Or when we were walking past the house at night to take just one more look at it before our closing. And they were out there, alternately silent, watching us walk by, or shouting at each other. It seemed our smiles and hellos fell on deaf ears. It seemed our cheery dispositions were not wanted. It seemed the screeching and the music and the insolent glares rose in direct proportion to our happiness. It became unpleasant to sit outside on our porch, under the backwashed glare of their porch lights and revving car engines. Our increasingly desperate attempts to make small talk devolved into embarrassed silence. Eventually, as winter closed in, and the days grew short, so did we.

There were numerous cats, and numerous children. I never quite knew exactly how many people were living in the house, nor exactly who. There was always a crowd of people on the porch, different each time. We grew self-conscious with an unruly audience watching our every move. In time, we started to avoid looking in their direction as we came and went. We had reached a state of detente, where both sides refused to give in, and make a new beginning. Our friends comforted us by telling us we didn't have the worst house on the block.

Our other neighbor was actually pretty nice, an elderly woman with a dog and many houseplants. She moved out before we could get to know her very well, and the house sat unoccupied until November. Then, one night, as I came home from a late night at the office, I noticed several people moving into the vacant house. I went over and introduced myself to Raymond. It seemed that since the house wasn't likely to be sold in the winter, they would have someone move into the house in the meantime as caretaker. Raymond turned out to be a rather invisible occupant. I saw plenty of other people coming and leaving, over the next few months, but with all the unpleasantries with our other neighbors, it was a relief having quiet neighbors on at least one side.

Then on Christmas Eve, on the cusp of the longest night of the year, something happened at the house Raymond was caretaking. We were watching the finale of ET. As the mothership was taking off with Eliott tearfully waving goodbye, Una noticed flashing lights outside our house. With thoughts of alien abductions in our minds, we crept to the window where we saw police cars and ambulances. Throwing on coats and caution to the wind, we ventured outside only to hear shouting. It was muffled, and very incoherent. It was coming from the kitchen of the house Raymond was caretaking. Then things seemed to happen very quickly.

First, a cop ran, crouched, towards the house, his hand on his holster. As I was getting ready to throw Una to the ground if shots were fired, the shouts from the kitchen grew louder. Then two men bearing a stretcher rushed in. The shouting suddenly became understandable. "Call 911! Just call 911!" I was confused. Was someone having a heart attack or something? Did someone need help? If so, then why the armed police? When the orderlies finally came out with the stretcher, it all became clear. There was a naked man strapped down to it, a thin cloth thrown over his body. "Just call 911, and I'll be quiet. Just call 911, and I'll be quiet" were the last words I heard from Raymond as he was packed up into the ambulance. In short order, the police also departed. The evil nasty neighbors on the other side made strange, mocking noises, as everyone headed back inside. The show was, indeed, over.

When spring came, things seemed different. The vacant house was sold, and was quickly spruced up. It turned out that the elderly woman had a daughter, who bought the place for a song. Across the way at the house of unpleasantries, the father, who never was as bad as the rest of his progeny, even deigned to talk (briefly) as we crossed paths watering our lawns in the evenings. The waves of hostility from the porch crowd slowly became little laplets of dislike. I think the parents were imposing a sort of Middle-East-type civility, towards the end. As it was, they ended up leaving in May, departing for Wichita, Kansas, for a "business opportunity". For our part, we celebrated and put away our little voodoo dolls pinned to maps of Kansas.

When they left, they forgot several of their cats, which were eventually picked up, or run off. I sometimes wonder if they forgot some of their kids.