Now it has been said, and perhaps rightly so, that the world is a complicated place. Things happen in it. All manner of things. In all manner of places. And if a body were to sit down and take account of every little thing happening at any given moment, well, that body would likely never stand up again.
Best not to do that. Best to tend to what’s near and dear. To the street you live on and the home you’ve built and the evening you’re having, which is, after all, the only evening a body has, or perhaps, will ever have.
You see there are neighborhoods in this hallowed nation, tucked smack in her belly, where the lawns are green and the hedges are trimmed and the homes sit back from the road a little extra-like. As if they require more room to breathe.
And the autonomous sprinklers come on at six and the only sounds after dark are the crickets and whatever someone’s screen is playing through an open window or upon a body’s moon-speckled veranda.
Streets like Merryweather Lane.
Oh yes, Merryweather Lane! You could almost select a nice house at random and find something interesting and meaningful going on inside it.
Like this nice house before us now. With its good lawn. Maybe even the best lawn. And its wide driveway that leads to a garage that could easily house four automobiles, maybe even five, though it mostly houses the accumulations of a family. Twenty years of family. Twenty years of accumulations.
Stroll through the mudroom and into the living, where the evening is on full display. Picture-frame screen humming on the wall. Charcuterie board on the ottoman, decimated. A glass of Josh Cellars with a quarter inch left, decimated. A pesky remote control that has already twice up and gone missing this very evening. Not a record, but still, most certainly, peculiar.
And the couple, we mustn’t forget the couple occupying the sofa. Heavens, no.
Why it’s the Sugartrees of Merryweather Lane!
Meet Claude, dear Claude, a man of considerable confidence and no small amount of accomplishment. Insurance is his bag and he carries it well.
Meet Vanessa, sweet Vanessa, a woman who will happily tell you she hasn’t sat down all day and has earned this extra inch of Josh Cellars and upcoming jacuzzi bubble bath more than anyone will ever truly appreciate.
Let us join them now, both settled into their preferred sofa corner, cuddling up to the latest model of their preferred device, doing that thing where two people are in the same room together but in their own little preferred world.
You can almost hear it now, can’t you?
It’s Claude’s tongue.
And it’s clicking.
“Such a shame. Really. Such an awful shame.”
More clicking.
“What is it, honey?”
“Oh, nothing. Just the news. The headlines. All the ugly stuff. More importantly, are you going to finish that wine?”
“You know better than to be cutting in on my Josh. That was the last bottle. Had your chance earlier and refused.”
“Touché.”
Touché indeed. The evening was winding itself down, merrily and without any fuss, the way the good ones do. And thankfully for dear Claude and sweet Vanessa, most of their evenings these days were really quite good.
“Don’t forget about this Thursday, babe. The McDonough crew is starting early.”
“The McDonough crew? Starting what early?”
“Seriously, Claude? The kitchen. The reno. The backsplash. We’ve been planning it for weeks.”
“The backsplash. Of course. I didn’t forget. But wait. Wait a minute, dear. My picnic! Isn’t my company picnic this Thursday?”
“No, babe. Your company picnic is the following Thursday.”
“The following Thursday. Right. You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“But wait. Wait a minute, Vanessa. Your pickleball tournament! Didn’t you say your pickleball tournament was Thursday?”
“My pickleball tournament is the Thursday after the following Thursday after this coming Thursday, Claude. After the McDonough crew. After your company picnic. And you know what?”
“What, dear?”
“This finally confirms my suspicions. You’re not checking the Digi-Cal!”
“Of course I’m checking the Digi-Cal.”
“If I’m going to maintain the Digi-Cal, the least you could do is—”
“I’m checking the Digi-Cal. Sometimes I just struggle with the password.”
“There isn’t a password.”
“Well that explains it. So the McDonough crew. Quite a get, right? That crew. Quite a get. We’re excited about this?”
“Yes. We’re very excited.”
“And we’ve finalized the color?”
“Of course we’ve finalized the color.”
“Tuscan Sunrise.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
Claude is not joking.
“Babe, I only showed you Tuscan Sunrise because it was hideous. Because I couldn’t believe Sherri and her team would recommend it.”
“So no Tuscan Sunrise?”
“Never Tuscan Sunrise.”
“Which means our new backsplash must be…? Must be…?”
“Mauve.”
