The Ortegas’ dog barked again at 1:30. A stupid little thing — not much bigger than a rat, really, almost definitely of uncertain breeding. No papers on that one, to be sure. And Lord only knows what it would do against a prowler — they’d probably be better off with a rat.
Not that a prowler would have much chance to catch the Ortegas off-guard, not with the way they came and went at all hours of the night. Doors flying open, slamming shut, cars driving in, driving out from sundown to sunup. Nobody in the neighborhood could sleep, much less anybody in their house. A prowler would have better luck catching everyone asleep at a 7-11.
Probably had something to do with drugs — she had seen a program on television about that. Gangs, maybe. The neighborhood had certainly changed over the years.
The little rat-dog barked again, a shrill, high-pitched yip. Not that Mrs. DePodesta was sleeping, anyway. Between the Ortegas’ den of iniquity next door and Gene’s swelling prostate, she was lucky to get three hours of sleep a night. She had taken to sleeping on the couch downstairs, given Gene’s all-night up-and-downs. But it hadn’t helped — he hit a loose floorboard on every return trip from the bathroom, and the squeak sounded all over the house. Then, too, being downstairs put her that much closer to the Ortega fiesta. So by the time that creature barked a fourth time, she had pulled her robe on and was peeking through the curtains and out into the street.
There was a police car parked on the curb, just up the block. A uniformed patrolman had gotten out of the cruiser and was moving up the sidewalk towards the — No, he walked right past the Ortegas’ and was headed up her walk.
The policeman rapped lightly on the door; the Ortegas’ dog yipped again. Mrs. DePodesta was confused; whatever on earth could he want with her? She didn’t answer.
“Ma’am, I saw you in the window,” the policeman said softly. His voice was young, deep, black. “Go ahead and open up — it’s the police.”
“Gene!” Mrs. DePodesta hissed through her teeth. “Gene!”
Gene’s response took the form of a loud snore wafting down the stairs.
“Ma’am, I need you to open the door.”
Gene snored again. Mrs. DePodesta sighed. She unlocked the deadbolt, then undid both chains, thinking about the fact that they hadn’t even needed to lock the door when they bought the house forty years ago. She cracked the door open. “Is there a problem, Officer? I think you’re looking for the house next door — I’m Mrs. DePo — ”
“DePodesta.”
Mrs. DePodesta was taken aback. “That’s right — I don’t think I understand. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Mrs. DePodesta, how well do you know your neighbors?”
She considered this. “As well as anyone knows their neighbors these days, I suppose — Why? What have they done?”
“Remy Ortega was murdered tonight, Mrs. DePodesta.”
“That — That’s terrible news, Officer.” Her mood hardened. “Can’t say that I’m that surprised, though, what with the drugs and the gangs — ”
“Mrs. DePodesta, Mr. Ortega worked night security at the Institute downtown.”
“Really? Gene and I have been members for years.”
“There was an attempted robbery tonight, and Mr. Ortega was shot and killed.”
Mrs. DePodesta’s eyes widened. “Which wing? What collection? I hope it wasn’t — ”
“Look, ma’am, a good man died tonight. And there’s a good family next door that’s gonna be hurting as soon as I deliver the news.”
“They don’t — they don’t know yet?”
“No, ma’am. I came here first.”
Mrs. DePodesta pulled her robe tighter around her chest. “Whatever on earth for?”
The officer looked down at his shoes, then back up at Mrs. DePodesta. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve never been asked to do this before — I thought that maybe if I went over there with a friendly face, maybe it would be easier.” He looked back at his shoes, then up again, frowning. “Right now, though, I’d settle for a familiar face.”
The upstairs floorboards creaked above them, breaking a long silence. “Gloria?” Gene called down. “You okay down there? Is there someone here?”
“It’s okay,” Mrs. DePodesta replied, her eyes never leaving the police officer’s. “Go back to bed, sweetheart.”
“We’re lucky Mrs. Ortega had the night off,” the officer said, pitching his voice lower. “She’s an ER nurse over at City — third shift, mostly. If she’d been working tonight, she’d’ve been there when they brought her husband in.”
“One of her co-workers may have already called,” Mrs. DePodesta heard herself say.
The policeman nodded, his mouth tight and thin. “Yeah.”
“Gloria? What’s happening down there?”
Mrs. DePodesta finally broke eye contact, turning her head towards the stairs. “Go back to bed, Gene.” She looked back, gave the officer a quick nod. “I’m just going to run next door — back in a minute.”
