by Kenneth M. Kapp
There was an old cedar table and four chairs in a corner of the front yard. If the sun was in the old man’s eyes, he’d carefully set his coffee mug on the grass and move the table and his chair an inch one way or another. The boards were gray from age and the elements. Northern winters and summers are unkind and there was no shed where the table and chairs could be stored. They bore witness to the passing years and like the old man slowly leaned to one side as if they, too, suffered from arthritis.
His small cottage was over a hundred years old, a working man’s home, the last that remained on a block where tradespeople had raised families generations ago. The land on the edge of the city had been bought with union funds that also paid for the doubled-bricked foundations. Then plumbers, electricians, masons, and carpenters worked together to construct frames over half-basements and complete the small dwellings. Basically they were all the same, but different in that each tradesperson added their own personal touch, taking pride in their skills.
Old James, as he was known in the neighborhood, had lived there all his life. His grandfather was a carpenter; inside, his spandrel – spindles and balls –still decorated the beam separating the living room and dining room. Outside, his fretwork could still be seen under the front overhang. The wood and scroll work when they were first installed were painted and reminded people of the Parthenon. There was probably an article in the morgue of one of the local papers with a picture. But even if one could be found, it wouldn’t be in color from a hundred years ago. It was also doubtful that Old James would have a picture on his mantelpiece since the original was still out front.
The neighborhood changed and slowly became upscale. The small old homes were demolished, two adjacent lots leveled to provide space for a fancy home with full basement. Extra-large garages opened on an alley where one could find an old hitching post with its large rusted ring.
But Old James’s father held on, wanting to die in the house where he grew up, his own treasures buried in a corner of the cold cellar. Old James wasn’t moving or selling out. Why should he? Keep the people away, that’s all he wanted. And keep all those damned dogs off his lawn!
When the weather was nice, he’d sit outside at the cedar table. He’d carry out a mug of coffee, most of it splashing out long before he reached the table. Whatever liquid remained in the chipped mug would grow cold while he silently watched for a jogger to veer onto his lawn or for a child to accidentally let their dog follow a scent onto his grass. Then Old James would bang his mug on the table and shout, “Get off my lawn, you’re trespassing!” Or if the dog, now scared, answered a call of nature, he would struggle to his feet, and, swinging his cane over his head, threaten to beat the dog and sue the child.
“You get back here with a pail of water. That dog’s piss will burn a hole in my lawn. I want to see your mother right now!” He’d stomp after the child who’d run off crying, “I didn’t mean it, honest.”
Several times the police came and tried to reason with Old James, but their efforts always ended with him shouting. “Don’t talk to me about yelling at trespassers. I know my rights. If you did your policing correctly this wouldn’t happen!” And then he’d lecture them about all the cars speeding down the street or running the stop signs on the corner.
In the past, one or another neighbor tried to befriend him. At block parties people compared notes. Fifteen months was the record for staying on good terms with Old James. A retired schoolteacher tried to sugarcoat it, “He’s rather cantankerous, isn’t he. Never room for another’s opinion or viewpoint.”
An engineer from up the street said the old man stopped him once when he came home early from work. “He must have been watching, waiting for the bus to stop on the far corner. He was multitasking. They were replacing a bulb in the streetlight, and he was standing to one side giving the utility workers a lecture. When I crossed and passed, I made the mistake of asking what was happening. Thirty minutes later I was still standing there, Old James going on and on about the voltage and power lines, the best energy-efficient bulbs, maybe at some point even the price of tea in China. I was only saved when my wife called me wanting to know if I was held up at work. Old guy seems to have answers for everything and never runs out of steam.”
The engineer confessed that once was enough. “I now walk around the long way to avoid going anywhere near his house. No sense taking any chances in case he’s hiding behind a bush waiting to pounce.”
The neighbors immediately east of his house confessed that they too had been cornered by Old James. “He just starts talking. Doesn’t take hints that you’re running late or have an appointment. We’ve taken to calling it the Old James hole. You don’t want to fall in, chances are you’ll never get out. We’ve given up. Don’t like to be rude. But…”
A bad storm passed through one August night. Severe weather alerts were posted on TV and announcements were made on the radio. Seventy-five miles west, a tornado touched down. Winds topped forty miles per hour when the storm passed over the city, dropping more than two inches of rain overnight. In the morning, the old cedar table was sprawled on the lawn, legs at weird angles as if it had suffered compound fractures in all its limbs.
Old James straightened them and screwed in rusted angle brackets that he fashioned in his basement. It was a temporary fix. The old wood was soft from decades of rain. The screws didn’t hold and the table wobbled, showing its age much like the old man. One afternoon two weeks later while he was sitting outside, his jaw set and his tongue licking his lips, daring a wrongdoer to come within yelling distance, a car sped down the street. He stood suddenly, lost his balance and tried to brace his left hand on the table, his right arm and extended fist already cursing the rushing motorist. For a moment it appeared that the table would take up the chase as it leaned towards the street. Old James recovered just in time and sat back, panting from the effort and clutching his heaving chest. His mug had spilled on the grass as if it wished to give up the fight. It was fifteen minutes before he could get his breath under control and another ten before he was composed enough to reach over for his mug, stand, and shuffle back into his house.
It had been hot and humid for days, which did nothing for the sunny disposition that Old James never had. He came out the front door ready for a fight, ripping off the notice which had been hung from the doorknob. He clenched it under the handle of his cane, sat down at the cedar table and grunted. “Damn lawn needs cutting. The hell with the neighbors. Kid gets the same $10 even if it’s long. Once a month is enough. Ain’t made of money, am I?”
