【by Sydney Smith】

There’s a cul-de-sac (a dead-end, a blind alley, whatever you want to call it) that branches
off of a rural street in Massachusetts, laid behind a farm that reeks of manure in the warmer
months. That’s where I grew up. The cows grazing on fresh grass were visible outside of my
window in the morning, from the muted green house with lemon shutters. I know that color
combination sounds like it shouldn’t work, but it does. I love that house.

There weren’t any other families with kids on that street, but our neighbors were
amicable, if a bit reserved, and were always kind to us. The Murpheys were newer to the street: a
nuclear family with a well-known mother, resourceful father, and a quiet daughter. Maybe quiet
isn’t the right word. I consider myself observational. Across the street, in a tan house, our
neighbor Beatrice was a woman going on 80, as I went on 18, with a nest of gray hair sitting on
her head, a collection of pastel clothes, and a husband who fought and passed in Vietnam. For a
woman who lived alone in such a large house, she was never lonely. She knit constantly with
youthful hands, collected ceramics at an alarming rate, and had an ever-full bowl of colored
candy by the door. Bea always loved to fill her home with warmth.

Directly next door to us lived Jim and his wife, Janine. We didn’t speak to them much, not
out of spite but out of lack of commonality. I’d never even been in their house, but my dad
sometimes went over to help with anything hardware related—my father loves his toolbox.

Jim was older than his wife, 57 with a strong sense of pride. He had dark, unsettling eyes
that seemed to damper any emotion that flitted through his face. He loved his lawn, his country,
and his 1967 Chevrolet Impala red convertible. Jim wasn’t quite skinny or fat, dumb or smart,
tall or short, nice or mean. He was pretty average—it always left a pit in my stomach. Retired
from what, I don’t know, he picked up a bit of work from the local WhiteWing pumping gas for
extra cash, and I think he liked the gig due to the easy accessibility to his Marlboros.

Janine had the most gorgeous hair, that’s what I remember about her most. Black locks
that spilled down just past her shoulders, but not too far, for she always liked to keep it relatively
short. She was so kind to Bea, a loyal friend, always ready to listen to the weathered woman’s
stories huddled under blankets in the winter or share a cup of lemonade on the covered porch in
the summer. Janine bore a kid early in life—a son who grew to have his own son, a blonde boy
much younger than I whom I saw frolicking in our joined yards many times. Janine was 51, and
was still working at the law firm a few towns over, where she was the well-liked secretary with
lips constantly adorned in a warm, bright red, matte smile. She looked wonderful in scarlet or
crimson. I guess I always associated the color red with Jim and Janine.


It happened in October. My mother told me it was a heart issue, something that caused
the organ to fail—it seized her overnight.

Janine passed on October 17th, 2018.

Bea was devastated. The Murphey household may not have visited with her much, but
Janine’s warmth had been felt all over the street—as was her death. We weren’t invited to the
funeral, nor did we feel it appropriate to go, but we pitched in where we could. I knew that it
wasn’t abnormal for a seemingly healthy person to pass so suddenly—my mind thinking of the
6th grade teacher our local school system had lost years back—but my heart was screaming that
this wasn’t right. Why Janine? She was the epitome of suburban warmth. Not only was she in
good health, but she was just good.

The neighbors pitched in where we could. My mother cooked her home-made chicken pot
pie in a ridged glass dish, and I went with her to deliver it along with our condolences. We walked
across the yard, soggy with rain from a sky that seemed to endlessly weep in loss, and approached
our neighbor’s door that stood proudly under a tan awning.

With the pitter of the rain in the background, I got my first look at Jim since his wife’s
death. His eyes were wild and haunted by what I could only assume was grief, and his face was
painted with a ghostly pallor. I gave him a sad smile as my mother promised that whatever he
needed, we would give. My heart gave a terrifying flip as I inhaled. Clearly his house hadn’t
been the same without Janine. It smelt awful—a mix of metal and bleach. I froze, a small frown
forming on my face as I furrowed my eyebrows in concentration and looked beyond the man at
the door. It almost smelt like a hospital.

Jim shifted, catching my attention once again, and I ran my eyes over him. His hair was
disheveled, his dark jeans littered with patches of lighter denim, and his white shoes were old
and tattered, with a single spot of mud on his left shoe. He must have been in his yard earlier
today—but wouldn’t both shoes be muddy if that were the case? Blinking, in the low light of the
gray sky, I caught a shimmering crimson hue in the smear of mud. No…it was fully red and
viscous. My eyes shot up to his, sharp and piercing—looking directly at me—and his nostrils
flared as his jaw hardened. My mother chose that moment to say her final condolences and led
me off of the porch. Jim grabbed his door as we left, and halfway to our house I turned back to
find him looking at me through the final crack of space between the door and its frame. A single
eye peered through, and I saw no grief or loss in that gaze—only malice.