Short Fiction: Good Neighbor Policy
This is a little story I wrote about 15 years ago. It’s not exactly literature, but it’s sweet, and I hope you’ll enjoy it.
All Mike could do was shake his head. He’d never seen anyone as angry as Mr. Greyson, the old man who had just moved next door. Mike’s ten-year-old son, Brandon, hit an errant baseball into the old man’s window. The ball shattered a pane and landed in the neighbor’s living room. Mike sent Brandon over to apologize.
Brandon returned a few minutes later, his face red and hot with anger.
“What did you tell him?” asked Mike.
“I told him I was sorry,” Brandon huffed, his voice breaking. “He just gave me a lecture about how I needed to be more careful. He wouldn’t even give me the stupid ball back!”
“Don’t sweat it, kid.” Mike patted Brandon’s shaggy blonde hair, trying to act like the whole situation was no big deal. But it was a big deal to Mike, and as soon as Brandon went back in the house, he walked next door to have a word with his neighbor.
Mike’s knock on the door was greeted with a brusque, “Your son should be more careful.”
“Mr. Greyson, I’m sorry, and so is Brandon,” replied Mike, trying his best to stay calm.
“You’ll pay for the window.”
“Of course we will, sir. Have a good day.”
As Mike turned to walk away, the old man couldn’t resist getting in one last word.
“This won’t happen again, you hear me.”
Or what? Mike thought.
“No sir, it won’t,” came Mike’s barely cordial reply as he started back for his own yard, “I’ll see to it that it won’t.”
“And don’t step on my hostas!”
What a jerk, Mike thought. I ought to go after his hostas with the lawn mower!
Mike’s wife, Kelly, witnessed the whole scene through the kitchen window. She decided she’d do something to smooth things over. The next day was Sunday, and that afternoon she baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies. She had Brandon and his sister, six-year-old Mackenzie, take the cookies over to their neighbor.
Kelly watched, smiling, as Brandon, in his favorite Atlanta Braves ball cap, and Mackenzie, with her bouncy light brown curls, took the plate of cookies over to Mr. Greyson’s house, rang the doorbell, and sprinted back for their house.
This will break the ice a little more nicely, thought Kelly.
The next day, Kelly arrived home from taking the kids to school only to find the plate of cookies sitting on her doorstep, with one missing, and a hastily scrawled note attached. It read, “I’M DIABETIC! YOUR COOKIES COULD HAVE KILLED ME! YOU SHOULD BE MORE CONSIDERATE.”
Kelly threw the plate of cookies away before the kids could see them, but she saved the note to show Mike when he got home from work.
“How can any one man be so mean?” Mike wondered aloud to his wife.
“I don’t know,” Kelly replied, “but I think we should just lay low and steer clear of him, at least for a while.”
“Suits me just fine.”
Mike walked in and saw Mr. Greyson sitting alone at the kitchen table as a flurry of activity went on around him. Most of the other furniture was gone, and the house looked empty. He pulled out the chair next to the old man and sat down beside him.
“My kids think I don’t need to be alone, and they’re moving me to an assisted living home across town,” grumbled Mr. Greyson.
“Are you OK with that?” asked Mike.
“Well, I might be inclined to agree with them a little. I don’t have anybody here – except you.”
Mike was practically shocked at the last statement.
“I’m going to miss all of you,” Mr. Greyson continued.
“We’ll, uh, miss you too,” Mike stammered.
“I know I haven’t been the best neighbor, and we definitely got started on the wrong feet, but I think the world of you and Kelly,” said Mr. Greyson. “And your kids. They’re great kids. Make sure they stay that way.”
“I’ll do my best,” replied Mike.
“Your son – he’s a heck of a ball player. He just needs to do one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Mike.
“If he can be a little quicker with his hands when he swings, he’ll be a monster hitter. And he needs to make sure he keeps the ball away from your neighbor’s windows.” The old man’s face twisted into something Mike had never seen on him – a smile.
“You know what, Mike? You’re the husband and father I wish I could have been. Don’t be like me. You don’t want to spend the last years of your life wishing you’d been better to your family.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greyson. That means a lot. Listen, you know how to reach us. Please keep in touch, and let us know if we can ever do anything for you. Who knows? We might even come to see you one day soon.”
“I’d like that. Oh, and one more thing. Tell Kelly never to make those diabetic-friendly cookies again. She’s a terrific cook, but those cookies are terrible!”
Mr. Greyson let out a warm, truly surprising laugh at his last bit of advice. Mike stood up from his chair, and reached out to shake the old man’s hand.
“No,” said Mr. Greyson. “Today calls for a hug.”
The next day, as Mike, Kelly, and the kids came home from church, there was a stack of items by the front door. Attached to each item was a note, and on the front door was another note, in the same handwriting that Kelly recognized from the day she first brought Mr. Greyson cookies. The note read, “THANK YOU FOR BEING SUCH GOOD NEIGHBORS.”
Attached to a small box was a note for Mackenzie. Kelly read it to Mackenzie as she opened the box.
“DEAR MACKENZIE: THIS BELONGED TO MY WIFE WHEN SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL. IT’S FITTING FOR A PRINCESS LIKE YOU.”
Inside the box was an old costume-jewelry tiara, glittering with rhinestones.
“It’s so pretty,” exclaimed Mackenzie. “Can I keep it?”
“Of course you can,” replied Kelly.
Brandon noticed the box and note left for him. He opened it to find a baseball signed by Joe DiMaggio. His note read, “BRANDON, THIS IS A BALL SIGNED BY THE PLAYER I IDOLIZED AS A KID. LEARN ALL YOU CAN ABOUT HIM.”
“Wow,” was all Brandon could say.
The next box was for Kelly, and it contained a metal file box filled with recipes, handwritten on old index cards. Some of the cards were yellowed enough to have clearly been from fifty years ago or more. Mr. Greyson’s note to Kelly read, “WE NEVER HAD DAUGHTERS, SO THERE NEVER WAS ANYONE TO PASS MY WIFE’S RECIPES ON TO, AND SHE’S NOT USING HIM SINCE SHE LEFT ME FOR THAT LOSER IN FLORIDA. I HOPE YOU’LL CONTINUE TO COOK WITH THE BEST OF THEM.”
Kelly and Mike both laughed at the thought of Mr. Greyson giving away his wife’s possessions as she cavorted with another man in Florida. There was one more box with a note attached to it. The note read, “MICHAEL, I REGRET THAT I NEVER GOT THE CHANCE TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY EXPERIENCES IN KOREA. MY HOPE IS THAT YOU WILL READ THIS, UNDERSTAND MY STORY, AND PRESERVE THE HISTORY THE BEST WAY YOU CAN.” Inside the box was Mr. Greyson’s journal of his time in the Korean War.
Mike, Kelly, Brandon, and Mackenzie sat on their front porch that warm spring afternoon, marveling at the priceless gifts their neighbor had given them. Not much conversation passed between them for a few minutes until Brandon finally said, “I wonder if we would’ve gotten to know him this well if I hadn’t hit that ball through his window.”
Photo by Eyasu Etsub on Unsplash