My Neighbor, Mr. Richardson

The day Mr. Richardson’s daughter died was one of the last few warm days of summer– one of those brilliantly long, sunny days which slowly bleed into a cool evening. It was not the sort of day befitting to death. The sleepy inertia of August was finally wearing off with school just around the corner, red and yellow blots appearing on maple leaves, and signs for pumpkin-flavored drinks popping up in small coffee joints around Seattle.

In fact, the news itself did little to disrupt this momentum of change. In a city like mine, people are constantly living and dying. No more than in rural places, admittedly, but there's greater proximity. Anyways, the only reason we knew about her death was because Mr. Richardson lives next door to us, and the ambulances were blocking traffic down our road for several hours.

Having been raised in a small town, my mom likes to think of herself as being on friendly terms with our neighbors, even though it’s rarely reciprocated. A few weeks after the incident, I found myself crossing Mr. Richardson’s small yard with a homemade lasagna in hand. Even though the air was cold and dry, my palms felt clammy. I hoped the encounter would be brief.

There was a long pause after I knocked. I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other in awkward silence when the door swung open and Mr. Richardson’s piercing gaze met mine. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.

“Hi,” I started, realizing I hadn’t planned what to say. “We, um, thought you might want…”

Seeing the dish in my hands, he rescued me from the silence. “Oh, lovely. Thank you, dear.”

I handed over the lasagna and he graciously accepted. Another pause. I wondered if I should offer my condolences.

He seemed to anticipate my discomfort. “How old are you now? It’s been years.”

“Sixteen. Going into junior year.”

“At that high school down the road, no?”

“Yeah. Fairfield High.”

“It’s a good public school,” he said, considering it. “Do you know what you want to study?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said quickly. “I mean, I’m interested in art—but I’m not sure my parents would pay to send me to art school.”

“Hmm. Art is quite the calling. My daughter loved to draw, actually.”

I nodded slowly as Mr. Richardson looked at his feet, then back again.

“Anyways,” he began, clearing his throat, “Thank you for thinking of me. I’ll return the dish as soon as I’m done with it.”

“No worries,” I said, shrugging. “Let us know if you need anything.”

He nodded, again looking both tired and pensive, then closed the door behind me as I left.

The school year started and suddenly life became a whirlwind of assignments and homecoming proposals. I planned to go to the dance with one of my good friends. We even coordinated our outfits: her dress would be lavender, and mine black with purple accessories.

All of it was a welcome distraction from my latest piece, which had proven more challenging than anticipated. My artwork usually focused on themes of femininity– abstractions of womanly features, painted in bright colors or bold strokes so as to emphasize their hidden strength.

This was the first time I had attempted a portrait, and what exactly was missing continued to elude me. Her face, outlined in a pale blue against a black, popcorn-textured background, seemed to be smirking at me as I considered my work. Eventually, in a fit of desperation, I painted over her and resolved to start afresh. Recently, the process of creating art had become substantially more stressful as I considered which pieces would be included in my art school portfolio (even though I had told myself I wasn’t applying).

I was mentally anguishing over which medium to use for her eyebrows when Mom interrupted.

“Did we ever get that dish back from Mr. Richardson?”

“Not sure.” I replied absentmindedly. Maybe I could use the bristles from my old toothbrush.

Mom sighed. “Well, I need it for tonight. Can you run over there?”

Bristles might be too waxy. Something rough around the edges – twine – would give more volume.

“Are you even listening?”

I threw on a jacket, then walked at a brisk pace to Mr. Richardson’s. His lawn looked substantially better now than it did before. I wondered if he had hired landscapers.

He answered the door more quickly than last time.

“You again!” Then, slapping his forehead with sudden realization, he groaned. “The pan! I’m so sorry, I forgot. Here, let me get it. Come in, come in.”

I slipped in the door behind him. Looking around the hallway, I spotted a photo of his daughter. She looked around my age, maybe a little bit younger. Black curly hair, soft but piercing eyes. Beautiful in a nonconventional way.

Large cardboard boxes littered the living room, which was otherwise neat. I spotted books and some old clothes which I soon realized had been hers. Despite having been invited in, I suddenly felt my presence to be incredibly imposing.

I was quickly startled by the sound of Mr. Richardson behind me. “Here you are! Please tell your mother she's a fantastic cook.”

I nodded, taking the pan and feeling my cheeks flush.

He laughed good-naturedly, but his eyes looked pained. “It’s a mess in here, isn’t it? I’m trying to give some stuff away. Doesn’t help me to keep it.”

I looked at him quietly.

“Hey, you wouldn’t want to look through any of these boxes, would you? Some of it would probably fit you.”

“Oh no," I replied, “it’s okay.”

