealed. She looks angelic, pure, sweet. Quiet confidence and grace follow her, daring to not fall behind, obedient in their loyalty. In that one instant I believe her to be revered, the keeper of the highest secrets.
I feel drawn to her. Before my thoughts can be censored, before my mind has enough sense to curb my words, this is what comes to me. This is what I hear myself saying inside my head. Thank God, you’re finally here.
CHAPTER FIVE
I am annoyed that Julie has such a spell on me, a witch-like spell that tries to make me like her, but I will not give in. I will not be controlled by witchcraft. She can cast her spells on other people, weaker people, people who will fall for it. Not me. She will never control me.
She just keeps talking. I don’t know what she is saying. I am fighting the spell, forcing myself to disengage. Her mouth keeps moving, words falling out. I say nothing until she finally stops. Silence hangs in the air. I reach for something civil, something superficial, friendly, pleasant, but distant. But instead what I say only proves that she is forcing her will on me. This is what I say. Do you know anything about spoon bending?
I try to suck the words back in, but it’s too late. Maybe it’s the night air or the glow of lights. Maybe it is some past yearning of a Hippie lifestyle, but whatever it is, I actually ask this question to a perfect stranger. A question left over from my bucket list of 1999.
I expect her to be shocked, horrified. I am. I expect her to walk away, shut her blinds, lock her doors, and tell her child never to come near my property. Instead, quiet, she ponders my question, and then says no, she had never been successful at spoon-bending, but she thinks her husband might be, and perhaps one night, we could all give it a try.
Truly, that is what she says to me. Then she turns and walks back to her house. Just like that. Like our conversation is over. Like things are normal. They are anything but normal! Where the hell is she going with my words? To tell her husband about the lunatic who lives next door? How about her, coming out at night with no coat? Coming over to a stranger’s car? Forcing me to say something I don’t want to say? What about that?
I watch her walk into the house. I want to wish her permanently gone. I want to envision a moving van parked in her driveway loading up her belongings, taking her to some faraway place that I have never heard of, or at least can’t locate on the map. Maybe Oregon, or Montana. I want to turn back time, make the house empty once more, and darken the street. That’s what I tell myself. But the truth is I want to follow her. Just leave my car in the middle of the street and follow her. Then I want to beg her to be my friend.
I race into the house to tell my husband about her. I make a conscious effort to leave out the part about the spoon-bending. That’s not his thing. She seems nice, I say. Huh, he says. I wouldn’t get too friendly with the neighbors.
CHAPTER SIX
He isn’t wrong. I know the rules. I made them. No friendships with anybody in close proximity, people who latch on like leeches, who will never go away, who have no respect for privacy. I don’t want that, someone knowing my business, someone talking about me, judging me, striking up conversation like we have something in common, which we don’t.
But she did seem nice. Nice in a way that someone is nice when they are trying to put a spell on me. And the spell seems to be working. I can’t stop thinking about her.