He smacked his lips a couple of times and noticed the crunched notice on the table next to his mug. He started to curse people putting trash on his table before remembering that he had found it on his door handle. He muttered, “Damn thing’s been there for days; praying it would blow away didn’t work. Always knew they didn’t.” He wondered whether it was worth trying to recall where he had his cheaters last. “Maybe left them damn glasses on my nightstand or the coffee table,” he groused. He spread out the notice, stared, then picked it up. He tried holding it at different distances and heights in front of his face before making out that it was something from the city about utility work and new fiber optics. He laughed. “For sure ain’t no prayer going to work against this ‘progress.’” He crumbled it and then, deciding he was really angry, once again flattened it on the table before folding it several times and wedging it between the slats of the tabletop.
Old James shook his fist at the street and resolved, “Just wait; they’ll see how far they get with digging up my lawn!” The flier said that preliminary marking would begin the following week.
On Monday, he was seated at the table by 8 AM. He had brought out a dented thermos of coffee and a bag of nuts. His jaw was set. Fifteen minutes later, he got up and walked to the corner. He scanned up and down the street, wondering whether the enemy would appear with jack hammers and backhoes in a surprise attack. The traffic appeared normal and he clomped back to his post trying his best not to rely on his cane.
Thirty minutes later a small SUV parked east of his lot. There was an official looking inscription on the side but without his glasses he couldn’t read what it said. A man in a work uniform got out, opened the back door, and removed a marking stick. He slipped in an orange cylinder and locked the van. By the time he got to the sidewalk, Old James was on his feet, advancing into battle.
“Hey, you – just a minute! You the guy going to mark up my lawn?”
The man stopped, confused. “I guess so. Didn’t you get the notice last week? Progress. I got the permits in the van if you want to see ‘em. I’m marking where they can lay the cable. Minimum rip-up with the new tunneling equipment. You’ll be OK.”
Old James felt he was being dismissed. He struck out at the marking stick with his cane. “It’s not OK! No one asked me. You smell that stuff. Bet it’s poisonous. All those paint fumes cause cancer. Orange color is the worst. None of that’s going anywhere near my lawn, which is all organic. Probably lead in that paint. Cheapest. No one cares you kill a few workers.”
The worker tried to move around the old man. “I’m sorry. Never had complaints before. I’m just told where to mark. The equipment all belongs to the city. Look at the municipal plates.”
James stuck his cane in front of his feet. “You ain’t going anywhere but back in that van and getting’ out of here.”
“OK. Give me a minute. I’ll get the papers from the van. You can stay here or sit back there at your table. Your coffee must be getting cold. My name’s Stan, by the way.” The note about a possible belligerent occupant at this address was on the clipboard on the front seat of the van.
“I can read that. It’s there on your uniform. I’m not some blind dummy!” Old James raised his cane in an attempt to point at the name badge.
Stan jumped back, “Hey, hold off a minute!” and made a hasty retreat around the front of the van to the driver’s door.
Moments later, James was poking the side panel with his cane.
Stan grabbed his phone along with the permits and hit the speed dial for dispatch. He turned toward the middle of the street to muffle his voice and, when dispatch answered, urgently whispered, “We got us a problem, big problem. That address you flagged, guy’s a nutter. I’m afraid he may brain me with his cane. Better send the cavalry, ASAP. Yeh. It’s already out of hand.”
He slipped the phone under some papers and put them back on the seat. He kept two of the permits, locked the door, and slowly returned to where Old James was waiting.
“Here’s those permits I was telling you about. They’re laying new cable in the next few months and …”
James was losing his temper and fighting with his bladder at the same time. He clicked his teeth together stuttering, “Not, not, not! I won’t let you. Not on my property. Poison. Orange poison!” He was turning red and struggling to catch his breath.
“Hey, old man. Easy. You’ll stroke out the way you’re going on! Let’s go sit down.” Stan paused, thought for a moment. “Look, I’ll go back and call, have them send my supervisor over. He can explain better than me.” Bullshit, I don’t get paid enough for these crazies. Better have the cops here soon.
“I’m staying right here. I leave, you’ll just spray your damn orange stripe across the lawn and then it’s too late. I ain’t a dummy, I told you. If you don’t move, I’ll run my cane in one way and out the other.”
A police car pulled up and two cops got out. Old James had a reputation. The older officer held up his hand. “Hi, James. You remember me, I’m Officer Clemens. We’ve met before. What seems to be the problem this time?”
James was not having any of this. He began to bang his cane on the sidewalk, gritting out, “No problem if you get this bastard off my property. Now, now, now!”
“I think we better sit down. How about it?” Clemens took his elbow and tried to turn him towards the cedar table.
“Ain’t going and you can’t make me.” He raised his cane and began shaking it at the van. “And get that thing out –” Suddenly he dropped the cane and clutched his chest.
The two officers grabbed him before he could fall and eased him to the ground. “Damn it, Charlie, call for an ambulance. He’s turning colors.”
By the time the paramedics arrived Old James was dead. Clemens was cursing about the amount of paperwork they’d have to do. “Charlie, we better check inside in case there’s a pet or if he left the stove on. Last thing we need is his place burning down. Maybe find a key so we can lock up.”
Another windstorm came through that night, snapping a limb of a mature silver maple in the center of the lawn. It fell across the old cedar table, splaying it on the lawn.
The police located a cousin from across the state who came the next day. He was met by Officer Clemens who gave him the key. As they passed remains of the old cedar table, he sighed. “You know, when I was a kid and the family visited, we used to play hide-and-seek under that table.”