Just Another Good Samaritan
By Maggie Nerz Iribarne
October 15, 2023
October 15, 2023
All the lawns on Mentone Avenue are mowed on Wednesdays. Not this Wednesday, though, Andrew thought. Not today. Andrew observed the week’s worth of summer growth from his window. Where’ s Dwight? Andrew moved away from the window to the kitchen. He dialed the faded numbers scrawled on the scrap of paper. Andrew stared into the spare room while Dwight’s phone rang without answer. A tightening gripped his chest.
***
Six years ago, someone knocked on Andrew’s door.
“Howdy, anybody home?”
Andrew shrunk into his faded, stained chair.
“Hello?” the voice said. “It’s your neighbor, Dwight. Dwight Tensey. Is someone there?”
Andrew wasn’t sure how to use his voice. He didn’t get the opportunity very often.
“Me,” he said.
“Can you open the door?”
“No.” Andrew closed his eyes, held his breath until the sound of Dwight’s footsteps faded into silence.
***
The next time, Dwight called through the door.
“I got a sticky bun.”
Andrew had not had a sticky bun in forever.
“Can you hand it through a crack?” he said.
“Yes, sir I can,” Dwight said.
Andrew heaved himself up from his grandmother’s chair, fought through heaps of trash to get to the door, placed his hand on the knob. He pulled until the door released, a cloud of chipped paint and dust falling to the floor.
Dwight’s hand holding the bakery bag shot through.
Andrew grabbed and slammed the door shut, ripped into the bun.
Afterwards, he was sick.
***
Dwight knocked again one week later.
“I reckon you could use a coffee too,” he said.
Andrew opened the door wider this time. He glanced for a moment at Dwight: He was huge. He wore a plaid shirt, had a scruffy beard, a cigarette hung from his lips. Andrew caught the look of pity and shock in Dwight’s eyes. He panicked, grabbed the coffee and bakery bag, slammed the door.
His own mother had mental trouble, so Andrew’s grandmother raised him in the house on Mentone Avenue. She kept him close, some said too close. When it appeared that he had his own limitations, she kept him even closer. Andrew never spent a night away from his grandmother’s house. But Grandma did believe he needed a trade.
“For when I’m gone,” she said. He apprenticed at Thompson Plumbing and Heating a few streets away. Of course, she got old and died, an event for which Andrew was not prepared. When he found her on the bed dead like that, he shook her, hoping she’d wake. A few days went by with no change. He thought he’d better do something. The funeral people asked, “Why didn’t you call sooner? Andrew couldn’t really think of a reason other than, “I just didn’t want her to be dead,” so that’s what he said. After they carried her out, Andrew stopped going to his plumbing job. He stopped putting out the garbage, he stopped pretty much everything. First, knocks came to the door, but then they slowly stopped. Luckily he had plenty of canned goods. The newspaper kept coming through the slot in the door. He ate one meal a day from a can, read the paper, used strips of it for toilet paper and other things. The rest he stacked in columns that eventually blocked out every ray of light.
***
“I’d like to move those papers away from the windows,” Dwight said another day, standing at the door after handing over the coffee cup and bakery bag. “It’d be nice for you to see the road, wouldn’t it? I’ll give you a wave while I mow. I mow all the old folks in the neighborhood, anybody who needs it. I’ve been mowing your house, you know that? For so long, I didn’t know you were in here. I thought this place was abandoned. Then one of the others, old Ms. Shirley, she told me she thought you were still living in there.”
“I heard the mower,” Andrew said.
Dwight burst out in a funny teeheehee kind of laughter. Andrew couldn’t help but smile a little from his place on the other side of the door. The glaze from the sticky bun clung to his lips.
“Next time, how bout I load some of that newspaper in my truck?”
“Ah. I really don’t think so,” Andrew said.
“Okay, you just tell me when you’re ready, friend,” Dwight said.
Andrew’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. He wandered away from the door, to his grandmother’s chair where he sat, digesting that word, friend, in the darkness.
***
Dwight wasn’t giving up.
“I reckon it’ll be nice to use your stove again. And you can look out the window above the sink.”
He brought a birdfeeder, filled it with seed.
“Them birds. Always up to something. Always something to say. Good to watch.”
