Page 24 of When Fences Fall
“You can’t have caffeine?” I repeat in horror.
“They say so.” She shrugs. “I don’t agree though. I’ve been drinking five cups of brutally black joe for the past eighty years, and now they want to take this away from me.” Her hand tightens on the mug. “I don’t think so.”
“But it’s bad for you, right?”
“Having constipation and a nearly blind eye is bad for me. Having a cup of coffee in the morning might just be the only good thing.”
Eyeing her from the side, I’m trying to figure out how much trouble I’m really in. I can’t exactly go and tell Nora I might have accidentally given her sick grandmother a cup of coffee, but I also can’t let it go. What if she gets worse? What if her heart stops while she’s home alone?
I decide that I’ll keep an eye on her from the windows, which could be a little creepy. But I can hide my real intentions with a neighborly desire to help them fix the house, and when Nora comes home in the evening, I’ll talk to her.
So this is how I spend my day, lurking around their house and finding new things to fix. Occasionally I get a curious smile from Moon through the windows when she notices me creeping around. I just wave back at her with a hammer or an axe—whatever tool I have in my hands in the moment—and go back to fixing things, dreading the moment of Nora’s arrival.
When the beams of her truck appear down the road, like a coward I collect my tools and rush back to the safety of my own house. I can always talk to her later.
10
Nora
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been dreading facing Jericho again. And it’s not my police investigation fiasco that’s bothering me, it’s what came after. The moment of quiet peace on my front porch. The first time we actually spoke like humans without barking at each other.
My fear of facing him becomes unwarranted because I don’t see him for a few days. In fact, other than his truck, I don’t see any signs of him. Has this town already spooked him so much with our good intentions? We can do that to people. The poor guy who was renting the house before him didn’t last long either. I think our family was the only one talking to him while everyone else deemed him ‘dangerous,’ but we knew he was a sweetheart deep down. Very, very deep. Which might be the reason only we got close with him—Grandma has this quality of breaking people’s walls and making them feel like they’ve finally found home.
I hear Jericho’s truck before I actually see him. There’re only two houses on this side of the street, and I’m notexpecting any guests. Cheryl called earlier and said that Granny is staying with her again, which is unusual. She prefers to stay here, far from the town’s noise, except for bingo nights. I wonder if she’s avoiding sleeping in her own house because of the rooster—maybe he’s bothering her too.
I really don’t like staying alone in this big, empty house. It’s not like Granny could save me if shit hits the fan or some big burglary happens around here, but her presence always makes me feel like Superman. Like I can beat up anyone who dares come at her. I guess we’ve switched roles because she’s the one who’s always protected me, and now it’s my turn. It has been for a long time if I’m honest.
When Granny stays with Cheryl, I try to stay late at the diner and then drag my feet around town, looking for errands so I don’t have to spend much time alone at home. Because staying here alone means reliving the same nightmare I’ve been having since I was a kid. It seems to attack me the most when no one is around.
Nightmares are the reason I started sleeping naked. They would cause awful night sweats where I’d be drenched in the morning and shivering from cold. So I began ditching all clothes and developed a habit of having an extra blanket by my bed.
Being alone in the house or facing Jericho after our interaction are two equally terrifying things, but the latter seems more mortifying, so the decision is not that difficult. Sighing, I rise to my feet and walk back to my front door, hoping to disappear behind it before he sees me.
I wake up to the same sound that has been haunting me for the past few months.
The damn rooster—the uncatchablePhantom of the Opera.
I can’t even be sure he’s real, but at least one other person can attest to his existence. Grandma swears she saw him in the backyard in the wee hours of dawn, but I’m unsure if both of us are tripping with the way he seems to phase in and out of reality. Might as well be.
I pull the curtain on the window to the side, prepared to be disappointed. But not this time. The rooster is there. Sitting right onthetopof the wooden fence separating the neighbor’s and my yards. How did he get there? It’s pretty high for a flightless bird.
I’m ready to run outside and catch the morning monster when I remember that I am naked. But we’re not alone anymore on this part of the street, so I pull on a ratty, gray T-shirt that covers my bum and run to the back door, grabbing a hat on the way and tall, warm boots.
Carefully opening it and trying not to scare the evil creature off, I peek outside. He’s there. The rooster. The thing turns his head with his beady eye toward me and lets out a loud cock-a-doodle-doo. Showing the bird my middle finger might seem immature, but it certainly makes me feel better.
Grabbing a pitchfork on the way, I silently pad toward the fence where I’m planning to make myself invisible by merging with the wood and then moving toward the rooster. What I’ll do when I get to him is unclear, but the plan is good enough.
Halfway to him, I hear a rustling sound behind the fence. Peeking my eyes between the rails, I try to figure out where the sound is coming from. But it’s dark, and my neighbor doesn’t have the lights on because the fixture on his backyard is broken. I know it is because it was me who threw a mug at the rooster which collided with a different target—the half-hanging light on the back of his house.
Hopefully he’ll fix it soon because even though I love nature, the pitch-black darkness creeps me out. The low grayof dawn is all right, but if I had to come out an hour ago, I wouldn’t have been comfortable.
The rustling intensifies, moving toward me. The rooster becomes agitated and starts flapping his useless wings.
I move my head around, trying to find a better position to see the source of the noise. And there, I find the storming figure of my neighbor. Said figure is wearing unbuttoned jeans. How do I know they’re unbuttoned? They’re about to slide down his narrow hips. The happy trail looks very happy to be hiding behind the zipper. And he has no shirt on. I mean, I don’t have pants on, but I ran out here on a whim, chasing the feathery demon. I didn’t plan on staying here for a long time because it sure is cold outside. If not for tall boots and the hat I put on before rushing out, I’d be freezing right now.
The rooster lets out another loud chorus, and I slow down, trying to be a silent ninja and catch him before he runs away. But my neighbor the brute clearly is not on board with my plan because his already loud stride turns into a run as he jumps at the fence, trying to catch the rooster.
Such a rookie mistake. He must think the bird is stupid and would just sit there waiting to be caught. I’ve been hunting him for a long time with no luck. Why does he think he can just sweep in and catch him on the first try?
