Talking Over a Fence About Laundry

Ms. Claudine White always hung her laundry way too close to his house. The stiff sheets wobbled in the wind and, in the dead of night, made it sound as if his front door was being torn at. 

He’d spoken to her about this many times before, but time and time again, she’d responded with the same, blunt answer in her sweet Southern voice: “Harold, I appreciate your concern, but it’s none of your business what I do in my yard.”

Of course, that meant that, each time, he had to remind her that his name was nothing remotely similar to Harold and to please stop calling him that.

He did not consider himself a rude man; he’d lived a mostly peaceful life and had always enjoyed being around people. Something about Ms. Claudine really irked him, though. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the tight way that she did up her rollers before she went out to get the mail. Maybe it was the quick snaps of her head in every which direction that always made one think that she was going to yell out a chastisement. Still, it hadn’t bothered him much when he lived across the street from her.

He no longer lived across the street from her. In fact, he lived mere feet from her, and their houses were separated only by a short, waist-length, white picket fence.

He did not know what a mistake he was making when he moved here. He thought that it was nice, the whole him moving back into the neighborhood that he grew up in. He did not know what suffering he would face at the hands of his new neighbor.

Right now, he could hear the wind ripping through the big white sheets as if the things were sails hanging proudly on the mast of a pirate ship. With that comparison made, it became even more apparent that Ms. Claudine’s laundry doings were hardly appropriate for a quiet suburban neighborhood.

He stepped out onto his yard. He’d’ve bothered to get dressed before this, but Ms. White never bothered to dress before venturing out for hanging her laundry.

Speaking of the devil, the elderly woman was now moving towards her mailbox in her tight, pink curlers and fluffy blue bathrobe.

“Ms. Claudine!” he called.

She snapped her head in his direction so hard that he thought that she would break her frail neck. “Ah, Howard,” she called back, unenthused. She turned back to do her business.

“Ms. Claudine, wait!”

She looked back over at him. Her sagging neck moved slightly after the motion, as if it, too, was shocked at the suddenness. “What is it, young man?”

He walked up to the fence. What parts of his chest were exposed through his bathrobe were rather chilled right now. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

“I was just about to get my mail,” she said. “Can this wait?”

“Yes, ma’am. I really don’t mean to hold you up,” he said, and he watched as she began to move, much slower than before, toward her mailbox.

She was careful with the opening of the flap, and she was sure to read through all of her mail before beginning to trek back towards her house.

He thought that she would stop in front of him, but she just kept walking. What, was she just going to…act as if she’d forgotten and hope that he’d forget?

“Ms. Claudine!” he called.

She shot her head back towards him. Her light-colored eyes were fierce with irritation. “Oh, right, young man. I entirely forgot. Give me a moment.”

She took her sweet time walking over to the fence.

“Ms. Claudine,” he said, “I know that we’ve spoken about this before, but could you please do something about that laundry?”

“What laundry?”

He sighed softly. He hated when she played senile. “Ma’am, the laundry line is hung far too closely to my yard.” He rubbed his temple to emphasize his next point: “The wind through the sheets is so loud that I can hardly sleep.”

“Then buy yourself some earplugs.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think that you understand— you’re causing trouble for me, and I need some rest from—“

“Harold,” she interrupted, and he knew where this was going. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s none of your business what I do in my yard.”

“It’s not Harold, ma’am. It’s nowhere near Harold, ma’am.”

“i’ve known you since childhood, Harold. I know your name.”

“It’s Spencer, ma’am. Nothing even remotely similar to Harold, ma’am.”

“You say ma’am too often for a rude child.”

“Ma’am, I’m being as polite as possible.”

She scratched the sagging underside of her chin. “Overusing the word ma’am does not make you polite, young man.”

“It’s Spencer, ma’am.”

“It’s Harold, young man. Don’t tell me what I know and what I don’t.”

He felt anger within him rise. “I have to hear this same speech all the time, ma’am!”

She moved her mail to her left hand and scratched in-between a row of curlers with her right. “If you have to always make the speech, then perhaps you are the problem, young man.”

“That’s not how it works, Ms. Claudine!” he insisted. “Perhaps you’re the problem, since you have to hear the speech each time!” He threw his hands up. “You know what? No wonder this house was empty for so long— no one could bear to be your neighbor!”

He watched her elderly face crumple at that, and she turned away with a snap of the head and began to walk off. “I’m sorry to offend, young man. Good day.”

He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He put a hand up towards her. “Wait, Ms. Claudine!”

She turned around. “What is it?” Her face was still sullen.

“I…can you come back here really quick?” he asked, trying to make his tone warmer. Maybe he could make all these years of speeches up to her.

She ambled back towards him. “What is it, young man?” Her voice was quieter than before.

He gave her a smile. “Would you mind if…I come over there and have breakfast with you?”