Every night before his arrival he’d closed his eyes and made the name his own. He was Theodore Gordon. All other names faded. He was Theodore Gordon and no one else.
After a little research, he found a furnished rental in the racially mixed Pine View Estates development on the eastern end of town. It had come down to a choice between that and another area half a mile west, but when he saw a woman wearing a striped hijab get out of a Dodge SUV on Fannen Street in Pine View and let herself into one of the houses, his decision was made.
He’d spent last Thursday night introducing himself around. As usual, he was a widower – not quite two years since his poor, dear Denise passed – and a financial consultant who worked from home, renting with intent to buy. Seven other houses made up this block of Fannen Street. He met the McCuins and their sullen fifteen-year-old son, Colin; the very Catholic Fabrinis and Robinsons; the waspish Woolbrights; the irreligious Hispanic Garcias with their noisy dog; the Muslim Rashids; and the very black Longwells. He made a point of inquiring at each stop about the best Internet access in the area. This induced Mr. Robinson and Mr. Woolbright to brag about the wi-fi networks they’d installed in their homes. Theodore had been hoping for one; two was a blessing.
Over the weekend he’d used his digital Nikon with the telephoto lens to snap photos of as many of his neighbors as possible as they worked in the garden or mowed the lawn, washed the car, or collected the mail. Between shoots he’d wandered Fannen Street, saying hello, helping unload a van, or transplant a bush. In the process he’d managed to see most of the backyards.
Since the Catholics held the majority, he’d attended mass at St. Bartholomew’s yesterday morning, making sure he introduced himself to Father Bain in sight of the Fabrinis and Robinsons.
Tonight he’d be ready to go. He’d made starting on Monday a tradition.
The Pine View houses all sat on well-wooded half-acre lots. Four of the homes on this block – the Longwell, Woolbright, Rashid, and Fabrini places across the street – backed up to the woods that lent the development its name. His place sat directly across from the Rashids; the Robinsons were stage left on the corner, the Garcias next door to the right, and the McCuins next door to them on the far corner.
He spent the daylight hours observing the comings and goings and refining his notes. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Rashid carpooled. This was Mr. Rashid’s week to drive. Theodore watched Mr. Robinson open the rear door to Mr. Rashid’s car, place his briefcase on the seat, then take the passenger seat in front. Mrs. Rashid, a secretary at the grammar school, drove Robinson’s girl, Chelsea, to school along with her own daughter, Farah, both ten.
Theodore noted the times of the comings and goings of everyone on the block. Today’s were all consistent with last week’s.
He admired consistency.
During the course of the day he used his laptop to access Mr. Robinson’s wi-fi network next door, but could not enter the system due to a firewall. He would work on breaching that during the week. Firewalls were handy in that they gave people a false sense of security. He’d try the Woolbrights tonight.
*
Shortly before midnight he wound his way among the pines behind the houses across the street until he came to the rear extreme of the Woolbright’s property. There he turned on his laptop and slowly made his way closer to the darkened house, stopping every dozen feet or so to see if he could access the wi-fi signal from their home network.
He could, and when it was good and strong, he tapped in and discovered that Mr. Woolbright had accommodatingly left his computer on and his webmail program open. Theodore had found this increasingly common over the years. Folks liked to hop out of bed and check their email before running off to work, and didn’t want to fuss with all that log-in nonsense.
Theodore found that Mrs. Woolbright’s password was also stored and so he switched over to her account and logged in to the Village Voice’s online classified site. There he used her email address to apply for membership. He waited for the verification email, then followed the instructions. As soon as he was officially registered, he placed an ad as Mr. Woolbright in the men-seeking-men category. He described himself as “rich and horny and into young stuff. Send a picture or no go.”
That done, he turned off his computer and crept to the tool shed by the fence between the Woolbright and Robinson properties. Easing open the door, he slipped a couple of gay porn magazines inside, then reclosed it.
When he returned home he removed a tray of ice cubes from his freezer and carried it to the extra bedroom on the second floor. He raised the window and the screen about twelve inches, then pulled his Firestorm High Performance slingshot from the night table drawer. He popped an ice cube out of the tray, loaded it into the sling, then winged it toward the wooden doghouse where Daisy, the Garcias’ short-furred bitch mutt, spent her nights. Theodore had become expert with the slingshot over the years, and rarely missed, even at this distance.
The cube shattered against the doghouse, startling Daisy to full-throated wakefulness. She rushed out with a howl that progressed to frenzied barking. Finally, after inspecting the six-foot picket fence that defined the perimeter of her domain, she quieted down. With some satisfied gruffs, growls, and grumbles, she returned to her abode.
Theodore gave her time to settle down, then let fly another cube.
As Daisy repeated her howls and barks, he heard Mr. McCuin shout from a window on the Garcias’ far side, “For Christ sake, Garcia, shut up that goddamn mutt or bring her inside!”
Theodore closed the screen and the window.
He made an entry in his ledger and went to bed.
A good start.
Tuesday, April 27
He waited until 9:30 A.M., watching the various carpool and solitary departures, before knocking on the Woolbrights’ door. He’d learned last Thursday that Mrs. Woolbright was a stay-at-home wife.
She looked pale and uncertain when she answered. Perhaps she had received some disturbing emails. He gave her his brightest smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Woolbright. My lawnmower seems to be on the fritz and I was wondering if I might borrow your husband’s.”
“My husband’s?” She blinked and paused, as if she were translating the words. “Oh, yes. I suppose so. It’s around back in the shed.”
“Could you show me?” To underscore his probity, he added, “I’ll walk around the side and meet you there.”
They converged at the shed in the backyard.
“It’s in here.” She pulled open the doors.
“Thank you.”
He waited for her to notice the magazines, then realized they weren’t there. He poked his head in and looked around, but they were gone.
He took hold of the lawn mover handle and pulled it out, wondering if they had slipped beneath. But no . . . no magazines.
“Did your husband come out to the shed this morning?”
“What? No. He was running late. Skipped breakfast and ran. In a big hurry to get to . . . the city.”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll be sure to have it back by tonight.”
She only nodded, looking distracted.
Theodore wheeled the mower across the street. Where were those magazines? He’d ponder that while he mowed the grass – something he hadn’t counted on. He always hired a lawn service whenever he moved into a new town, but he’d put it off because of the Woolbrights. Today he’d planned to be so upset by the sight of those magazines that he’d forget about the mower. But now that he had it, he was obliged to use it.
*
He turned off the mower. Finally. He’d forgotten what a noisy, monotonous chore it was. Plus he was no spring chicken. He was puffing a little and had wet rings in his armpits. He’d clean off the mower – always be a good neighbor – and wait for Mr. Woolbright’s return before wheeling it back across the street. Might catch an earful of domestic strife along the way – though not as much as there could have been had she found those magazines. Someone had taken them. But who?