Chapter Five

Joe

I haven’t been at the house the last few days, but I still got a lot done.  I’ve been busy hiring an electrician, ordering materials and checking out roofers.  Harry, the electrician I hired, is meeting me here at eleven o’clock to see exactly what I need done so he can pull the required permits and give me a final dollar amount. Later this afternoon, I have two roofing companies coming over to give me estimates as well.

Today, I’m going to demo the bathrooms, toilets, sinks, tubs, tiles. I want a clean slate.

From halfway down the block, I spot it. “Oh good, the dumpster’s here.” Excited to finally get started, I park, grab my thermos of coffee, Dad’s toolbelt and head inside.

First, I head outback to check the backyard and pick a few oranges. I spot something taped to the backdoor. “Damn, I hope it’s not a stop work order.”  No, the city would put that on the front door.  I relax when I see it’s a plastic bag with a muffin inside hanging from the doorknob and a note attached above it with gray duct tape.

Joe,

The dumpster is offensive. It has nasty swear words, and naughty stick figures on it.

I’m worried about the neighborhood children seeing such vulgar things.

 Can you please exchange this dumpster for one that does not have nasty things all over it.

Please.

Izetta Porter

My shoulders tense as I shake my head and glare at the fence between her yard and this one. I mumble to myself, “Exchange the damn dumpster? I don’t think so.”

Oh God, please don’t let Miss Izetta Porter be a pain in the ass, annoying busybody. I don’t think I can handle it. “Please not another Mr. Swan- I don’t have the patience.” He was our neighbor when growing up. He’d complain about everything we did from mowing our lawn too early in the morning to leaving our Christmas lights up too long. If Izzy is a complainer, it could cost me money and time I just don’t have.

I hear a digging noise coming from her side of the fence. “She’s over there, good.” I’ll straighten this out right now. The fence is too tall to see over, so I call out, “Izzy, are you over there?”  I realize I barked that like a drill sergeant. Okay, maybe that was a bit too stern. Too late, now.

The digging noise stops but I don’t get an answer, so I try again, this time with a bit kinder tone, “Izzy. It’s me, Joe. Can I talk with you a minute, please?”

Her soft voice calls back, “Did you get my note?”

Trying hard not to sound pissed off, I answer, “Yeah, I got it. Can I come over and talk to you about it?”

Silence.

What the hell? Why doesn’t she answer me?  I count to five then ask again, “Izzy, I asked if I could come over and talk to you about the dumpster and some other stuff.”

“N, no.”

No?  What’s wrong with her? My skin starts to warm as my anger builds. “Are you saying I can’t come over there, or you don’t want to talk about it?”

“You, you can’t come over.” Her voice breaks a bit.

Can’t come over?  What’s that all about? Let me try this another way. “Okay then, can you come over here, so we can talk?”

Silence.

Again? Why won’t she answer? What’s with her? Maybe I’m still coming across too strongly. “Izzy, you still there?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

She’s right up against the fence. I hear her breathing.  She’s close enough to touch but it feels like there’s a mountain between us.  “Please come over so we can talk in person. I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

“I, I can’t.”

She can’t?  That’s weird.  Maybe she doesn’t want to be alone with me. “How about if we meet out front by the dumpster? We’ll be on the street, and you   wouldn’t have to be alone with me.”

Her breathing quickens. “No. No.  I can’t, can’t go out there, either. I’m, I’m sorry.”

Damn, she’s stuttering.

With that clue, I start to understand what’s going on.

 I can’t go over to her place.

She won’t come over here.

She won’t go out in the front yard.

She hid behind the door when we talked.

The clues all point to one thing. She’s afraid of people or something like that anyway.  I wonder why?  Poor thing.

My frustration immediately dissipates, and I do what needs to be done. “Hey why don’t we just talk right here then.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

I hear relief in her voice. “No problem.”

She starts the conversation. “About the dumpster. We have a school a block away and kids walk by every morning and afternoon. I don’t want the kids seeing the nasty stuff painted on the darn thing.”

“Listen, I can’t exchange the dumpster. They’ll charge me an arm and a leg. Sorry.”

She huffs and hits the fence with something. “Then I rescind my offer. Get it out of my driveway.”

“Izzy, come on. I really need that dumpster.”

“And I really need to protect the children.”

I pace back and forth trying to come up with a solution. Then it hits me. Paint! “What if I paint over the nasty stuff?”

“Paint over it?”

“Yeah, I could buy a couple cans of spray paint and cover the graffiti.”

I hear a small giggle. “Smart, Joe. That would work.”

“So, if I paint over the graffiti, can I leave the dumpster in your driveway?”

“As long as the nasty words and pictures are covered. Yes.”

“Thanks.  I’ll run to the store and do it right away.’’ I pump my hand up and down in victory.

It sounds as if she’s moving away, so I call out a question that’s been bugging me. “Izzy, how do you get in my backyard?”

