My Killer Neighbor

When I was twelve I lost a football to the abyss that was Mr. Wellerbey's vast yard. The grass was as green as a soccer field, and hosted countless boots from tired, sweaty workers every Saturday, whether it rained that week or not. The neighborhood kids and I, Joey, Mike and Scott were tossing the rock around, playing 2-on-2, when J-Man told me to go deep and did his best Jamarcus Russell impersonation, lofting the ball clear over the 12-foot wooden planks, which acted as castle walls around the old man's dystopian castle of a house. We hatched a plan--the plan--to have Joey lift Mike over the fence to attempt a rescue of the laced brown oblong object, but my father stopped us as we approached the towering, pointy barrier.

"Don't you know who lives there boy? That's Joe Wellerbey's house. He killed a man."

For seven hours that night, I toiled with the idea of our neighbor attacking other men. At first, I imagined a soldier, a marine who leaped from behind trees with sneak attacks and boobie traps, akin to Rambo. But, "A man," didn't sound like the work of a soldier, so I moved on to the next fixation. Perhaps it was an accident. Maybe Wellerbey hit another person in a car, or accidentally shot a compatriot in an ill-fated hunting accident. I wrestled with the thought until bedtime. As my father walked through the soft-white door of my bedroom and sat his thin frame on my bed, I asked about the scary neighbor who was now in possession of my friend's ball.

"Papa, when you said Mr. Wellerbey killed a man, what did you mean?"

"I meant exactly what I said."

"Is he a bad man?" I asked innocently.

"I wouldn't say that. But that doesn't mean you should go climbing his fence either."

Once my father switched the light off and left the room, I again allowed my imagination to drift. Mr. Wellerbey was big, I had seen him once at a neighborhood barbecue. He brought plain potato chips and parked himself in the corner of the Ferguson's backyard, where he sat as still as a gargoyle in a bright pink folding chair, nestled right by the pool, even though he never feigned interest in swimming. There he chatted with people as they strolled by, but never initiated a conversation, merely nodding and gesturing positively, even though beneath the hand movements and shoulder shrugs, you could tell there was something dark. Perhaps, sinister. He was a big man, with large forearms and gigantic hands, which were gnarled by woodwork and other forms of manual labor. I knew he'd mangle me if I stepped in his yard without permission and I had to warn my friends before the next morning.

"What do you mean you won't help us?" Joey barked when I told him the next morning.

"Didn't you hear my dad, he's killed a man, probably for less than trespassing."

"That's an old wives, or husband's, tale," Mike said, chortling at his awful joke.

"So you two are going to just hop his fence? What if we just asked him?"

"Why? We'll be in and out, he won't even know we're there."

As we approached the fence, it was impossible not to hear. The old man, Mr. Wellerbey, whistling along to an old jazz record. I hopped on Joey's shoulder to get a peek over the 12-foot fence and witnessed the large man gardening. On all fours in knee pads, dark blue jeans, brown boots and a red flannel, the large man delicately, patiently tended to his bed of pink Azalea's, meticulously plucking weeds from the soil in an attempt to keep the vibrant pedals alive for longer. As my head hovered above the sightline of the fence, I didn't see a killer with my green eyes. I saw a large old man, whistling while digging his hands in the dirt. My own hands rested on the roughly sanded ridge of the fence, and though Joey was the biggest of us, he couldn't hold me for long before succumbing to fatigue. As my friend plummeted, the jagged wood ripped my skin, leaving both hands bloody and bare.

I couldn't see Mr. Wellerbey pull himself off the ground, as I landed on the opposite side of his world, but I could hear his whistling dissipate. As the gate swung open, my friends bolted to their homes, the brave boys unafraid of the killer left me there to sulk in his large shadow. Without uttering a word, the man picked me up off the ground as if I were a towel on the floor of a college kid's dorm or a blanket at the edge of a bed. The other side of the fence represented the dragon's lair in a fairy tale, only I wasn't equipped to slay any beast or to conquer any demons, rather my hands were raw and puffy. But there was no monster found in the yard, only flowers most florists would be envious of, a well-kempt lawn and a football about 20 feet to the left of the home.

When we reached the wooden patio, he sat me down at the bottom step and climbed the other three, before yanking on the screen door and entering the dark. Along with my thoughts and two throbbing appendages, I thought about the weapon old Joe Wellerbey would bring out of the house to end my life. A long buck knife. A rifle. An aluminum baseball bat. Instead, he emerged with a brown bottle of peroxide, a bag of cotton balls and a sweating can of Coca-Cola. As he turned the white cap, he pawed at my hands and observed them a tenderness not unlike my own father.

"This is gonna hurt kid."

He wasn't wrong. The sting in both hands made me grunt and kick in pain. At that moment, I think I'd rather have just been murdered. He kept pouring, and after a second, it no longer panged with the same amount of force. After he put the brown bottle down, he popped open the can, wrapped it in a paper towel and handed it over.

"You climbing the fence for that ball over yonder?"

"Yes, sir."

"No sir. Just call me Joe."

"Yes, Joe?"

"That's better. You know, you could have just used the door and asked for it back."

"My dad said not to bother you."

"Oh yeah? Well, that's mighty fine of your father, but I got no need for spare footballs."

"He also said something else," I nearly whispered. It was instinctive. Chalk up to the inquisitiveness of youth or the stupidity of children.

"What's that?"

"He said you killed a man."

"Oh, boy. Yeah, I guess that's true."

"It is?"

"Yeah, but, I died that night too."

"What do you mean?"

Mr. Wellerebey invited me inside. The home was neat as if it was cleaned every single day in the exact same way, in the exact same order of operations. I sat on his yellow and brown plaid couch as he pulled a large red photo album from a goliath bookshelf to the left of the TV with titles such as "The Art of War" and "Lolita," and even a large stack of Marvel comics with an old issue of The Incredible Hulk sitting on top. Once he sat down next to me with the album, he began to flip past pages where I caught glimpses of him as a child, his family and his friends. Eventually, he arrived at the back, which held newspaper clippings and magazine articles with headlines such as "Joe Wellerbey Wins the Title" and "Wellerbey Wows MSG Crowd."

"This is who I used to be, before I was some killer down the street," he said frankly.

"You were a boxer?"

"I was the boxer, until I wasn't."

On the final page of the album, the newspaper clipping was a little less chipper: "Wellerbey Retires After Swanson's Death."

"So yes, your father was right. I did kill a man, but it was in the ring. And it was an accident."

Mr. Wellerbey closed the album and stood up without moving for what felt like an eternity. You could feel he'd been transported back to the moment he'd learned Swanson's fate. But eventually, his brown boots shuffled forward and he put the book back on the shelf.

"You should get going. Don't forget the ball."

As he shepherded me through the door, I yanked the ball off the ground and into my bicep as if I was a running back breaking toward daylight. As I turned my head to say thank you, he had already escaped back into the house, away from the frightened children and gossiping families. When my feet crossed over to the street, Joey and Mike were waiting for me.

"What happend?" Joey said.

"What did he do to you?" Mike said.

The answer was nothing. He didn't hurt or murder me; he helped me clean my cuts and shared a piece of his life with a stranger.

"So nothing huh? Was he even a killer?" Joey chided.

"No. He was a boxer though," I said.

"Was he good?" Mike asked.

"He was the boxer."