On Maize Street

Forty three years ago, this was a field. A corn field, green and gold mingling as the wind stirred a soft sigh from lanky stalks and a large check was handed to Jim Pedrin. Jim used to be a farmer. Now he lies in a cozy, carefully carved casket, an ornate marker above briefly paraphrasing his life: 1912 – 1996. His two sons are wealthy businessmen with desk jobs, stylish sports cars, and blond wives who kiss them on their cheeks, even when they come home four hours late. Their father sold the field for what was, at that time, a considerably large sum.

Bulldozers groaned and growled monstrously as this modest holocaust began, trampled leaves protruding like shards of broken glass, little root-hands flailing, grasping fruitlessly at empty air. Still, the machines grumbled, smoke rebellious as it fell effortlessly upward. Soon listless bodies were dragged from the sight, only occupied by the ghosts of now-lost growth, leveled and smooth for an hour’s walk in each direction.

Then the pavers ambled in and spread sick, stinking tar in long straight lines, frosting this half-baked cake.  Piece by piece it was squared off, a chess board, and the air nearly echoed with the scratch of signing pens. A giant sandbox with so many little boys and yellow toys; this place was built, a stack of bricks and wood and nails and concrete. Then we were new, these houses, tall and boisterous, young and pretty with fashion, flair and poise. Forty three years and we sag, backbones bent like aging women, the wood around some doors warped slightly, so they stay ajar just a centimeter. Yet, we are wise, and sometimes you can hear a soft susurration, a reminder of the simpler age of gold and green, long ago.

On the corner is a blue Cape Cod, one of the first constructed on this street. It’s about the same color as the reflection of a cloud on the ocean: a very pale aquamarine, accented with dark blue windowsills and a frail looking garden out front. “2650” four brass numbers state, the last one hanging crooked, about an inch too far to the left. Once upon a time it was a happy thing, quite fit to be called a home, but now he merely whispers in a monotonous manner, droning on and on. Some say he’s mad (Oh, the things he’s seen! The terrors!) while others simply suggest old age. Still, one cannot help but catch a few strands of fervent words.

“December 1975. A Monday. Rainy. Fat, lazy clouds and water pounding on my roof. I knew the knife was there, I knew it. I see all, of course, but in the eyes of men we are powerless. In the eyes of men we are weak. Prey. And I still have the stains, nobody bothered to paint them over, just put a picture on top. But I see them, I see all. I saw the open window, saw the car stopped just outside. Saw the mustached man with the knife, and he cut me too, you know, climbing inside. Still a nick on the sill. I saw it. I did. I tried to tell the police, but they didn’t listen – ignorant idiots. In the eyes of men we are nothing. In the eyes of men, in the eyes of men, but they don’t see everything, do they? I see all, I see all, you know.”

There’s always talk of ghosts and stuff, so children tend to avoid 2650, but don’t you know? We all have ghosts. That’s not the only one – it’s mild, even. Perhaps you just expect it, though, the way the tire swing out back moves diagonally, with dust and dirt caked in the zigzag grooves.
         
Beside it is 2652, a pompous victorian with a wrought iron fence that’s rusted in the corners. “On purpose. For aesthetics!” she shouts, “To seem antique.” The paint is some sort of yellow-grey that she calls crème, and ivy curls in little ringlets off the sides of the porch. Her voice is loud and arrogant, everything a proclamation, so terribly important.

“My previous inhabitant was related to a prince. She had pictures with him on the mantle, there, and he came once, yes, he did! A prince, on my steps. He said how lovely the house was too, how beautiful, how charming. Indeed, he said, how he missed such a pleasant sort of abode. His castle was too cold in the night, but he slept well here, in the guest room. He said it was warm, and comfortable, perfect even. Hear that, perfect! And have you seen the front door? I’ve just gotten a new lock, top of the line. Nobody will be able to harm me! I’ve an automated alarm as well, with sensors on the windows and motion detectors too, so nobody will be able to break in, ever.”

She’s often ignored, which only angers the tempered thing, but there’s only so long one can listen to the mindless boasting of such a braggart. Always going on and on about how much the flooring cost, or the new mahogany ceiling fans. She claims to be invincible too, that nothing bad will happen there, but we all know it is nothing less than ignorance. I’m sure she’s seen plenty, yet it’s all about appearances, so she’ll just continue to brag. 