She laughs as she answers, “Magic. Have a good day and enjoy your muffin.”

Magic, my eye.

“Oh yeah, thanks. I love muffins. You have a good day, too.”

There’s a hidden gate in this fence somewhere. And if there is, I bet she’s the gnome who’s been taking care of the yard all this time.

Inside, I lean against the kitchen counter and think about the odd conversation I just had with Izzy. There has to be a reason she doesn’t’ want to be seen.

My brother’ outrageous idea that she’s a movie star- Not buying it!

She sounds broken.

She sounds scared.

She’s hiding from the world.

 

After dinner, a ‘Hungry man’ microwave dinner that tasted worse than some of the MREs I ate in the army, I grab my laptop, a beer, and head for the couch. Time to figure out exactly who Izzy really is.

I’m a retired CW3 Chief Warrant Officer, Counterintelligence Agent so I have the skills to find out what happened to her.

Who are you Ms. Izetta Porter and what are your secrets?

Three hours later, my eyes burn from the screen.   My beer, now warm, sits untouched.  And…my heart aches from what I found. Damn, this woman has been through living hell. No wonder she’s locked herself away.

I close my laptop and put down my pen.

 I’ve seen loss. I’ve seen war.

This is something else entirely. 

The poor woman.

Living hell.

There has to be a way I can help her. Help her out of her self-made prison. At least I can try.

Operation Lady Next Door starts tomorrow.

 

Chapter Six

Joe

 

Even with a new queen size bed and soft, clean sheets smelling of fabric softener, I slept like I was deployed- in a fart sack on cold, rocky ground. I tossed and turned all night, my mind not turning off. Between Izzy’s situation and the house, too many images rolled like movie scenes on a loop. Over and over.

But, today is going to be busy. I have the plumber starting work, a dumpster to paint and the first stage of my Izzy plan.

First thing first, I need coffee or as I used to call it mud.

 “It’s not mud anymore” I say out loud as I grind some ‘Stumptown’ beans and start a pot.  I found this brand by accident, but it is delicious and reminds me of Turkish coffee-bold, strong with a spicy undertone.

 If memory serves me well, drinking kahvesi in that little roadside café every morning was the only decent part of that clusterfuck mission.

Good coffee makes getting up worth it. And today needs to start with a win, even if it’s just in a mug.

Squared away and with a travel mug full of coffee I drive to Alice’s house. Yeah, I now refer to it that way.

 Allen- the fair priced, smells good-plumber, is starting work on the basement pipes.  Everything needs to be brought up to code. He needs to change the cast iron pipes with PVC, redo the drainage and waste system and install a new water heater. Then he’ll move upstairs to the kitchen and bathrooms. Thank goodness, the lines leading to the street are all in good shape.

This is costing me a bundle but it’s necessary.

“Now, step one in Operation Izzy.” I mumble to myself as I head back upstairs. Grabbing the bag of paint spray cans I head for the dumpster. It takes three cans of paint, army green of course, to cover the graffiti.

Maybe I should give it a camouflage paint job, or- a much better idea hits me. “Flowers.”  

The idea fits perfectly into my plan. I’ll paint them on the side facing Izzy’s front door. She’ll love it.  So will the magic gnome.  

Painting flowers is hard intricate work -made even harder by my lack of finesse. My big man hands fumble the curly q’s and bungle the tiny petals and stems, but I push through it. If I learned anything in the army it is to finish the mission regardless.

 A project that should have taken an hour ends up swallowing most of the day. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in sweat and wearing a rainbow of colors across my favorite old army shirt.

Stepping back, I view my finished product and chuckle, “I never claimed to be an artist but maybe it will give Izzy a laugh.”

Before I chicken out, I rush to her front door, knock and call out.” Izzy, it’s Joe from next door.”

The curtains on her front window jiggle. I bet she’s peeking to see if it’s really me.

The casement window slowly cracks open, squeaking loudly as if it hasn’t been opened in a long time.  

Needs oil.

  Stepping closer I get my hard-earned reward. She’s laughing. It’s a small, reserved laugh but it’s still there.

“So, I painted the dumpster.” I tell her.

“I see. I don’t think Van Gogh or Georgia O’ Keefe could have done any better considering your canvas was a dirty old dumpster.”

“So, you like it?”

“Actually, I’m touched you would go through so much trouble to please the grumpy lady who lives next door.”

“Thanks.  Alice’s garden inspired me.” Hoping my statement would lead to a gardening confession.

“I’m sure the school children will love it.”

No crack in her armor, damn.

I turn toward my house and call over my shoulder. “I better get back and check on the plumber. Hope the rest of your day is a good one.”

“Hey Joe.”

Her voice has me turning back around. All I see is her silhouette behind the dark screen of the window.

She adds, “Thank you for painting the dumpster. I appreciate you understanding my quirky ways.”

I give her a salute and a smile.

Step one’s complete.

 I got one laugh.

 And a thank you.

 Not bad for a day’s work.