10. Ned
NED
For most people, a Friday night in summer meant a slow pull on a cold beer, a dip in the lake, or a stroll down Main Street for ice cream. For Ned, it meant the busiest part of his week was just beginning. Saturday afternoon was the first golf scramble of the season. Saturday night was a surf and turf dinner at the restaurant. Sunday morning the course was rented for a private party brunch. And Ned would need to be in attendance at everything. When he pulled into his driveway he parked in the ominous shadow of his neighbor’s RV.
Tinged in late-day sun, it shone like a beacon of incivility. Ned chewed his bottom lip. He gazed across the way into the neighbor’s backyard. Sure enough, still tied to the base of a tree was their old Halloween scarecrow Stan had plucked from their trash. It still wore Ned’s Red Sox T-shirt, or at least what was left of it. Ned shaded his eyes for a better look: dead-center in the scarecrow’s chest two arrows jutted out. Ned needed a beer.
He glanced up at his own cheerful front door. Inside, Ingrid and Adam would be waiting for him to join them for dinner. It was Friday, which meant green was the color of the day: there’d be salad or asparagus or chicken with pesto. Darcy was home, too, but likely not for long. Since she was no longer competing in tournaments on weekends, her surplus energies had pivoted sharply to burnishing her social life. The negotiations would begin the moment he walked in the door: where she wanted to go, who she wanted to go out with, how unfair her curfew was. The debate was never ending. Ingrid would already be broken down, and she’d be looking to Ned to pass the baton to. How much simpler and happier life was when Darcy was still playing golf.
Ned allowed himself one more un-assaulted moment alone in his car. He tried to focus on something cheerful. Right in front of him bloomed his prized heirloom rosebushes, looking promising this early in the season. He tried to stay there on the soothing pink-petaled meditation of his roses, but his gaze got away from him, swinging back to the RV like a dog to a bone. There would be no respite indoors or out.
Hoping to salvage a moment to himself, Ned let himself in the front door as quietly as humanly possible. Fritzy waited, wagging with his whole body. “Shhh, good boy,” Ned whispered, bending to pat the dog. Maybe he’d make it out back to his new pool before anyone noticed he was home.
Adam assailed him first, hopping down the stairs in his Friday-green socks, cheeks already flushed with outrage. “The internet is down again! I was in the middle of a carburetor repair video on YouTube and it died.”
Ned closed his eyes. “The carburetor or the video?”
Adam huffed. “It’s not funny.”
“Oh good, you’re home.” Ingrid appeared in the foyer. “I have to run back to the office. Those clients from Boston? They want to see the Tree House again! So I’ve got to put some comps together. You’ll need to start dinner. Oh—and, the printer is jammed. So I need your help.”
Ned slipped out of his sneakers, still sandwiched between Adam and Ingrid in the entryway. No one moved. He looked past them to the blue promise of pool water through the back windows. “I guess I’ll start with the printer.”
Ned was thirsting for that cold beer, but it would have to wait. He squeezed past his family into the kitchen. Adam and Fritzy trailed in tandem.
“You need to call the cable company,” Adam huffed. “I cannot go on like this.”
“I think they’re closed now, buddy.” The printer was at a small workstation in the rear, which Ingrid liked to call the command center. Indeed, the red error light was blinking angrily. Ned knew how it felt. He inspected the connections and flipped the printer switch on and off. To Adam he said, “I’ll call the cable company first thing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Adam looked ready to pass out.
“Still blinking,” Ingrid said.
Ned checked the paper tray, the ink cartridges, and the connections again. The red light blinked on.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” Ingrid interjected. “Stan is still shooting that poor scarecrow. Every time I go in the backyard, it’s: whump, whump, whump . It doesn’t feel safe. Maybe we talk to the neighbors. Or call town hall about regulations. We need to do something.”
We meaning Ned . He smacked the printer hard, twice. Miraculously it hummed to life and the light stopped blinking. Ingrid clapped. “Don’t forget about dinner.”
He’d almost made it to the fridge when Darcy’s voice rang out from the doorway.
“You’re home! So, there’s this party tonight, well more like a gathering, really, and Lily really wants to go, even though I could care less , but she’s a good friend, and, actually, I haven’t gone out in ages, so I figured…”
Ned closed his eyes. “Your father needs a minute!” There, he’d referred to himself in the third person and his voice had come out like a sharp bark. But it had the hoped-for effect.
All three faces of his loving family stared back at him, unblinking. Good! He opened the fridge, retrieved a beer, and all three started talking again, voices tumbling over each other like a burst spigot.