“No, really!” he insisted. “Please.” He paused. “It’s hard to let go, but I’d like to memorialize her some other way. This stuff is better off somewhere else.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. He pushed a box full of books towards me. “Maybe one of these?”

I scanned the visible covers. A lot of them looked like books you’d read for school: The Great Gatsby and Lord of the Flies. I grabbed a black Moleskine notebook with the price tag still on it and flipped through the empty pages. The leather felt smooth and warm against my fingertips.

“I was just about to buy a new journal, actually. Thanks.”

“Of course,” he replied, then gestured towards the door. “Again, sorry about the pan.”

I returned home, set the pan on the kitchen counter, and made my way down to the basement. I had a newfound surge of motivation to paint and didn’t want to ruin it by stopping to consider why. I put on a Spotify low-fi beat playlist and worked manically for the next three hours, only pausing to take a step back and assess my work from a distance.

By the end of the session, the girl had eyes, the bridge of a crooked nose, and the peak of lips. She no longer leered, just stared calmly ahead in a way that was both peaceful and striking.

Using a towel to wipe a spot of wet paint from my hands, my blood suddenly ran cold: the face staring back at me was Mr. Richardson’s daughter.

Sure, her portrait was more abstract than life-like, but the parallels in the details were uncanny– especially her eyes. It must have been a subconscious influence. I felt a small swell of pride despite myself: it was one of the better paintings I’d done so far.

His words slowly drifted back to me: I’d like to memorialize her some other way. Maybe this was the answer. But at the same time, it seemed too weird to explain.

I would decide what to do with it later, I thought. For now, just leave it be.

The months passed both slowly and rapidly, and suddenly it was senior year. The nervous buzz surrounding college applications was almost tangible in the hallways. I had decided to apply to University of Washington, which would be a stretch to get into with my GPA, and a few safety schools. A pamphlet from the California Institute of Arts rested on my nightstand, until it made me too nervous and I tucked it in a drawer. I had sent in my application early and applied for a scholarship, but every time I thought about my personal essay (What does being an artist mean to you?) I could only think about how what I had submitted seemed lame, a tired cliché.

When the large envelope arrived, I hid it from my mom and ran to my room. I held my breath and opened it.

“We are thrilled to invite you to join the California Institute of Arts class of 2025…”

but

“Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you the Dale Scholarship. We had many competitive applicants this cycle…”

My chest crumpled. There was no way I could afford the tuition, even after my estimated financial aid. I might as well have not been accepted in the first place. Even for one semester, my savings would fall almost 10,00 dollars short. The letters on the paper blurred as my eyes welled up with unwelcome tears.

I shoved the envelope in the same desk as the pamphlet and flopped on my bed, emotionally exhausted. Then I stood up again and grabbed one of my paintings from the wall, tossing it on the floor haphazardly. Clean slate. I was going to be a business major, not an artist. I repeated the action until my walls were inoffensively blank and canvases were strewn across my floor.

I stormed to the basement with similar intentions until I spotted the dusty painting of Mr. Richardson’s daughter staring at me, serene. I couldn’t imagine throwing it out. At the same time, the thought of keeping it made my chest ache.

Without ever really deciding to, I grabbed the painting and stormed across the street, where Mr. Richardson was bent over outside, weeding.

The sight of him gave me pause, but it was too late– he had spotted what was in my hands. He slowly straightened his back and placed his hands on his hips.

“Is that–“

“Yes,” I said breathlessly. “You should have it.”

There was a long silence. Suddenly, I felt needlessly cruel. I had assumed he would appreciate it, but it hadn’t won the scholarship, after all. Did he even want this reminder?

Then I saw his eyes well with tears.

“It's beautiful,” he exhaled. “Oh— she's perfect.”

I let out a breath of relief. “You like it?”

“I love it,” he said, voice choked with emotion. He spent a long time struggling to regain composure. Then, clearing his throat: “You are quite talented, like her. You know what? Just wait here—one second.”

He turned and practically jogged into his house, then returned a few minutes later, holding a small slip of paper and handing it to me.

It was a check for 20,000 dollars made out to my name.

“Commission,” he said resolutely.

“I can’t possibly…” I said, numb.

Mr. Richardson’s eyes were still blinking back tears. “Go on. It’s from my daughter’s college savings fund.” He inhaled sharply. “Art school, right? Might as well go towards a good cause.”

I was staring dumbly. The check felt fragile in my fingers, and I grasped it tighter.

“Mr. Richardson— are you sure?”

“Please take it. It would make me happy.” He gave a watery smile. “She would have wanted it.”

I handed him the painting robotically. He turned to go, then paused.

“By the way, you’re a senior this year, right? Did you apply?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’m…” Then considered it for a moment. “Well, it looks like I’m going to the California Institute of Arts.”

He smiled. “Congratulations, neighbor.”