毫宅的故事

I live in the beautiful Poconos. The house next to mine is a magnificent two-story house with three garages. I witnessed the construction of the house, seeing the wooden structure put up, the roof, the walls, and the garage doors done one after another. The large windows protruding out of the walls make me think of angry men with bulging eyes. I can imagine the sunlight pouring into those windows, drawing the shape of the windows on the shining red mahogany floor. The lawn was still in a bad shape though, with the rocks and construction woods strewn around, when the Smiths moved in.


Mr. Smith was in his thirties. He seemed to be a taciturn man, in sharp contrast to his wife, who left an indelible impression on me in our first meeting. She was in a red dress, buxom, lively and talkative. Mr. Smith worked in New York City. It was a long commute, and everyday he left home in the early morning, coming back late in the evening. His wife was staying at home, who quickly became good friends with my wife. They were both from California originally. Mrs. Smith visited my house a lot, talking with my wife about the area, about the weather, and about the local things that interested them. They even went to the malls together a few times, the Crossings premium outlets in Tannersville, each of them coming back with a few big shopping bags.



About a month after they moved in, Mrs. Smith came to visit, obviously disturbed. Mr. Smith was laid off, she said.“How are we going to pay the mortgage? Why does it have to happen right after we bought this house?” She shot out these questions, but not expecting any answer from us. My wife told her not to worry too much. “Mr. Smith should be able to get another job soon, and things will be just fine,” my wife said. When she left and went back to her own house, we watched her from our windows. Her gait was not steady, but tired and slow, like an old woman’s walk. We felt sorry for her. Inside that magnificent house there must be a lot of tension now that the man lost his job.



A month later, something terrible happened. Mrs. Smith came to our house with a black eye. Mr. Smith had not found a job yet. Adding insult to the injury, he found a hobby. He got addicted to gambling. To the nearby Mount Airy Casino he went every night, gambling on the little savings that the family had, and taking out cash from the credit cards. Mrs. Smith had a fight with Mr. Smith about his strange behavior, and that was why she got the black eye. “How could he do that? How could he beat you? This is terrible, this is terrible,” my wife said, “if he beats you again, you should call the police.” “He will get arrested if I call the police,” Mrs. Smith said, “that is not going to help me. I don’t know what to do. I think I will go back to California.”



After she left, my wife and I talked about the situation. The Smiths were in need of money. If they couldn’t pay the mortgage the bank would take away the house. Why did Mr. Smith start gambling? Maybe he wanted to make his fortune in the casino? Maybe the gamblers around the tables, and the flashing lights of the slots, alleviated the pressure on his mind and let him forget his worries and have a jolly good time? It had been a week since Mrs. Smith’s last visit. We hadn’t heard anything from her. My wife and I stopped by her house to inquire after her.“My wife went back to California,” Mr. Smith said.“Really?” My wife was surprised. Although Mrs. Smith did mention that idea, we did not expect she would carry it out.“I am moving out of the house too,” Mr. Smith said, “this house is foreclosed.” He sounded cheerful and calm, accepting the inevitable probably.



Two months after Mr. Smith moved out, someone moved into that big house. It was an Asian guy, with very thick glasses, and not very tall. His name was Harry. He was working in New Jersey. We saw some truck stopping by the house, and some men moving furniture out of the truck, up the stairs in the front yard, and into the house. He did not have much furniture. He must have been living in an apartment, I guessed. This might be his first house. He must be very excited then. For him this is the American dream, the American dream in wood, concrete and steel. We felt sorry for the neighbor that just got evicted, and happy for this new guy.



A few days later we drove by the new neighbor. He was digging a hole by the road, trying to set up his mailbox. We stopped by, said hi to him. And I was so right. He has been living in New Jersey for many years, in a one-bedroom apartment. Now he moved to the Poconos, into a house with four bedrooms, living room, family room, kitchen, dinning room, study room and all. And more than three thousand square feet! What a change! He just couldn’t help smiling. “I want to have a lawn as nice as yours,” he said, “how did you get your lawn so lush and green?” I told him that our lawn was just like his when we first moved in. We had to hire some landscaping folks to help us. That company did a fantastic job and as a matter of fact I would recommend that company to him. I went back to my house, found the business card of that company and gave it to Harry.



It was a beautiful Saturday in the fall. The fall foliage were in furious display, red, yellow, and green, different colors in different shades, as if the trees knew that the brutal winter was on the way, and this was their last chance to show their beauty to the world. My wife and I went out for a walk after lunch. Harry was working on his lawns, a shovel in his hand, and a wheelbarrow by his side. When he saw us walking by, he said hi to us. He said he called the landscapers, but it was too expensive to hire their help. They demanded 7000 dollars.“I am going to do it myself,” he declared, “I am going to clean up the lawn, dig out and move away the rocks and woods, and bury some good grass seeds.” Harry said all this with a joyful attitude, as if he did not worry about all the hard work involved.“It is too bad that the construction workers did not clean up the lawn,” he said, “they left here all kinds of stuff. I just dig out a pair of shoes.” He pointed to a pair of high-heeled shoes by a huge rock.We walked on and Harry continued his work on the lawn. My wife was silent; her forehead furrowed. Then she said, “ I have seen that pair of shoes. They are Mrs. Smith’s shoes.” “Maybe Mr. Smith left those stuff behind when he got evicted. A lot of people do that,” I said, “when they lose the house, they are so disheartened they just don’t care about the other stuff like TV, or luggage, or shoes.”


It was a sunny day. A squirrel ran across the road. There were falling leaves in the warm breeze. We walked for an hour, a very nice walk. When we returned there were three police cars and an ambulance on our neighbor’s drive way. The lights were flashing on top of the police cars; around the magnificent house were yellow tapes. We stopped and watched Harry talking with a police. His face was ghastly white, his lips quivering, and his Adam’s apple going slowly up and down, as if he was very thirsty and had trouble talking. When he saw us he said, “Oh God, can you believe it? I dug out a body from under the lawn!” Now we saw the body, on the stretcher, by the ambulance. There was a terrible smell. The face of the body we couldn’t see, but from the red dress I knew it was Mrs. Smith.