The Devil You Know

I lived in the quintessential neighborhood. Tidy yards. Children playing. Well-dressed neighbors walking their dogs.

But, there were no white picket fences and garden clubs here.

As mix of Millennials and Baby Boomers, in this day and age, tensions could be steep.

Conversations strained.

Yet, pleasant.

It was almost sickeningly sweet to the point of needing a sip of water to get the words to go down.

I find myself caught in the middle. I’m neither one nor the other. Forever the misfit.

I expect to be a point of contention — I always have been. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea nor do I try to be.

I don’t antagonize. I prefer to keep the peace.

But, I don’t conform either. I don’t fit into a cookie cutter world. I never have.

I do try to keep people happy. Mainly by minding my own business.

Yet, I don’t acquiesce.

I’m in the balance.

I’m just me.

I found myself in a very unique situation, nonetheless. And for all the reasons I didn’t expect.

My son is autistic.

So am I.

Where my son struggled with communication, I excelled.

Where I struggled with socializing, my son surpassed me.

Always the socialite, he could make friends with a rock if given the opportunity.

Not me.

On the contrary, I’m not a hated person.

I’m told I’m one of the nicest people you will meet. Funny. Smart.

Quiet.

I prefer my introverted nature. I find it exhausting talking to others. It wears on me trying to make conversation, struggling to produce small talk. I would rather converse with those closest to me. Those I trust.

The rest of the time, I stay in my mind. Tucked away in a quiet corner, completely content.

Not that day, though.

It was a muggy day in the middle of a pandemic. THE pandemic.

That didn’t slow Island life, though. I stepped out to gather some snow cones for the kids.

And then I got a call.

My husband was furious.

He told me of a letter our son gave to him. A letter a neighbor gave to my son.

He told me to come home.

I hurried back, wondering what could have upset him so much.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as I parked the car and walked into the house. Neighbors were in their usual spots out on the street doing what they did best, talking and drinking.

I went inside to greet my red-faced husband as he shoved a letter into my hand.

THE letter.

I read it in disbelief.

Our neighborhood is nice.

Except for your son.

He’s a delinquent.

He steals.

He destroys.

He’s a bad influence on our children.

You're a bad mother.

None of you should be here.

The letter was signed by several of the neighbors on our street.

Our friends.

My mouth had gone dry.

There was no truth to this. I knew that vehemently.

We never deluded ourselves, like many our age do with their own children.

Our son has his flaws. Ones we address immediately. But nothing like this.

He isn’t perfect, but he isn’t what they were saying.

Anger bubbled, as it so rarely did.

The pain was deep.

We had spent the past seven years with these people.

We had called them friends.

How could we have been so blind to their ways.

Realization dawned. Their weekend drunkfests in the Quad had always been highlighted by talking about the neighbors.

A tradition we refused to partake in.

We were now the hot topic.

And our son was taking the brunt of their transgressions.

The defects of their own children.

The failings of their own parenthood.

And they fired their words directly at my own autistic son to make up for their shortcomings.

I knew of the thefts. The neighbors' kid two doors down liked to go in other people’s garages and take things. Like a raven.

He did it to us, too.

Not a word was said.

I also knew of the property damages. That was the next door neighbor’s kids who liked to ride their bikes between cars, leaving scratches.

I knew because my car was victim, too.

Not a word was said.

Rocks were taken by my son and those same kids from a neighbor’s garden. Caught red-handed, I made the boys return their loot.

Not a word was said.

I never said anything because it was never done intentionally.

It was children riding bicycles and building cities in the dirt and being children.

My son is a mimic. That’s what he does.

And I knew where those influences came from.

My son had picked up bad habits from the children across the street, more than I could correct at once.

I was drowning in their parents’ lack of maturity.

Children should not raise children.

Not to mention their exclusion and bullying.

Both adults and kids.

Against myself and my son.

Only now it was largely coming from the adults.

Who was the bad influence?

Where is your tolerance and acceptance now?

We didn’t storm out of the house seeking the offenders and revenge.

We didn’t yell.

We didn’t scream.

We mixed and mingled at the next day’s block party.

We laughed with these masked frauds at the pool.

We questioned and investigated the motives.

We pretended to be friends as we always had.

I discovered it all came down to their hatred of me.

I didn’t fawn over them.

I didn’t curtain twitch until I saw them leave their houses.

I didn’t rush to their side to give much needed attention.

I had an amazing husband who doted.

I had two very well-behaved kids.

I had a solid support network.

I had friends outside that community.

I wasn’t what they wanted.

My son was just a convenient target with a big bullseye on his social back.

Great spot for throwing self-pitying knives, I guess.

We pretended we never got the letter and bided our time till we could leave this candy-coated heart of darkness.

We kept the peace that horrendous summer.

We prepared the house for sale that Fall.

We moved on by the following Spring.

We didn't let it go, though. Accountability needed to be held.

And we’ll never forget to beware the devil you know.