The Graveyard Shift (2 page)

Joey turns around, and I’m happy to watch him saunter off to his car, but suddenly he turns and raises a finger. “Oh, hey, Dr. P, before I forget, some guy was asking about you.”

My heart leaps up in my throat. I put up my poker face and offer an inquisitive smile, because I already know what he’s going to say. “Yes?
Who?”

“Guy didn’t say. He looked a bit… uh, messy.
Just asked if I knew the guy who lived here. I said I didn’t, since… well, since I wasn’t sure this really
was
your house until now.”

Oh, wonderful Joey; I knew I’d taken him under my wing for a reason. But my poker face remains strong. “Oh, I see.”

“You know him?” Joey asks, shielding the morning sun from his eyes.

I nod, simply because I don’t want him to worry about me. “Yes. Old acquaintance of mine, looking to drop off some things.
Might just be lost. I’ll be on the lookout for him. Thanks.”

“Oh.
Gotcha. Well, bye Dr. Parsons.” Joey offers a limp wave and rounds his car to the driver’s side door.

George. He’s still lurking around, and even asked Joey about me. He’s still after me.
Still after Joanna. Feeling like a stranger in my own doorway, I sweep the neighborhood with my eyes and see nothing more than children playing soccer in a driveway and Mr. Hathaway across the street mowing his lawn.

He spies me in my pajamas and raises his hand in a friendly wave. I wave back. And then I quickly pull inside and slam the door.

My poker face was good enough with Joey, but I pray it holds steady enough for Joanna. As much as she acts like everything’s fine, our honeymoon is already a bust, and the last thing she needs is the knowledge that her crazed ex-husband is stalking me out like a cheetah after a lame gazelle, meaning to harm me. Maybe meaning to harm her, too.

I swallow loudly, and I creep
upstairs toward the bedroom. Peeking around the corner, I see that Joanna’s still slumbering, and peacefully, at that, blissfully unaware of the man that might mean to kill me.

Another loud knock erupts at the door, and her eyes pop open.

“Another visitor?” she asks softly, eyelashes batting in slow sweeps.

“Just Joey from class,” I reply quickly. “
I’m expecting him. I told you I was his mentor now, didn’t I?”

“You did. Tell him I said hi, and hurry back, okay? You promised you’d spend the day in bed with me.”

I try to mask the frustration creeping through my words. “I did make that promise, and I absolutely plan to. I’ll be
right
back, love.”

I don’t want to worry my dear Joanna, but as I rush off toward the door, I wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. George is a rather
large, drunken man, and God only knows what he’s hiding in those jacket pockets. Me? I’m thin, a bit paunchy around the middle, and don’t have much more than a blunt kitchen knife to serve as a weapon around here.

The knocks continue, and with a deep breath, I lean in toward the peep hole. It feels like an eternity getting there, and I know, I just
know
in my heart that it’s George looking to stir up more trouble, but then I shove my eye against the glass and see that it’s just my neighbor, Mrs. Whitaker.

I’m still not thrilled to see her. Not when I should be in bed with my new wife.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitaker,” I say, upon pulling the door open. “How are you?”

Mrs. Whitaker is a nice woman of about fifty five who lives alone with her two dogs. She’s a bit of a religious fanatic but keeps to herself
most of the time. “Fine, thanks,” she says. “I… I really don’t want to be a bother…” Her eyes drift down to my pajamas.

“It’s fine. Is something the matter?”

Her cheeks flush. “I just noticed that your trash is piling up a little, Ken. And it smells…” The flesh of her face continues to redden. “It smells just awful. Unbearable, even. I don’t suppose you could do something about it?”

I plant my hand firmly on my forehead. “Yes! Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Whitaker. God, I’m sorry. Truly, I am.” I shake my head. “I must have forgotten. I’ve just gotten married, you see, and I haven’t been home the past few days.”

