The Family Next Door

What makes a person "normal?" Is joy a sufficient motivator to be who we really are?

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Transcript

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Welcome to Dispatches from Kent. Conditions remain inconclusive. The house on Vellum Row had been empty long enough for the neighbors to grow fond of its quiet. People spoke hopefully about who might move in. Someone imagined a retired couple. Someone else suggested a family that went to bed early. The house seemed ready to cooperate, but when the family arrived, it became clear that it would not. The Brindle family came with color and noise and three giant sculptures of camels. Musical instruments were unloaded alongside bags of clay and canvases with random splashes of multicolored paint. Their clothes were unusual, decorated with buttons and baubles and zippers and streamers. They waved as though waving were the natural beginning of all relationships. Across the street lived Mrs. Orna Pell, who observed the world from a straight back chair by her front window, her cat Mr Meow heavy and warm in her lap. She had lived on Vellum Row long enough to know how things were supposed to proceed. The Brindles did not proceed properly. They ate dinner in the morning, dessert first. They slept in stretches rather than full nights. The grandfather, Joran Brindle, trained pigeons to fly into rude word formations above the rooftops. The boy, Tavi Brindle, practiced walking a tightrope strung between two trees. He fell often, he got back up. He waved. One afternoon, Mrs. Pell opened her window and shouted Boy, stop that foolishness and do something productive. Tavvy stopped. You heard me. Go rake some leaves or shine your shoes. Tavy offered no response. He just took the rope down without argument. His feelings were hurt, though he did not say so. Mrs. Pell closed her window and felt the quiet settle back into place. She was satisfied that the world had righted itself. That weekend, the Brindles held a vegetable cookout. They grilled squash and peppers. They made a lettuce and tomato salad. They set long tables and played gentle music. They invited the neighborhood with genuine warmth, but no one came. Window blinds shifted, curtains moved. People watched without stepping outside. The Brindles ate together, quieter than usual. I'm sure that they're just busy doing other things, said Mrs. Brindle. The days proceeded as usual. The Brindles planted palm trees in their front yard and dumped sand around the periphery of a pond. Joran eased into a lawn chair, the umbrella topped fruity drink in his hand. Who wants to come join me at the beach? he asked no one in particular. Neighbors tutted. Imagine a grown man pretending to be at a beach when everyone knows there's no ocean within days of Kent. Mrs. Pell kept up the steady surveillance of the Brindle house, keeping a running tally of their perceived infractions. Day glow lime and pink colored roof tiles, a happy face flag waving overhead, the entire Brindle family riding unicycles up and down the street. One day, as Mrs. Pell was watching her neighbors through binoculars, her cat, Mr. Meow, leapt through the open window, climbed the tree in her yarn, and refused to come down. Mrs. Pell called. She scolded. Neighbors offered advice from a distance. The cat stayed put. Tavy ran for his rope and began tying it between the trees.

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Mrs.

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Pell opened her window and shouted, You boy, stop it. We don't have time for foolishness. Tavi did not stop. He worked quickly, his hands steady. He climbed onto the rope and began walking. The street filled with people watching intently. Mrs. Pell stood frozen at her window. Tavi moved slowly, carefully. He lost his concentration, and his foot slipped. The crowd down below gasped.

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Mrs.

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Pell's hand flew to her mouth. Somebody help that boy, don't let him fall, she cried out. Finally, Tavi reached the tree, spoke softly to mister Miao, and lifted him into his arms. He turned and walked back, slowly, carefully, as though nothing else but that old cat existed. When he reached the ground, the neighbors breathed again. Mrs. Pell took her cat and held him tightly. You mischievous cat, what on earth were you doing up there? Later, she found Tavi in the yard. You did something nice for me, she said awkwardly, after I yelled at you. Tavi shrugged. It's okay, you're my neighbor, he said. The next morning, Mrs. Pell invited Tavi for breakfast. She served dinner, and let him eat dessert first. Later she asked Mrs. Brindle to teach her how to work with clay. I always meant to take lessons, but time just slipped away from me. She learned to work the clay to mold it and shape it into something beautiful. I made a bowl, she beamed. It didn't exist before, and now it does. That's the magic, said Tavvy. She still sits by her window, mister Meow on her lap. But now when Tavy practices tightrope walking, she smiles and gives him a thumbs up. A small but meaningful gesture between neighbors. This is your correspondent walking a tightrope between the trees, admiring the art and every artist, and starting every meal with dessert on principle. Conditions remain inconclusive.