Battle of the Hedge

<Note: This story contains alcohol use and physical violence.>

When Ann Dennison looked out the window and frowned at Joan Hancock, Joan maintained a steady grip on the clippers. Her heart thumped with the fervor of her Revolutionary War ancestor. Protect your liberty and land, she thought, as Ann stepped out on the porch.

Clip, clip, clip.

“You’re a Hancock,” she reminded herself, teeth clenched into a fake smile she hoped to God would make her neighbor go back inside. But it didn’t. Instead, Ann raised her coffee cup in a good morning toast and waved her hand as she walked over.

“Wow, Joan, that’s the third time this week you’ve trimmed those hedges. You sure are productive for a Tuesday morning at 7:15. Sounded like you were doing some weed eating earlier,” Ann said, adjusting a T-shirt that read, “Ian Dury & The Blockheads” across her sagging breasts. Joan marveled at the fact that she and Ann came from the same generation. She recognized Ann as the kind of Gen Xer who refused to grow up. Joan viewed self-sufficiency as a badge of honor. She’d be damned if she let anyone tell her when to trim her side of the hedge, especially someone like Ann who dared to come outside without wearing a bra in a shirt that proclaimed foolishness.

“Well, you know what they say about early risers, Ann: we get the worm and everything else. I prefer to keep my side of the hedge tidy. And the Fourth’s coming up. The spirits of the forefathers appreciate tidiness.”

Ann nodded, at a loss on how to respond to the spirits of the forefathers comment. She remembered a piece she wrote about George Washington’s support of inoculation and other pro-health hygiene measures, all of which qualified as tidy. Given Joan’s meltdown over the condo board’s proposal to require vaccinations for the community pool and almost coming to blows with her over it, Ann decided against mentioning it or any of the other topics she had covered in the history textbooks she wrote. She had never gotten along with this woman.

“I appreciate that you’re caring for the hedge, Joan. I just want to make sure the flowers make it through the summer. Our yards look so pretty when the hedges are full of flowers on both sides. It’s nice to sit out here with a cocktail when the flowers look lush. I didn’t get to do that last summer.”

“I’m sure I can keep things pretty so you can sit outside and drink all summer,” Joan fake-smiled again before cutting a bloom. Ann sucked in her cheeks; Joan asked, “Are you gonna duck-face me to death?” They stared at each other for a moment. Ann wondered if she could take those clippers from Joan but ended the stare off by storming back inside.

…

Joan moved into the neighborhood after inheriting her mother’s condo. She and her mother never got along, so she struggled to suppress a smile as she held her mother’s hand through her last gasps of air. She needed a place to live after getting laid off, and the condo was cheaper than rent, so she thanked God for intestate succession laws because her mother died without a will.

Joan declared herself self-sufficient once more and moved in during her mother’s cremation. None of the residents offered to help, but those who bothered to speak to her expressed surprise that the “old lady” who used to live there had a daughter, as she had never mentioned family at all. Her mother always made the place sound so genial and wholesome, but Joan should’ve known better because the two of them disagreed on everything. Various Ann types and old stoner Boomers ran the place.

They refused to let her paint her door red, white, and blue. They didn’t want her to offer Summer Bible School Camp to the neighborhood kids. They forced her to pay an assessment fee for a roof repair lawsuit she didn’t want to join. It felt like her mother was cursing her from the afterlife, the same way she did in life.

“Joan, you’re fat.”

“Joan, you used to look good. Now you look like a peasant, though I want to clarify I have nothing against peasants. Maybe I should say they look like you.”

“Joan, being related to a forefather doesn’t make you better than anyone else. In fact, it makes you related to a slave owner.”

Joan sometimes felt like her mother’s spirit lurked around the house, laughing because Joan lived in a free-standing condo managed by people she viewed as anti-American. The memory of her mother dancing around to Donna Summer while blowing smoke from a joint invaded her brain, and she flung the clippers to the ground. Ann, watching from the window, rolled her eyes.

The Fourth is tomorrow, so pull it together, Joan told herself.

Clip, clip, clip.

…

You might think that Joan is the character who is going to wreak havoc in this suburban nightmare of a tale, and to be fair, by this point in her life, she had been nothing but a supreme asshole, so that assumption makes sense.

But it’s Ann you need to watch out for, and the reason I know this is that I’m Ann and I’m dead.

Everything was fine until Joan showed up. She complained all the time, and she didn’t like me sitting outside in the summer with a drink. Maybe I did drink too much sometimes. But still. She didn’t like anyone doing anything fun. At the condo association meetings, she talked about making flag flying mandatory for each house yet threw a fit about other condo association rules.

I get that condo rules are often petty. But I made peace with that a long time ago because I couldn’t afford to move until right before I died and from what I heard, Joan wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough, either.

