Curtains by Scott Nicholson

it, even with
all the care and tending, his own house looked a little shabby and
shopworn under the street lights. Like him, it had seen its best
days, and an invisible earth digger was waiting in the wings to
claim both of them.
    “This is a nice neighborhood,” Herman said.
“Why, look at the pride Mrs. Breedlove takes in her flowers.”
    “Appearances are important, but they can also
be deceiving. Order on the outside can often hide disorder
inside.”
    “Maybe you’re right,” Herman said. “Maybe
your fence ain’t none of my business.”
    The hippie’s dog skirted under the fence and
pushed its nose to the ground, following the curb down to 103,
where the Pilkingtons had left the trash out.
    “Doggie bags,” the hippie said. “They’ll
learn sooner or later.”
    “Reckon so,” Herman said. “What’s your
name?”
    “Reynolds. Peter Reynolds.”
    Herman was afraid that the hippie was going
to stick his hand out in some jive shake or other, but he just
stood there with that educated smile. Peter Reynolds had the
home-field advantage, and he knew it. Herman had been caught where
he didn’t belong. He looked over at the Pilkington house, where the
mutt was gnawing through a plastic trash bag, scattering cellophane
and rumpled paper towels.
    “I’d best be going,” Herman said.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
    Herman thought of the razor blades, and
wondered for the first time if Peter Reynolds maybe had a knife in
his pocket. “What?”
    The hippie pointed to the leaning fence post.
“I don’t know about you, but my mom taught me to leave things just
the way I found them.”
    Herman started to argue, then thought of the
maybe-knife and swallowed hard. He eased the post perpendicular to
the ground and stomped his foot to tamp the dirt tight. “Good
night, now,” he said.
    “Watch your step,” the hippie, Peter
Reynolds, said.
    “Sounds like good advice.” Herman didn’t look
back until he was inside his own home. He closed the curtains and
hid the Elvis decanter in the closet with the rest of Verna’s
things.
     
    The next day, he called the Sheriff’s Office.
The hippie wasn’t the only one who knew how to work the system.
Herman had to sit on hold for a couple of minutes, but he finally
reached Bud Millwood, a deputy who had made an unsuccessful run for
sheriff a decade back. Herman had supported his campaign with cash
and two signs in the yard, and though Millwood had lost the race,
rural politics required his repaying of such a favor.
    “I need you to check something for me, Bud,”
Herman said.
    “The city council trying to zone you
again?”
    “No, nothing like that. We voted that bunch
out five years ago. The ‘Z’ word is a one-way ticket to hell around
these parts.”
    Millwood laughed. “You can set that in stone.
A fellow’s got a right to do what he wants with his land.”
    “Sometimes. Maybe sometimes.”
    “What’s your problem?”
    “I wondered if you could run a check on a
fellow. Name of Peter Reynolds. He might not be from around here,
but he ain’t Yankee, judging by his accent. Has Tennessee plates on
his car.” Herman read off the license numbers he’d written on a
scrap of paper.
    “He do something wrong?”
    “No, not yet. He just moved into the
neighborhood, and you know how it is.”
    “A fellow likes to know who his neighbors
are.”
    “Yep. So if you can dig anything up, I’d
appreciate it.”
    “Well, normally I got to have a reason to run
a check. But maybe if you think he was growing dope or
something.”
    “He’s the type who might.”
    “Good enough for me. I’ll call you when I
learn something. If there’s so much as a counterfeit aspirin on his
record, I’ll drive out and pay a personal visit.”
    “No, I can handle him. Just let me know.”
    “Sure, Herman, whatever. If you smell
something funny, though, give me a holler. The way they’re cutting
into our DARE programs, it’s a wonder the whole blessed county
ain’t