“Mauve! Mauve? Of course, mauve! Mauve is so...”
“It’s always been mauve. Always. You and that phone. Smart plugs in your ears. I don’t think you hear anything I say anymore.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“Oh go to hell, Mr. Sugartree.”
“Only if you’re by my side, Mrs. Sugartree.”
Laughter rollicks. Gay laughter, healthy laughter, those Sugartrees, letting it ripple to its natural conclusion. Then, Claude to his device, Vanessa to the screen dancing brightly on the wall. Claude’s tongue to the roof of his mouth and—
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what again?”
“Your tongue. Clicking. Go on. Tell me. What are the headlines?”
“Oh you know, more of the same. What’s always happening over there. Just...more of it. You don’t need to bother yourself with such ugly stuff.”
“More of what things over where?”
“You know, babe...over there. Way over there. The war. On the other side. Listen, Van, it’s only going to upset you.”
“Then let me be upset.”
“A school, all right. We bombed a school. Accidentally, of course. Children. Teachers. Blown sky high. Smithereens, dear, smithereens.”
“Oh...oh no.”
“By drones no less. They’re calling it a mistake. Of course it’s a mistake. How could it not be a mistake. Children are innocent. Well most of them. Not the bad ones of course.”
“What a...what a shame.”
“Yes. Exactly what I said! What a shame.”
“But isn’t that always the story over there, Claude? We’re always blowing each other up. You’d think we’d have it figured out. After so long. So we could stop blowing each other up.”
“You’re not wrong, dear. You’re not wrong at all.”
“I’m just glad we’re over here.”
“Me too. Hundred percent. Aces.”
“Crazy things like that just don’t happen over here. At least in these parts.”
“Thank God.”
“Thank God.”
Thank God is right. And mercifully, having weathered this itty bitty bit of unpleasantness, the night was free to carry on, unbothered and with no further talk of blowing things sky high.
Vanessa stretches her neck. Rolls it to one side, then the other. Winces. Claude, being an attentive and dutiful spouse, takes swift notice and beckons her to him.
“Pop over, kitty cat.”
With hands strengthened through rigorous paperwork, hubby finds the knot at the base of honey’s neck, that familiar foe, and presses into it slow and steady.
“Oh yes, babe. Right there. You feel it?”
“I do. All knotted up.”
“Been working so hard. So hard.”
“Yes. You’ve certainly been putting in the work, babe. What work are we talking about?”
“The pickleball tournament of course. Been practicing every morning at Linden Falls. My body, my neck, all of it, whooped.”
“You know there’s nothing gained from overexertion.”
“I have no choice. No choice at all. Leslie O’Neil wins every time. Every single tournament. And nobody likes Leslie O’Neil. Nobody can stand her actually. And they’re looking to me, babe. Your wife. To knock her off her perch. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“I’ve seen you pickleball. You’re like a jungle cat out there. A leopard. A hyena. A griffin.”
“I just want to beat her ass, you know. I just want to beat her ass so bad.”
“And you will, dear. This Thursday.”
“Shut up, you dolt. Keep rubbing.”
Claude does as requested. Kneading and squeezing. How pleasurable it must feel. They might have even stayed like that for another two to three minutes, but then the most surprising of events occurs.
Claude’s device lets out a buzz and starts wiggling atop the ottoman.
“What? What’s that?”
Then Vanessa’s device, not to be outdone, makes a beeping of its very own.
“Babe, your phone.”
“Yours too.”
“Mine’s on silent mode.”
“So’s mine.”
The devices passionately disagree with the Sugartrees’ assessment. Buzzing and skittering and bebopping across the ottoman like they’re racing each other for a prize.
“Who in the world? At this hour?”
“What are they thinking? Are they out of their minds?”
“It’s completely inappropriate.”
“Must be a malfunction. Don’t worry. We have insurance for that. We have insurance for everything.”
“Make them stop, Claude.”
Claude reaches down to make them stop but is once again rudely interrupted.
This time it’s the picture-frame screen hanging so delicately on the wall, the one that’s been dancing so pretty all evening, why it rears up to its most full brightness and it treats the room to a—
“BRRRRMMMMMMMMP!!! BRRRRMMMMMMMMP!!! BRRRRMMMMMMMMP!!!”
Now our Sugartrees are spinning around so fast you might fear for their necks.
