WATCHMAN
I guess I’m the watchman. I didn’t mean to be. It just that I was always out and had really nothing to do. I watched my neighbors' houses. I saw affairs, I watched fights, I cried over homecomings...I didn't watch tv. Didn't need to. I saw her come home in a puff of pink; her mom, Maggie, almost smuggling her into the house. With their hair a light blond, they looked like prairie dogs scurrying about. I couldn’t help but smile over my beer and chips; the breakfast of champions. I saw her first steps or maybe I should call them stomps outside in the late fall almost a year later. She marveled and laughed at the crunchy noise the burned up grass made under her little feet. I always enjoyed watching her explore and lived for that belly laugh; so pure and innocent. Marvelous.
Maggie and I were friendly. I looked forward to visiting with her. We made small talk, said “hi” every day, laughing and speculating about Hollywood gossip (a guilty pleasure of mine. I subscribed to People magazine and poured over it religiously.) and of the weather. The weather was her favorite topic because it allowed her to look up and down the street; doing a little watching of her own.
I figured it out before he started showing up. Little Melody turned four that year. By then I’d moved on to light beer and baked potato chips so I could watch my figure. No one else would. Maggie always seemed so tense and on the lookout. I found myself scanning the road too…watching. Maggie would hustle Melody to the car so as not to be “out” too long. But that little ball of sunshine always waved, chirping:
“Hey Mr. Busy Bee!” She had trouble saying Buzby. It gave me a chuckle.
For months, he seemed content just sitting in his black Monte Carlo down the street, near Carl’s place. But Carl was on the corner of Bismarck and Jefferson- a pretty zippy intersection; especially during school. The kids always cross there. He must not have had a good enough view because after a while, he started zooming in, getting closer. He slithered up past Joanie’s house and eventually took to parking in front of my place. When he did that, I sauntered down the drive memorizing his face, his plates, his drink; usually RC or Diet Rite and chain smoking green Marlboros. Man, I miss smoking. I’d nod and smile tightly. He’d puff and stare at Maggie’s house. He never stayed long once we’d had our bonding moment. I just kept watching. I didn’t need to tell Maggie. She could feel him; she knew.
“Hi Mr. Busy Bee!” Melody sang one morning. “I’m an airplane! Bvvvvvrooom!” And she circled a cherry sapling until she became so dizzy she plopped down in a huff of girlish giggles. I grinned. It was Sunday. I knew that because I bought extra beer the night before. No liquor sold on Sundays. God forbid.
“Where you headed all prissied up?” I asked through a slurp of my first. I winced as it sliced across my tongue and marched into my belly. I “wurped” (wet burped). Melody flounced her skirt and laughed at me.
“Ewwww! Mr. Busy Bee That’s gross! We’re goin ta churr-urch”
“Great. Tell Jesus I said huhlo.” And took another swig
“Come with us and tell him yourself.”
“Melody...” Maggie cautioned and smiled weakly in my direction.
“What? He can sit with us. You’d do that wouldn’t ya?” She swayed side to side.
“Please Melly-another time.” Maggie was embarrassed. She snapped her fingers to encourage her daughter to move it.
I waved them on. “One day kiddo, when I don’t have so much watching to do.” And I winked.
“God watches all the time. Just like you.” Melody said seriously. “He’s everywhere.”
Not always little one. Not everywhere. He wasn’t watching when my wife died in her sleep five years ago. He was nowhere to be found and no matter how I begged or screamed or cried, he wouldn’t help me. He let Renee go-slip away. I smiled and took an extra long slug. Bitterness. Ahhhh . It was my best friend nowadays; they even put it in a can. “Yep. Well, you’d better get going before he moves along to the next church looking for you.”
She laughed and trotted on. Maggie shrugged and they headed off to worship. I raised my can and hoped Melly was right; that God WAS watching…or at least paying attention.
He knocked on their door about fifteen minutes later.
“Not home” I offered from my squawky lawn chair. It confirmed my statement like a pet Cockatoo as it shifted under my weight. I craned to see him. Up close.
“Ah—know when they’re due back?” He pushed his “bug shades” back up his thin crooked nose and glanced around nervously.
“Do I know you?” My smile was little and fake. I had a bad feeling; my beer gurgled in agreement from inside my paunch.
“I’m Maggie’s hubby.” He offered pleasantly enough. He glanced up and down the street again. I felt worse.
“Hmmm. Maggie has never mentioned you.”
“I’ve been away,” It was his turn to pretend smile
“Oh. Military?”
“No.”
