Read Online Curtains by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B

The flag
comes down when it rains, even if a stoned-out longhair would
rather burn one than fly one. But most of all, by God, you set your
fences straight.
    Fences were the first impression, the first
line of defense against those who thought the world belonged to
everybody. Herman would bet his John Wayne video collection that
the hippie at 107 Oakdale had a peace sign poster on his bedroom
wall. The peace sign was nothing but the footprint of the American
chicken. Herman didn’t mind a peaceful neighbor on general
principle, but the lessons of history were clear. Peace started
with strong borders, strong fences.
    Herman was a picket man himself. There was
something trustworthy about the sharp picket tips, a row of
threatening teeth that promised to nip at unwelcome guests. Best of
all, you could paint them church-white. Not that split rails
couldn’t look proper if you took a little pride in them.
    The door to 107 opened. Herman dropped the
curtain in disgust and sat again at his bowl of oatmeal. Doctor
said oats would clean out his pipes, and if a healthy diet didn’t
do the job, then a pervert with a medical degree and a hospital
hose would. The fear of a stranger meddling up his backside was
about the only thing that could make Herman eat oatmeal. The stuff
was barely fit for livestock.
    As he spooned a butter-heavy dose into his
mouth, he looked out the window. The hippie’s front door swung open
wide, and a shaggy little dog raced out and squatted in the weeds.
Hippie didn’t even have enough self-respect to get a boxer or a
hound, something territorial that would chew the leg off a
trespassing little brat. No, he had an overgrown lap dog, one that
would probably be plopping piles of dookie all over Herman’s yard
if the picket fence weren’t there.
    The dog finished its business and ran to the
hippie, who patted it on the head. Herman scowled into his oatmeal.
Public displays of affection were the mark of a sissy who couldn’t
be trusted. He waited until the hippie’s car passed, then he went
into the garage. Tools neatly lined the rear wall, hanging on
pegboard and shining under the glow of a single fluorescent
tube.
    He selected a claw hammer, then gritted his
teeth and swung it viciously, imagining the hammer head sinking
into the hippie’s skull. He swung again and again, his breath rapid
and shallow, his heartbeat like the salvos of an anti-aircraft gun.
His arm soon grew tired and he let the hammer rest against his
thigh.
    The August morning sun was bright on the dew
when he went outside. Mrs. Breedlove from 103 had her television
turned up too loud. That was okay, because Mrs. Breedlove kept her
flower gardens in military formation, heads up and rumps tucked in
tight. She had her flaws, but maintaining appearances wasn’t one of
them.
    Herman gathered a spare picket from the
woodpile and tucked it under his arm. He stepped through the gate
and walked down Oakdale, frowning at the dead leaves that clustered
along the curb. He’d be needing the rake before long. One of the
neighbor kids from 108 squealed in the distance. Brats. The budding
delinquents would wear a path in your grass and not think
twice.
    A kid on a bicycle came out from the trees
near the end of the block. It was a girl, one of the ugly redheads
from 104. You’d think she’d be in school, since this was Friday.
Ever since they’d made a big fuss over teachers’ rights, the brats
did most of their learning from each other. And the lesson they
learned best was how to mess on other people’s property.
    Herman tucked his hammer behind his back. The
redhead pedaled up, then stopped. She wore a New York Jets jersey,
and the only thing worse would have been Yankee pinstripes. The
early settlers of Aldridge Falls should have barred the dirt roads
and burned all the bridges, because outsiders had the run of the
place now. Rich folks with their Florida tans and fast New England
accents and property law attorneys.
    “Morning, Mr. Weeks,”