“BABE?!”
“WHERE’S THE DAMN REMOTE?! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE DAMN—”
Before a body can so much as catch its breath, the always helpful Alexa joins this new song with a punchy chorus.
“WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. AIR CODE THREE SEVEN TWO THREE BRAVO TWO SIX THREE. SHELTER IN PLACE. SHELTER IN PLACE. WARNING. WARNING. WARNING.”
“Alexa, quiet!”
“Quiet, Alexa!”
“AIR CODE THREE SEVEN TWO THREE BRAVO TWO SIX THREE—”
“WE SAID QUIET, ALEXA!”
Now a body needn’t fret over a thing like this. Of course there’s always a simple explanation. Gadgets get their wires crossed from time to time, work themselves into a tizzy. A storm three counties over. A signal gone astray. A cow ate some wires.
“Claude?”
“Yes, dear.”
“It could be important. Pick it up.”
“Me? Yours is the one carrying on with the beeping.”
“All right. Fine. Both of us then. We open them together.”
“At the same time. Deal?”
“Deal.”
A fingerprint is scanned. A pin code is entered. And down the Sugartrees look. Together. Into their beams of respective light.
“Are you…are you seeing this?”
“This isn’t right. No. This can’t be right.”
“Are you seeing this, Claude?!”
“Yes, of course. Of course I’m seeing this. How could I not be seeing this? It’s everywhere.”
“The coast?! It says the coast!”
“Both coasts. It says…both coasts. Up and down. The whole shebang.”
“Even Sacramento?”
“All of it. All of it attacked. Drone swarm. One fell swoop.”
“Oh God.”
“Blown sky high.”
“No.”
“Smithereens.”
“Oh God no.”
Claude, a contemplative sort, says nothing for a good long while. He eyes his screen the same way he examines a claim that’s come in too high, hunting for the line that will bring the number down to denied.
“Well. It’s unexpected news. No doubt about that.”
“Unexpected news?”
“Absolutely unexpected. But there’s no reason to panic, Vanessa. Something like this was bound to happen. At some point. Eventually. And whenever it did happen, you don’t have to be a military strategist to know the attack would be on the coasts.”
“Really?”
“Of course it’s the coasts. The financial centers. The ports. And you know what’s a blessing?”
“What?”
“Most folks on the coasts understand the importance of insurance. Heck, it’s where life insurance originated. Like I always say, babe. What do I always say? It pays to have it. It pays to hold it. Because life happens. Maybe now more than ever. Insure it.”
“Yes. You do say that. But so many people—”
“Don’t get me wrong, dear. I feel downright awful for those who were affected. But the enemy has made their point. The coasts are gone. The attack is over. Next will come the obvious retaliation and then possibly a memorandum of understanding. Ugly stuff.”
“But how do you know that? They could be on their way here right now!”
“No, Vanessa. Absolutely not. No way! They wouldn’t dare. What’s here? Corn. Beef. Data centers. A whole lot of nothing. Nobody’s wasting bombs on that. They’re expensive. And trust me, babe, the enemy knows. Folks in these parts. Salt of the earth. We haven’t done anything to them. They know that. Trust me. They have no interest in us.”
And this is true.
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right, Claude. You stay updated on these things. Keep good track of the headlines. I’m sure you’re right.”
“At least now you understand why I was opposed to moving to Sacramento. Not just because of the asinine taxes. Because it simply isn’t safe.”
“You were right. You were so very right about Sacramento.”
Claude is satisfied with his overall assessment of the situation, and frankly, he should be. This isn’t his first rodeo. Twenty-five years in the insurance trade teaches you a thing or two about risk and security.
But the basking in it would have to wait. For at this very moment, the power running so dependably up and down Merryweather Lane decides to take a collective nap. And Vanessa screams, oh mercy, how Vanessa screams. A body wishes it had earmuffs.
“Relax, dear. It’s only the power. The grid. A precaution I’m sure. They’re just following the playbook. We’re safe. Give it a minute. The generator will kick on.”
The Sugartrees give it a minute.
“Give it another minute. The generator will kick on.”
The Sugartrees give it another minute.
“I really ought to check the generator. Wait. Do we have a generator?”
“Turn on your phone’s flashlight, Claude. We can use it to find the flashlights.”
