I didn't think much of it when the older, single man moved in next door. He seemed nice enough, if a bit on the slow side. But he always had a ready smile and seemed to enjoy a lot of company.
From ladies, that is.
Farmer Joe had a lot of lady friends. They often stopped by, standing on the stoop while waiting for him to answer the door, their blue hair glowing in the sun.
He wasn't much for yard work, but then I guess all that entertaining took up a lot of his time.
It wasn't long after the stench developed that I noticed Farmer Joe was starting to take an interest in cleaning up the yard that abutted mine. Now and then I could see him through my kitchen window, looking natty in his clean overalls and a fresh handkerchief tied about his neck, shovel in hand.
I surmised that he was getting to plant a garden, what with all the holes he was digging. Every day I looked outside and found a fresh pile of earth.
Then one evening after coming home from work I saw the lawn mower.
Rusty and clotted with dried mud, it sat as if abandoned. A small section of the yard was neatly mowed, the grass shining like green satin in the dying rays of late afternoon sun.
I couldn't help but wonder why Farmer Joe had gotten off to what seemed a good start on yard work, only to stop before he was even halfway done.
I didn't see Farmer Joe again until the next morning. I glimpsed his weathered face as a pair of police officers led him out of the house in handcuffs.
It wasn't until the next day that I saw the headline in the local newspaper: Local Serial Killer Posed as Widower to Lure Victims to His Lair of Slaughter.
I guess decomposing bodies make for good compost. I'll have to try that. My yard is starting to look pretty bad. At least I know where I can find a lawn mower.
The forgotten lawnmower should have been a hint then. But I was too irritated by the unkempt grass and weed to think beyond the infernal mosquito bites.
When I knocked on his door three days later, Lou squinted at me blankly for a second too long. When he eventually recognized me, his “Ahhh ... it’s ... it’s ...“ gave me the first indication of what was happening inside the mind of this eighty year old man. “It’s the Pope!” I joked, so as not to embarrass him.
We’d been neighbours for over two years. The sort that wave and say “Hi! Hi!” before quickly disappearing into our own world. So his forgetfulness might have stemmed from unfamiliarity rather than the A-disease. But over the next few months, I was to learn a lot about the history of this place in the last eighty years. You see, Lou knew it was all slipping away and had to pass it on before it was gone forever.
Great stories! I sometimes wonder about what goes on in that house. I still have a key from the Uncle Bob days, but they've probably changed the lock since then...
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