A Quiet Evening at Home
by Robert Boucheron
part 1
To a casual observer, Truslow and Hughes were the same: two older white men, retired, single, and set in their ways. In personality, they were complete opposites.
Truslow was a backslapper, a schmoozer, and a con. A big man with a loud voice, he smoked cigars and drank beer. He dressed in what he considered to be country casual: a plaid shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He had worked for a corporation funded by the Department of Defense to design military hardware: high-tech weapons like drones and surgical strike missiles. An engineer by training, he had ascended the ladder of promotion to supervise engineers, and then the supervisors, ending his career as a lobbyist and fixer. He called his former employer the bomb factory, a sample of his sense of humor.
Hughes was thin and solitary, as honest as the day is long. A quiet man whose voice seldom rose. If provoked, he could make a cutting remark. He shunned tobacco in any form and drank in moderation: wine from a local vineyard or a fine whiskey. Dressed in an Oxford shirt, sport coat, and pressed khaki pants, he was an architect. His practice had been residential: new houses, additions, apartment buildings and amenities like clubs and cafes. Some of his projects were public housing complexes funded by the government, the only point at which his career at all resembled Truslow’s. Hughes gave people places to live, relax, and congregate, while Truslow and his ilk did their best to destroy them.
At the same time and unknown to each other, Truslow and Hughes each bought forty acres of second-growth forest in Quidnunc County. The adjoining properties had been farms in the early 1800s. They were a mile from a hamlet called Endeavor, which consisted of a railroad grade crossing, a one-room store, now vacant, a barn-like church, ditto, and a sprinkle of little houses. Each man wanted and felt entitled to complete privacy and the freedom to do as he pleased.
With scarcely a glance at the old farmhouse on his land, Truslow hired a bulldozer to flatten it. One hour of destruction, and the ground was clear. The same crew of men and machines cut down a wide swath of trees, pushed the branches, trunks, and roots into great heaps, then set them on fire. The roar of chainsaws and backhoes was tremendous, and the smoke of burning was awful.
Truslow proceeded to build himself a log structure loaded with bells and whistles, a house so large and faux-rustique it could hardly be called a cabin. The logs admitted large sheets of glass, a glaring metal roof and a raw concrete foundation stained by red clay. To complete the picture, a landscaper installed a lawn like a putting green, bordered by shrubs so clipped and ornamental they looked artificial.
Meanwhile, Hughes found the farmhouse on his property in need of attention but charming in its simplicity. In the overgrown fields and pastures, he hired a woodcutter to selectively remove fallen trees and brush. A program of forest management would favor the better hardwood species. Hughes cleared the yard, and he laid out a garden of heirloom vegetables and classic fruit trees.
As a measure of respect for the historic house, almost a point of honor, he kept it intact. He repaired damage using materials and techniques from the time when it was built: carpentry joints, cut nails and lime plaster. Wood moldings were simple profiles left in place. Fireplaces retained their mantels, and Hughes made sure they all drew properly. Modern improvements as a concession to comfort were concealed. Plumbing was hidden behind panels and in closets. Only in the basement, where a visitor might never go, was the twenty-first century visible.
By a perverse mischance, Hughes and Truslow shared a property line several hundred feet long. An old fence wandered over the line, like a drunken driver pulled over by police and told to walk. Rival land surveys, research in deeds at the county courthouse, and hours of billable time with attorneys led to a lawsuit. The affair dragged on, expensive and unnecessary. Two grown men might be expected to listen to reason. Instead, they argued, dug in their heels, attacked each other’s character, and said things the attorneys sincerely regretted. In the end, Truslow and Hughes settled out of court.
The fence stayed where it was, and the property encroachment was entered into the legal record. The two owners were advised not to tear down, move, or otherwise alter the fence, now accurately located on paper, if not on the ground. Each man was to stay on his own side. No trespassing, taunting, or lobbing of grenades, live or figurative.
