The Houses on Dunbar Street

Tom Patterson

The long black SUV backed in toward the curb behind Phil’s car.  He was watching from a chair by the front window—his usual outpost at this time of morning.  He put down his coffee mug and stood up for a better view.  The SUV rolled forward, just tapping the rear bumper of Phil’s Toyota.  Then it backed again several feet and stopped.   

Why does GM have to make a family vehicle that big? he wondered.  Parking was an issue on Dunbar Street.  Many of the houses had attached garages in the rear, reachable by a service alley.  But these were too small for the cars most people drove now, and it was so much easier to pull up in front and park at the curb.

He stood at the window long enough to see four persons get out:  the man who drove, a woman and two small children. The woman was already calling sharply to the kids to keep close.  

Well, here it comes, Phil thought as he picked up the mug and headed back toward the kitchen.  He was a lean silver-haired man in his late sixties, living alone in the house since the death of his wife a couple of years earlier.  He’d been in a state of anxiety ever since the Duffields—Art and Marie—had moved from the house next door.  They were settling in now at Mulberry Manor, a retirement community not far away.  He missed them more than he’d expected to, and almost dreaded the arrival of new neighbors in their place.

Returning to the window he saw that the visitors had been joined by a man in a plaid sport coat.  He remembered seeing that coat.  It was easy to imagine the conversation they were having. 

Well, the place ought to go to a young family, Phil thought.  These houses on Dunbar Street were still reasonable—relatively.  And the elementary school just a couple of blocks away was a major draw.  If you had kids it would be a no-brainer.  His own kids had gone through that school twenty-five years ago.  He leaned to follow the progress of the visitors across the yard.  The three adults soon disappeared inside the house, the woman calling in the children as she went through the door.

Phil sat down again and returned to the paper.  But paused a moment to wonder if the newcomers might subscribe.  It would be good not to be the last one on the block getting a paper.  He found the sports section and busied himself with yesterday’s developments.

*     *     *

Less than a week had passed when he heard that the house had been sold.  And sure enough, it turned out to be the family with the giant SUV.  His long-time neighbor on the other side, Frank Lennox, had found out somehow.

The new owners didn’t appear again for several more days.  In that time Phil prepared himself to be open-minded, as his wife used to urge.  Be patient, she would say.  Let things play out before you make a judgement.  But he was still trying to learn.

They were there again soon enough.  He’d not seen them pull up, but heard the kids out in the yard.  They squealed and laughed, darting in every direction.  “Carlos—you come out from those bushes!  Right now!”  The mother’s voice, flute-like but clear and firm.  Phil reached the window in time to see her grab the boy’s hand and lead him in through the front door.

It was just past ten in the morning.  He went to the kitchen for a coffee refill. He was aware of a sense of gloom, but couldn’t explain to himself why it should be.  What if the place had been rented after all?  To a gang of college kids, or such?  You can’t just live in a desert, he told himself.  And no matter what the new family is like, you still have Frank and Madge on the other side.  For now, anyway . . . . 

He glanced at the calendar beside the fridge.  June 17th.  They should be moving in soon—well before September and the start of school.

It was almost three weeks later when he saw a long box truck pulling up next door. He wondered for a moment if this was going to be a brother-in-law job.  But the workers who got out of the truck, and a second smaller van a few minutes later, were definitely professional.  They were getting ramps and roll paper in place within minutes, moving with a minimum of noise.  He watched a while from the living room, fascinated in spite of himself.  Then, to his surprise, he felt the impulse to walk over and speak to the new neighbors.  His wife would have been there well before now, he thought with a smile.

He checked himself in the hall mirror as he headed to the door.  Nothing amiss.  Just an ordinary old white guy with wrinkles—knobby knees beneath the walking shorts.  He turned and hurried out the door.

“Hi there,” he said as he walked up behind the man and woman.

“Hello,” the man said as they both turned to face him.  “It’s Mr. Sheppard, isn’t it?”

“Yes—Phil Sheppard.”

“I’m Maderos . . . Raymond,” the man said as they shook hands.  “And this is my wife, Alicia.”

The woman offered her hand, and they shook as well.  “We’re here, at last,” she said in an excited voice.”

“Yes,” Phil replied warmly.  “Welcome . . . welcome to the neighborhood.”

He was still processing his impressions. The man, Raymond, was shorter than he’d realized, but solidly built, with bronzed leathery skin.  He seemed to maintain a look of seriousness, but his smile came quickly.  Alicia was at least an inch taller.  Shapely, Phil noticed with a touch of embarrassment.  The pale red blouse she wore set off her dark eyes well, and her black hair was pulled back and fastened . . . did they still call that a ponytail?

“You have children, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes—a boy and a girl,” Alicia responded.  “Six years and nine years.  The girl is older.  We thought they might be in the way today.  They’re with some friends who have children their age.”

