I wave hello, but he doesn’t immediately return the greeting. He just stands looking at me for a moment. At last he raises his arm in a mechanical wave, as if the chip in his computer brain has analyzed the situation and decided the correct response is to wave back.
Well, okay, I think. Maybe the wife is friendlier.
She steps out of the passenger side of the U-Haul. Early thirties, silvery-blond hair, a slender figure in blue jeans. She too checks out the street, but with quick, darting looks, like a squirrel. I wave at her and she offers a tentative wave back.
That’s all the invitation I need. I walk across the street and say, “May I be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood!”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. She glances at her husband, as if seeking permission to say more. My antennae twitch because there’s something going on between this couple. They don’t seem comfortable together, and my mind goes straight to all the ways a marriage can go wrong. I should know.
“I’m Angela Rizzoli,” I tell them. “And you are?”
“I’m, um, Carrie. And this is Matt.” The answer comes out in stutters, as if she has to think about each word before she says it.
“I’ve lived on this street for forty years, so if you need to know anything at all about the area, you know who to ask.”
“Tell us about our neighbors,” Matt says. He glances at number 2535, the blue house next door. “What are they like?”
“Oh, that’s the Leopolds. Larry and Lorelei. Larry teaches English at the public high school and Lorelei’s a housewife. See how nicely they keep up their yard? Larry’s good that way, never lets a weed grow in his garden. They don’t have kids, so they’re nice, quiet neighbors. On the other side of you is Jonas. He’s retired from the Navy SEALs, and boy does he have tales to tell about it. And on my side of the street, right next door to my house, is Agnes Kaminsky. Her husband died ages ago and she never remarried. I guess she likes things just fine the way they are. We used to be best friends, until my husband—” I realize I’m rambling and pause. They don’t need to hear how Agnes and I fell out. I’m sure they’ll be hearing about it from her. “So do you have kids?” I ask.
It’s a simple question, but once again Carrie glances at her husband, as if needing permission to answer.
“No,” he says. “Not yet.”
“Then you won’t need babysitter referrals. It’s getting harder and harder to find them anyway.” I turn to Carrie. “Say, I’ve got a nice loaf of zucchini bread defrosting in my kitchen. I’m famous for my recipe, even if I do say so myself. I’ll bring it right over.”
He answers for them both. “That’s kind, but no thank you. We’re allergic.”
“To zucchini?”
“To gluten. No wheat products.” He places a hand on his wife’s shoulder and nudges her toward the house. “Well, we’ve got to get settled. See you around, ma’am.” They both walk into their house and shut the door.
I look at the U-Haul, which they haven’t even opened yet. Wouldn’t any other couple be anxious to move their stuff into the house? The first thing I’d do is unpack my coffeemaker and teakettle. But no, Carrie and Matt Green have left everything in the moving truck.
All afternoon their U-Haul stays parked on the street, locked up tight.
It’s not until after dark when I hear the clatter of metal, and I peer across the street to see the husband’s silhouette standing at the rear of the vehicle. Matt climbs inside and a moment later backs down the ramp, wheeling a dolly loaded with boxes. Why did he wait until dark to unload the U-Haul? What doesn’t he want the neighbors to see? There must not be very much in the truck, as it takes him only ten minutes to finish the job. He locks the truck and retreats into the house. Inside, the lights are on, but I can’t see a thing because they’ve closed the blinds.
During my four decades on this street I have had as neighbors alcoholics and adulterers and a wife beater. Maybe two. I’ve never met any couple as standoffish as Carrie and Matt Green. Maybe I was too pushy. Maybe they’re having marital problems and they just can’t deal with an inquisitive neighbor right now. It may be entirely my fault that we didn’t hit it off.
I will have to give them some space.
But the next day, and the next, and the next, I can’t help watching number 2533. I see Larry Leopold leave for his job at the high school. I see Jonas, shirtless, mowing his lawn. I see my nemesis, Agnes, puffing on a cigarette on her twice-daily march of disapproval past my house.