Under Surveillance

Tony knelt on the grass, the knees of his pants growing damp from the dew that soaked in before the sun came up. He stabbed the blade of the weeding tool into the grass, deep in the soil, wiggled it around the roots until they released their grip, then pulled the weakened dandelion out.

That young couple, two houses up the street, let all kinds of wild stuff grow in their yard, let the dandelions go to seed. The result was big pulpy stems flopping around Tony’s yard.

He inserted the blade at the base of the next weed and heard the sound of a car creeping down the street. First sighting today, like clockwork. Twice a day on weekdays, the car came down the street, varying from one to three times on Saturdays, never on Sundays.

He knew what that car was doing. Someone watching the houses, studying patterns in parking and yard work and lights turned on and off. A dark blue sedan – a Nissan – with tinted back windows. The windshield and front windows weren’t tinted, but he could never see who was driving. He always tried hard not to look like he noticed the slowly moving car, almost straining as it pulled into the cul de sac across from his driveway navigated the circle, then back out to the end of the street, stopping at the corner before turning right.

He’d attempted to talk to his neighbor on the left about the car. One night when Bill came home from work, well past dark, Tony accosted him the minute he emerged from his car. Bill’s shoulders had twitched and his head shot up, and he’d backed against his open car door like he wanted to run, but was trapped by the steel brackets holding the door behind him.

For over thirty minutes that night, Tony urged Bill to express concern, explained that someone was watching the street. Of course Bill had never seen the car turning in the cul de sac. He left for work before the sun came up, and arrived home when it was setting, or later. He acted as if he didn’t believe Tony, that Tony was reading something into the situation. Tony suggested he come out in the yard on a Saturday, work in the yard all day like Tony did, and then he’d see the pattern, at least one day a week.

Bill acted as if he couldn’t wait to get away from Tony’s rush of words. Finally Bill pushed Tony out of his way, slammed the car door with a thud and hurried to his front door, mumbling that his wife had dinner ready.

Bill was too complacent. It looked like Tony was going to have to figure out the right course of action all on his own. He considered calling the police, but it was difficult to picture how that would play out, a patrol car sitting in front of Tony’s own house, warning the suspicious driver. It would be like those ridiculous checkpoints for drunk drivers they published in the newspaper. Easy enough to avoid. Besides, the police had grown increasingly sluggish about showing up in a timely matter when Tony had called about that pipsqueak dog barking all day long, and when he’d insisted they come check out that repeated sawing sound coming from the vicinity of his roof. The last time he called they said he needed to think of the most logical conclusion, not the most sinister. Some public safety.

Tony sat back on his haunches, sweat ran down the back of his neck. That was enough weeding for today. Tomorrow he’d tackle the duplicate square of lawn on the opposite side of the front walkway, neat as a folded tissue. He turned carefully. The car hadn’t maneuvered the cul de sac correctly and was backing up for a three-point turn. Without thinking, Tony bolted across the street.

He rushed at the driver’s side of the car. The driver must have seen him coming, which was logical since his six foot, five inch frame was hard to miss. But the bastard panicked, hit the gas too hard, the car still in reverse. Then the car stopped too fast, tires screeching like a trapped possum. Tony hit the side of the car hard, his fists landed on the roof and his shadow fell over the half-open window so that even this close, he still couldn’t tell who was driving.

Now he could see the outline of a baseball cap. He stuck his arm in the car to grab the bill of the cap, and the window raced up, trapping his arm. He yelled and tried to pull it out, but it was pinned. The window lowered an inch or two and he stumbled back clutching his arm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” A woman. “Wait until my husband hears this. I told him how every time I drive my son to school you’re out here staring at me. Like you’re up to no good.” The car lurched back again and she shot toward the opening of the cul de sac. The back fishtailed slightly and the edge of the bumper slammed against his leg. He fell to his knees. A rock, embedded in the tar, gouged his kneecap and blood flowed quickly, forming a dark, wet spot.

© Copyright 2010 Cathryn Grant