In a Suburban Paradise

In A Suburban Paradise I was to spend hours on my bed writing short stories in 1967; with my left leg dangling over the left side, I sat on the right leg, like I was some nosy bird nesting on a log, watching life and its endless intrigues, concerning a sad lonely woman in a suburban paradise. I would stare at the quaint white house next door, the Barren home, staid residence of John and Ann, a quiet couple in their childless fifties; He, who went to work in a pink Ford carrying a black lunchbox; She, who stayed home wearing loose revealing smocks, while painting mysterious pictures under green stretching avocado branches in their open backyard patio, paved with red bricks. I was to grow fond of brunette Ann, as I secretly spied on her as any boy my age might, and watched her create art, but only from a curious safe distance through the concealing aluminum screen of my open bedroom window; she, with upright easel, a dozen brushes, and interesting gesticulating body movements, while conversing in a low whisper with either herself, or perhaps a ghostly lover. And I, fifteen years old, and curious, oh so curious, describing with pencil in one hand and an open notebook set before me, a lonely sad lady with brown curly hair named Ann, as she painted with pointed strokes and flourishes, dripping desperate paint upon a white loose smock, and I wondered, oh, I was curious indeed, as to what she was painting on her big white canvas, and what bright sensational colors she might be using. It was not until a few years later that I found out what Ann had been creating in 1967; Not paintings with color-laden flowers or trees, but grim drab buildings filled with trauma; Of a bout with metastatic breast cancer, leaving Ann with a flat arid chest, barely covered by the loose smocks she wore, ripped smocks picturing drab flowers and trees; Of private violent incidents with John, who beat her with an old Navy hand, which, five days a week in 1967, carried a black lunchbox to work. Years were to go by after those curious artistic scenes next door, and I have often thought about Ann. Divorce and death followed eventually. Their quaint white house stands mutely today a half century later, with the laconic oleanders out front bending a little, in abject exhaustion toward the ancient street, not willing to speak about the unspeakable; those secret untold tales of pain and trauma, done furtively with the back of an old Navy hand, to the whispering fragile artist living next door, in a suburban paradise.