“I need to give Lily an answer right now!”
“How am I supposed to finish my car video? I need Wi-Fi!”
“Kids, your father just said—”
Beer secured, Ned walked wordlessly through the three of them. The dog, more clever than the rest, was already in position by the patio slider. “Hello, Fritz.”
Ned slid the door ajar just enough for Fritzy to slip through with him before slamming it closed.
The beer was extra cold, and Fritzy found a fat squirrel to chase across the unmown lawn. He was not struck by an arrow sitting poolside. Ned’s night was turning around.
Around nine-thirty, Ned padded out of the bathroom in his slippers and made a beeline for bed. They’d made it through another night. Ingrid had shown the Tree House, dinner had been served, and even better: Ned had good news to share.
“I found Adam a job,” he said.
Ingrid was already in bed with a book, Fritzy curled at her feet. “You did? Doing what?”
“Jane needs part-time help in the office, and so does Mossimo in the kitchen. I figure Adam can split his day between the two.”
“That’s wonderful, honey! The variety will be good for him.”
Ned slipped beneath the sheets, feeling hopeful. Adam was down the hall gaming with a friend—the internet had gloriously restored itself. Darcy was at Lily’s. The house was quiet, the bed sumptuous. So, too, was Ingrid whose lovely long legs stretched out from under the covers. Ned had rolled over and reached for his wife when the air began to vibrate. Fritzy’s head snapped up. Ingrid groaned.
“You have got to be kidding.” Ned dragged himself out of bed and went to the window. Across the way the Crenshaws’ pool was lit up, the lights flashing to the thumping bass.
“I’m going over there.”
“Now?” Ingrid sat up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“So we suffer another sleepless night as Stan Crenshaw holds us hostage with his obnoxious music? I’ve got the first scramble of the season tomorrow. I need to be up early.”
“We’re sure it’s Stan?”
“Flick confirmed as much at his interview. Poor kid—he’s got to be up early for work tomorrow, too.”
Ingrid made a face. “Won’t this be awkward for Flick if we complain and then he has to see you at work tomorrow?”
Ned groaned. He did not point out that he was the one going over to do the complaining. “Yes, Ingrid. Stan Crenshaw is making this awkward for all of us, isn’t he?”
He changed back into clothes and decided to take Fritzy with him. Everyone loved Fritzy. Downstairs at the door the dog did three insane circles around Ned’s feet, entangling both of them in his leash; he never went out this late. Something quite good must be about to happen.
As he crossed the dark yard, Ned could not hear the peepers or the rustle of leaves in the summer breeze; everything was swallowed by the thump thump thump of the clamoring bass. He strode to the front door, Fritzy trotting beside him.
Ned pressed the doorbell and stepped back. It was déjà vu standing there on the front step; and just like the last time, nobody came to the door. “Well, no wonder,” he said to Fritzy. “They can’t hear a damn thing, either!” He pressed the ringer again, holding it for a long time.
“They must all be out back,” he said. Fritzy whined excitedly.
Ned did not want to risk trespassing on the Crenshaws’ property in the dark, especially given the crossbow. But he couldn’t very well go home, either. He needed to sleep. And Ingrid would be waiting to hear that he’d resolved it. And there was the principle, damn it… the Crenshaws needed to get with the program on Maple Street.
So he strode back across the lawn, around the RV, behind his house to his own backyard where a privacy fence separated the two properties. It was too tall to peek over, so Ned let Fritzy off his leash and found a bucket to stand on.
No sooner had Ned climbed atop the bucket when the full picture of debauchery come into view. The entire scene was cast in a purple glow from the pool water to the liquor bottles lining the outdoor bar to the smoking grill that Ned had to admit smelled enticing. People milled about in clusters, some bobbing their heads and moving their hips to the beat.
Ned narrowed his eyes. Was that Frank Miller, from up the street?
An absurd peal of laughter rippled across the pool deck and Ned recognized the high-pitched voice of Frank’s wife, Eileen, at the same time he recognized her mop of curly dark hair. The Millers were a part of this insanity? It was just not possible. Frank Miller was a civil engineer who hated social gatherings and, as far as Ned could tell, most people. Frank never lasted more than ten minutes at the annual cul-de-sac Christmas party. But here they were!