Phil nodded approvingly.  They watched the movers in silence for a moment.  Then, wanting to say something, he made a polite offer of help.  They both thanked him, but showed no sign of taking him up on it.  The movers were working with impressive energy and skill.

Suddenly the head of the crew appeared at the door and called.  Raymond yelled back and started off to join him.  “Nice to meet you!” he said over his shoulder. 

Alicia said, “I’d better go too,” and started away.  “We’ll see you again soon, I hope,” she called over her shoulder.         

“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered.  “And be sure to ask if there’s anything I can help you with!”

The move was completed without mishap.  When the trucks were gone, about two o’clock, Phil went over again to congratulate the new occupants.  This time he brought a bottle of champagne he’d put in the fridge to chill.  They insisted he come back later in the evening to share.  Before leaving he went out with Raymond for a few minutes to look things over and assess the damage, if any, to the lawn. 

“Not as bad as it might be,” Phil said as they examined a few tracks in the grass.  “I’ve got some grass seed in the basement if you want to do a little patching up.  And the hose—you’re welcome to borrow it anytime.  It stays at the spigot on this side, over by the hydrangea.”  He pointed toward the front corner of his house.

Raymond thanked him, but assured him he had his own hose.

That evening over champagne the neighbors chatted pleasantly.  They enjoyed watching the children work with some coloring books Phil had brought.  With some prodding from Alicia, they did their best to show enthusiasm.  After a polite interval they turned again to their own toys and devices—Rosa with her phone, and Carlos with a Star Wars item that apparently let you hold the Apocalypse in the palm of your hand.

“We’ve got to get our wi-fi in or they’ll go crazy,” Alicia said.  “The people are supposed to be here tomorrow.”

It flicked through Phil’s mind to invite them over to use his PC, but he decided against it.  Realizing they must have a million things to do, he took his leave after another few minutes.   

In the days that followed he saw the new family only at fleeting intervals.  Frank Leonard asked him more than once for his impressions, but he was hesitant.  “They seem like a nice family, but I don’t see them much.  They’re always on the go.”

“Do you hear them speaking Spanish sometimes?” Frank asked at one point.  “I guess that’s their first language.  I mean . . . you would think.”

“Well,” Phil said, “I think I’ve heard it once or twice.  Especially when there’s some stress or excitement, you know.”

Frank smiled and nodded.  Then Phil added, “But they all speak English well—no question.”

With that there was nothing more to be said about languages.

On the second weekend after the move Phil noticed Raymond out early, working among the shrubs in front of the house.  He stepped outside and found that Raymond had cut down the large holly bush by the door.  It had been there fifteen or twenty years.  Phil walked over to say hello . . . and find out what other changes might be planned.

“You’re gonna put in something new here, I guess,” he said cautiously.

“Well,” Raymond answered, not taking his attention from the work, “Alicia wants some flowers—or more of them, here in the front.  So we have to make room.”

“Yeah.   Well, you always have to trade off.  That holly tree was here a long time.  Guess it was getting old anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s what we figured.”  Raymond stepped back and turned to give Phil his whole attention.

“You plan leave the azaleas?” Phil asked hesitantly.

Raymond flashed a grin.  “Oh yeah.  She likes the azaleas.  But the flowers are the main thing.  She’ll have bulbs in by the truckload before next spring—tulips, daffodils and stuff.”

The holly bush went to the curb in sections, where it would be collected by the township.  Meanwhile, the Maderoses pursued their renewal efforts all about the yard.  Phil was gradually won over to the process.  He declared that the pansies Alicia put in along the front added just the right touch of color.

Weeks went by and summer ended.  As school began, the Maderos household settled into a new daily rhythm:  Raymond going out to work early and coming home usually by five o’clock; Alicia seeing the children off on the school bus, then leaving for the day care center where she worked.  Phil came to enjoy their presence more and more, especially the children at play in the afternoons or on weekends.

There had been a moment, early on, when he heard Alicia lecturing them about playing in their own yard.  These directions related mainly to his property, since the border on the other side was lined by an overgrown privet hedge.  At the next opportunity, when Alicia was busy setting out bulbs and the kids were inside, he walked over to visit.  They had a pleasant exchange about perennials—spacing, fertilizing and so on.  Then, finding an opening, he let her know that Rosa and Carlos were welcome to play in his yard whenever they liked.  “These aren’t very big lots after all,” he said.

She smiled warmly.  “Ah . . . thank you, Phil.  You’re so generous.  But I would hate for them to disturb you.”

“Oh, they never disturb me,” he responded.  “Don’t worry about that.”

After this he would occasionally see them in his yard, or hear them tearing around the house.  It was surprisingly gratifying.  He thought how warmly they would have been welcomed by Louise, if she were still alive.  On summer days she would have spoiled them to death with cool-aid and snacks.  He would smile to see young Carlos flash by the kitchen window, destroying all in his path with a disintegrator ray.  And he’d be listening unconsciously for the sounds of battle as he returned to his reading or paperwork.