“Oh.” Her entire demeanor changes. “Oh! Well, that makes sense, then. You’ve never been a problem before. And really, I’m sorry to bother you about it. I wouldn’t be here unless it was really bad.”

“It’s my fault entirely. I’ll take care of it right now.”

Her face is alit with a yellowing smile. “And congratulations, Ken! May I bake the new Mr. and Mrs. Parsons some cookies as a belated wedding gift?”

I place my hands on my
hips. “We’d both like that very much, Mrs. Whitaker. Thank you. And again, I do apologize for everything. Now, about that trash…”

I offer a nod as I round the side of the house, heading toward the backyard. I unlatch the gate, step inside, and walk to the trash cans. What I’m greeted with is even worse than I had suspected.

Garbage is everywhere. In the yard, over the fence, even stuck
on
the fence like a refuse crucifix. The bags that once held this trash lay in deflated plastic puddles across the yard. My metal garbage cans, meanwhile, are sprawled out on their sides in my garden, looking like dented up soup cans cast aside in a gutter.

No wonder Mrs. Whitaker smelled trash. Did she not hear it, though? Did she not hear George creating this terrible mess? And what the hell could he have possibly been looking for?

I spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning up my backyard. I scrape crusty banana peels from the sidewalk, scoop up crumbled paper towels that flutter around like tiny tumbleweeds, and sweep coffee grounds from the stepping stones that dot a path from my back door to the garage. The flies disperse as I work, and it’s a chore that leaves me sweaty and smelling like a compost heap.

I look over my shoulder constantly, waiting to see his looming shadow overtake mine. But I never do.

When the task is finally done, I plop myself down on the edge of the concrete patio, next to an attractive, if weather-beaten, wicker chair. It’s my only piece of outdoor furniture and I have by now wisely learned not to sit in it. Some things just serve a higher purpose in the aesthetic form. The ground is rough but cool here on the shaded side of the house. It’s a welcome sensation on my warm palms and backside.

I survey the state of my yard as I sit there, cooling off. It brings quite the frown because even though the space is no longer riddled with garbage, it’s still ugly. The grass has grown long and wild, in the few places where it hasn’t been scorched yellow by the sun. The pine slats of the fence are bleached a sickly brown, much in need of staining. And the garage, an old but sturdy thing, is peeling paint like a snake shedding its
skin. I can already see wood rot beginning to warp the boards of its siding upward.

My yard is suffering from neglect. Still staring, I find myself confused. I’ve always prided myself on two things in life: my education and the beauty of my home. What’s happened here, I wonder. How have I allowed this outdoor sanctuary to fall into such disrepair? Have I truly been so busy with matters of the heart, with the arrival of Joanna in my life, that I’ve unintentionally let another part of me be forgotten? The thought saddens me. It troubles me so badly, in fact, that I begin to feel ashamed of myself, embarrassed to be sitting here in this land of discarded beauty.

Then I see something which stops me cold, my breath trapped silently in my lungs. There at the end of the yard, between two parted fence slats, I see movement. My heart quickens as the thought crosses my mind that I’m being watched.

I lean forward, squinting across the twenty meter distance to discern the shape of the thing beyond my fence. It shuffles again, rustling shadows and leaves all around it. I pray it’s a squirrel, or a stray cat, but I know it’s not. This is confirmed when it blinks at me and I see that its eye is large and round—too large for a feline—and surrounded by pink flesh.

Gasping, I feel myself instinctively fumble backwards. The concrete is rough, abrasive against the soft skin of my hands as I scramble across it like a crab. My eyes never leave the hole in the fence, where the watchful orb sits, trained steadily back at me.

I know in my heart of hearts that the eye belongs to George. He’s come for me once more, that restless soul, and this time
possibly to kill me. My hands quiver, nails scraping across solid ground as I shuttle myself further and further away.