His eyes traveled to a tall, willowy man bent over a table of food: Good grief, was that Jonathan Arbuckle? Jonathan was their head of neighborhood watch, always getting after people about speed limits and noise pollution. Was it possible he was here to serve a notice, but got distracted by the chips and dip? But no, there was his wife, Barbara—holding a giant margarita. The whole neighborhood knew Barbara did not drink. Not so much as a sip of eggnog for the cul-de-sac caroling. And yet—from the way she wobbled across the patio, Barbara was bombed.
In the midst of this dubious gathering stood Stan Crenshaw. His big mouth was flapping away in conversation, though Ned wondered how anyone could hear a damn thing he was saying. Apparently Eileen Miller had exceptional hearing because she threw her curly-haired head back and cackled at whatever Stan said. Astonishingly, others joined in. Loudest of all, Nathan Clumpett, who lived alone with his cat and barely spoke. Was everyone from Maple Street here?
It was outrageous. Not only were the most antisocial of his neighbors here socializing, bathed in vulgar landscape lighting and déclassé company, but there was the glaring fact of the matter: Ned and Ingrid appeared to be the only ones not invited.
Awash with fresh irritation, Ned stood taller on his plastic bucket and waved his arm in the direction of the offending host. “Hello? Stan!”
Stan did not hear, but Jonathan Arbuckle did. He lifted his face from the chip bowl, looking about for the source. Ned waved again from his side of the fence.
“Ned?” Jonathan squinted and ambled over, bowl in hand. “Is that you, Ned?”
“Yes,” Ned hissed. “I’m trying to get my neighbor’s attention, but he can’t hear me over all this noise.”
Jonathan smiled. “You mean Stan? He’s right over there.”
“Yes, I can see him, Jonathan.”
“He’s great!” Jonathan stuffed another handful of chips in his mouth as if Ned were standing at the party with him instead of flailing from the other side of the fence.
“Can you get Stan’s attention for me, please?”
“Why don’t you just come over?”
“Because I wasn’t invited ,” Ned said, stating the obvious.
“Oh. Too bad. Great party.” Across the yard, his wife hooted in unwitting agreement.
“Is it?” Ned wanted to shake Jonathan Arbuckle. “What would be great is if you could let Stan know I’d like a quick word. But please be discreet about it.”
Jonathan nodded. “You bet.” Then he turned and cupped his free hand around his mouth. “Hey, Stan! Ned here wants to talk to you.”
Heads snapped in their direction, eyes squinting through the barbecue haze. Barbara Arbuckle hooted again. “Ned Birch. Is that you ?”
Ned forced himself to smile. “Sorry to interrupt. Stan, if I might have a word?”
Stan turned down the music but stayed right where he was. Was he really going to challenge Ned to shout across the yard in front of everyone? Ned was debating what to do when, finally, a small woman with long dark hair walked out of the house with a tray of food. She followed her guests’ gazes to the fence. “Mr. Birch?”
Mercifully, she set the tray down and hurried over.
Josie Crenshaw was pint-sized with a gallon-sized smile. “I’m so glad to meet you! I wanted to thank you for hiring Flick.” She had to stand on tiptoes to shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Flick is very happy to have the job. It’s hard moving to a new town at his age.” Her large brown eyes shone as she spoke about her son. Then, as if realizing the awkwardness of the conversation over the fence, her brow furrowed. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Ned glanced in the direction of her husband. “Though I hate to interrupt your evening, I’m afraid the music is preventing my wife and me from sleeping. And as you may know from Flick’s schedule, Saturdays are early starts at the club.”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” Josie turned and shouted. “Stan! Turn the music down.”
But Stan was already closing the gap between them. “I already did, sweet stuff.”
Ned could not imagine calling Ingrid that, in private or public.
“Something wrong?” Stan asked turning his unsmiling focus on Ned.
“I just told you.” Josie poked his thick side. “The music is keeping the poor neighbors awake.”
“That so?”
Ned’s bucket wobbled beneath him, and he gripped the lip of the fence. “That’s so.” Then, because he liked Flick and Josie seemed so friendly, “We would really appreciate it if you’d turn it down.”
Stan crossed his arms. “I would’ve thought a guy could listen to a little music in his own backyard, here in the quiet countryside.” Again with the country stuff. Ned was tempted to bring up the crossbow and ask if he’d shot anything good for dinner.
Josie looked between the two men. “Stan.”
Without taking his eyes off of Ned, Stan shrugged. “We’ll try to keep it down.”
Ned forced himself to say it: “Thank you. Enjoy your party.” Then with as much dignity as one can muster from atop a plastic bucket fenced out of a party he was not invited to, Ned lowered himself until the Crenshaws’ faces disappeared from view.