White Picket Fence

So almost 3 weeks later, I finally have my white picket fence story finished. I post it here for your reading pleasure (I hope). It comes in at 760 words.

I do have a funny story that goes with the story though. As is oh-so-typical of me, I found something unusual (odd) after I wrote it. I made up the address and I've never lived in New York City. Since we live in an age where we can look ANYTHING up in an instant, I thought I should Google the address and see what came up. It turns out that it is a real address. And get this - it's a restaurant called "Joe's Place." Geez, I crack myself up.


White Picket Fence

The Brownstone at 1841 Westchester Avenue didn’t look like the others. It had wrought iron railings leading up to the front, and eight steps like the ones next door, but a six foot section of white picket fence stood out on the sidewalk in front of it. The fence wasn’t connected to any other fence. It just stood there, picket-like, on the street edge of the sidewalk as if it could deter something or someone from crossing the imaginary boundary it created. 

Stewart sat in his Dodge Dart, watching people across the street detour around the white picket fence. He didn’t know anything about the place, but the faded ink address on the front of a sealed manila envelope he found tucked under his windshield wipers this morning compelled him to look up the address and drive the twenty blocks from his house to the row of Brownstones that had been here since the late 1800’s. He turned the envelope over and back, looking for a clue as to what was inside. Whatever it was, it was somewhat stiff and fully the size of the 8 x 10 envelope. A picture, perhaps?

He opened the door of the car and it groaned with the movement. Stewart looked both ways and crossed behind a school bus, choking on the thick black smoke that belched from its hind end.

As he neared the Brownstone, the front door opened and a little girl hopped down the stairs in front of an old woman carrying a shopping bag and wearing a dark green scarf on her head. He kept walking toward them, hoping to catch them at an opportune moment to return the envelope without having to make a decision as to whether he would go over, around, or through the gate of the white picket fence.

“Excuse me,” Stewart called to the old woman and he waved his hand a bit so as to catch her eye.

The old woman stopped on the fifth step and looked up while the little girl skipped around on the sidewalk calling for her to hurry. The little girl didn’t look toward Stewart and he briefly thought that maybe she was deaf. Her voice sounded far off and muffled, like the voices of the deaf when they haven’t heard sound for years and years.

The old woman clearly saw him, but put her head down and kept going down the last three steps, ignoring Stewart’s call and confusing him into standing still in front of the gate.

“Excuse me,” he tried again. “Are you Mrs. Fontaine?”

The woman stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Stewart was barely five feet away from her on the other side of the picket fence. She looked at him closely, peering over the fence, leaning in like she couldn’t quite see that far. “Ah! Stewart! Mr. Fontaine said you’d be coming with the pictures.”

The envelope in his hand was addressed to Mrs. Fontaine, 1841 Westchester Avenue, Bronx, New York. Stewart looked around, certain someone must be playing a joke on him. He didn’t know a Mr. Fontaine or a Mrs. Fontaine, and he was certain he’d never been to their home or anywhere near it. But she knew who he was, called him by name, and expected the envelope he carried.

Stewart got a cold chill as if the sun had slipped behind the clouds. He stood and looked at Mrs. Fontaine, feeling like the kid who got called on in class who hadn’t been paying attention. He noticed that she too sounded oddly far away. After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Fontaine reached out for the envelope. 

“Greta, come over and see the pictures Stewart’s brought us,” Mrs. Fontaine said to the still-skipping girl. 

Mrs. Fontaine opened the envelope gently and  pulled out an old black and white print of a young man in military uniform. The little girl skipped to where they stood and seemed to see Stewart for the first time on the other side of the fence. 

“Oh, hello. Are you Stewart?”

Stewart still hadn’t quite found his voice again, but a nod of his head worked and she looked to the picture Mrs. Fontaine held out for her. “This is your older brother, Michael, who was killed in Normandy.”

Greta glanced at the picture and said, “He looks like Stewart.”

“Yes, he does, honey. Yes he does.”

Stewart noticed that the noises of the city sounded oddly far away as he opened the gate and stepped into the yard.

Peace,

Jo Taylor