The House Across The Street

It looms in obscurity, the  tri-level with well kempt yard and garden.  Darkness hoovers about even during daylight. Families move in and out whom we’ve never met.  During  summer bliss, a large man sits calmly  on the steps smoking a cigar, drinking liquor from an old bottle, his dog howling in discontent from the backyard.

Sometimes he looks over at me while I sit on my  porch. I wave. He nods.

Nighttime brings uncomfortable sounds from that house. Children cry… a woman screams. The man on the porch hurts her. He damages the dog more.

Don’t get involved, don’t call the police. That seems to be the policy of our neighborhood.

I can’t stop thinking about the way the dog whimpers all hours, his cries of abandonment.

My Silky Terrier, Mandy and I walk the floors two am every morning, insomnia plaguing our sleep. I go into the hall bathroom, window is slightly ajar. I hear sobbing. Poking my head through the small gap I whisper, “Hello?”

“Shhhh.” comes from a masculine voice. I hear him lifting her,carrying her back to  hell. Not caring about  consequences, tired of doing nothing I dial 911.

Turning  off the porch light, I sit silently  in my chair, watching police cars surround the house across the street.