Occasionally, instead of showing off, she’ll complain about 2654, on the other side. It used to be just an empty lot (she complained then, too, about how unsightly it was) but a family, the Kinsons, bought it a few years ago and put up a little Foursquare-style thing. She’s young, we were all that age at one time, but 2652 apparently doesn’t remember her childhood. 2654 is just a bit enthusiastic, but terribly charming, like most younglings. Still her first coat of paint, and a cheery, bright view of the world.
         
“Look, in that tree, the baby birds! Aren’t they cute? They squeak, especially when their Momma brings them worms. Did ya see the clouds today? They’re all poofy, like cotton balls, or cotton candy, or just…cotton. Yea. Jamie uses cotton balls to rub the nail polish of her fingers, but the remover smells awful. Yuck. I like when Mrs. Kinson makes cakes though, because they don’t smell yucky, they smell sooo good. And everybody’s happy too, eatin’ cake and drinking milk and I don’t care if they spill some on the floors ‘cuz I hardly notice when there’s so much smiling. Yep, cake is good. Oh, look, a truck!”
         
Once and a while she can get obnoxious, but it’s harmless chatter, just the result of a short attention span. Her family is wonderful too, they visit on occasion, and the kids are a delight. Justin and Marie, I think? Most of the children around here are good, and they play on the sidewalks a lot. But there was one, a while ago, who was just so splendid. Susan was her name.

She was a lyric, the kind with words that sound like tap dancing and just a few scattered rhymes. Tight yellow ribbons strangled her soft caramel curls, which would float as she jumped rope.

“Cinderella, dressed in yellow
Went upstairs to kiss a fellow
Made a mistake and kissed a snake
How many doctors did it take?
One, two, three…”

Susan, oh Susan, the little boys would sit and stare, but she never blinked an eye. Sugar-sweet and seven, adored by all, the epitome of everything nice. Yet, as we all are so often reminded, there’s no such thing as a constant. 

Her father’s mistress was a bottle, so her mother merely left, and then Susan wasn’t on the sidewalks anymore. Like fat maggots to a rotten fruit, rumors crawled and squirmed, but nobody knew the truth except 2662. And she wouldn’t say a word, simply hummed like a frightened pup, wouldn’t hear a thing. 2650 says we see all, and it’s true, really, we do, but perhaps 2662 just didn’t want to see or hear what happened inside her walls.

We expected it. A shout, a yelp, a smash. Someone called the police, finally, and sirens stirred the silence that had descended like a swarm of flies. Susan was not that little girl, not then, for she looked more a ghost than anything else. Gaunt sockets and limp lids left the listless eyes behind them to one’s imagination, but you could hardly stand to think of the bright crystals that used to stare out from that face. It felt like Halloween, for when else do you see such a skeleton? True, her flesh remained, purpled skin ornamented with lacerations, but it seemed only like a sheet, pulled taut over those sharp bones.

The father was dragged out with his thick fists twisted behind his back, cursing the poor wisp of a girl. You couldn’t help but hope you weren’t imagining the tiny rise and fall of her chest. 2662 still hasn’t spoken, though, occasionally, you can hear her hum.

The father’s still in jail.

Now, I will not claim that I am prefect – far from it, in actuality. I’ve a few missing shingles and my third stair creaks, and the hinge on the back door laments loudly each time it’s opened. My paint (green, forest green) has begun to peel, though I think I’ve had over sixteen coats by now. In the beginning, I was yellow; about the same color of 2654. A board lifts in the third bedroom and the heater sounds like some sort of disgruntled bear. I do have a point here, though.

Perhaps 2650 is the smartest of us all, his zealous mantra the truest I’ve ever heard. We see all – the juice spills on the carpet, if Jill really did punch Dan, bites of chocolate snuck at twelve o’clock, spankings of disobedient toddlers, fights between lovers, unspoken tragedies, bills piling in a little drawer – all the hidden things. But we also see the tears of joy, the first kiss, the last kiss, A+ papers stuck to the refrigerator, tickle fights and pillow fights, dancing on the kitchen floor, newborn babes giggling, and smiles.

But you have too see it that way – look at both sides of the proverbial coin. Everyone has secrets, mounds of clandestine thoughts, yet the world is so much more than  darkness. Once, the Pedrin brothers came back here, the place of their childhood. They looked around, shuffled their polished loafers, then simply turned around and left. It’s different – we all know that. So much has happened in forty three years. But on a summer day, hot and silent, you can almost hear the whispers of the corn stalks. Or maybe it’s just the hum of 2662.