Andrew remembered his grandmother loved the birds. She said his late grandfather’s spirit form was a cardinal that appeared in the back yard.
“My Evelyn, she’s stuck too,” Dwight said.
Andrew waited, holding his breath.
“She’s always thinking she’s sick,”
“She’s stuck inside like me?”
“Yeah. She’s got it bad too.”
Andrew pictured Dwight sitting beside his wife, making her coffee, carrying her frail body up the stairs for bed.
Andrew agreed. Dwight could move the papers.
***
Through his bright windows Andrew saw all the things Dwight did for other people.
He dragged garbage cans in for the couple across the street. He stood on a ladder and changed the porch light at another house. He raked the soft lines of grass after he mowed, piling them up in heaps in the street for pick up. He retrieved an old lady’s mail.
“She had a leg break,” he told Andrew.
“How do you do it all?” Andrew asked.
Dwight smiled, dragged on his cigarette. He sat on the porch. Andrew, still afraid to go out, or have Dwight in for any length of time, talked through the screen.
“You think you’ll come out and set with me one of these days? You could give me a hand. I’d love to have the help.”
Andrew had no words.
“That’s alright, friend. He pulled out a scrap of paper, wrote down his phone number. You know you can call me whenever you need me, right?” He slipped the paper through the window.
***
Dwight Tensey, 47, died suddenly in his sleep. Suddenly.
Andrew sat holding the limp newspaper. Rain streaked the panes.
He opened the window, swore he could smell Dwight’s perpetual cigarette.
He stretched his eyes to see the house directly across Mentone Avenue. A package sat on the front step, soaked in the rain. One of the old couples Dwight helped.
Andrew heard Dwight’s gentle voice, encouraging him.
“You can do it, friend. I know you can. I believe it.”
Andrew paced the living room, pulled on his shirt sleeves, moved into the no longer cluttered center of the house. He held his head in his hands, pulled on his thin strands of hair.
“I could use your help, friend,” he said into the silence.
Andrew opened the door. He willed his legs to cross the threshold. The rain slanted, increased in volume. He stepped onto the porch where Dwight sat smoking just a week before. He managed the creaky front steps, weak in the knees. He crossed the sidewalk, the street. His breath came hard. He focused solely on that package. He was determined to retrieve it, get it out of the rain. He’d put it in the hands of his neighbors, as his friend Dwight would have done.
***
Six years ago, someone knocked on Andrew’s door.
“Howdy, anybody home?”
Andrew shrunk into his faded, stained chair.
“Hello?” the voice said. “It’s your neighbor, Dwight. Dwight Tensey. Is someone there?”
Andrew wasn’t sure how to use his voice. He didn’t get the opportunity very often.
“Me,” he said.
“Can you open the door?”
“No.” Andrew closed his eyes, held his breath until the sound of Dwight’s footsteps faded into silence.
***
The next time, Dwight called through the door.
“I got a sticky bun.”
Andrew had not had a sticky bun in forever.
“Can you hand it through a crack?” he said.
“Yes, sir I can,” Dwight said.
Andrew heaved himself up from his grandmother’s chair, fought through heaps of trash to get to the door, placed his hand on the knob. He pulled until the door released, a cloud of chipped paint and dust falling to the floor.
Dwight’s hand holding the bakery bag shot through.
Andrew grabbed and slammed the door shut, ripped into the bun.
Afterwards, he was sick.
***
Dwight knocked again one week later.
“I reckon you could use a coffee too,” he said.
Andrew opened the door wider this time. He glanced for a moment at Dwight: He was huge. He wore a plaid shirt, had a scruffy beard, a cigarette hung from his lips. Andrew caught the look of pity and shock in Dwight’s eyes. He panicked, grabbed the coffee and bakery bag, slammed the door.
His own mother had mental trouble, so Andrew’s grandmother raised him in the house on Mentone Avenue. She kept him close, some said too close. When it appeared that he had his own limitations, she kept him even closer. Andrew never spent a night away from his grandmother’s house. But Grandma did believe he needed a trade.
