CREATIVE WRITING

A Disappearing Act

On the topic of “Those Damned Immigrants”

This piece is part of a collaboration called The Top Ten Stories by Timothy J. Sabo which aims to explore some social issues. The one that you are about to read is based on the prompt “Those Damned Immigrants.”

At a quarter after twelve every afternoon, Tom Gibson sat in front of his house. He had a cup of sweet iced tea in one hand and a wide-brimmed hat in the other. He was sitting on a red Adirondack chair in the middle of his lawn, which had patches of discoloration from the lack of rain in recent weeks. He could feel the sun situated above him, gazing down, passing judgment. Slowly, sweat started to accumulate around his neck.

He took a sip of his tea. And then another. He felt the rush of cold liquid slide down his throat. For a moment, it kept the heat at bay, like an insulating layer though he knew that it was only temporary.

Leaning back, he looked across the street. Across the street was a house that was the same color and shape as his, only taller. It was a red brick house that was three stories high. He never saw the people who lived there. Despite his daily vigil a little after twelve every day for the past month.

Well, there was that one time.

It was an afternoon much like this one. A fortnight ago, he was sitting on this same chair with the same iced tea. He might even have worn the same outfit on that day — a pair of khaki shorts and a red polo shirt.

He might have been sitting there for thirty minutes, watching. Someone emerged out of the big red brick house. The double front doors opened and out came a woman.

He watched as she walked down the footpath leading from the front doors to the mailbox. She didn’t walk. She skipped quickly. He barely saw her feet hitting the pavement as she went up to the mailbox. He watched as she opened it, retrieved two pieces of mail, and then took the same path back to her house.

But at that moment when she opened her mailbox, he got a closer look at her. It was then that she locked eyes with him. She had dark eyes, dark hair, and skin the color of caramel. Her hair was tied back into a neat bun at the back. Not a single hair was out of place. At that moment when she locked eyes with him, she flashed him a grin. And then, it was gone, almost as if it had never happened.

Ever since then, he could not stop thinking about her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He was married after all. But he couldn’t help but wonder who she was. He never saw anyone else in that house since. Just her in that one moment.

Ever since then, he had been sitting outside his house, wanting to catch another glimpse. He wanted to learn more about the mysterious woman who had ventured up that path to check the mail.

He didn’t know why he was so intrigued. He just felt a magnetic pull toward her.

Suddenly, a voice drifted out of his house. It was his wife. He knew that it was his wife because she was the only person in the house. It sounded like she was on the phone. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and listened to his wife’s voice. His wife had a voice that was like warm honeydew. It was inviting and warm and put you immediately at ease.

“Yes, yes, I quite understand what you are saying. But Lucy Hoffman is our neighbor. I’m afraid I cannot be a party to that.”

“But she’s not one of us,” the voice over the phone said. It sounded deep, serious, with a slight edge.

“Oh? One of what?” his wife now said, her voice growing higher pitched with each syllable.

“She’s not American. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Oh, who says,” his wife said. Tom could picture her slim eyebrows rising in response. He imagined that her lips had formed a round O. “She moved in a month ago. She’s really nice. She lives with her husband and son. I’ve spoken with her many times.”

Tom startled in response. This was news to him.

His wife mumbled something back and then the phone disconnected. He heard a door slam, a light switch flicked off, and then another door closed. He shut his eyes, thinking about what he had heard. But he didn’t have to wait for very long. The next moment, he felt soft hands on his shoulders.

He looked up.

His wife was looking down, smiling gently at him.

“Hey baby, nice to see you,” he said, smiling back.

She didn’t say anything. She just smiled back in response.

“So, what was that phone call about? Do you know them?” he gestured with a hand at the house across the street.

“Sure,” she replied in that same easy-going manner. “I went to school with her. Middle school. She finally got a chance to reconnect. It’s been so long. She moved in a month ago. I’ve been meeting her every week since. Her husband works from home. That’s why you haven’t seen him around.”

He let those words sink in.

“But why didn’t you tell me?” he finally mumbled, barely moving his lips.

“Because I thought you already knew. You sit here every day watching them.”

He looked up at her, staring her dead in the eyes. Her eyes were blue, reminding him of the water. It was something that he both hated and loved due to a severe trauma experience he had when he was five.

“Why did you stop seeing her after middle school?” he finally asked.

“Her family got deported back to Cuba. She came back a few years ago with a visa.”

“And who were you talking to?”

“Just someone who doesn’t like her for she is. They want to kick her out of this neighborhood. Can you imagine?”

He shook his head when really he meant to nod. Yes, he could imagine it. He remembered the last few years just as well as his wife.

“Some people will never learn,” he said after another moment.

A month later, Tom Gibson was yet again sitting outside on his front lawn. He had his trusty chair and hat, only this time he now had a pair of cheap sunglasses from the $1.25 store.

Again, he watched the house in front of his. He saw the woman once more. Again, she had ventured outdoors to check her mail. And then, quick as a lamb, she was back inside.

Today, he saw a group of men walking along the sidewalk in front of his house. They were whispering together.

“Yeah, it’s that house. We gotta do something, man. This neighborhood is being overrun by immigrants. They don’t belong here. Let’s get them out. Those damned immigrants. They need to go.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, watching as they passed his house and of course the house in front of his.

What were they going to do? Suddenly, he feared for their safety. Should he warn them?

But still he sat. He didn’t move.

Should he call the police?

But what could they do? As he saw in recent years, even the police are not innocent.

Should he tell his wife?

Making up his mind on the spot, he looked back at this house. But his vision was clouded due to the sunglasses, so he took them off and flung them on his chair while simultaneously getting up.

But then, he sat back down.

He remembered that his wife was at work. No one was home. Except for him.

So, he would just sit and wait. Wait and see. After all, nothing might happen. It might be nothing at all. Only half convinced, he remained seated. But still, he had an uneasy feeling in his gut.

Three weeks later, the people across the street were gone.

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