Free Curtains by Scott Nicholson Page B

protection and cover
now seemed like a prison wall, cutting off his escape. He thought
about yelling, but his throat was tight and he was afraid he would
sound like a sissy girl.
    “I have some blueberry bushes along the rear
of the property,” the hippie said. “Do you think it’s fair that the
brats can just come on over anytime they please and stuff their
faces? I pay my taxes and I send my mortgage payment to the bank on
time. I’ve got rights.”
    “That why you planted the razors?”
    “Yeah. Of course, they can come down the
driveway, but I figure that’s not sneaky enough for them. You know
how kids are, they like to think they’re outsmarting the
grown-ups.”
    “Snagged any of them yet?”
    “Just the cat. But it only takes once and I
don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
    “What about their parents? What if they call
the cops, or Social Services?”
    “I’ll just say the blades came with the
property. How was I to know the previous owner was insane?”
    “Now you just hold on a second,” Herman said.
“That house belonged to Ned Loggerfeld, and not once did he let a
post sag. He cleaned his gutters twice a year and snow never had a
chance to melt in his driveway so long as he owned a shovel.”
    “I heard he died of a heart attack,” the
hippie said. “In the cold, your arteries narrow. Shoveling snow is
about the worst thing you can do if your heart is bad.”
    Herman recalled the February day when Ned had
flopped on his back near the mailbox, arms spread like he was
making a snow angel. Turned out he was making a real angel. Herman
had dialed 9-1-1 while Mrs. Breedlove performed some
pervert-looking maneuvers she said was CPR. If old Ned could have
seen the woman sucking and blowing on his mouth, he might have come
back down from heaven for a chance to smooch back.
    “Okay,” Herman said. “Looks like a standoff.
I got no gripe with a fellow doing what he wants on his own
property, as long as he keeps up appearances.”
    “Oh, I’m pretty good at keeping up
appearances, Mr. Weeks.” The hippie grinned like he was in an
organic produce market and the tofu was half price.
    “How’d you know my name?”
    “Deeds Office down at the courthouse. Like I
said, I like to get to know the neighbors. Before I buy.”
    “Don’t blame you none,” Herman said. He
wished the ugly redheaded family had left on their porch lights
like they usually did. The moon wasn’t bright enough to dull the
shine in the hippie’s eyes.
    “You’re a registered Republican.”
    “So? What are you?”
    “Libertarian.”
    “That mean you don’t eat eggs or cheese?”
    “Only in a free market economy,” the hippie
said. “I also know you bought your two acres back in 1956. You were
probably married once, judging from the Elvis decanter on the
sewing machine in your living room. While you might have been an
Elvis fan, I doubt you idolize him enough to collect. And being a
product of the Eisenhower administration, you never saw fit to have
your wife listed as co-owner of the property.”
    “You been peeking in my windows?”
    “No. Not on purpose. You can see it when you
drive by. Your house sits a little below the road and Elvis is
right there between the curtains. You ought to look at your
surroundings with new eyes now and then. You might be surprised at
what you see.”
    Herman wished he had the hammer. He would fix
the hippie, and then fix that damned fence post. Then he’d do what
he should have done right after Verna’s passing, take the Elvis
decanter out back and pound it into dust. But he couldn’t help
himself, his head turned and he scanned the neighborhood, from 101
to 108 and back again.
    All of the houses had gone through several
families in his time. Widow Hampton’s kids, who used to stub around
in diapers, were now grown and gone, he didn’t know the names of
the couple in 107 or if they were even married, half of the houses
now had vinyl siding, and, when you got right down to