Besides, a lot of her suggestions would’ve lowered property values. She even wanted to ban pets because she claimed the smell of them wafted in through her windows.

So for the love of God, I wasn’t toasting her. I was trying to keep a fly out of my coffee. If I could have talked to animals while alive, I would’ve directed the little shit to land on Joan’s nose, where he would’ve felt right at home.

Flies are animals, right? No one ever brings them up in the animal rights debate. No one marches for flies. Or fleas, come to think of it. I don’t know why I care. I thought I was a good person. I always cared about the underdog.

It’s easier to tell you this in third-person because it lets me pretend like it wasn’t me who did it. But it was. It is. Even dead, I struggle with it.

I didn’t have a choice. Well, that’s what I told myself. I need to stop telling myself that.

…

It was one hundred degrees in the shade, but Joan arrived at the Fourth of July cookout dressed like John Hancock. The neighborhood’s most enthusiastic drinker, Mitzi Higgins, 88, rolled her golf cart in Joan’s path to get a better look at the man she assumed was a handsome new resident with a radical style.

“God, you look hot two ways, if you get my drift. I’m Mitzi,” Mitzi said, extending her hand and almost falling off the cart.

“Mitzi, I’m Joan Hancock. We’ve spoken before. I’m dressed like John Hancock because it’s the Fourth of July, and I’m related to him.”

“You talk too much, honey. Now I’m not exactly a Baby Boomer, but I believe in the Summer of Love, so climb on this golf cart and make yourself comfortable.” Mitzi said, taking a sip from a flask, then offering some to Joan.

“Come on, Mitzi, we’ve talked about me writing those policy pieces for the condo association newsletter. I always type 'John Hancock' in huge letters at the end. Let’s get you some soda.”

“Maybe I need to check my hearing aid, but I could’ve sworn you said John Hancock. You’re saying John Hancock wrote something for the condo association newsletter? I thought he had been dead a long time. I’m almost positive he’s dead. Are you drunk or am I?” Mitzi said before driving her golf cart through several yards and into a bench.

“It’s too bad I don’t have a drone to follow Mitzi around. Reels of Mitzi would make a fortune,” Ann thought, flipping a few hot dogs and wondering if it was possible to do something about Mitzi’s driving before she put her house on the market.

“What time do you plan to serve the food?” Joan asked.

“There’s not a set time. It’s an eat-as-you-please thing. Do you want something now, because it looks like you’re not dressed for the pool.”

“No, I’m doing a speech for the kids, and don’t want to eat a lot before I speak. I think older people will like it, too, at least the ones with common sense.”

Joan opened a knapsack with “July 4, 1776” written on it in marker and a downloaded photo of Ted Nugent playing guitar in a flag shirt pinned under the date.

“I had no idea that Ted fought in the Revolutionary War. Are you gonna tell the kids he ordered the troops to yell, ‘Wang Dang Sweet Poontang’ when they charged?”

“There’s no need for that, Ann. Truly. I’m simply connecting this important day with a modern famous person who cares about our legacy of freedom. This photo shows the younger people here that viable American music options still exist.”

“Do you think anyone wants to listen to you give a speech? This is the first I’ve heard of it. It’s a hundred degrees. People just want to eat and chill. And Nugent sucks. He’s a damn child molester, a draft dodger, and a pants shitter ---"

“Don’t you dare talk about Ted.”

“You never heard the story about him shitting his pants to get out of Vietnam? Yeah, he’s a viable option alright. Look, if you didn’t get approval, you can’t do the speech. And I don’t want the kids in this neighborhood or anywhere listening to your warped version of history.”

“Those history textbooks you write suck!”

“You know I’ve finally got enough money saved to move, and I hope you die before I put my condo on the market because having you as a neighbor equates to zero curb appeal.”

Joan grabbed the table of food and shook it. Hot dogs, hamburger meat, and buns fell to the ground. Ann scurried around the table and shoved the tongs in Joan’s face, flinging bits of crusty hamburger on Joan’s cheek. Joan reached into her knapsack and pulled out a wireless microphone with built-in speakers.

“What, are you gonna bore me to death with your speech?” Ann asked.

“I’ll shove this right up your ass, you degenerate.”

“I bet you think the forefathers marched with mics. Who the fuck brings a mic to a cookout?”

Joan pulled out a tiny speaker and spoke into the mic. “Everyone. Hey, people at the pool over there. Hello. I’ve got a presentation for you. It’s all about my ancestor, John Hancock, and our other wonderful forefathers. Come on over.”

Joan stood with a huge smile. Five minutes passed. No one came over. Ann cleaned the grill. Another ten minutes went by. Sweat made Joan’s face shine, but the smile remained. Ann opened a beer.

