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I consider a room-by-room inspection of Doris’s entire house, but I’m not a snoop by nature. I lock her front door and head home. The moment I enter the house, I hear my phone ringing in the living room. I hustle to grab it. The call screen warns me who it is before her irritating voice confirms it.
“Doris? Why on earth are you calling me so soon?” I ask.
“Where the hell were you, Marge?” Doris replies. “I’ve been ringing you for half an hour.”
Since it’s none of Doris’s business what I do with my time, I don’t reply.
“Well, stuff my cornhole with a beanbag,” says Doris. “You were already poking around my house, weren’t you?”
So often, the best response with Doris is none at all.
“You know what, Marge? Fill your boots,” Doris says. “But when you’re next at my place, please throw out the leftover tuna fish Bob left in the fridge. It’ll stink to high heaven if it’s left for days. Can you do that? Marge?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Good,” says Doris.
“Have a nice vacation,” I say.
“I intend to have the time of my life,” Doris replies, then hangs up.
I huff as I put down my phone. Even in her absence, Doris has found a way to meddle. I’ll bet my right armsheleft the tuna in the fridge, not Bob, but Her Royal Highness would never admit to any wrongdoing. Aggravated, I make a cup of tea, then sit in my chair by the picture window.
“What?” I ask Harold. I can tell the call has unsettled him too. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I am not at Doris’s beck and call. I’m not rushing over to her house again just because she told me to.”
I sip my tea, refilling it from time to time as I spend the day surveying our street. How quiet it’s become over the years. In the old days, it was bursting with activity—kids on bicycles, dogs running loose (mostly Doris and Bob’s stupid cocker spaniel). Back in those days, Harold and I used to sit on the front porch after work and greet everyone else as they arrived home. I was so happy to leave my windowless cubicle and come back home to all the hustle and bustle, and same for Harold, who tolerated office work but was happiest right here in our home.
Back then, we knew the names of everyone on the street, and they knew ours. Weekends meant barbecues and birthday parties. There wasn’t a celebration that we didn’t mark as a community. With no kids of our own, we served as an informal neighborhood watch. That’s the way it was back then: people looked out for each other, and people were grateful for the extra pairs of eyes.
In the old days, when a neighbor’s husband on the street took ill, I’d bring a casserole over. “This is for you,” I’d say to the wife. “Now tell me, what exactly is wrong with your husband?”
The odd time some Nosy Nancy would spread a rumor, I was quick to get the real story and then put a stop to it—“Did you hear that Barbara Sanderson got fired?” I’d say. “It can’t be true, can it?”
No one talks to anyone anymore. The older generation is nearly gone—downsized or dead—leaving only a few members of the old guard left. I’ve tried to make connections with the new, young families, but no one seems neighborly these days. The youngsters play video games indoors, and the only signs of life are the cars commuting to work in the morning and tucked promptly into garages after five, when the curtains and house blinds are promptly drawn closed.
The afternoon slips by, and the light changes in our window. At long last, the mailman—ormail carrieras I’m told to call him (Thank yousomuch for enlightening me, Doris)—finishes delivering the mail on our street. I wave, but if he sees me, he does not let on. People these days—so rude.
“What?” I ask Harold, who’s glowering at me from his chair. “I told you before. I’mnotgoing back to Doris’s today. I am not her slave. The tuna can wait.”
And so it does. I find ways to make the hours pass, until at long last the day is done. In the late evening, I help Haroldup the stairs, positioning him on his pillow beside me. I give him a kiss good night, then I turn over and drift off to sleep. The next morning, when I’m awake and dressed, I set Harold up comfortably in his easy chair in the living room. Only when the clock reads 9:00 a.m. do I decide it’s time.
“I’m off to Doris and Bob’s,” I announce.
First, I water her hydrangeas out back, then go find the tuna can in the fridge and wash it out. Doris keeps her garbage bins on the front porch instead of hidden away in the garage, which means they offend my eyes every time I look out my picture window.
As I set the can in the bin, I’m surprised by what—or rather who—is staring back at me. On a labeled jar in the recycling box is a familiar monocle-wearing, cane-toting figure—MR. PEANUT. I pick up the jar, twist off the lid, and sniff. No question—fresh peanuts. I drop the jar, lock Doris’s front door, and head home.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I tell Harold the moment I’m inside. We both just sit there, quietly trying to figure out a reasonable explanation for why a man who is deathly allergic to peanuts would have an empty jar of peanuts in his recycling box.
“Now let’s not worry ourselves,” I say after a time. “I’ll just ask Doris once she’s back.”
The day passes slowly. A few cars rumble by; the mail “carrier” ignores me as usual; and before I know it, the streetlamps turn on, illuminating the sidewalk, and with it, Doris’s dark and empty house.
“Time for bed,” I say. I help Harold to our bedroom and tuck him in beside me. I kiss him and wish him sweet dreams, then switch off the light, drifting into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, I get Harold set up as usual downstairs. I head across the street, water the hydrangeas, then do an interior house check. On the credenza in the living room, the framed photo of Doris and Bob in their flamenco outfits catches my eye. Bob is looking right at me, his face pale and sickly. And that’s when the thought crosses my mind. It’s just a silly notion, really—one of those crazy what-ifs that is too impossible to entertain. But then I look at Bob’s face again—the dark circles under his eyes, the wan look. I think about the patio and how I found peanuts there, crunched under my feet. And then the empty peanut jar in the bin ...
Now normally, I would never snoop around someone else’s house, least of all a neighbor’s, but to relieve myself of all doubt, and for safety’s sake, I decide to have just the quickest look around.
