An Invitation

We moved in two months ago, I never spotted him once in all that time, and that is the reason I found myself on his doorstep, so I could get to know him. Okay, my wife made me, saying it is unnatural and discourteous on our part that we do not know our neighbor. Is it my fault he is aloof, a hermit type guy, who am I to judge how a person lives their life.

Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell then gave a gentle rap on the decorative oak door. I was admiring the inlaid stained-glass window and had just about given up when the door slowly opened. To say I was taken back was an understatement. I expected an old frail man in wrinkled out of date clothes to greet me. He stood tall, with a strikingly beautiful set of full white hair, pristine white shirt, silk cobalt blue tie and freshly pressed pants. However, his amazingly blue eyes were vacant. Instantly I realized that I interrupted him. The shifting looks along with constant shuffling and clearing of his throat made me aware of my intrusion.

Extending my hand I spoke. “Good afternoon, I’m Michael. My wife and I moved in next door.”

If he moved, I didn’t see it, so, I tried a little humor. “Your front door is beautiful. I might have to take it one night.”

That failed, even I groaned inside. Before embarrassing myself further and irreparably destroying any relation we may have as neighbors I decided this was enough for one day.

With a slight wave I said. “Well, nice to meet you, just wanted to introduce myself. Hopefully, we will see each other soon.”

“Would you like to come in?”

I was not expecting that response, as uncomfortable as I felt I also did not wish to be rude. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

Before I realized it I was standing inside his home. The first thing that struck me was the museum like feel. It was quiet, and pristine. The entrance way was adorned with the type of wooden masks you would have seen on the National Geographic channel.

“Come into the kitchen I’ll put on a pot of coffee, unless you prefer tea?”

“That would be wonderful, thanks.” I don’t usually drink coffee or tea in the afternoon, but I did not wish to be impolite.

He must have been used to people staring at them because as he stepped past me he casually said. “My wife and I collected these on our travels, she loved them. Every mask is hand carved.”

I had to admit there was something unique and wonderful about these strange faces welcoming me into the home. While following him down the hall, there was a compressed feeling in the air. At first I thought it may have been the lack of air flow, but it felt heavier. I was impressed that there was not one squeak as we tread upon the ancient wooden floorboards. Walking past the living room on our left, my eyes became mesmerized by the antique furniture decorating the space, giving the room a sense of grandeur. Without realizing it I entered uninvited into the room.

While my eyes took in the wonders of each individual piece, my friend popped in behind me. His uncomfortable demeanor once again evident. Ringing his hands and rocking like an anxious child.

“This is an amazing room.” I stated

His eyes never looked past the floor. “Yes, next to the den it is one of our…my favorites. Elizabeth decorated it, again from our travels. Each piece has a story. Like that statue beside you, it was....”

I waited for him to continue but he remained silent.

Suddenly, I felt like an intruder, turning to leave I took in one last glance. That is when I noticed the cabinet filled with plaques and at least a dozen books on display.

His rocking ceased as he followed my gaze. In a soft voice, almost to himself, he spoke. “A little ostentatious don’t you think?”

Upon closer inspection I saw his picture gracing the cover of a book. “You’re an Author?”

“Recently. My wife was the true writer in the family. Most of the awards are hers. I began writing shortly after her passing. At times it doesn’t seem real. With every book I publish I feel like a fraud.”

With that he left the room.

I heard of that, imposter syndrome I think it is called. Not sure why but for some strange reason I blurted out. “You mentioned a den?”

He paused, and without turning around said. “Yes, my wife and I shared the den. We were professors and spent the majority of our time writing in there.”

“Professors?”

“Yes. Elizabeth taught literature. I, myself am an Anthropologist.”

The masks and décor suddenly made sense. Still feeling like an intruder, I was about to make an excuse to leave when he once again surprised me by saying. “Would you like to see it?”

I stuttered. “Yeah...sure.”