“No one’s coming. You’re going to die of heat stroke if you stay out here like that all day. And you’re in my way.”

“It’s 11 so it’s still early. When they get tired of the pool, they’ll grab some food and I’ll start. Also, it’s 11 and you’re drinking.”

“Let me ask you something, Johnny Boy: what exactly is your presentation about?”

“Well, it’s about a lot of things.”

“Wow, riveting.”

“Well, there’s a lot to cover. I’m definitely going to tell them how my ancestor John Hancock fought to make this country great.”

“What do you mean fought…how he worked behind the scenes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my God you don’t even know what he did. He never set foot on a Revolutionary War battlefield. People like Sam Adams convinced him to stay on the political side of things. Then later, he led a military expedition that failed. Maybe you should read one of my textbooks.”

Joan screamed, and the people at the pool finally looked at her.

"What the fuck?" someone said.

Joan picked up her knapsack. “I’ll tell you something, Ann: You better watch out for me.”

When Ann got home later that day, all the flowers on the hedge were gone.

…

A buzzing sound woke Ann around 3 am. Her Fourth of July hangover had already kicked in. Her head hurt, and she felt like she had never had a drink of water in her life. That noise was driving her crazy. When she opened her blinds, Joan shook a chainsaw toward the window in the most threatening wave Ann had ever seen. Ann grabbed her phone so she could record what was happening, raced down the stairs, and jumped off the porch just in time to see Joan make the first cut on the hedge.

“What the fuck are you doing? You already cut all the flowers off,” Ann yelled despite the pain in her head.

“I’m saving the best for last. I decided I don’t like this hedge. It distracts from the trees.”

“That’s not your decision to make. We share this hedge,” Ann said, running around the hedge and grabbing for the saw. Ann suddenly realized she was wrestling in the moonlight with her chainsaw-wielding neighbor, and she hoped to God she would win the fight by sunrise. She didn’t want anyone else to see what she’d become. The thought coincided with Joan dropping the chainsaw and falling to the ground. She wheezed and clutched her chest.

“I think I’m having a heart attack….Call 911,” she said, struggling to sit up.

“A heart attack?”

“I can’t breathe…A bad heart runs in the family.”

“You know, John Hancock’s dad died of a heart attack when he was just a boy. And he grew up to help found this country, although he didn’t fight in any Revolutionary War battles. Did you know that?” Ann couldn’t believe how she was acting, but she enjoyed it.

“Call an ambulance,” Joan whispered.

Ann, phone in hand, 911 uncalled, realizing it would be easier to sell the house with Joan gone, looked at Joan and said, “I think I’m going to win this stare down.” She couldn’t believe she said it. I’m a fucking murderer she said, but when she looked over at her house and back at Joan, she knew she had to do it.

“I don’t have a choice,” she said out loud.

It took a while, much longer than Ann would have ever imagined. Several times, she leaned over only to discover her arch enemy still breathed.

“This is like a fucked-up version of Adams and Jefferson, with them dying on different days. Die already,” Ann said to herself.

When she was finally sure that Joan was dead, she dialed 911. The sound of a whirring engine caused her to turn as the dispatcher answered. Mitzi’s golf cart hit her head-on, tossing her over the hedge and into her yard. Ann died as soon as her head hit the ground.

“I’ve got drinks!” Mitzi said, struggling to untangle herself from the hedge.

…

I realized I was dead when I tried to help Mitzi, and Joan said, “She can’t hear you.”

Joan was standing next to her mom, whom I recognized because she used to be my neighbor.

“Your yard looks like shit,” her mother said.

“Whose yard?” Joan asked.

“Both of your yards look like shit.”

“Oh, fuck off back to the clouds, Mom.”

“You just wait until you meet Jesus. That is if He ever lets you leave this place. He’s not into half the shit you think He is. And it makes me so happy to tell you that I met John Hancock and we aren’t even related to him,” Carol said before disappearing as a shimmery gust of wind. Joan gasped harder than she did when she was having a heart attack.

“Where did she go?” I asked.

“I guess she went back to Heaven. When I saw her standing over me, I screamed and begged her not to stay. She said we’re stuck here until we figure out some things. I don’t know why she’s there and I’m here because I didn’t do anything wrong, but she was the worst mother in the world. And I don’t believe her. I know my granddad didn’t lie about that.”

“Ah.” I had already run out of things to say. I didn’t know what to say to someone I killed. I never thought it would be something I needed to worry about.

“You’re going to regret what you did,” Joan said to me. And I have, because she never lets me forget it. A ghost haunting a ghost, both stuck in a condo neighborhood purgatory. All we do is shout threats that mean nothing because we’re both dead.

I wish I had decided to sell my condo sooner.