The House of the Rising Sun

Mary and her neighbors ruled their little piece of the world like any other cul-de-sac in middle class America.  "You shall not park automobiles beside the curb against traffic for more than 24 hours consecutively."  "You shall not allow the grass in your front lawn to grow taller than 3 inches."  "You shall not place and leave a basketball hoop or any other sports equipment in the front yard for more than 2 days consecutively."  "You shall not operate a business out of your house."  They ruled the cul-de-sac strictly but politely.

Mary owned the ranch-style on the eastern half of the cul-de-sac.  The two oak trees she planted (one on each side of the sidewalk) right after she bought the house reached 40 feet into the sky and at least 30 into the ground.  The shrubbery guarding her front porch was neatly clipped to perfect rectangular prisms.  The layers of dupioni silk shrouding her windows elegantly shrouded her living room and front bedrooms from nosy neighbors.  None of this drew attention to Mary's house.  That's how she liked it and how the cul-de-sac liked it.

Despite--or perhaps because of--Mary's penchant for privacy, the cul-de-sac loved her.  She never asked questions, but she always knew somehow when somebody's wife needed help.  She always brought a comforting meal and helped with one or two of the wife's chores.  Once, while Susan visited her elderly parents in Iowa, Mary performed all of Susan's motherly and wifely duties: she woke the children, served breakfast, clothed the children, delivered the children to school, served Susan's husband's lunch, brought the children home from school, served dinner, and finished the evening with ice cream for the kids and a drink for Susan's husband.  And Mary didn't particularly care for Susan; she felt obliged as a neighbor to help out.

But Susan returned from Iowa a day early.  It was evening, and the television watched the children while Susan's husband was notably absent.  She called the office, but no one answered.  She called his mobile phone, but he wasn't available.  She asked her children, but they didn't know.  Only peeved at his absence, she wandered toward her bedroom--absentmindedly planning a hot bath--and thought about her parents.  Her bored hands found that month's bank statement, and her bored eyes skimmed it half-heartedly.  Her ennui didn't hide check number 2846, made out to Mary for $300, memo: Roxie, but for any of the thousand reasons one ignores unpleasant facts, her bored hands put the bank statement back on the table in the hall, and the bath took all her attention.  Nothing better than to watch the day's worries swirl down the drain after a bath.

While Susan undressed in her bedroom in her house, Susan's husband dressed in Roxie's bedroom in Mary's house.  He tightened his belt and tied his shoes, and Roxie straightened her tousled sheets.  He gave Mary another $300-check, memo: Roxie, and went back home to Susan.

(c) 2008 by Jeremy Masten