I may have felt hesitant at first as we approached the den, yet upon stepping in I was once again impressed. The large room boasted two oak Brookhaven style desks facing a large window with stunning views of an immaculate Japanese garden tucked in their back yard. Against two walls there was floor to ceiling bookshelves that rivaled a small-town library and a grand stone fireplace against the back wall was the piece de resistance. Standing here, I could almost hear soft tapping upon keyboards as a story was coming to life. Upon another wall were pictures of him and who I am guessing is or was his wife, in various places of the world. It was interesting to note that in every picture either he or she was gazing lovingly at the other. I was awestruck until something in this photo perfect room stopped me cold.

Behind one of the desk were pictures of his wife, posing with diplomats, presidents, and royalty. As well as framed newspaper and magazine clippings. My eyes grew wide as I read her name.

“Your wife is Elizabeth M. Barrows?”

He stood there admiring her photo as much as I was. “Yes, she wrote under her maiden name.”

“Candice and I have read everyone of her books, she is amazing.”

His gaze never left her photo, I think there may have been a shine in his eyes as he spoke. “Funny story about this picture…”

I waited but he said nothing else.

Then he whispered almost as if to himself. “She used to say there are more stories in her head than she could ever write in a lifetime.”

Trying to sound comforting I said. “I think it is nice that you seem to have picked up where she left off.”

With a sad nod he pointed his chin towards the exit. “Come, let me get that beverage I promised you. How about a biscuit as well?”

We entered a large, updated kitchen with new appliances, bright cupboards and marble countertops. Hanging stainless steel pots and copper pans. An array of spices in glass jars lined the back wall while fresh flowers adorned the windowsill. There was music playing from a classic style radio tucked in the corner. Old time big band music filled the space contrasting with the modern style.

“Glen Miller?” I asked, as if I knew what I was talking about.

“I believe it is Tommy Dorsey.”

Flushed with embarrassment I tried to figure how to regain some sense of normality, so he didn’t think I was a complete idiot. I noticed pictures of his wife on the table, like a center piece. A linen napkin folded neatly next to a shallow bowl, one spoon and a single glass of red wine. It was then I smelled a tangy spice with a hint of metallic sourness floating upon the air. My stomach churned as I noticed an empty can of chili beside the sink.

I think he noticed my aversion, for he began an unneeded apology. "I never know what to cook for one person. "

Before I could reply, a distinct sound of water pipes clicking as they cool down told me how empty this place really was. He seemed not to notice, probably accustomed to it already. My father used to say, every house is alive with its own unique voice.

I noticed his eyes grow far away once more, like when he first answered the door. It hit me then. Why I wondered did he invite me into his home. It made no sense. Until I looked into his intelligent eyes, void of life. They appeared to be constantly searching for something.

My wife always said that I am a little slow on picking up hints or reading a room. She would be proud of me now. I saw him for the first time. His pristine attire, the house perfectly in order, a dining table set for one. The pictures of his wife.

Suddenly, I did not wish to become that neighbor who said something stupid like ‘I didn’t see the signs….he seemed ok to me…always kept to himself...etc.’

The signs were everywhere.

Slowly I walked towards him until he was right in front of me, smiled and said. “I never did catch your name.”

That simple sentence seemed to snap him to awareness. He was a proper gentlemen, and I believe he was caught off guard when he realized his faux pa, a derelict in duty to introduce himself properly.

Holding out his hand he stated. “My apologies. Johnathan…Johnathan Wyndham.”

Gripping his hand, I said more as a statement than a question. “How would you like to come to our house for supper tonight, Johnathan?”

His eyes grew wide and began darting around the room. “I…thank you but, perhaps a different night.”

Releasing his hand, I walked to the stove and turned the burner off. Sliding the pot to the side I turned to face him. “I insist, Candice would love to meet you.”

“It is very thoughtful of you Michael, however…’

Cutting him off I add. “She is cooking Coq au vin tonight. It would be a shame for such a nice dish to go unappreciated.”

His eyes watered as he nodded. “Thank you Michael. I would be pleased to join you.”

As we walked to the door, I noticed his step had a slight spring, like a movie hero who just saved the world. Without turning to me he began to speak. “There is an interesting story about Coq au vin.”

I hesitated a step, waiting for the emptiness of another unfinished sentence, then chuckled as I heard.

“It was originally made with rooster, not chicken. You see…”