PAULETTE LIVERS
from Hilldale: A Suburban Biomythography I The man who lived behind us, a single father, screamed at his children and mowed his shabby lawn in furious back and forth rows, piling sticks and brambles and stray toys against the fence. One day we realized the windows were dark and curtainless. None of us could say how long they’d been gone. Inexplicably, the shit-mobile of a station wagon, with its oxidized navy paint and cracked windshield, still haunted the curb. He’s murdered the children and walked away from the house in the middle of the night, one of us said. Taking the curtains? says another. He sold everything and put the children up for adoption. Yes, and the car would only remind him of the little trips they took, times they might have been nearly happy. Before she left, another one adds. That’s why he had to leave the car behind. The lawn remained uncut for months, brambles crawling toward the front door. Casa de bruja, Maribel would say when she came to our house to clean on Wednesdays. Witch house, she’d add with a shudder. And we’d always look at the house again, checking the windows for one of the little blond girls.
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