*    *    *         

It was Monday morning, still early, when he heard unfamiliar voices outside.  He went to the living room and looked out the front window.  A large truck had pulled up in front of the Maderos house.  The logo on the side was familiar—one of the hardware chains.  Beside the truck he saw Raymond talking to a man in a work uniform.  Another man was already opening the rear doors.  Then there were others, and they began unloading a number of flat boxes from the truck.  Raymond and the first man started walking farther into the yard. 

Phil switched to a side window where he could keep them in view.  Meanwhile other workers began to offload material from the truck:  more large flat boxes, followed by regular lengths of wood or plastic that appeared to be posts.  And all gleaming white. 

Phil let go the curtain and turned from the window.  A fence . . . that’s what it had to be.  But why would anyone want to have a fence on Dunbar Street?

Back at the kitchen table, he returned to his task of weeding out files:  statements and receipts needed for tax purposes and so on, but mostly dead paper for years.

He couldn’t concentrate on a single item.

A fence!  Why would anyone . . . ?  But he realized he was repeating himself.

He went back to the front window.  Saw that the work was going forward quickly.  The men had laid out a line coincident with the property line between his lot and the Maderos’s.  And they were already digging.  The cartons had been opened to yield giant squares of vinyl fence, all of the same blinding white.  Each section solid—not slatted as with a picket fence.

The sight of all this stunned him, as if he’d been hit in the stomach.

He stood back from the window, debating with himself.   Then he went to the closet for his hat, and headed out the front door.

As he crossed the grass toward the Maderos house he was careful to dodge the workers.  He wanted no contact with them.  Passing the pile of empty cartons he noticed the logo “Glo-Tex” on all of them, along with the words “Forever Fencing.”  He was just in time to catch Raymond as he came down the steps. 

Raymond saw Phil and smiled, but continued walking.  “What do you think?  Gonna be a great fence, huh?”  He was already clicking the key to unlock his car.

Phil stopped, frozen.  “Yeah, these guys sure know what they’re doing,” he replied lamely.

“Well, see you later,” Raymond said over his shoulder.  “Don’t want this to make me late for work!”

Phil stood where he was, still trying to process his reaction.  It was their yard after all.  The Maderoses had a perfect right to build any kind of fence they wanted.  Did they not?

The workers nodded politely as they went back and forth.  He was careful to stay out of their way.  He paced the property line, at a safe distance, to get a rough idea of the actual length.  When he came back to his original position he saw Alicia coming from the front door.  She nodded and smiled, but stayed on the porch.

Phil hesitated, then started toward her.  Picking his spaces between the workers he crossed the yard to the porch, and stopped at the steps.

“A lot going on today,” he said, attempting a smile

“Yes,” she answered, returning a faint smile herself.  “We thought it would be good to have a fence—you know, as the children get older.  We don’t want them to ever bother you.”

“Oh . . .” he began, but realized that any protest would be double-edged.  What could he say that wouldn’t betray some disappointment, or resentment?  Finally he said, “Well, they never bother me.”  And with a wan smile he added, “It’s a shame you decided to spend the money.”

She responded brightly:  “Oh, don’t worry.  Raymond is making good money now.  And you know I work also at the day care center.”  She paused a moment, then added, “We just didn’t want the children to be a nuisance.”

There was no answer to this.  It was too late for remonstrance.  She stood looking anxious, sensing his dissatisfaction.

Phil started to speak, then simply smiled and nodded. 

He turned to watch the workers again.  They continued in their task like limber robots—aligning, digging, inserting, connecting.  Moment by moment the white barrier grew. 

He turned back to Alicia, forcing another smile.  “Well, it’s going to be a fine fence.  Vinyl, I see, so you won’t ever need to paint it.” 

She offered no answer.  Only a faint smile of her own and a tilt of her head.

“Well, I’ll get out of the way,” he said.  “When they’re gone I’ll come over for another look.”

“Oh, yes.  Come and see how you like it!”

He decided to walk forward to the sidewalk and go around, rather than dodge through the men as the work progressed.  And now it struck him that his own yard was no longer visible.  When he reached the end of the fence and turned, he gave the post a tap with his fist.  It was as hard and shiny as a piece of glass

Tom Patterson is a South Carolina native who has lived for several decades in the Philadelphia area. After college and an MA in English he served as a US Army artillery officer, then entered a career as high school teacher. A growing interest in performing arts led him to Temple University and a degree in opera. While pursuing these goals he was fortunate to find a position on the staff of a local law firm. Eventually the lure of the stage gave way to a long-standing love of writing, especially fiction. Now retired he is happily devoting full time to story writing.