Murder in the Neighborhood

The first one arrived just before dusk.  Dressed in black and strutting along my neighbor's curb, he was clearly full of himself.  Others soon appeared and arguments commenced.  It was toward this unruly mob that Edith walked, dragging her garbage down the driveway.  She said something to the noisy group but they seemed to ignore her.

Always concerned about her safety, I watched as Edith, nearing eighty, shuffled back to the house, protected from the winter chill by a tattered robe and a fluffy pair of slippers.  Since Arnie died, almost twenty years ago, I frequently offered to help her with chores but she was an independent woman and always declined my assistance.  Nevertheless, I watched until she was safely indoors before I retreated to the kitchen to prepare dinner.  Since my wife is an attorney and usually works late, I have gradually honed my culinary skills.

Having stored her portion in the fridge, I was cleaning the dishes and sipping on my second glass of wine when sirens screamed toward our neighborhood.  To my dismay, an ambulance and police car stopped in front of Edith's house, their blue and red lights flashing across the barren trees.  My heart was pounding as the medics rushed inside and, five minutes later, emerged with Edith on a gurney and whisked her off to the hospital.

Once again, I felt that I should have intervened earlier in the evening, even though she valued her privacy.  By the next morning, we learned that Edith was dead, apparently of a heart attack.  I now wonder if that murder of crows was an omen.

First Kiss

    I remember it well.  It was the Summer of Love, 1967.  Jack and I had invited ourselves to a party and decided that a few beers would ease our social mixing.  Unfortunately, we were too young to buy alcohol but he had a finely-crafted, fake draft card and, better yet, his kindly uncle owned a pony keg.
   Emerging from the store with a six-pack, Jack jumped behind the wheel and drove toward the wealthy section of town where horse pastures line long driveways that lead to the mansions.  Turning up the radio, we sipped our beers and listened to Grace Slick belt out Somebody to Love.  Jack reminded me that a friend of his sister was hosting the party and that her parents were currently in Europe.
   Once we reached our destination, the crowded scene forced us to park at the bottom of the driveway.  Though we could hear the music and see the glow from the outdoor lights, we were too far away to see the house or the party.  We thus decided to finish our beers and then emptied our bladders in the gate-side rose beds before trudging up the hill.
   Scanning the crowd, we located a couple of our high school classmates and tried to act like we were invitees.  Our nervousness was soon dashed when we realized that most of the celebrants were too drunk to care.  Striking up a conversation with our friends, we grabbed another beer from an ice-filled horse trough.
   Sometime later, just as the urge to urinate was occupying my attention, a girl grabbed me from behind, spinning me to the left.  Before I could ask her name, she placed a sloppy kiss over my mouth and probed about with her booze-flavored tongue.  I did my best to respond but she slid to the ground, staring up with a glassy-eyed smile before she passed out.  Luckily, a few of her friends arrived within seconds and helped her into a lounge chair.
   Once they were convinced she was just inebriated, her friends dispersed into the boisterous crowd.  I felt obliged to keep an eye on her and eventually joined her on the chair, trying to ask questions and holding her hand.  Much to my surprise, it was an emotional experience and my eyes soon filled with tears.  When Jack came over and said it was time to go, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and ambled off, looking back several times.  Though I watched for her at sock hops and parties over the next year, I never met her again and never learned her name.  But I will always remember that first kiss.

Last Day of School

   Rose was happier than she had ever been.  It was her last day of high school and the senior prom was scheduled for tomorrow night.  Tony had asked her to be his date and Rose and her mom had bought her first formal dress just last evening.  Though money had been tight since her dad’s death, five years ago, her mom insisted on buying the dress, telling Rose that she deserved it after performing so well in high school.

   In fact, Rose was elected to be the class Valedictorian and had been accepted to Stanford’s College of Architecture.  Since her childhood days, she was fascinated with modern buildings whenever her family would visit the city.  Having been raised in a small, farming town, the size and beauty of those structures never failed to inspire her.

   Last fall, when she and her mother visited the campus, the possibility of her acceptance seemed far-fetched and Rose had second thoughts about her goal.  Leaving her mom and younger sister would be difficult and, despite her stellar grades in high school, she wondered if she had the inner strength to succeed at the college level.

   But now, on her last day of high school, she had no doubt that she had made the right decision.  Following the prom and her graduation ceremony next week, she would begin her last season as a lifeguard at her town’s community pool.  She looked forward to a relaxing summer and, hopefully, to a few more dates with Tony before she left for college. 

   He had become a good friend since moving to town during their junior year and she couldn’t ask for a more kind and handsome companion.  In fact, Tony was her first and only boyfriend, reflecting her devotion to both her education and the needs of her family.  The possibility of a future marriage often crossed her mind but a college degree would have to come first and he had plans to join the Air Force.

   Entering the Art Room for the final time, she hung up her backpack and walked over to Mr. Moyer’s desk, thanking him for his inspiration and for the letter of recommendation, a glowing report that surely eased her way into Stanford.  He, of course, offered his best wishes and asked her to stay in touch through the years.

   As she was expressing her intent to do so, a series of pops echoed through the hallway.  Suspecting that one of her classmates had set off fireworks to celebrate their final day, Rose opened the door and turned to face the prankster.  She did not get a look at him and never had another thought.

   Five days later, three days before her planned graduation, Rose was buried in her prom dress.