“How comforting.”
He shrugs. Is it his job to be comforting?
For her part, Trudy wonders why she is having this conversation with a man she hired to build a fence. She already feels much worse for it. Let him build the fence and keep quiet, Trudy tells herself.
From that morning, she and Fred settle into a routine, something that has always soothed Trudy — the repetition of events. He arrives promptly at seven o’clock, as he told her he would. They “discuss” the fence if she has any questions, and only the fence. Otherwise, she says hello to him on her way out and leaves him to it. Increasingly, she has fewer and fewer questions. At a few minutes after five when she gets home, he is nowhere to be found, already finished for the day as he said he would be, driveway swept up and tools put away. He is as regular in his habits as she. They dance to the same beat and that helps Trudy relax.
Even the Yeller doesn’t seem to bother him. Trudy asks him that one morning after she is sure her neighbor has left with the two boys, driving them to the Catholic school several miles west along the 210 Freeway.
Quietly, because the wife may still be home, Trudy asks, “Does it get noisy here in the afternoon?”
Fred has no idea what she means. “No,” he says, “just the power saw sometimes when I need to cut the wood.”
She shakes her head, glances at the Doyles’ house again to make sure the wife isn’t outside, getting into her car. “I mean him.”
Fred shrugs. “When he brings his sons home, he yells at them to get in the house. Every day. Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly!” Then, “Don’t you wonder what goes on inside that house?”
Fred stares at her as if she’s insane. In truth, Trudy occasionally worries that on this topic she’s veering in that direction.
“It’s not my business,” Fred says and turns on the saw, conversation finished as far as he’s concerned.
But for Trudy the obsession isn’t. Now that her mind is no longer focused on the fence building — Fred is in place, the boards are going up — it has more room to ponder the drama next door.
One Saturday afternoon when Fred is not there — he never works on the weekends — Trudy is rinsing out her morning coffee cup when she hears the wife’s heels on the driveway. She has a distinct way of clopping along, as if her shoes never quite fit. It’s the rat-tat-tat of weary feet in low-heeled shoes worn by a heavy woman. She’s walking down the driveway to her car, which is parked on the street, her boys with her. She’s got a gentle hand on the head of the younger one, Aidan, as he trails along beside her. The older one, Carl, runs ahead.
The wife is just this side of being very fat. She never wears pants or jeans, too fat for that. She wears one long, printed skirt or another every day. And, like her husband, she’s always on the phone. But she seems nice. In the year they have lived next door, Trudy has overheard dozens of conversations, and the woman — her name is Brenda — never yells. In fact, she always seems unduly cheerful, telling people all the time that she’s “super!” but Trudy supposes that’s in counterbalance to her husband’s nastiness. And most importantly, she is sweet with her children. She calls them “honey” a lot and praises them often. What Trudy does not understand is how she remains married to the rodent. Doesn’t she see how much damage he’s doing to the boys?
The children are now pushing each other and shoving as boys do while Brenda clomps along to her car, cell phone to her ear. Trudy hears her saying, “They came back at $769,000.… I know … I know … that’s not much movement. We could try a counter at $740,000.… Okay, think about it and call me back. Remember, they have an open house tomorrow, so we should make a decision before that.… Right, just call me.…”
They have reached the street, and although Brenda has opened the back door of her car for the boys to climb in, they have escalated their roughhousing and are now chasing each other around the car and giggling. She is having a hard time ending her conversation and riding herd on the boys at the same time.
She’s gesturing to the kids—Get in the car—and saying to her client, “Good … This is the way it goes.… No, no, it isn’t personal.… Take the personal out of it—”
And then Trudy hears the Yeller slam the front door and come onto the porch and yell at his wife, “Brenda! What in holy hell are you doing?!”
All three of them freeze — the wife and the two boys, who are by now in the middle of the street. Hurriedly, Brenda gets off the phone and starts to usher the boys into the car, but that is not enough for Kevin Doyle. He stomps down the driveway and in full view of Trudy, who has moved to the living room window to get a better view, begins to berate his wife.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?! You weren’t even looking, were you?! Where were the boys? In the middle of the fucking street! That’s where they were!”
“Kevin,” she says quietly as she stands by the driver’s door, but that does nothing to derail the assault.
“You want them dead, is that it?! You want them run over by a car? Were you even watching?!”
The wife stands there without speaking, her eyes on his ugly face, waiting this out.
“I thought you went to college. I thought you had some brains in your skull.” And then he roars, “Those boys are going to be killed and it’s going to be on your head!”
He turns and walks back into the house and slams the door, damage done, humiliation complete. There’s a stunned silence on the street, like an intake of breath; even the birds have been frozen into muteness.
Brenda closes the back door of her car, makes sure the boys buckle up, gets into the driver’s seat, and drives away.
Trudy lowers herself into her armchair and contemplates what she just saw. She’s totally unfamiliar with that kind of behavior. Oh, she knows people scream at their wives and children, but she’s never experienced that kind of vitriol firsthand. Her parents weren’t screamers. Brian almost never raised his voice. The cruelty of Kevin Doyle’s words is what undoes her and makes her fear for the boys. Why is he always telling them to “get in the house”? What happens in that house? If he’s capable of that kind of anger against his wife in a public place, in full view of the neighborhood, what does he do to those boys once the doors are shut and the curtains pulled? What can she do about it?
She has no answer, but as often happens, Life provides an opening. One day soon after the ugly incident in the street, Trudy decides to come home for lunch, something she hasn’t done for the past year. When Brian was alive, they would make dates and meet at the house for lunch and whatever developed after that. Since his death, it’s been too hard to be in their empty house at lunchtime, some part of her still waiting to hear Brian’s car pull up into the driveway and his eager voice call out as he stepped into the kitchen, “Here I am!” as if he were delivering his person as a present, gift-wrapped expressly for her.
But this day she decides to find some courage and go home. There was a classroom of second graders at the library all morning, and Trudy could use a few minutes of peace and quiet.
As she walks up her brick path, she sees Fred at work on the fence, now close to halfway done, and a brown wrapped package on her front porch. She can’t think of a single person who would be sending her something, and when she picks it up she sees that it is, in fact, addressed to the Doyles but deposited on her porch.
She goes to Fred, package in hand. “Did you see who brought this?”
“UPS.”
“But it belongs next door.”
“No one’s home next door. The guy asked me if he could leave it here. I said yes.”