Time to Move
by Laura Payeur
Copyright 2012 Laura Payeur
Published by Laura Payeur at Smashwords
This ebook is presently free.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are solely the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblences to actual persons living or dead, businesses, places or events is entirely coincidental.
My name is Ardelia Smith. I'm a thirty-two year old happy homemaker, most of the time. Tonight's not exactly one of those nights.
It's a summer night, Saturday, I'm sitting in the shadows of the enclosed porch. The only thing visible in the dark is the glowing red tip of my cigarette. The air is slightly humid, but somewhere around seventy degrees, bearable. We have been renting the same house for going on three years. It's not the right place, but it's decent enough. Not nearly big enough for our large family. The girls, all three of them, sleep in one very over-crowded bedroom. Aiden, the youngest and only boy, has his own room. Devan and I sleep in what the old folks used to call the front room or sitting room. One floor, five rooms and six people. Luckily the kids are still small enough where it doesn't matter much to them, as long as they know where to find all of their toys.
I listen to the cars pass by on a main street a block away. For a Saturday night, traffic is lulled. It's not a holiday weekend, and that makes a difference. The sun is now two hours gone, ten o'clock. Something is scurrying around under the shed. A raccoon, I hope. Only last week we had pulled in after a long night at the drive-in - yes, we still have a couple of those around - only to find a rather large skunk meandering around in the driveway. Last winter the little fucker must have been having a party. Him and three of his skunk friends were romping around in the backyard, through the snow. I believe he resides on one side beneath the shed, and what I think looks like a beaver, minus the flat tail - it's large, furry and brown - lives around the other side. When one goes in the other comes out, always late at night. Damn party animals.
My neighbor Lisette is starting her barbeque. She's having company tonight. A couple of her husband's friends, people she doesn't particularly care for, but she entertains like the perfect hostess anyway. I give her credit, I couldn't do it. As a matter of fact, I tend to chase the unwanteds away. It's my way. I have no excuse, only reasons, most of them unacceptable to anyone except me. That suits me just fine. Devan doesn't seem to mind. We enjoy each others company more than anyone else anyhow. Right now, while I'm watching my neighbors, smoking my cigarette, he's asleep. As usual, he worked an eight hour shift today. He never stops. Sometimes I wish he could. Honestly, though, other times I'm grateful for the quiet time to myself. With four kids getting time to myself doesn't happen very often.
Money's tight, always has been, probably always will be, but we make it work. Neither of us has a vehicle even close to new. We're alright with that, most of the time. Right now, though, I'm getting a bit depressed about it. I'm grabbing one of Devan's beers, he doesn't mind. Next week, he's on vacation and we can't even afford a trip to the zoo. Can you imagine? The price of admission for our family is just over $80. I know may not seem like a whole lot, but that's just the price of walking through the gate. Naturally, we'd pack our own lunch, but, you know kids, they always want to go home with something. There's another $100 we don't have. the price of gas just keeps going up, we're looking at another $15, easy. I'm getting more depressed by the minute and I'm starting to think about grabbing that sixty year old bottle of whiskey hidden high in the kitchen cabinet.
I'm resting my head back against the chair and I've just heard a loud popping sound and then squealing tires. It's not too close, but close enough. Probably a drug deal somewhere. It happens every now and then. I suppose it happens in the winter, too, but I only hear this kind of commotion when the weather's nice.
As I crush out my cigarette and take a long pull from the beer, I hear yelling. It's not the distant drug dealers. It's closer. The noise is coming from beyond the backyard, on the other side of the six foot wooden fence, the one that's barely standing. It's "Norman" again, yelling at his mother. I don't know what his real name is, but I quite often hear him screaming at his mother. He's telling her to just shut up and die - hence the "Norman". She's telling him his brother would never treat her that way. He instructs her to move in with him then. My evening's entertainment.
Across the street, the very large woman who lives on the second floor has decided to crank her stereo. I don't usually mind, except on nights like these, when she's decided to bellow along. She's not exactly easy on the ears, my four year old can do a better rendition of the country song she's killing. That's one song that'll never sound the same again.
Norman's mother is now flicking the flood lights on and off in their backyard. She's still yelling, he's still wishing her dead. The light spread across our yard, shining onto the porch. I'm sinking down deeper into the old tattered armchair, hoping no one will notice me. I certainly don't want to be a witness should she actually go missing or wind up dead some day.
"Fuck you, Ma," Norman is screaming. I hear glass breaking and the light is out for good, or so I'm assuming.
I've scooted back up in the chair and lit another cigarette. Norman makes me nervous. Of course, he's not the only one around here. I see Lisette's party making their way outside and our neighbor Bob, already drunk out of his socks is stumbling over to the party. I already know he's not invited, but Bob doesn't need an invitation, he likes to invite himself. His drunker-than-him girlfriend Rhoda has decided to follow him out. She's a peach, not really. She's got a slightly hunched right shoulder and one mean-ass disposition. I've never said hello, and I don't ever intend to.
"I know you fucked her!" she's shouting. "I saw the pictures! You sick mother fucker!"
Little does she know, everyone's seen the pictures. Bob's a bit of a voyeur. He doesn't mind if people know he's accepting sex from the twenty-four year old junkie who lives in the second floor apartment in exchange for rent. He seems to see it as a fair deal.
"Go home, you crazy bitch." He's slurring and gives her a shove. She shoves back. She's raised her arm, striking him. The party goers are screaming. Rhoda drops something. There's a hollow metal against concrete sound as something has hit the cement patio. She's running to her car, leaving. I'm relieved, but it seems I'm the only one. The party goers have surrounded Bob, I can't see him from where I am. I'm tempted to head over there, just to check things out, but it's not that interesting. I wouldn't want Norman to know I've been sitting out here the entire time. So, I'm going to keep quiet. I can the sirens in the distance. Someone's called Bob The Pervert an ambulance. Lucky him. Tomorrow, I'll remember to ask Lisette what happened.
For now, I think I'm going to go inside and start looking through the classifieds. It's time to start looking for a new place to live.
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