Neighbor’s Secret

                                           
                                                                                      Neighbor’s Secret



         I raised my head, and looked through the open door, to see my neighbor’s yard. A lush green carpet. Mocking me. I giggled. I knew his secret.
         My wife and I have lived here for a little over ten years. Two kids, one cat and three turtles. Never had any trouble in that time.
Three of us, me, Mark across the street and Dickey up at the top of the street, did our best with our yards. After mowing and weeding, we would sit around in the backyard, drinking beer, comparing notes. Until he moved in. Mark and Dickey gave up; they did not even try to keep their yards up. I tried, really tried; but he kept sabotaging my yard, killing my flowers and grass, making weeds grow everywhere.
              He, his wife, and two children moved in three years ago, in the winter. They bought the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, next to ours. That was when it started, when I became suspicious.
              His yard gave him away. The harsh weather of winter had no effect on his yard. His lawn peeked its mossy green head from under the blanket of snow then snuggled back in as the weather turned bad. My yard was ravaged by the ice and cold. Brown patches speckled the yard that would require hours of toil come spring, and surely, I would find a job by then.
              I suspected he was an alien. A Martian, Venusian, some otherworldly being. Come spring his yard was flawless. The grass a lush thick green, an impeccable putting surface. Every. Single. Spring. For three years. How could I keep up?
Each blade of grass is the same length (I measured one hundred and fifty areas across his lawn last year while he was gone on vacation). No ugly splotches of yellow dandelions dot his yard. No unsightly crab grass to ruin the verdant expanse. The edges of his lawn are perfectly trimmed. The mulch stays a rich deep brown, which somehow remains where it is placed. No brown smudges mar the green surface.
            The rose bushes in his yard were an explosion of coral, yellow, red, and white that contrasted with the teal sea they float in. No nasty black spots on the rose leaves, no infestation of aphids or spider mites. I had to stop growing roses. My roses always looked like crap. Moldy black spots all over the leaves, half-eaten flowers, buds that never opened.
            His flowerbeds contain blue delphinium, white gladiolus, maroon peony, magenta cosmos, and pink azalea placed to set-off the emerald carpet. No weeds dared to disturb his flowerbeds. Mine took back breaking, knee numbing labor to make presentable. As soon as I put the tools back in the garage, new weeds begin sprouting up. My flowers die after five weeks. Only dandelions thrive in my yard.
         His trees drop their leaves on the same weekend every year. By the next morning, not a leaf mars his lawn, yet I never see him in the yard. Though I spend five weekends raking, moldy sodden leaves still spot my yard in spring.
         His compost pile provides such rich soil that his vegetable garden delivers a bounty that keeps fresh food on his plate all summer. My compost pile stinks and kills anything I try to grow with it.
         I check to see what he is growing in his garden every year. I have to stand on the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, jiggling the binoculars while holding onto the wall to keep my balance. His garden is a medley of vegetables surrounded by blue marigolds. As soon as I spied them, I ran into the kitchen to tell Beth.
         She smiled. “Sure honey. They probably help keep the rabbits out.”
         I stared at her, slack-jawed. “That’s all you have to say?”
A month ago, I woke to use the bathroom and I saw flickering lights in his yard. His alien friends doing the yard work. That was when I vowed to learn his secret, to capture one of his lawn care aliens to use as my personal gardener.
At breakfast the next morning, over a bowl of Fruit Loops, I mentioned getting a gardener for the yard. The kids looked at me, then their mother. Beth just stared at me.
         The only time I ever see my neighbor in the yard is when he entertains guests. They sit in the backyard, grilling vegetables from his garden. Naked feet extoll the pleasure of the plush shamrock green expanse. I spend so much time trying to make my yard presentable; I don’t have time to sit in my yard partying anymore. I never see him working in his yard. He is definitely not human.
So last night I did it. After suffering for three seasons, I uncovered his secret to a perfect yard. I turned off all the lights in my house. A moonless night's all-encompassing darkness was perfect. I brought a chair out to the deepest shadow I could find, and waited. The stars twinkled overhead. Which one did he call home?
Around midnight, I started to get sleepy, so I crept from shadow to shadow, into the kitchen and without light, I made a pot of coffee.
         At one a.m., the night chill drove me to make another pot. I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam to help the coffee ward off the chill.
Four in the morning. My eyelashes were leaden weights pulling my eyes closed. My chin fell to my chest. Snorting, I jerked up, and the empty bottle of Jim Beam fell to the brown grass. There. In my neighbor’s yard. I rubbed my blurry eyes, trying to see better.
        Swarms of fireflies danced in the night. Everywhere they flew golden dust sparkled in the starlight. What?
        “They don’t look like no aliens I ever saw,” I mumbled.
        I slid out of the chair and crawled toward his yard. A swarm of the things headed my way. Gasping, I struggled to stand up.
        “Hey, you ain’t no aliens,” I slurred.
        The swarms stopped in mid-air, and in a burst of golden light, they disappeared.
        “Come back. What about my yard?” I shouted.
          I ran around the yard yelling for them. Lights came on around the neighborhood.
        “I want a perfect yard too.” I sobbed. “Come back, little guys.”
        Where did they go?
        I lowered my head. Beth and the kids huddled off to the side of the driveway. How could I make them understand that I had discovered my neighbor’s secret? I started giggling. The ambulance door started to close. I struggled against the restraints.
        “I know his secret,” I shouted.
        My laughter echoed in the small space as they drove me away.