Farmhouse Magazine, 9/05

Friday morning, and that truck wakes all of us again. The thing squeals like a mechanized hyena as Ted attempts to start it: Hee-eee-eeeeeee! Hee-eee-eeeeeee! But the joke’s on us. Ted owns Top Notch Construction, and since his divorce last year, he has — for reasons none of us are able to fathom — moved his business into our formerly peaceful neighborhood, creating our own circle of hell. 

He tries the truck again; it pitches into hysteria. That engine gave up on him about the same time his wife did last August. It was a sweltering night, and as we waited for the Godforsaken sun to set, her voice broke into our lives. “Do you love me, Ted?” We drew toward the windows. Ted faced one of his trucks that worked at the time; Karen stood in the dappled light of the magnificent oak in front of their house. “Do you?” 

Of course he loves you we all wanted to say. Just the other day, Ted had told their 15-year-old daughter that she was as beautiful as her mother, she really was.

But the air stood silent and aching. Why didn’t he say anything? He threw something into the truck’s bed, a loud thump that made the silence larger. A few minutes later, Karen swept out of their house, dark hair flying behind her, suitcase not even zipped up, and we haven’t seen her since. 

Soon after, the red geraniums at their front door dried up, the pair of birch in the back drooped in constant apology. Only that beautiful oak thrives, rising above Ted’s parched garden, oil stained driveway, and the table saw by the front door, its gleaming spikes as unsettling as an unkind word. Sorry-looking trucks barrel down the street at all times of day, an abandoned pile of cement blocks has taken up residence on his patchy front lawn, and the guys who work for him descend upon the neighborhood at six o’clock in the morning, shouting over the compressor’s hum, slamming wood into trucks, dragging metal pipes and aluminum siding and God knows what else along the sidewalk. They throw their McDonald’s coffee cups into our yards before hitching off to some construction site; we pray to the Lord for sweet mercy. 

It was never this bad, we say over the fence. We should do something, we should call zoning. We should. But we don’t call anyone or do anything; we’re not sure why.

It’s Friday afternoon, and as usual, Ted’s daughter zips down the street at sixty miles an hour in her shiny red Cabriolet. Ted bought it for her after the divorce, but the man can’t afford to fix his trucks, so how he paid for something like this we can’t imagine. As usual, The Daughter (none of us can remember her name) announces her weekly visit by lugging a stereo into the backyard and blasting the same song: I am beautiful… no matter what they say…words can’t bring me down… The words rise into the sky like a prayer.

An hour later, Ted pulls up next to one of the dumpsters he’s decided to park on our street, truck wheezing beneath the garbage in its rusted-out bed. From the blasting radio, a warped guitar wails into our consciousness like a nightmare. I am Iron Man, the voice declares. Iron Man, huh. The other night, we heard him pleading with one of his workers:

“Jim, I can’t pay you today, but please, try to understand. My daughter wants to go to Tahoe, it’s all she’s been talking about…”

Well, Jim didn’t understand. He called Ted a loser, and pealed off in his TransAm. Now, acting as his sole employee, Ted heaves rotted wood, cement blocks, random trash into the dumpster, his face pinched. Any fool knows this isn’t work for a company president. But we don’t dare say anything to him, or to each other.

Finally. He’s done. Just as the neighborhood settles down, just as we return to our lives, The Daughter screams, “He slapped my face!” and our blissful state of amnesia evaporates. A second shadow moves toward her, maybe a friend. Her response is hushed, or perhaps it’s just the breeze rustling the leaves of the oak tree.

“I hate him! Do you hear me? Hate him!” 

What a nuisance. 

“Get inside the house. Right now.” It’s Ted. “You’re getting out of hand.”

“No, I won’t!” she shouts, voice gleeful. Her performance was meant to pull him outside just as it was meant to pull every pair of eyes to the windows to see what’s going on.

Ted leans against the house. “I’m calling the police.”

“Fine! Go ahead!” she says, thrilled by the prospect of expanding the drama. 

Without a word, he walks slowly back toward the house. 

“Call them!” she shouts. “I don’t care!” She rushes after his stooped figure until we can’t hear her anymore, and secretly, we’re all relieved.

A week later, it’s July 4th and we set up for our annual street party, which includes picnic, volleyball, general gossip, and of course, bitching about Ted-the-pain-in-the-ass. The kids laugh to the plunk of the volleyball, the grills sizzle and smoke, and we sit along the sidewalk, crossed-legged, whisking away mosquitoes. Discussion drops like a heavy bucket when The Daughter drives up, the trunk of her pretty red car bashed in. 

Just as she disappears into the house, Ted exits the garage. He waves hello to the party, then whips on a chainsaw, and we realize he’s going to chop down that beautiful oak. “Ted!” we shout over the deafening drill. “Why are you cutting it down?”

“Look at it,” he says. “It’s falling apart!” 

We smile and nod as if we know what he’s talking about. He climbs the tree suspended by a cloth swing; we all hope he falls and breaks his neck. Then the oak would be saved. Then we wouldn’t have to listen to the music, the shouting, the pain. We’d have our peaceful neighborhood back. To our disgust, he whips off his shirt and smiles at us fiercely through the wood shavings, rolling through the air like a sandstorm. The grit has invaded our food, hair, and noses; the shavings cover every inch of his daughter’s open convertible – - no longer shiny red, it’s now the color of cardboard.

An hour later, he’s done. The lovely oak tree’s gone, killed, a carcass in the front yard. Whistling, Ted clunks things around in the garage; his daughter wanders out of the house, blinking as if she’s just woken up. She half falls onto the oak’s stump. Arms limp, straggly hair tucked behind her ears, she’s absolutely brazen in the open sunlight. 

Mary Webster extends a thin arm. “Come on over, sweetheart. Have a hotdog.” 

Our heads swerve at such words, such a notion! That girl and her father aren’t our kind; we don’t want them eating with us, let alone living on the same street. We snicker at her wasted effort, her idiot kindness, and flick the wood shavings from our nice, clean clothes. 

The Daughter stands slowly as if she’s going to take up Mary’s invitation, then stops, leans in a funny way. Her eyes fall to the stump. She points at it, pale finger circling the rings that we do not see. “This is the tree’s age,” she says to no one in particular. “And here,” she reaches for the center, “here’s where the heart is.”