Castles

‘They added another layer. I can see it over the fence now,’ said Graham, peering out the kitchen window. His shoulders were inching toward his ears in agitation. If he didn’t calm down he would end up ruining his whole morning.

‘Just stop looking out the window, dear,’ replied his wife. She gently sipped her coffee before returning to her boiled egg, rapping it on the top with the back of her spoon.

‘How can I stop? We built the fence, so I could look out the window into our yard without seeing their crap. Now they have exceeded the top of it!’

He was really working himself into a froth. Elizabeth patted the seat of the chair next to her and said, ‘Come, sit down before your toast gets cold.’

‘I am writing another letter to the town council. This is completely out of hand. We shouldn’t have to endure this.’

Elizabeth smeared jam onto a piece of toast and set it on the plate at the place setting next to hers. ‘Graham.’

‘Fine. I’ll sit down. But I mean it. I’m filing a complaint.’

Graham sat down next to Elizabeth and began attacking his toast, elbows on the table, leaning over his breakfast like it was a kill he took down with a spear. Elizabeth patted his arm.

‘You have to remember; they lost their only child. It wears on their psyche.’

‘That was almost twenty years ago!’ he fired back.

Elizabeth gave him a scolding look.

Retreating from being so insensitive, he added, ‘You know what I mean. I know that kind of loss stays with you, but this is the wrong way to grieve.’

‘We could have a chat with them. Ask them to rearrange things to keep it below the fence line,’ she offered in compromise.

‘I think you are missing the larger problem. Our property value has plummeted. As long as that dump exists next door, we will never be able to sell this house and move to Sarasota. Everything we planned will be ruined,’ said Graham, holding his coffee mug like it could absorb his fury and disappointment, if he squeezed hard enough. He shot a glance toward the kitchen window, then continued, ‘Besides, the last time we spoke to them, when they were hoarding perishables and attracting rats, they tried to justify it with that mumbo jumbo the fortune teller told them.’

Elizabeth looked up from her now empty eggshell and daintily took a bite from the corner of her toast, ‘Spiritualist, dear. Not a fortune teller.’

Graham rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t care what she is called. The whole idea that the dead can be enticed to return by saving everything they would need is ridiculous. Twenty years worth of food, clothes, and personal effects moldering away in the lot next to us,’ he said waving an arm in the general direction of the neighbors, ‘How long do we have to put up with this before the town council sends them a cease and desist letter or makes them see a shrink?’

Elizabeth dusted the crumbs from her hands onto her plate and replied, ‘Finish your coffee, Graham. We’ll go talk to them this morning. I made a coffee cake for the church social tomorrow, but I can make another. We’ll take this one over, as an expression of good will, before asking them to move things.’

Graham gave a stern nod in agreement, tossed back his coffee, then followed his wife to the front door to put on his shoes.

It had been at least three years since he’d been at the front door of his neighbor’s house. They’d built a tall, wooden fence around the perimeter of their property line, the last compromise in the dispute with the residents of the neighborhood. You were free to have an eyesore of a property, as long as no one else had to look at it. Graham and Elizabeth stood at the gate in the fence line. The mailbox hastily nailed to the fencepost was overfilling. It was added when the Post Office refused to deliver mail to the front door any longer, citing safety concerns to the carrier.

‘Should we knock?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘How would they hear us knock from the house?’ he retorted, ‘Let’s just open the gate and make our way to the front door.’

‘Have you had your tetanus booster,’ she joked as she pushed open the gate.

Graham scowled at his wife’s comment, then stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the horror on the other side of the fence. Boxes, tubs, crates, bags, and baskets full of junk lay before them, at least the height of an adult man. The hoard was clearly layered by age – more recent items on top, older collections at the bottom – as the boxes and crates at the bottom were moldy, disintegrating, or the contents were leaking out. At the top were items that appeared recently purchased; a shopping bag filled with unopened cans of beans, soups, and fruits, a basket with several packs of unopened t-shirts, a bathroom caddy holding full bottles of shampoo, bars of soap, and shaving cream. Their neighbors’ detritus covered the entire lawn.

Winding through the high-stacked piles was a jerky path that looked like what rabbits dug in their warrens to confuse predators. Graham and Elizabeth took slow and tentative steps along the path, afraid to move quickly, for fear of knocking over debris and being crushed to death. When they finally made it to the front door, Elizabeth remarked, ‘Oh, my! The door looks so normal.’

The front door was painted a cheerful yellow and was flanked on either side by miniature carriage lanterns. To the left, just off the walkway was a pot of geraniums and a little yard gnome statue holding a sign that read “Our home is our Castle”, a play on words, as that was their surname. Graham shot Elizabeth a look that told her she should never invest in similar lawn ornamentation for their house.

Graham rapped his knuckles on the door, and they waited a moment until they heard shuffling within the house. The door opened, but only halfway, clearly blocked by a similar hoard filling the interior. A man, slighter in build than Graham, but half a head more height, opened the door. I took a moment for the man to recognize his visitors. ‘Oh, Graham and Lizzy. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.’

Elizabeth pursed her lips, then quickly flattened them to a genial smile. She hated to be called “Lizzy”. Letting the irritation pass, she said, ‘Robert, how are you? Graham and I brought you a coffee cake,’ she said, holding out the foil wrapped baked good, ‘and wanted to drop by to see Margaret.’

Robert nodded his head slowly, gave a feeble smile, and said, ‘I’m sure you also want to talk about the side yard. I know you can see it peeking over the fence. But it worked! Please come in and see.’

Graham and Elizabeth shot each other a concerned look. Neither of them was expecting more than a brief chat about the mess now visible from their kitchen window. Now they were being invited inside. What did Robert mean that it worked? Graham gave his wife a reassuring rub on the back and entered the house first, stepping into a narrow path cutting through a mountain of litter. Similar to the outside, the living room was packed to the ceiling with clothes, bags of personal care items, food in cans and boxes, a couple hair brushes, DVDs, and various other items. Elizabeth could swear she saw the handles and front tire of a mountain bike popping out the top of the pile. They both quietly scanned the debris, not sure whether to be disgusted at or feel sorry for their neighbors. Robert was a yard further along the trail zigzagging through the landslide of belongings when he turned and waved at them to follow, ‘Come, come.’

Graham and Elizabeth gingerly picked their way along, following Robert, until they emerged into a relatively uncluttered sitting room. To the side of the room a moderately plump, middle-aged woman with short, graying hair was kneeling in front of a recliner, in which was seated a man in his mid-twenties. Robert said, ‘Margie, the Marstellers stopped by for a visit. Do you want to share our good news?’

Margaret turned and stood up from the floor, her face smiling, but wet with tears. ‘Graham, Elizabeth, look! Douglas has come home.’

Stepping aside, Margaret firmly gripped the young man’s hand and waved for Graham and Elizabeth to come closer. In the recliner sat the Castle’s son, who had been killed in Afghanistan nearly twenty years ago. They’d only ever seen photos of him as an adult, their memory of him predominantly being a teenager roaming the neighborhood on his bike. When he joined the Army, he rarely returned home. But it was unmistakably him in front of them now.

Yet, something wasn’t quite right. His eyes were vacant, no hint of feeling or thought behind them. His face held no expression, like a death mask. Graham stood back, as if the presence of Douglas was both offensive and contagious. Elizabeth, more curious than afraid, moved closer to stand next to Margaret. ‘How is this possible? Did the Army make a mistake when they told you he was dead?’

Margaret gazed back at her son, brimming with affection. ‘On, no, Liz. It was like the spiritualist said. If we collect the things he needs,’ she said indicating the hoard with her free hand, ‘he would come back to us. And he did.’