The settlement worked as far as it went, but it failed to cover a multitude of sins. Truslow installed floodlights around his house, ostensibly for security. This nocturnal illumination exposed his lack of architectural taste. It was visible from Hughes’s house, and it violated the county dark-sky ordinance. Some people consider stars to be part of the natural world, and light pollution as a nuisance.
In what some other people consider a misguided attempt to return to nature, Hughes banned insecticides and weedkillers on his land. He posted it against hunters and trespassers, and he encouraged wildlife. Bugs, weeds, rabbits, and foxes failed to recognize the fence or any legal agreement. They strayed into Truslow’s property and made themselves at home. They ate leaves and flowers, infested the lawn, and dug unsightly holes. Truslow discovered to his muffled rage that the county had no ordinance restricting native species.
Gunshots rang out at irregular intervals. Truslow explained them to the county police, who arrived in response to an anonymous complaint, as target practice and the free exercise of his Second Amendment right. Firecrackers and bottle rockets around the Fourth of July might be excused as a burst of patriotic pride, or the amusement of an overgrown boy. To Hughes, the noise was offensive, and the pall of smoke and acrid smell of gunpowder made it all the worse.
Worst of all was the barking dog. Truslow kept a black mongrel chained beside his house on a patch of bare dirt. Rex barked, whimpered, howled, and whined, day and night. The beast was obviously unhappy. The cruel indignity of a king in chains, as his name implied, aggravated the physical torment. Hughes himself had a cat, Queenie, a ball of fluff with gentle purr. The cat was kept indoors, not as a prisoner, but as a strictly domestic companion.
Before Truslow and Hughes had their falling-out, the architect made the acquaintance of Rex. It was a chance encounter on the county road the men shared, as each was out for a walk. They exchanged greetings in the guarded way of older white men. Rex licked Hughes’s hand. The dog wriggled with pleasure when he stroked its flank and rubbed behind its ears. Dogs are social animals, and this one was starved for company.
The display of affection made Truslow jealous. He yanked the dog by the collar and told it to heel. Hughes had no time to explain that he had no desire for a dog, and certainly not a black mongrel. In his opinion, Truslow had no affinity for dogs. He acquired Rex simply because any man who lived in a log house in the country had one. Rex took to Hughes spontaneously and might have followed him home, but the mixed breed had some infernal strain in its makeup, something uncanny and evil. Queenie would never stand for it.
* * *
One bright autumn day, a red apple in his hand, Hughes left the house to finish lunch in the open air. As he munched, he walked his patch of paradise. The blooming season was past. The corn, beans, and squash were picked. A few tomatoes clung to withered stalks. Most of the leaves were dry and yellow, ready for the compost heap. A cold front was forecast to blow through that night. He ought to take advantage of the fine weather, he thought. He should prune some rangy bushes, cut back the iris and daylilies, and transplant the crowded bulbs.
More to his taste would be lying in a hammock in the shade of an oak, and more appropriate to a man of his condition. Not that he was feeble or afflicted by old age. His blood pressure was normal, and his heart was strong. He still had the use of all of his limbs. He exercised at the health club three times a week. But even the most active senior citizen comes to know limits. There is only so much a man can endure. Unfortunately, Truslow found it necessary to explore those limits and test his endurance.
Apple in hand, Hughes stood in his garden that autumn day. Under a clear blue sky, he savored the warmth of the sun, the tart juice, and the crunch of white flesh. A thrashing noise roused him from contemplation, and a large animal burst into view.
It was Rex, with a length of chain attached to his studded collar. A link must have snapped, and the animal escaped. The old fence that had caused so much trouble between men was no barrier to the dog. Rex must have found a gap or broken through a rotten board. Whether he took off at random or deliberately headed to Hughes’s place was open to speculation. But as soon as Rex appeared, slobber hanging from his large black jaw, the peace-loving man saw a chance to make things right.
Copyright © 2024 by Robert Boucheron
