Good Neighbor

Prairie Lee’s shapely bald head shone high on the second story of the grey house in the cul-de-sac. He watched the Johnsons scurry out of their home, pack their luggage in the back of their white Honda CRV, and drive away with laughter trailing behind their open windows.

Next were the Morrisons. Like bride and groom, the grey-haired couple linked arms and walked down their front steps. Donning trench-coats and scarves, and with an air of royalty, they drove off into darkness on a dusty black sedan.

Then it was the Irish man, who, in a top hat that added six inches to his height of seven feet, dragged a single suitcase across the concrete road as he walked out of Brookstone.

Then left the Nicholly twins (twenty and drunk, shoved into a taxi by a shouting mother in mink).

One by one, the houses fell dark as every neighbor left for their holiday trips. Prairie Lee's round head stood still behind the curtains like a full moon at night. In his right hand he held a duffel bag, and in his left, a lock pick.

But the window of one house was still glowing yellow. A little wooden structure, as bright as the Noel star, stood atop a tree in the Johnsons' backyard. A little boy moved behind the window as his shadows ran along the walls. The Johnson son, left behind by his laughing family, was now the only person left in Brookstone to witness Lee's crime.

For the first time since high school, Lee felt self-conscious about his hairless head. A kid might forget the clothes a thief wore, which house a man walks out of, or the name of his neighbor—but a kid doesn’t forget if someone was bald or not.

‘Perhaps a disguise,’ Lee thought, and slowly turned to the closet behind him.

An old brunette wig hung limply on a rack.

--

He opened his front door with a quiet click, then stepped into the streets. He would be quick—the Johnsons would be back for their son.

The Nichollys lived two doors down. Pushing the pick into the lock, he shifted his fingers slightly. There’s a click, and he swung the door open and tumbled inside.

Lee tiptoed up the stairs and silently slipped into the master bedroom. Everything was done in darkness—he felt the cash, the smooth glass, and the ringlets of jewelry in his hands, then tucked them into the duffel. He glanced out the window.

The tree-house was lit.

Next was the Morrison home, which was a trickier affair. The old couple had collectible antiques. Lee skipped the vases, but he took anything less cumbersome, like watches and what felt like porcelain in his hands. Lee zipped up the bag and stepped outside. He locked the door, closed it, and glanced back at the tree-house. It was still lit.

A pit was starting to grow in his stomach. ‘I must finish quickly,’ he thought.

The last house Lee decided on was the Irish man’s. He wasn’t planning on robbing this one, as he assumed immigrants did not own much, but he reached for the doorknob. As he did, his ears shivered at the distant sound of laughter. The Johnsons were back.

Lee jammed the lock pick in and turned it as the laughter grew louder and he could hear the crunch of wheels zooming closer. The pick twisted and turned, and when headlights shone behind him, there was a click. Lee grabbed the doorknob and yanked open the door, and jumped in with the duffel and slammed the door shut as headlights passed by. He stepped on something hard, like a phone, but kicked it lightly to the side before bringing his face to the window. He watched through the blinds.

The Johnsons, in their white CRV, pulled into their driveway. The mother, father, and sister laughed while getting out of the car, waving up at the tree-house. The boy was coming down now, jolly as a bean, and he joined the family by the car. Lee squinted with heart thumping.

The Johnsons weren't laughing anymore. The boy was saying something to his father, pointing to Lee’s dog—no, his house.

Lee clasped a gloved hand over his mouth. The father’s face contorted, then his eyes looked the house at which his finger slowly pointed. “Thief!” he screamed.

Lee fell away from the window and examined his surroundings—front door, back door, staircase, closet.

“Prairie Lee!” the father roared. Lee jumped down to the floor and hugged the rug, gripping it and breathing hard. He’d never heard any Johnson yell. He’d never heard them say anything without laughing. Lee closed his eyes and pressed his face into the carpet. He imagined the police sirens and the blinding red and blue lights and the cold handcuffs and the sound of them clicking against his wrists. He imagined it and he heard it, as real as the carpet rubbing against him. He imagined and he heard—laughter.

Lee lay frozen on the floor for a moment. When the laughter ensued, he stood up and went to the window. He peeked through the blinds. The Johnsons were petting his dog. “Prairie Lee, your dog is a proper thief!” the father laughed. The boy took a toy from the dog's mouth. It barked. “You little rascal,” Mr. Johnson said, and the dog ran to his owner's house.

Lee watched the tree-house fall dark, and once the boy and his father climbed out, the mother and daughter started up the car. The family got in and drove away.

Brookstone was quiet, now. Lee was dizzy and he shook his head. He took his duffel bag and lock pick and walked out the front door.

When he reached his house, the door was locked. Lee thought, ‘I must’ve done it out of habit when I went out.’ He pulled out his lock pick and started tugging at the doorknob. It finally clicked, and just as Lee was about to open the door, he saw the shadow of a top hat by his feet. He turned around to find himself face-to-face with a seven-foot tall Irish man.

Although they’d been neighbors for many years, Lee realized he’d never really spoken with the Irish man. Lee wasn't especially sociable, and although he made conversation with the Johnsons or the Morrisons when he occasionally met them while walking his dog, he never saw the Irish man around. ‘Perhaps I should’ve given more effort in getting to know this man,' Lee thought, suddenly feeling guilty. 'It must’ve been lonely, as an immigrant, after all.’ 

“My, my,” Lee laughed weakly, and he began to tear up. Perhaps it was from all the stress of the night's events. He wiped an eye with a black leather-gloved hand, which still held the lock pick. He swung the duffel bag in his left hand a little and smiled at him. “Merry Christmas, man!” Lee said, more warmly than he remembered speaking to anyone in his life.

The Irish man, confused and bewildered, perhaps at this sudden warmth, looked into Lee’s eyes with a gaze that was growing more passionate by the second. Lee wondered if he was expecting a hug—or perhaps he did not understand English. Then he punched him in the face.

Lee tumbled into the grass, and somehow his wig stayed on his head.

“You’re a thief!” The man yelled. His voice was trembling. Lee groaned and gripped his nose, which was wet.

“I saw you pick the lock—you were breaking into Mr. Lee’s house!” The man cried.

“Hell, man, this is my house!” Lee looked at his bloody hand and cursed.

The man shook his head. “You are not Mr. Lee. I know Mr. Lee, and he is a quiet but very nice man. I’ve seen him, and you have no right to steal from my neighbor!”

Lee was starting to stand up, now. His neighbor straightened up, his full 7 feet and six inches, looking ready to fight. Lee stared at this new man, this brave and noble neighbor, who was willing to defend a property that belonged to someone he barely knew.

But Lee could not appreciate this sentiment because his nose was bleeding heavily now. “I am Mr. Lee," he breathed.

The Irish man furiously shook his head once again. “No, you cannot fool me. I’ve never seen Mr. Lee up close or heard his voice, but if there’s one sure thing that I know about him, it’s that he is bald! And you, sir, have hair!”

With this passionate exclamation, the Irish man, in a fit, grabs Lee by his lapels and kicks him hard in the stomach. Lee's arms fling out and the duffel bag is thrown and his wig flies. The bag bursts open against the concrete driveway with the crack of porcelain and the wig lands on his dog, who yelps.