Free Curtains by Scott Nicholson Page A

sand-nigger terrorists, he didn’t drive much
anymore. And the radio said the Democrats had gutted Social
Security again, so he tried to pinch a penny where he could.
Mostly, he kept to the house, which is why he wanted the fences in
good shape. When your world got smaller, the part that was yours
took on new value.
     
    Night fell, and Herman left the lights on
while he snuck around the house and into the vacant lot that ran
beside the hippie’s house. The land had belonged to a dentist up on
the hill, but when the dentist died, it fell into the hands of his
sons, who were living somewhere contrary like Oregon or New
Hampshire. The land had been a Christmas tree farm, and lately a
hay meadow, but now it mostly just raised briars and bunnies.
    He fought off the thorns and ducked into the
forsythia, crabapple, and jackvine that straddled the property
line. After checking the crosspieces for sharp edges, he slipped
through the fence and waited. Soon enough, the hippie’s door opened
and the shaggy, post-pissing mongrel came out, the hippie right
behind. Even with the moon out, the hippie wouldn’t be able to see
Herman crouching in the thicket, but the dog started whining right
away. The hippie made a beeline for the post that Herman had
straightened that morning. The hippie put a hand on it and leaned
it forward, careful to avoid the razor blade embedded in the
wood.
    “There,” the hippie said to the whimpering
mutt. “That ought to give the geezer something to fix tomorrow. Or
else a heart attack.”
    The hippie jumped as if electrocuted when
Herman flipped on the flashlight. The longhair froze in the orange
cone of light, pupils the size of BBs. Probably on meth heroin or
whatever dope his kind cooked up these days.
    “They look better if you do them square,”
Herman said.
    The hippie squinted against the flashlight’s
beam. “Who’s there?”
    “A concerned neighbor,” Herman said.
    “You the one with the picket fence, up at
101?”
    “None other.” Herman stood and flicked off
the light. They stared at each other’s silhouettes under the
quarter moon.
    “Why have you been messing with my fence?”
The hippie folded his arms across his chest. The shaggy mutt
stopped whimpering and crouched at its master’s feet.
    “Why you been making me?” Herman snapped his
shoulders back Marine-style, even though it was dark and the hippie
couldn’t get a cheap lesson in proper posture. This was his
neighborhood. He had a right to take an interest.
    “I like to know my neighbors,” the hippie
said. “The faster you peg the weirdoes, the faster you can take
steps to protect yourself.”
    Herman’s jaw loosened. “You mean you done
this on purpose? Like some kind of trap?”
    The hippie’s high-dollar teeth caught the
scant moonlight as he smiled. “One of them. The other traps are
scattered around the perimeter.”
    A light came on upstairs in the Hampton
house. From his dark vantage point, Herman could see the top half
of the widow as she slipped off her robe and stepped into the
shower. His pulse jumped a gear and he felt a flush of shame.
Spying like trash, that’s what he was doing. But she’d left her
curtains open, so it was her fault.
    “Ain’t seen Miss Hampton’s cat around
lately,” Herman said. “You wouldn’t know nothing about that, would
you?”
    “You might find it at the foot of the
dogwood,” the hippie said, nodding to the corner of his lot.
    “Dogwood?”
    “I thought that was fitting punishment,” the
hippie said. “Get it? A cat and a dogwood?”
    The mutt’s ears perked up at the sound of its
master’s laughter.
    “You buried her cat on your property?”
Herman’s thumb twitched against the flashlight, and he wasn’t sure
if he wanted to laugh with the hippie or addle the fool’s brains
with a sideswipe.
    “Don’t worry, the dogwood’s bark is worse
than its bite.”
    Herman eased backward a step, and the scrub
vegetation that had minutes earlier afforded