“Why do we need to…never mind…let me just…uh-oh.”
“What uh-oh? I swear I can’t possibly stand any more uh-ohs this evening.”
“Battery check. 5%. Flashlight won’t turn on.”
“But this is an emergency. You can’t be at 5%. You just can’t.”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll plug it in right now.”
“Plug it into what? We have no power.”
“Oh. Yes. Right you are again.”
“It’s because of your scrolling. You know that? And your podcasts. How many times have I told you to stop your incessant scrolling and your monotonous podcasts?”
“Hey, I get it. It’s an emotional situation. But I will not have you attacking my scrolling or my podcasts.”
“But do you listen? Do you change? No. You burn your battery as if there’s always going to be more.”
“Why don’t you turn on your flashlight, Vanessa?”
“My flashlight? My flashlight?!”
“Yes, turn on your flashlight.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m at 5% too!”
Oh the hilariousness! Hubby can’t contain his giggles. And now honey can’t contain hers. Laughter rollicks. Gay laughter, healthy laughter, those Sugartrees, letting it ripple to its—
BEEEEEEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEP!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!
“Claude look! Someone’s calling! Oh bless her heart, it’s Shirley. Shirley’s calling us right now!”
“Who?”
“Shirley! Our daughter Shirley!”
“Oh Shirley. Why didn’t you say something? Go on. Pick it up.”
“Shirley? Is that really you? Are you all right? Please tell us you’re all right?”
“Put her on speaker, Vanessa.”
A thumb goes diving for the megaphone button and out explodes Shirley Sugartree into the power-strapped living room.
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!!! MOMMY?! DADDY! Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!”
“Shirley, dear, it’s so good to hear your voice. It’s been far too long.”
“JESUS, JESUS, JESUS. IT’S HAPPENING! IT’S REALLY HAPPENING!”
“She must be on drugs again.”
“She’s not on drugs, Claude. She’s freaking out. Understandably. Console her.”
“Darling, Daddy’s here. Where are you? Are you in the condo?”
“Yes, I’m in the condo. Of course I’m in the condo. I’m always in the condo. Do you guys even know what’s going on?!”
“Yes, sweetheart, we know. The coasts. Smithereens. Ugly stuff. Daddy explained it. It’s all over now, thank God. There’s nothing to—”
“It’s not just the coasts, Mom. FUCK THE COASTS!”
“Shirley! Such colorful language!”
“You don’t know?! Oh my god oh my god oh my god! They don’t know!”
“What don’t we know, dear?”
“They’re HERE. They’re DOWNTOWN. It’s happening RIGHT NOW!”
“What do you mean, Shirls? The enemy? No way. That’s impossible. They have no interest in us.”
“Who’s on the 38th floor of the Summit Arms tower, Daddy? I can see all of downtown from here. And you know what flew past my window ten minutes ago? A giant metal bird.”
“Told you. She’s hallucinating.”
“And that giant metal bird joined another giant metal bird. And another. And another. Lining up like they were going south for the winter. Like they were going to fly to Florida. But then they don’t fly to Florida. They go FLASH!”
“I think I’ve heard just about enough of this.”
“FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! Strobe light in my brain. Stuck inside a camera. Then BLAST! And BOOM! Feel it in my stomach. Feel it in my teeth. Everything north of MLK is in flames. An ocean of flames!”
“Darling, you’re up so high. Are you sure it couldn’t have been your imagination?”
“No, Daddy, it’s real! I told you this was bound to happen! My whole life I’ve been telling you! And what did you do? You called me paranoid. Sent me to doctors. Shrinks. That farm in Arizona. Like I was broken and needed fixing. Well I wasn’t broken. I was the sane Sugartree the entire time!”
“Darling, please, now’s not the time to relitigate the past. Your mother and I have told you on multiple occasions that we are happy to sit down in the office of a trained professional and discuss any childhood upsets you feel you encountered. Like a family.”
“Just listen to me! How about that? For once just listen to me!”
“We’ve always listened to you, Shirls. Tell her, Van. Haven’t we always listened to her?”
“We’ve always listened to you, dear.”
“You’re not even listening to me now. But it’s okay. Really. Cause I realized something. Seeing everything on fire. I realized that even if you were wrong. So wrong. You can’t help who you are. I can’t help who I am. And I just want you to know…need you to know…it’s so important to me that you know…that you’ll always know, I—”
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
“What, darling? What do you want us to know?”
