'Picture Windows' By Michael Twist

Picture Windows
By Michael Twist

People suspect I’m not much of a thinker.  And I’ll admit, my
mind’s not what it once was any more than my body is, but I’m
convinced my mind’s still sound, even if I do keep most thoughts to
myself these days.  I do some of my best thinking at night, on walks
with Rex, where it’s dark, cool and quiet, the neighborhood settling
down for the evening after a bustling day.  We take our stroll after
dinner,  Jeopardy, and one of the various hour-long crime shows
featuring brilliant detective work by socially awkward but inordinately
attractive agents.  Rex knows the routine well: leash, coat, hat, gloves
and a plastic bag for droppings.  On rare occasions an umbrella is
needed, making for some awkward handling with a loaded plastic bag,
leash and umbrella handle balanced between two often gloved and always
arthritic hands. 
 
Margaret, Rex and I were the first to live in our brand new
single-level duplex that borders an older neighborhood.  Margaret had
insisted on down-sizing after the kids had finally all moved out, saying
she wanted less space to clean and a dog that wouldn’t talk back or
eat us out of house and home.  I think the real reason had to do with a
fall she had taken on a short flight of stairs, but the reason doesn’t
really matter because the duplex is perfectly accommodating.
 
It is chilly outside, and we are greeted with a faint breeze
distributing an abundance of vibrant smells not unlike most
neighborhoods with grass and shrubs where cats, dogs, kids, and vehicles
congregate. The sky is clear, with stars shining through the mostly
empty branches of the mature oak trees that line the street.  Most
weekends see people raking leaves, with another accumulation ready for
oversized black garbage bags or burn piles by the time the next Saturday
rolls around.  I love fall and all the smells that accompany it,
including the smoldering of leaves and yard debris for several days,
even after a fire’s been doused.
 
We walk slowly through the neighborhood, Rex seemingly at peace with
the pace, rarely pulling on the leash since he’s nearly as long in the
tooth as I am.  Neither of us moves quite like we used to.  I enjoy the
pace, though, as it gives me a chance to study the neighbors who have
left their curtains or blinds open.  Big picture windows reveal living
rooms like aquariums, with both the living and deceased swirling around
and through one another, peacefully coexisting in houses that often
serve as their only common link.  The living are seemingly unaware of
the dead, and the dead appear entirely untroubled by the living, as they
often occupy the same furniture simultaneously.  I suppose I should be
grateful I can’t see into any bedrooms. 
 
Some of the homes are considerably more crowded than others; a
phenomenon I’m not entirely convinced I understand, although I’ve
formed a theory.  I’ve come to suspect that the spirits or specters
going about their business - possibly even the routines they held when
still among the living - are those who died in the home or for whom the
dwelling was their last real address.  Mrs. Weathers, for example, can
be seen knitting in front of the television in the home she lived in on
Sycamore Street for thirty-three years before going to the nursing home
where she died less than a month later.  Alice and John Remington came
to our home for dinner shortly thereafter, and Alice mentioned how poor,
dementia-plagued Janice Page, who had gone to live with her daughter in
Des Moines some five years ago, had finally passed.  Every night for
months after hearing this I looked for Janice through curtains, once
hers, that were open more often than not.  I failed to find her but
would bet I could see her through her daughter’s Des Moines windows if
given the chance.  I could well be wrong, but I don’t know how else
to explain why some houses are so much more active and occupied than
others.
 
Strange is the way some of the houses have drawn similar families and
personalities over the years.  1402 Chestnut, where the Fitzgeralds
currently reside, features two disheveled middle-aged men who rage
drunkenly about the house wearing grungy, sleeveless white undershirts.
At first I thought they must be brothers who had lived together, but I
saw them chasing women who could only be their wives, and the women’s
clothing definitely suggested different eras.  I mention this only
because Fitzgerald himself sits most nights in front of the television
with a can of Schlitz - never in danger of growing cold - on a small
table at his side,while the pale blue light from the set dances on the
popcorn ceiling above him.
 
One home on Sequoia Street houses three widows: two of the women are
inevitably reading while the third cross-stitches.  Mr. and Mrs. Collier
currently call the place home, but the missus, who was a voracious
reader until her eyes began to fail, is on oxygen and sports a pallor
that doesn’t look long for this world.  The same Alice Remington
commented that Mr. Collier has already planned to move in with his
brother’s family after the inevitable takes place.
 
Of course, not all houses share inexplicable similarities.  Most of
the rooms I can see into are busy with mostly elderly people coming and
going, shuffling about, laughing, playing cribbage, eating, drinking or
just talking on phones with curly cords. Their attire differs, but the
mannerisms and habits are largely the same; people being people,
regardless of time. 
 
As we near our traditional turnaround point, Rex darts toward the
narrow path between houses at the end of the cul-de-sac.  I follow
reluctantly.  This is the shortcut kids use when heading toward the
middle school soccer field that backs up to the development.  When Rex
is out of sight he looks around nervously before proceeding to urinate
against a sapling.  He’s actually more modest than I am, and I chuckle
to myself as we head back up the trail to the bulbous shape of the
cul-de-sac.  I notice the old boy needs to urinate much more often these
days, and I wonder if there’s some kind of prostate issue in play.
 
We take the Elm Street route home, which always saddens me because of
the lime-colored house we pass where two boys roughly eight and ten
years of age play checkers every night in front of the fireplace,
ignored by the current family that spends most of its time in rooms
other than their living room.  Each boy wears a pair of overalls with
one strap undone over dingy-white long-sleeved thermal underwear. It’s
clear they are brothers, but it’s unclear what caused their early
demise, and I try not to speculate.
 
Rex and I pick up the pace a bit as we are able to see our duplex
after rounding the corner of Hemlock and Pine.  I often wonder if Rex
can see what I see in the windows of these homes.  I try to remember
when I first began to see the dead mingling among the living.  I know I
never saw this around the countryside where I was born and lived while I
was young.  But then again, my family built the home we lived in, and so
far as I know, no one ever died there during my youth. 
 
The walk ends on a good note, as I am always able to see into Mrs.
Kindell’s kitchen.  Everything about her demeanor suggests she is
happy, from the expression on her face to the brisk movements she makes
while sifting flour or taking a prize-winning pie out of the oven.  I
strain to hear the song she’s singing and can’t, but the thought
buoys my spirits all the same.    The gravy on a good walk comes in the
form of a cat I’ve dubbed Sour Puss, which always hisses at us before
darting through a hole in the fence and retreating into the night.
 
When we enter our home I can see Margaret bustling from the bathroom
to the bedroom in her bathrobe, rubbing lotion into her desiccated hands
while she glides from room to room.  She always seems to be doing two
things at once, whereas I’m lucky to have the energy to do even one. I
think about the love I have for her and hope I never return from a walk
to see her ethereal form through the front room window of our duplex.
Rex looks at me, and for a fleeting moment I suspect he is thinking the
same thing. 
 
A creature of habit, Rex knows the routine well:  lock front door,
hang up leash, set alarm and kick off shoes.  I smell the smoke from the
backyard leaf burning in my coat as Rex takes off his.  I then saunter
into the bedroom and assume my rightful place on the bed at Margaret’s
feet.

~~~

You can find Michael Twist's website here and his Facebook here!