cover now seemed like a prison wall, cutting off his escape. He thought about yelling, but his throat was tight and he was afraid he would sound like a sissy girl.
“I have some blueberry bushes along the rear of the property,” the hippie said. “Do you think it’s fair that the brats can just come on over anytime they please and stuff their faces? I pay my taxes and I send my mortgage payment to the bank on time. I’ve got rights.”
“That why you planted the razors?”
“Yeah. Of course, they can come down the driveway, but I figure that’s not sneaky enough for them. You know how kids are, they like to think they’re outsmarting the grown-ups.”
“Snagged any of them yet?”
“Just the cat. But it only takes once and I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
“What about their parents? What if they call the cops, or Social Services?”
“I’ll just say the blades came with the property. How was I to know the previous owner was insane?”
“Now you just hold on a second,” Herman said. “That house belonged to Ned Loggerfeld, and not once did he let a post sag. He cleaned his gutters twice a year and snow never had a chance to melt in his driveway so long as he owned a shovel.”
“I heard he died of a heart attack,” the hippie said. “In the cold, your arteries narrow. Shoveling snow is about the worst thing you can do if your heart is bad.”
Herman recalled the February day when Ned had flopped on his back near the mailbox, arms spread like he was making a snow angel. Turned out he was making a real angel. Herman had dialed 9-1-1 while Mrs. Breedlove performed some pervert-looking maneuvers she said was CPR. If old Ned could have seen the woman sucking and blowing on his mouth, he might have come back down from heaven for a chance to smooch back.
“Okay,” Herman said. “Looks like a standoff. I got no gripe with a fellow doing what he wants on his own property, as long as he keeps up appearances.”
“Oh, I’m pretty good at keeping up appearances, Mr. Weeks.” The hippie grinned like he was in an organic produce market and the tofu was half price.
“How’d you know my name?”
“Deeds Office down at the courthouse. Like I said, I like to get to know the neighbors. Before I buy.”
“Don’t blame you none,” Herman said. He wished the ugly redheaded family had left on their porch lights like they usually did. The moon wasn’t bright enough to dull the shine in the hippie’s eyes.
“You’re a registered Republican.”
“So? What are you?”
“Libertarian.”
“That mean you don’t eat eggs or cheese?”
“Only in a free market economy,” the hippie said. “I also know you bought your two acres back in 1956. You were probably married once, judging from the Elvis decanter on the sewing machine in your living room. While you might have been an Elvis fan, I doubt you idolize him enough to collect. And being a product of the Eisenhower administration, you never saw fit to have your wife listed as co-owner of the property.”
“You been peeking in my windows?”
“No. Not on purpose. You can see it when you drive by. Your house sits a little below the road and Elvis is right there between the curtains. You ought to look at your surroundings with new eyes now and then. You might be surprised at what you see.”
Herman wished he had the hammer. He would fix the hippie, and then fix that damned fence post. Then he’d do what he should have done right after Verna’s passing, take the Elvis decanter out back and pound it into dust. But he couldn’t help himself, his head turned and he scanned the neighborhood, from 101 to 108 and back again.
All of the houses had gone through several families in his time. Widow Hampton’s kids, who used to stub around in diapers, were now grown and gone, he didn’t know the names of the couple in 107 or if they were even married, half of the houses now had vinyl siding, and, when you got right down to it, even with all the care and tending, his own house looked a little shabby and shopworn under the street lights. Like him, it had seen its best days, and an invisible earth digger was waiting in the wings to claim both of them.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” Herman said. “Why, look at the pride Mrs. Breedlove takes in her flowers.”
“Appearances are important, but they can also be deceiving. Order on the outside can often hide disorder inside.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Herman said. “Maybe your fence ain’t none of my business.”
The hippie’s dog skirted under the fence and pushed its nose to the ground, following the curb down to 103, where the Pilkingtons had left the trash out.
“Doggie bags,” the hippie said. “They’ll learn sooner or later.”
“Reckon so,” Herman said. “What’s your name?”
“Reynolds. Peter Reynolds.”
Herman was afraid that the hippie was going to stick his hand out in some jive shake or other, but he just stood there with that educated smile. Peter Reynolds had the home-field advantage, and he knew it. Herman had been caught where he didn’t belong. He looked over at the Pilkington house, where the mutt was gnawing through a plastic trash bag, scattering cellophane and rumpled paper towels.
“I’d best be going,” Herman said.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Herman thought of the razor blades, and wondered for the first time if Peter Reynolds maybe had a knife in his pocket. “What?”
The hippie pointed to the leaning fence post. “I don’t know about you, but my mom taught me to leave things just the way I found them.”
Herman started to argue, then thought of the maybe-knife and swallowed hard. He eased the post perpendicular to the ground and stomped his foot to tamp the dirt tight. “Good night, now,” he said.
“Watch your step,” the hippie, Peter Reynolds, said.
“Sounds like good advice.” Herman didn’t look back until he was inside his own home. He closed the curtains and hid the Elvis decanter in the closet with the rest of Verna’s things.
The next day, he called the Sheriff’s Office. The hippie wasn’t the only one who knew how to work the system. Herman had to sit on hold for a couple of minutes, but he finally reached Bud Millwood, a deputy who had made an unsuccessful run for sheriff a decade back. Herman had supported his campaign with cash and two signs in the yard, and though Millwood had lost the race, rural politics required his repaying of such a favor.
“I need you to check something for me, Bud,” Herman said.
“The city council trying to zone you again?”
“No, nothing like that. We voted that bunch out five years ago. The ‘Z’ word is a one-way ticket to hell around these parts.”
Millwood laughed. “You can set that in stone. A fellow’s got a right to do what he wants with his land.”
“Sometimes. Maybe sometimes.”
“What’s your problem?”
“I wondered if you could run a check on a fellow. Name of Peter Reynolds. He might not be from around here, but he ain’t Yankee, judging by his accent. Has Tennessee plates on his car.” Herman read off the license numbers he’d written on a scrap of paper.
“He do something wrong?”
“No, not yet. He just moved into the neighborhood, and you know how it is.”
“A fellow likes to know who his neighbors are.”
“Yep. So if you can dig anything up, I’d appreciate it.”
“Well, normally I got to have a reason to run a check. But maybe if you think he was growing dope or something.”
“He’s the type who might.”
“Good enough for me. I’ll call you when I learn something. If there’s so much as a counterfeit aspirin on his record, I’ll drive out and pay a personal visit.”
“No, I can handle him. Just let me know.”