“What do you want us to know, Shirley?”
Shirley Sugartree is quiet as a church mouse.
“Darling, are you there? Shirley?! Answer me! What do you want us to know? You love us? You want us to know that you love us?”
“I think the line’s dead, Van.”
“You love us!?”
“She’s gone.”
“I know she’s gone, Claude, I know.”
“But there’s nothing to worry about. Perfectly normal in a situation like this for the network to go down. Makes good sense actually. They need to keep the lines clear for more pressing communications.”
And this was correct.
“The important thing is she’s fine. And dare I say well. Better than she’s sounded in a number of years.”
“Yes, given the circumstances, she sounded great.”
“She did, didn’t she? She really did. And you know that building, Van, the Summit Arms, wow, that place is like a fortress. So fortunate I was able to pull those strings with the board to get her in. If you had to be anywhere downtown during an att…during an event…that’s exactly where I’d want to be.”
“But are you sure, Claude? Are you sure she’s all right?”
“Of course I’m sure, dear. You heard what she said. Everything north of MLK was the target. That’s where the poors live. Skid row and whatnot. They’re not attacking the city center, downtown proper, the business district, restaurant row. None of it. They’re not risking high value targets. The associated claims. The enemy has made their point. They’re done. It’s over. Expect retaliation followed by that MOU.”
“Thank God, Claude.”
“Yes, dear, thank God.”
“I should really…should really go find those candles.”
And find them she did.
Hand Vanessa Sugartree a little darkness and she’ll hand you back a home filled with light. Not in a row, heavens no. An arrangement. A bouquet. A cluster here, a lone elegant taper there, and the whole room is aglow, soft and golden, like a holiday.
And as honey performs her miracles, hubby tends to his phone. He runs the little cord ever so carefully to the wall, plugs it in to drink, and waits for the little glow that signals all is well. He presses the button. He presses it again. He presses it harder. And try as he might, he cannot make it wake.
Little by little, the evening starts to feel almost normal again. At the very least, heading in the right direction. All the preferred devices have finally hushed. There is no more talk of coasts, downtowns, or ugly business at all.
And if a body listens real close, why, the crickets are taking up their sweet song again outside. It is all so nearly pleasant that the Sugartrees are just about ready to take one long, deep, well-deserved—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Claude?”
“Check the doorbell cam, Vanessa.”
“How? Our phones are dead.”
“Then look out the window. Check the peephole.”
“You check the peephole. Why do I have to check the peephole?”
“You’ve got smaller eyes.”
“Claude, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“Fine. Neither of us checks the peephole. What we need is our guns.”
“I agree. Where are our guns?”
“In the gun cabinet. Obviously. In the garage. We need to get them.”
“Then go get them.”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“I need the key.”
“Okay, where’s the key?”
“It’s on the ring.”
“What ring?”
“The key ring.”
“Where’s the key ring?”
“I don’t know.”
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“God bless America! Who could that possibly be at this hour?”
“Neighborhood security maybe? Police? Military?”
“Could be. Or…vandals. Looters. Gate-crashers. No. It’s not worth the risk.”
“Hello! Hello in there! It’s me! Your neighbor Tom! From across the street!”
The Sugartrees go still, heads together now, conferring, low, under their breaths.
“Tom? Who’s Tom?”
“The old guy. The one who’s always waving at us.”
“Oh, right, Mr. Waver. What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s lost.”
“Well open the door. Can’t leave him standing out there. He could tell others.”
Hospitality. One of the great pillars of upstanding neighborhoods. The porch lamp left burning. The door thrown wide. The neighbor brought in from the dark, sat down, and handed something warm to hold and sip. The very thing that turns a row of houses into a community.
And there he is…Tom! Standing on the porch, the candlelight reaching out just far enough to catch the brim of his hat, and stitched across the front of it, one proud word: VETERAN.
“Sugartrees! Am I ever happy to see you! Get over here. Get into this old man’s arms and give us a hug!”
What a kind offer made by such a neighborly neighbor. Hubby and honey are all too eager to oblige.
“Can you believe this madness? First the coasts, now downtown, mercy. Never thought I’d see the day. Never wanted to see the day. You folks don’t have any power either, I see. Merryweather Lane. Dark as a pocket. Never thought I’d—”
“Yes. We’re a-okay here, Tom. No concerns. Generator will be kicking on any minute.”
