Except for Mr. Allenās house, there werenāt any fences at all in our cut de sac. I remember six distinct houses around the paved half circle, and around them, a large expanse of green grass that all of us ran around in. All told, it was maybe an acre or two of land, bordered on the bacck by a woodsy swamp that we were never allowed to go near. One time a possum stumbled out of that swamp, and we had to wait inside for animal control while the poor thing wandered lost and confused in the daylight. Mom was afraid it was rabid. Ā I had already read old yeller by then, and was terrified of rabies, so we mostly avoided the swamp.
We rode our bikes on the edge of the cul de sac, playing cops and robbers. The we in this memory is mostly my sisters and I, but of course there are neighbor kids making appearances, like guest stars in my life.
The Honeycutt kids, who had a rickety swing-set that was metal bars and hot white plastic and rubber-sheathed chain. I sat on one of their swings while Willy taught me a song. After I was sure I learned it, I went home and sang it to my mom, who then threatened to wash my mouth out with soap if she heard me sing it again. I remember sitting in my dark room later, mulling over the lyrics with a strange mix of guilt an confusion, trying to understand why a word that rhymed with suck was so bad.
Kaleala and Nikea, but those two were older, more sophisticated and only there has the time, since their parents were divorced and their mom lived in Mount Pleasant. This was during a time when ādivorceā was a still a topic of after-school specials. So they were mysteriously gone a lot.
There were the Bluesons, my parentās closest neighbor friends on the cul de sac. My little sister Go and Em, their daughter, were the same age and so were designated ābest friendsā against their wills. As far as I know, Go and Em love-hated each other until we moved away.
There was Mr. Allen. He was always a hunched, wiry old man walking Max, a fat, grumpy West Highland Terrier. In the summer, Mr. Allen would wait until night time to walk his dog. I remember him under the yellow street light, his tidy white scruff of white hair glowing under the moonlight. Mr. Allen would always wave us over, on our way home for dinner, and we would carefully and gently pet a stiff, almost growling Max. It was a privilege to touch Mr. Allenās dog.
My mom was the girl scout leader, so we were expected to make a good showing every year with the cookie sales. Every spring, our neighbors would get hit with three girls, each armed with an order form and a hefty dose of determination.
Gwen got the Bluesons by rights of frenemyship. Older Sabrina hit up Kaleala and Nikeaās dad outside of his house when he got home from his night shift. A cheap shot that, since he was too tired to refuse and bought 6 boxes. That left Mr. Allen for me.
I knew that old people took naps, so I waited until a little before dinner. I walked up Mr. Allenās drive, stepping carefully around his small white picket fence. it was only knee high , but it bordered a perfect little flower bed. I knocked on his door, which was light blue and screened. Inside the house, I saw his wife, sitting in a faded blue arm chair, a puff of gray hair and floral nightie. Mrs. Allen never came outside with her husband to walk their dog. I hadnāt even known she existed until i came to their door. Her back was to the door, and the tv was very loud. My memory insists the show was Price is Right, but I think thatās just me remembering what every old person seems to like. I knocked again, then looked for a door bell. I squinted through the screen door. There were no dim piles of magazines and papers, no books stacked in corners, and their floor was so clean the sunlight from their kitchen window reflected off of it. The house smelled old.
Max saw me, standing there at the screen. He stood next to his misteresāās chair, white tail held stuff, scruff using along with a grow. Without a hand on his leash, he was a different dog. His eyes glinted, white teeth flashed and he leapt at the screen, barking and snarling. I jumped back and my heels hit the white picket fence. I clutched my order form, heart pounding as this enraged white terrier threw himself against the flimsy screen, half-howling, teeth snapping. I remember the fear making my heart skip in my chest, and i am pertained i squeaked in terror.
Mr. Allen emerged from the back bedroom, dressed as always in a starch white shirt, with a look that matched his terrierās ferocity.
āWhat are you doing here?!ā He demanded. āGet back before Max kills himself!ā
i stumbled back, over the fence, planting my foot right in his flowerbeds.
āOut! My pansies! Out of there!ā
Scrambling now, Maxās barking still punctuating the hot evening, I hopped back out of the bed and into the street. I looked down at my order form. Mr. Allen had pulled Max away, but he was still standing at the screen door, watching me. His face was different, older, angrier than I had ever remembered it.
āI just wanted to sell you cookies!āI shouted it. It was meant to be hopeful but my residual terror made me sound belligerent. I heard the latch click on the screen door, and then,with the summer heat still blanketing the neighborhood, Mr. Allen closed his front door, blocking both the breeze and myself from any more interaction.
That night, I sat on my porch, watching his house. It was after dinner, but we had no where to be, and I wanted to try and apologize. For what, I wasnāt sure. But I knew enough to know that I had trespassed in some way against Mr. Allen and his loyal dog.
He came out with Max on his leash. He left his door open, and walked carefully around his flower bed. I cringed, hoping I hadnāt killed any of his flowers. I wanted to go to him, to ask to pet Max, to offer peaceā¦but my legs were watery, and so i just sat. He made his slow circuit of the neighborhood, max toddling at his side. He stopped once to let the dog pee on the fire hydrant, and then again at the stop sign at the end of the cul de sac. Then he walked deliberately back home, never once looking in my direction.
Max died a few years later, and we only knew because Mr. Allen began walking a different dog. A little black scottie, sweeter, fluffier, and more prone to licking than growling. Mr.s Allenās fence stayed up,. stark white against the noise of neighborhood children, a barrier to our cul de sac that no one dared cross.