“For when I’m gone,” she said. He apprenticed at Thompson Plumbing and Heating a few streets away. Of course, she got old and died, an event for which Andrew was not prepared. When he found her on the bed dead like that, he shook her, hoping she’d wake. A few days went by with no change. He thought he’d better do something. The funeral people asked, “Why didn’t you call sooner? Andrew couldn’t really think of a reason other than, “I just didn’t want her to be dead,” so that’s what he said. After they carried her out, Andrew stopped going to his plumbing job. He stopped putting out the garbage, he stopped pretty much everything. First, knocks came to the door, but then they slowly stopped. Luckily he had plenty of canned goods. The newspaper kept coming through the slot in the door. He ate one meal a day from a can, read the paper, used strips of it for toilet paper and other things. The rest he stacked in columns that eventually blocked out every ray of light.
***
“I’d like to move those papers away from the windows,” Dwight said another day, standing at the door after handing over the coffee cup and bakery bag. “It’d be nice for you to see the road, wouldn’t it? I’ll give you a wave while I mow. I mow all the old folks in the neighborhood, anybody who needs it. I’ve been mowing your house, you know that? For so long, I didn’t know you were in here. I thought this place was abandoned. Then one of the others, old Ms. Shirley, she told me she thought you were still living in there.”
“I heard the mower,” Andrew said.
Dwight burst out in a funny teeheehee kind of laughter. Andrew couldn’t help but smile a little from his place on the other side of the door. The glaze from the sticky bun clung to his lips.
“Next time, how bout I load some of that newspaper in my truck?”
“Ah. I really don’t think so,” Andrew said.
“Okay, you just tell me when you’re ready, friend,” Dwight said.
Andrew’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. He wandered away from the door, to his grandmother’s chair where he sat, digesting that word, friend, in the darkness.
***
Dwight wasn’t giving up.
“I reckon it’ll be nice to use your stove again. And you can look out the window above the sink.”
He brought a birdfeeder, filled it with seed.
“Them birds. Always up to something. Always something to say. Good to watch.”
Andrew remembered his grandmother loved the birds. She said his late grandfather’s spirit form was a cardinal that appeared in the back yard.
“My Evelyn, she’s stuck too,” Dwight said.
Andrew waited, holding his breath.
“She’s always thinking she’s sick,”
“She’s stuck inside like me?”
“Yeah. She’s got it bad too.”
Andrew pictured Dwight sitting beside his wife, making her coffee, carrying her frail body up the stairs for bed.
Andrew agreed. Dwight could move the papers.
***
Through his bright windows Andrew saw all the things Dwight did for other people.
He dragged garbage cans in for the couple across the street. He stood on a ladder and changed the porch light at another house. He raked the soft lines of grass after he mowed, piling them up in heaps in the street for pick up. He retrieved an old lady’s mail.
“She had a leg break,” he told Andrew.
“How do you do it all?” Andrew asked.
Dwight smiled, dragged on his cigarette. He sat on the porch. Andrew, still afraid to go out, or have Dwight in for any length of time, talked through the screen.
“You think you’ll come out and set with me one of these days? You could give me a hand. I’d love to have the help.”
Andrew had no words.
“That’s alright, friend. He pulled out a scrap of paper, wrote down his phone number. You know you can call me whenever you need me, right?” He slipped the paper through the window.
***
Dwight Tensey, 47, died suddenly in his sleep. Suddenly.
Andrew sat holding the limp newspaper. Rain streaked the panes.
He opened the window, swore he could smell Dwight’s perpetual cigarette.
He stretched his eyes to see the house directly across Mentone Avenue. A package sat on the front step, soaked in the rain. One of the old couples Dwight helped.
Andrew heard Dwight’s gentle voice, encouraging him.
“You can do it, friend. I know you can. I believe it.”
Andrew paced the living room, pulled on his shirt sleeves, moved into the no longer cluttered center of the house. He held his head in his hands, pulled on his thin strands of hair.
“I could use your help, friend,” he said into the silence.
Andrew opened the door. He willed his legs to cross the threshold. The rain slanted, increased in volume. He stepped onto the porch where Dwight sat smoking just a week before. He managed the creaky front steps, weak in the knees. He crossed the sidewalk, the street. His breath came hard. He focused solely on that package. He was determined to retrieve it, get it out of the rain. He’d put it in the hands of his neighbors, as his friend Dwight would have done.
Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 54, lives in Syracuse, NY, writes about witches, cleaning ladies, priests/nuns, struggling teachers, neighborhood ghosts, and other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.
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