: The little, one block stretch of Shirmaine Lane in Old Metairie is unusual on its own. Removed from the rest of the neighborhood by two long, tall fences. One that runs behind every house. The other, running in a straight line directly across the street, giving the road the feeling of a shotgun house, though none exist here. And on this unusual street there is a more unusual sight in this pocket universe on Metairie Ridge. For the first time since it was built, every window of the Hammar house is ablaze with light. Were anyone on Shirmaine awake at that time of the morning, and out on the street, they would have finally gotten a glimpse into a home that has been the subject of neighborhood conversations for years.
One resident is out.
Well, two really.
A young teenage girl slowly walks by the house on the opposite side of the street. With her is her dog, a black labrador/chow mix with fluffy fur that makes him look bigger than he really is. On the dog’s collar is a large yellow tag that reads:
Rex, The Wonder Dog. I belong to Erica L., 523 Shirmaine Lane.
Erica stops and looks at the unusual sight. Even Rex sits against the fence that separates the rest of the neighborhood from their street. They gaze quizzically at the sight, framed in the light coming from the living room window. Rex’s enormous pink tongue, mottled with blue patches like he’s eaten a cotton candy giraffe, flops haphazardly over his jaw, showering the grass with little drops of spittle. He does that when he thinks. Or needs to go out. Or breathes.
The small one-story mid-century brick house is generically standard issue, like a model house for a child’s train set blown up to perverse proportions. Yet, it is so devoid of personality most people just look away. On the right, a one vehicle carport that hasn’t ported a car since the old lady died three years ago. It is the only house in the lane built this way. All the others have their carports or garages on the right. A narrow pavement leads from the driveway to the front door. There is no sidewalk in front of the house. There are also no plants or trees on the property, except for the front “hedge”; a tangle of creeping vines that took over the old lady’s azalea bushes years ago. Rather than rip up the area and replant, the family just took to trimming the vines into a rectangle across the front. The vines are now self-supporting, the azaleas they choked out a distant, dusty memory beneath. The front porch consists of concrete steps and a landing, no railings. Next to the door, a white mailbox with black stenciled numbers, 507.
Directly above the vine hedge, the living room window, now ablaze for an unexpected audience of two. The window on the right that should go into the kitchen was sealed over decades ago by his father. He hated the thought of people looking in on him while he was eating breakfast. Over his wife’s objections, he sealed up the window. His mother responded by putting up a ledge, frame and shutters inside, and installing a sunlamp over the breakfast nook. Every morning, slowly roasting while defiantly eating his oatmeal, salted with his own sweat. Such were the many quiet battles inside the Hammar house.
Inside, Oskar enters the room, and picks up two old suitcases, carrying them into another room.
Erica and Rex watch in silent fascination as he carries out old clothes, more ancient luggage, and neatly-bound stacks of old papers. Some of them look like newspapers.
“What is he doing in there?” Erica whispers to Rex. “And, why? We have to get closer.” Erica begins to cross the street, but Rex stays put, growling softly in reproach.
“Oh, fine you big furball,” she whispers, returning to her spot by the fence. Rex wags his furry black tail a little, happy that she listened to him. “If we see a dead body, we’re out of here. Got it?” Rex ignores her, emitting a tiny little fart to seal the deal. She rolls her eyes, dropping her head down to her hand. “That’s gross, dog. Gross.”
Oskar returns again, and begins pulling a huge trunk back into the house, knocking over a table lamp in the process. It falls over onto the arm of the sofa, aiming a spotlight at Erica and Rex. Oskar stops and tries to return the lamp, when he sees two amber eyes watching him through the window. Suddenly terrified, he scrambles over the sofa to put out the lamp, then rushes to the window.
There is nothing there now. But, something was watching him. Maybe that Greek woman. Maybe that big dumb nephew of hers. Doesn’t matter. Not at all. He returns to the lamp and his work.
Three houses down, Erica and Rex are panting heavily by the side door, trying to catch their breath before sneaking back inside. It looks like they weren’t seen. “That’s why I have a big furry black dog.” She bends down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re easy to hide behind. Okay, let’s go inside. Come on!” She carefully opens the door and Rex marches into the darkened house. Erica watches him go, then turns and walks down the driveway to peer around the corner, just to be sure the Hammar guy isn’t following them. All clear. Still…it feels like he’s…there, watching her. Silently, she rushed back up the driveway, closing the door quietly with a tiny *click*, then setting off behind the houses…This is My New Orleans.
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