The policeman nodded again, his shoulders sagging visibly. “Thank you.”
“Let me get my coat.”
Frank Byrns is the author of two collections of short fiction, Requiem (2006) and My Father’s Son (2004). He is also the editor and publisher of A Thousand Faces, the Quarterly Journal of Superhuman Fiction. His third collection of superhero stories, Things to Come, is due in 2009.
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18 Responses to “A FAMILIAR FACE • by Frank Byrns”
Comments
« ALICE AFTER THE MALL • by John Jasper Owens | Home | LESS THAN A FOOT • by Michael John Burrows »
May 2nd, 2009 at 12:52 am
It’s so easy not to know each other, isn’t it? Good story, Frank. You got a five from me.
May 2nd, 2009 at 2:46 am
A brilliantly enlightening piece of prose.
Pity there aren’t more than 5 stars available.
May 2nd, 2009 at 7:15 am
Loved it. Very moving.
May 2nd, 2009 at 7:25 am
This was really good–an eye-opener. It is easy to distance yourself and be judgmental. You just never know what may come, do you.
May 2nd, 2009 at 8:34 am
The story needs more background on why the policeman might have been afraid to go next door by himself. How did the policeman know the DePodestas’ name? Is this an instructional piece pointing out that noisy people are also lovable, (Gene “sweetheart” is also a noisemaker, “He hit a loose floorboard on every return trip from the bathroom?”) Was Mrs. DePodesta accused by lovable Mrs. Ortega who had been aware of her dislike of the Ortega family? Was the policeman taking it upon himself to arrange a reconciliation of two good families after a cold war on eachother, a neighborly emotion which weighed more heavily on him than the death of Mr. Ortega?
May 2nd, 2009 at 9:32 am
I think that this story is very well written and has an important message about pre-judging others. Though I have to agree with Roberta’s first point regarding the police officer going to the neighbour’s house first. I don’t see that scenario happening unless it was explained as a special cirumstance. I set this fact aside when it popped in my head while reading and enjoyed the story and its message. Great job, Frank!
May 2nd, 2009 at 9:42 am
Good story. Quite well done.
May 2nd, 2009 at 9:55 am
Nice job, Frank. Right along with Mrs. DePodesta we have our expectations overturned.
May 2nd, 2009 at 10:03 am
@ Roberta, Alan -
When I was a kid, the man that lived across the street from us was killed in a car accident. The highway patrolman who came to deliver the sad news to the man’s wife came to our house first to ask my mom to accompany him over there, thinking that a familiar face would help soften the blow. (Even though we didn’t know that family well – they had just moved in.) That day has stuck in my mind, obviously.
Thanks for the comments, everyone. Glad you liked it.
May 2nd, 2009 at 11:02 am
This was very good. Brought out the complexity of the situation in so few words. I felt Satisfied reading this, as it moves beyond the simple plot – gives a something extra that I didn’t see coming, and yet was so true. Well done. Five from me, after a long time on EDF.
May 2nd, 2009 at 12:46 pm
Very good stuff, Frank.
–dj
May 4th, 2009 at 6:52 am
[...] I almost missed it, since it went up over the weekend, but Frank has an excellent new story up over at Every Day Fiction – check it out. [...]
May 4th, 2009 at 8:31 am
A bit preachy.
May 5th, 2009 at 12:55 pm
Really good story, Frank. It rang true — both the sad parts and the hopeful parts. I enjoyed it a lot.
May 7th, 2009 at 1:06 am
This “telling” (preachy??) incident is reflective of (an indictment of?) the “modernism”, and its concomitant “individualism”, that has taken root in most of the world.
Not too long ago (a generation? two?) and, still, in the part of the world I come from, India, it was and is not uncommon to break bad news to someone who would possibly be close enough to the family so that support (emotional, etc.) would be at hand.
Roberta’s comment says it all. As does Alan’s.
May 7th, 2009 at 6:50 am
Anil- “Individualism” has had several interpretations. The one I was brought up on and taught in school in N.Y.C. was that the particular individual needs of separate persons must be considered in making decisions, not just the mass of people in general, differences should be allowable, and that lawful differences must be respected. It was not taught as everyone separate and for himself alone. I guess in that small town the policeman assumed neighbors knew eachother well. In a very large city, such as N.Y.C., where I am originally from, such assumptions can’t be made.
May 10th, 2009 at 4:44 am
Well written flash fable.
June 1st, 2009 at 3:06 pm
Love the story.