My spine meets with whitewashed wood siding and I find that I have run out of room on the patio. The jarring impact of my skull as it meets the side of the house shakes me from my mental anguish. I look to George again, or rather his disembodied eye, with sharper clarity of the situation. In his jealous mind I know he wishes to take my heart away from me, just reparations for what I have presumably done to him. I
can’t let that happen. I have obligations now, a wife that I have sworn to protect with my last dying breath.

Her face comes to me then, my beautiful Joanna, lighting my way like the shimmering beacon of a lighthouse in a squalling storm. It gives me the strength to climb to my feet
, to break contact with the all-seeing eye on the opposite side of the yard. I turn to the side and run to my home’s back door. My heart is playing an unnatural, irregular drumbeat in my chest. My fingers tingle with nervous energy and my head feels as if it could pop off at any second, like a balloon, and float away.

I reach for the screen
door, tug it free on its rusted hinge. But when I try to turn the brass knob of the main door, I am foolishly reminded of my own muddled thinking. The door is locked, as it always is. And I have no key in my pajama pockets. I jiggle the handle twice more, feeling hot tears of fearful frustration well up in the corners of my eyes. What was I thinking? The door doesn’t budge.

Quickly, I realize that my only option is to return the way I entered by circling around the house and going back in through the front door. I step back, letting the screen door slam shut in its frame, and jerk a wary glance toward the fence. The spying eye is gone. As is any evidence of its owner.

Where has he gone? Where is George?

As panic forms a knot in my throat, I wonder if George is already on his way around the front of the house too. All he needs to do is follow the modest circumference of the fence, which encircles my corner lot of the short city block.

I can’t let him get to Joanna, even if that means endangering myself, so I find renewed strength in my legs and scramble to the front door. I don’t see Mrs. Whitaker in her panoramic living room window, offering me a wave of thanks for cleaning up the trash, nor do I see the jogging neighbor man who gives me a nod on his way by. My eyes are only on the front door, which is cracked open.

Did I leave it that way? Or is George inside my house?

I step inside and close the door, gently as I can, trying to let the latch catch in the doorway without making noise. But it clicks, ever so softly, and I hear a voice ring out. It sends my heart into my throat.

“Ken? Ken, is that you?”

It’s just Joanna.

“Y—” I hear my voice trembling—get it together, Ken. “Yes, dear, it’s me.”

“Oh. I heard some noise outside. Was that you? Is everything okay?”

I blink away old tears as I pace through the living room, knees bent and head down to the floor, eyeing the carpet like a bloodhound. I don’t see any sign of footprints. “Yes, everything’s okay. Did it startle you?”

“No, but it did wake me up. What took you so long?”

I pull open the closet door and see nothing more than a set of old towels and a stock of toilet paper. “Oh, some of the trash blew over, actually. Mrs. Whitaker came to talk to me about picking it up. Some of the… uh, smell must have wafted her way.”

I’m expecting annoyance, maybe even embarrassment, but she giggles, and as I enter the room my beloved is in bed with her arms rested firmly over her chest, laughing.

“That poor woman.
And her bedroom window’s right by the fence, isn’t it? You did apologize to her, didn’t you?”

I feel my heart slowing. For the moment I question the possibility that George is actually hiding somewhere in this house. With Joanna having woken up and having heard everything, having even heard me so quietly closing the door, wouldn’t she have also heard a man tip-toeing around the house? Surely I just left the door cracked open that way when I went to answer Mrs. Whitaker. Didn’t I?

“Didn’t you?”

I snap out of my train of thought. “I certainly did apologize. And I told her you said hello, too. She’s going to bake us some cookies, to congratulate us on our marriage.”
“Oooh,” Joanna coos. “I can’t do a lot of things, my dear, but I can at least eat cookies with you in bed.” She smiles. “So many crumbs… how’s
that
for a naughty honeymoon?”

I find myself smiling as well. “I do appreciate your rebellious nature, love.”

Suddenly Joanna sits up in bed and wrinkles her nose. “You know, dear, now that you mention it, I
can
smell a bit of that trash. I don’t suppose you’d put some more of my fancy French perfume on me?”