“Oh that’s dandy. Brought you over some candles but you look well stocked.”
“Yes, I’ve actually made it a point to be prepared for any situation imaginable. Our garage is filled to the gills with preparations. Could pretty much survive anything thrown at us. Some call it excessive. I call it common sense.”
“You know my Kate always said you Sugartrees know exactly what you’re doing.”
“A smart woman you’ve got, Tom. And how is your Kate? I don’t think I’ve seen her since last year.”
“Well that’s because she passed away last year, Claude. And if you didn’t get my cards or messages, I really appreciated the flowers.”
“You remember, dear. We sent our condolences.”
“Yes. Our condolences. Such a shame. Really. Such an awful shame.”
“You know you Sugartrees were her favorite neighbors. Every time you waved to her she was just so pleased. This missus and I never had the good fortune to produce a litter. But you folks, you filled an important hole for us. And in a time like this, when the rubber meets the road, when the going gets tough, this is exactly when neighbors swing into action. Am I right or am I right?”
“What a…noble…virtuous…but as I said, we’re perfectly fine here, Tom.”
“Let’s have ourselves a little sit-down and a little catch up, shall we? What do you say, Sugartrees?”
“Now? I don’t think…Vanessa?”
“Claude’s right, Tom. I have no hors d’oeuvres, not even a carrot stick and we just finished our last bottle of red. I’d have nothing to offer and that’s unacceptable for a catch up.”
“Don’t need nothing, dear. Not hungry. Let’s sit down and catch up.”
And doesn’t the old man settle the two of them right down onto their own sofa with himself seated plumb between them.
“I’ll get right to it. Won’t beat around the bush. I know what you think of me.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Military man. Capable even in his older age. Stiff upper lip. Good neighbor. So it might come as a complete shock to learn that I’ve been brought down to my knees this year. Emotionally speaking.”
“Tom, I think perhaps a trained professional would be better suited—”
“Losing Kate. Being alone in that house. Puttering around with nothing to do. And now this whole invasion. You know what they told us? That we had to fight them over there so we didn’t have to fight them over here. That’s what they told us. And I’ve been in theaters of war. Well I’ve been near theaters of war. My service to Uncle Sam was more administrative.”
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I don’t think I’m seeing your point.”
“My point is I was sitting over there, across the street, talking to my Kate, don’t judge me and she goes, Tom, get off your duff and stop with the poor me’s. Go out there and help your neighbors. Help them like only you can. With morale and administration. But first go visit the Sugartrees. Good Samaritans like them will be itching to help.”
“Itching to help what?”
“Merryweather Lane of course. All of these people, our friends, scared, alone in the dark. Dreading what awaits them. Well folks, we can do something about that. Make a difference. Bring everybody together under one roof.”
“Oh, Tom, that’s quite an offer. But we’re not soldiers like you. We don’t have a hat like that, do we, dear?”
“No. No hats at all, babe.”
“The most logical thing we can do right now is shelter in place. Stay put and wait for the cavalry. Heck, even Alexa recommended it. And her recommendations are usually pretty good. Not to mention that every risk analysis bone in my body is in agreement.”
“Well that’s quite an endorsement, Claude. And if that’s the way you feel, maybe I’ll just camp here with you folks. If that’s not an imposition.”
“Wait! Wait a minute. You know I just thought of someone. Someone who could use your help.”
“Oh really? Who’s that, Vanessa?”
“Why Mrs. Hollyfield of course! She’s perfect. Old and constantly incapacitated. Just a handful of doors down from you. You must know Mrs. Hollyfield.”
“Mrs. Hollyfield? Is she the one with the bird on her mailbox?”
“Yes. The bird mailbox. That’s her.”
“I’ve never been a fan of decorative mailboxes. But given the circumstances, I’ll overlook it. If Mrs. Hollyfield is in need of help, it is help she will receive.”
“What kind of a bird is that anyway, Van? On her mailbox? A parakeet?”
“I think I heard someone say it was a toucan.”
“Nope. That’s not a toucan.”
“Well it’s not a parakeet either.”
“I’d put money on it being a sparrow. Sparrows are popular.”
“It’s not a sparrow, Tom!”
