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Authors: Travis Thrasher
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by and said hello. He didn’t reciprocate. His eyes peered through sunglasses at
the revolving strangers sending out mail.
And then the car pulled up.
It was a silver four-door Volvo SUV. The same one he had seen the other day.
And out stepped Dennis Shore, wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a red T-shirt. He wore sunglasses and looked unshaven.
Cillian wondered if this was how Dennis Shore always dressed up when running errands in town. He couldn’t help smiling. He
stood and walked to his car. In the hot leather seat, the air conditioner cooling him down, he waited to see the author again.
Ten minutes later, several items of mail in hand, Dennis Shore climbed back into the Volvo. Soon the silver vehicle passed
directly in front of him.
He turned his car right to head down Third Street, following. And in less than ten minutes, maybe even five, he watched the
silver Volvo pull into the street flanked by walls and trees and bushes off of Route 31.
A sign said Private Property.
He slowed but sped up as the car behind him pulled up to his bumper. He drove down 31 for a few minutes, then turned around,
driving past the driveway again.
The private dirt road headed down toward the river. He could barely make out the two houses down there because of the tall,
aged trees. One was a stately Victorian house, another a lackluster two-story brick house.
He guessed which belonged to Dennis Shore.
And he smiled, knowing it wasn’t private property anymore.
Breathe
1.
The doorbell rang and someone tromped in before Dennis could get to the front entryway.
“Hey, man, your neighborhood having a cleaning day or what?” Hank McKinney always came over on Sundays during the football
season. He was a jock who used to play hockey and had a face that proved it. His muscular arms carried a box full of food
and beverages.
“Why do you say that?” Dennis asked.
“’Cause the Addams Family next to you has a lawn full of garbage that’s blowing over into your yard.”
Dennis stepped through the front door as Hank headed toward the kitchen. There were newspapers scattered over his lawn, stuck
in his bushes, even somehow lodged in his trees. Then he noticed other things. A sock. A cardboard box. A couple of milk jugs.
And sprinkled like snow all across his yard, shredded Styrofoam. He shook his head and shut the door. He’d deal with this
later.
In the kitchen, the stout guy wearing the Bears jersey was almost finished unloading everything he’d brought.
“Expecting company?” Dennis asked as his friend finished putting the beer in the fridge.
Hank just grunted. “What’s the story on those neighbors?”
“I have no idea,” Dennis said, stacking dirty dishes in the sink. “They’ve been there since we moved in. They’re reclusive—they
never have the lights on. Sometimes I see the old man using an ax in his front yard, chopping something—I don’t know what.
It’s strange.”
“Yeah, they’re weird all right.”
“Every time I try to make conversation they either act like they don’t understand English or simply are completely unsocial.
Yet then I see them talking to the mailman, so I have no idea.”
Hank uncapped a beer and offered it to Dennis.
“I still have a stomach full of coffee,” Dennis said.
“You suck at tailgating, you know that?”
“We’re not twenty-five anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. How’s the bachelor life?”
“Quiet,” Dennis said.
“Any more strange girls knocking on your door?”
Hank was one of the few people he’d told about Samantha.
“Yeah, this time a trio of beauties showed up at my door. I sent them away.”
“Send them over to my pad.”
They went to the family room where Dennis’s state-of-the-art television hung against the wall. He had bought an entire package—the
high-definition television, the Bose surround sound system,
the one remote to rule them all.
Lucy would never have allowed him to spend that much
the revolving strangers sending out mail.
And then the car pulled up.
It was a silver four-door Volvo SUV. The same one he had seen the other day.
And out stepped Dennis Shore, wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a red T-shirt. He wore sunglasses and looked unshaven.
Cillian wondered if this was how Dennis Shore always dressed up when running errands in town. He couldn’t help smiling. He
stood and walked to his car. In the hot leather seat, the air conditioner cooling him down, he waited to see the author again.
Ten minutes later, several items of mail in hand, Dennis Shore climbed back into the Volvo. Soon the silver vehicle passed
directly in front of him.
He turned his car right to head down Third Street, following. And in less than ten minutes, maybe even five, he watched the
silver Volvo pull into the street flanked by walls and trees and bushes off of Route 31.
A sign said Private Property.
He slowed but sped up as the car behind him pulled up to his bumper. He drove down 31 for a few minutes, then turned around,
driving past the driveway again.
The private dirt road headed down toward the river. He could barely make out the two houses down there because of the tall,
aged trees. One was a stately Victorian house, another a lackluster two-story brick house.
He guessed which belonged to Dennis Shore.
And he smiled, knowing it wasn’t private property anymore.
Breathe
1.
The doorbell rang and someone tromped in before Dennis could get to the front entryway.
“Hey, man, your neighborhood having a cleaning day or what?” Hank McKinney always came over on Sundays during the football
season. He was a jock who used to play hockey and had a face that proved it. His muscular arms carried a box full of food
and beverages.
“Why do you say that?” Dennis asked.
“’Cause the Addams Family next to you has a lawn full of garbage that’s blowing over into your yard.”
Dennis stepped through the front door as Hank headed toward the kitchen. There were newspapers scattered over his lawn, stuck
in his bushes, even somehow lodged in his trees. Then he noticed other things. A sock. A cardboard box. A couple of milk jugs.
And sprinkled like snow all across his yard, shredded Styrofoam. He shook his head and shut the door. He’d deal with this
later.
In the kitchen, the stout guy wearing the Bears jersey was almost finished unloading everything he’d brought.
“Expecting company?” Dennis asked as his friend finished putting the beer in the fridge.
Hank just grunted. “What’s the story on those neighbors?”
“I have no idea,” Dennis said, stacking dirty dishes in the sink. “They’ve been there since we moved in. They’re reclusive—they
never have the lights on. Sometimes I see the old man using an ax in his front yard, chopping something—I don’t know what.
It’s strange.”
“Yeah, they’re weird all right.”
“Every time I try to make conversation they either act like they don’t understand English or simply are completely unsocial.
Yet then I see them talking to the mailman, so I have no idea.”
Hank uncapped a beer and offered it to Dennis.
“I still have a stomach full of coffee,” Dennis said.
“You suck at tailgating, you know that?”
“We’re not twenty-five anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. How’s the bachelor life?”
“Quiet,” Dennis said.
“Any more strange girls knocking on your door?”
Hank was one of the few people he’d told about Samantha.
“Yeah, this time a trio of beauties showed up at my door. I sent them away.”
“Send them over to my pad.”
They went to the family room where Dennis’s state-of-the-art television hung against the wall. He had bought an entire package—the
high-definition television, the Bose surround sound system,
the one remote to rule them all.
Lucy would never have allowed him to spend that much
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