I paused, giving him a moment to explain. He didn’t bother. We were coming to understand each other. Standing, I walked across the tiny side yard and up Maggie’s steps. Turning to assert myself between him and her door, I rocked back on my heels, folding my arms across my chest. “Well, look Mr…”
Nothing.
“Hubby.” I mused, even tilting my head in a cutsie way. “I’ll tell them you stopped and why don’t you leave your number with me—I’m sure your wife will contact you.”
He stepped up and spoke slowly into my face. I smelled pot and bacon grease. He tapped my chest with each syllable:
“We don’t leave messages. We talk to each other. We’re CLOSE. You don’t need to tell her a thing.”
“Bet not “Hubby” but if you don’t back up and stop punctuating my chest; my fist is going to leave a message with your mouth.”
I never heard the blade flick open, nor did I see it. He was quick; my side became warm, leaking through my shirt.
“No messages Good Neighbor. None.” And he strolled away before I could really react.
I cupped my sliced side, hustling home to clean up and call the cops. John came pretty quickly. He was just around the bend on Johnson. I told him what happened and gave him a good description of the inhospitable hubby as well as his car. John radioed in, putting out an APB and called for an extra car to sweep the neighborhood a little more often. He wanted me to go to the hospital which I refused to do. I took a couple of Vicodin I had laying around instead and sat down on my sofa. I was asleep when they came home.
I wasn’t watching.
It was Melody’s panicked whisper though the screen door that jolted me.
“Mr. Busy Bee—Help Mr. Busy Bee”
I sat bolt upright hearing the soft squeak of my screen door as my tiny neighbor cautiously stepped inside.
“Here Honey. I’m here. Are you all right?” I swiped the grogginess from my face.
“I don’t know” she said and began to cry, mashing her fists up into her eyes.
I scooped her into my arms and stroked her hair. It was damp and sticky. I pulled away to see dark tinges.
“Melly. What…”
“Daddy came. “ Her eyes were almost too wide for her head. “He bought me a toy to play with while he talked to Mommy. I went like I was supposed to. He got up real close up to Mommy. So close she was leaning back to see him good. He said she was wrong to take me away and hide. He said he would always come for us; for me. Mommy got mad and tried to go.” Her little voice hitched. “He punched her. You shouldn’t ever hit a girl, Mr. BusyBee. Mommy says. Right here…” and she pointed to her cheek. “Then I thought he was hugging her saying sorry but Mommy started to scream. I grabbed her, but she just pushed me out and she yelled at me to run away. Daddy slammed the door and I couldn’t see…”
And I couldn’t waste anymore time. I snatched my keys and my cell, carrying her to my car in a gallop. My side split open and began to burn. I felt wet. It didn’t matter.
“C’mon Melly.”
“Where?”
“Safe. Safe.”I was chanting. My muscles felt woozy. I cursed Vicodin.
“My mommy. Where’s my Mommy?” Her voice rose.
“We’ll call her in a bit. We’ll go have ice cream and we’ll all be laughing soon.”
“And Daddy?”
“No Melly. Never again. Seatbelts on Melly. We’re gonna jet.”
“Ready for takeoff...” she giggled into her hand. “BrrrrrvvvvvvRRRROOOOOM!”
I was trying to dial 911 as I squealed from the drive. I shouted at the operator, barking a quick description of Hubby: racing through all the things John had said he was going to do, explaining quickly the situation. I stopped talking when I saw him.
He ripped through the door, wild-eyed and maroon. I could almost smell all the blood. A blade dangled from his hand. He saw my car. In my rear view, I watched his face twist into a snarl. He began to run.
“Melody!” He wailed. “Daddy’s coming. Watch for me! WAIT for me!” Despair and frustration dragged him to the ground as the flashing lights crested our tiny hill.
I just kept going. My heart was thumping in my throat. I swerved onto Bryant Street and began to snake through town heading for the Indiana border. Melody sat quietly; her tiny hands gripping the armrest, digging into it. She seemed to pinch down into the seat; hiding.
That was almost three months ago. Maggie is dead. The story will do well on A&E as hosted by the popular Bill Curtis. They presume Melly is dead, charging Big Bill Haron (aka “Hubby”) with two counts of murder. First degree. I hope they can hang him twice.
We’ve started over; Melly and me: new names, new town and friends. I go to church on Sundays and drink iced tea now. But I still love my chips at snack time. Every day I sit on my little porch and I watch Melly come home.
I’m the watchman. I have to be; there is no one else.
A little ragged and disjointed for my taste; not one of my better efforts or favorites, but I struggled so much that it became a labor of love. (Sometimes, I just need to leave them be...let them marinate so to speak. ) Being away for so long makes me "rusty". Maybe I'll redo it and like it more. Maybe. Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it. I've missed you.
