I could go up the street and knock on the front door. Confront. Accuse. The anger a blocked space leadened in my forehead, his face a tight smile. Later, you would hang your head in your hands at the kitchen table, your hair beautiful in the lamplight. We would gather the kids and tell them they are ok, we are ok, moving somewhere else, anywhere else, just away from this cramped street and the petty neighbors. The kids would nod, eyes up then down, understanding meanness is a lurking shadow, day to day. It would be the change we need, we would say, without dishonesty or vengeance, looking them in the eyes. It could be.
But you would have to confess and I would have to forgive, cross some place I’ll never go. Through the smudged pane, I look up the street. Their house is lit up, like a party’s just about to start, each window some kind of celebration. The streetlamp cones a lone basketball on their cracked driveway, his azaleas and roses, ever pruned and symmetrical, stand guard by the front porch light.
And in that moment, I could turn from the window, reach out to touch your sleeve at the kitchen table, offer true words to fill in the silences. You would rise, your eyes full, ascend our stairs to the children, waiting, each in their rooms, waiting for one of us, for the nighttime reading. Goodnight Moon. The Giving Tree.
It could be, in the dim cast of the nightlight showing our kids the way, it could be. The cow jumping over the moon, a tree, loving a boy through all of time, a house with noises, hush hush.
John Jordan is a teacher, coach, and administrator living and working in Wilmington, Delaware. He’s currently working on his first collection of short stories.