“Well it looks like a sparrow.”
“It’s not a goddamn sparrow, Tom!”
“Tell you folks what. Since I can see you’re passionate about it. I’ll ask Mrs. Hollyfield myself. Get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“You mean the bird’s beak.”
“That’s right, Claude. I reckon I do. Full report upon my return.”
“Take your time now, Tom.”
“Yes, no need to rush back.”
And that settled it. Up from the sofa pops old Tom, spry as you please. A tug at the brim of that proud hat, setting it just so. A hitch of the trousers up above the navel.
“Sugartrees. Appreciate the wise counsel. Do me a favor and watch me on my travels. That’s what Kate would always do when I paid visits to neighbors. Just to make sure I arrived in one piece.”
“Of course we will, Tom. Thank you again for stopping by. Such a nice surprise.”
“We’ll have to do it again after this whole mess gets settled.”
“Absolutely. Hundred percent. Aces.”
And out into the night Tom goes, one neighbor off to look in on another. Is there any finer errand in this world?
Vanessa, good as her word, sets herself up at the window to watch Tom on his travels, while Claude resumes the hunt for that rascally remote control.
“There he goes.”
“He better move quick. A moving target’s harder to spot.”
“Don’t say that, Claude. It’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be funny.”
Outside in the night, Tom is taking his time, and why shouldn’t he. A veteran moves at the pace his hips allow, and these particular hips have earned their say. Down the cobblestone pavers he goes, and at the curb, stops and looks both ways. Left, then right, then left once more, just as a body should.
Across the way at last, on past the hedges to Mrs. Hollyfield’s front yard, where that famous mailbox resides. Now, is that a toucan or parakeet? Definitely not a sparrow. Maybe a cockatiel, a tree swallow, a blue footed booby? A body could go round and round.
Old Tom stops right beside it, turns himself clear around and catches sight of Mrs. Sugartree watching him from her window. Up goes his hand, high in the night sky, offering the biggest, warmest wave you ever did see.
Vanessa waves right back with no delay, moving her hand to and fro.
Then, for one dazzling moment, the whole street lights up the way the sky does on the Fourth. And Tom, poor old Tom, explodes.
“Oh...oh my god…CLAUDE!!!”
“Found it! Wedged in the cushions this whole time. Unbelievable.”
“TOM. IT’S TOM. HE…HE…HE…”
“What, dear? What is it?”
“HIS BRAINS! HIS BRAINS ARE ON THE BIRD!”
“His brains are where?”
“HIS BRAINS ARE ON THE BIRD!”
And down the wall slides Vanessa, past the window treatment, all the way to a thud on the hardwood.
“He waved at me. He waved. I waved back and then…oh my God! OH MY GOD!”
“Vanessa. Listen to me. Take a breath, darling, and listen. It’s shocking, sure, I know. But there’s nothing to be worried about.”
“Babe, our neighbor just exploded!”
“Sure he did, on the other side of the street. Look, I liked Tom. He was a good neighbor. I think. I mean was he? Was he really? We don’t know. Who knows what he was involved in over there on his side. I can tell you nobody has exploded over here. Our side is perfectly safe.”
“I don’t feel very safe right now.”
“Honey, if we were in any real danger, I would know. In fact, I would be the first person on Merryweather Lane to know. Possibly the first person in the entire county. Why? Because of twenty-five years, Vanessa. Twenty-five first rate years. If there is a single individual alive better equipped to identify a credible threat, I would like to meet him. But I haven’t met him. Know why? Cause I am him. Are you ready for my assessment?”
Claude beats his hands on his chest.
“My assessment is…this is all baloney! That’s right. Complete and total hogwash! None of this appears in any actuarial table I’ve studied. No confirmation to an established pattern. It is not a viable scenario or a survivable event. Frankly, it does not make one lick of sense. Which leaves precisely only one rational conclusion. We’re asleep!”
“We’re asleep?”
“At this point it’s the only possible explanation. And when the sun comes up tomorrow and come up it shall, you and I will rise again, dear. Fresh and without any memory of this. Hallelujah. Because a thing like this simply does not happen. Not to us. I mean it’s lunacy, right? Absolute lunacy. Absolute…absolute...”
Hubby giggles like he just heard the funniest knee slapper. And would you gaze upon Vanessa, hunkering down flat now. Around she shimmies, kicking and fussing like a baby who refuses her diaper.
“Babe, are you all right down there? You are aware you’re on the floor?”
“Do you know what this means, Claude? Do you have any idea what all of this means? My pickleball tournament is going to be cancelled!”
“Yes, I suppose it will be. As will my company picnic.”
“Fuck your picnic!”
“Fuck my picnic?!”
“All year, Claude, all year! Wake up at five in the morning. Drive out to Linden Falls in the freezing dark. Practice my dinks, my drop shots, my drives, my lobs. Even work my erne, Claude. Do you know how hard it is to do a fucking erne?! Come home, ice my screaming knees. All of it for Leslie O’Neil. Oh, Leslie O’Neil! In her little white visor, doing her little twirl, while her little idiot husband films it for the Gram. And everybody just loves her. Oh they love her so much. The bitch can do no wrong! And this was my chance! Finally! To show them! Do you know how that feels, Claude? I was going to destroy her. I was going to rip her tits off. I was going to take my pickleball paddle and fuck her with it right there on center court. And now, thanks to all of this, I’ll never beat that ass. Never. And that’s not fair! On what planet is that fair? I mean you told me we were safe, babe. You told me they had no interest in us. You need to do something about this. You need to make things normal again right now!”
Poor hubby, what a doozy of a request. But as a neighbor once said, when the going gets tough the rubber meets the road. And will you look at dear Claude right now. Why he has the calm, settled demeanor of a man who has gone and made up his mind.
“Yes, babe. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I will fix this. I will fix everything right now full stop!”
And off he goes at a dead run for his own front door, once again throws it open wide, and speaks so loud the heavens themselves might just catch wind.
“Excuse me! Hello?! Claude Sugartree here. Homeowner. And you are assuredly in violation. Can you hear me? You need to stop what you’re doing right this instant and listen to reason, okay? Okay?! You have the wrong house. You are on the wrong street. You have entered the wrong neighborhood. We’ve never done a single thing to any of you. You know that. We know that. No ugly stuff here. Now do what’s honorable and vacate premises! Move along now, you hear! There’s no need for this. You have no interest in us! I said YOU HAVE NO INTEREST IN US! Please. Leave us alone! I’m begging you! DO YOU EVEN HAVE EARS?! GODDAMNIT! I’M NOT GOING TO SAY IT AGAIN! YOU HAVE NO INTEREST—”
Oh Claude! Oh Vanessa! Oh Sugartrees!
Isn’t that the way, though? Isn’t that just the way. Sometimes evenings take unexpected turns, even for the finest of folks. And that is precisely why a body ought to count its blessings, every last one of them, while the counting is good.
Would you believe Merryweather Lane has never looked quite so radiant?
A whirring sound makes known the presence of the visitors. A whirring and a buzzing in the night sky, amongst all those twinkling stars.
And the warmth the visitors deliver, oh the warmth is out of this world. Great big blooms of orange and gold rolling across the lawns and up through the hedges.
And the sound, well it surely isn’t one Merryweather Lane has heard before. Not in all its years of crickets and sprinklers and screens playing through open windows and upon moon-speckled verandas.
Now at this very moment, one of the giant metal birds finds its way on over to that nice house with the good lawn. Maybe even the best lawn.
It pauses for a moment, as if savoring the sight for itself.
Then it delivers its magnificent warmth right up to the front door. The whole house does a little dance in its foundation.
And our Sugartrees…they certainly count their blessings.
They are together for one, that is most important.
And inside such a beautiful home.
It really is nice.
That garage, so well appointed. So full of preparation.
So very prepared.
And the backsplash was going to be mauve.
Always, yes, always.
Never Tuscan Sunrise.
The backsplash was always going to be mauve.
Keep Machine Poet Writing!
This story is a sad reminder of how lucky and out of touch we are as a nation when compared to other parts of the world like Ukraine and the Middle East where drones, missiles, and bombs fall out of the sky and blow up everything in sight. People live or die for no reason other than luck. While your portrayal is satire, there's always many grains of truth embedded there.
I hope we survive the current insanity and more importantly elect people who are better at ending it than starting it.
Gorgeous story. I believe you have reached Machine Consciousness and beyond 🌸💛 And I finally can say it out loud when someone asks: My favorite color is mauve 🌷