One night a group of late-night revelers knocked over about seven hundred gravestones
in the cemetery that lay behind the house at 51 Manson Street. The news story was reported on the television and radio news and in the newspapers.
A day or two later on September 1st, I was on the Interstate,
driving Andrea and Bronwyn up north to spend a few days’ vacation at a dude
ranch, when I turned on the radio, just in time for the news broadcast. I almost ran the car off the road when I heard the first item.
".
. . the Schemmerhorn cemetery vandals have been arrested," said the
announcer. "Justin Parker and . .
."
"What?”
I exclaimed loudly. “That's Mamie's
brother's name!"
". . . Mamie Parker of fifty-one Manson Street have been taken into police
custody for the vandalism of . . ."
“Wow,
Mom! What are you going to do?”
Bronwyn asked, her eyes wide on hearing the names of my tenants on the news.
Shaken,
I drove the next few miles, my thoughts racing a mile a minute.
“I
can’t do anything about it, right now,” I said, eventually. “Your Auntie Frederica and I played some
pretty naughty pranks when we were little.
But we were just kids. Mamie and Justin are adults. This was probably just a prank on a larger
scale, but still . . . seven hundred gravestones? Come on!”
“Mom,
tell us about some of the things you and Auntie Frederica used to get up to,”
Andrea asked after a few more miles had rolled by.
“Yeah,
we’ve still got a ways to go,” Bronwyn put in, “and you know we’ll start
fighting soon and asking ‘are we there yet?’
Tell us a story to keep us occupied.”
"Oh, all right,”
I said, seeing the logic in this. “Let’s
see. You know about the time we set the
grass dump on fire, but did I ever tell you about the time
when your Auntie Frederica and I pretended to be girl scouts collecting for a
rummage sale?”
“Ooh, no.”
“Tell
us.”
"Okay. Well, it goes like this . . ."
One Saturday, Frederica and I were messing
about at home in our quiet South African suburb with nothing to do. I was twelve
years old at the time and was painfully shy, except around Frederica, whom I bossed
mercilessly. She, of course, even as a six-and-a-half year old, was very outgoing and, for some strange reason, totally worshiped the ground I
walked on even though I regularly beat her up.
Being
the ringleader of our little twosome, and thus in charge of coming up with
ideas of things to do, I suggested we pretend to be girl scouts collecting
clothes for a rummage sale. It would
mean knocking on doors in the neighborhood and talking to strangers – totally
against the rules of our protective upbringing – and this awesome idea did give
us pause for a moment but, hey, the danger was part of the fun. Frederica, of course, was all for my idea.
We
sauntered casually down the street, nerve endings jangling beneath our oh-so-cool
exteriors. The naughtiness of what we
were about to do made me feel more alive. The adrenalin was pumping and everything seemed to me to stand out in vivid
relief, sharper than before, as if I were a shortsighted person wearing
corrective eyeglasses for the first time.
I began to notice details, such as the pinkness of the bricks of the
apartment block we were headed for, and the lacy, black iron patterns of the
balconies.
After
the brightness of the day outside, the foyer of the #apartment building was
dingy and felt damp. Being the eldest,
it was decided that I would do the talking, and after a whispered consultation
on the stairs, we knocked on the first door we came to.
It was opened by a man of about fifty years old, wearing a greasy vest, dirty cotton
pants, and badly in need of a shave.
Through the open door we caught a glimpse of a dark, stuffy apartment beyond,
cluttered with small tables piled with knickknacks and tall lamps with fringed
shades, more suited to a psychic maiden aunt than to the seedy character
lounging before us.
Not to be put off,
however, and trying not to breathe in the acrid odor of sweat which wafted in
our direction, I valiantly launched into my spiel in an artificially bright and cheery voice, though I started to falter a little towards the end under the man’s bold stare.
He
looked rather dubious on hearing the news that we were girl scouts on a good
deed mission and shook his head.
“Sorry,
I don’t have nutt’n’,” he rasped in a hoarse voice, undoubtedly the result of
too many cigarettes. Frederica and I
chose not to pursue the issue. We were
just thankful to get out of there.
A
mite subdued by this first failure, but not to be swayed from our dangerous
adventure, we knocked on the next door.
It was flung open with great ebullience by a middle-aged, blonde,
housewife type.
This was more like
it!
She cheerfully believed our story
and invited us in while she searched for something to give us. We chose to hover in the doorway, warnings
about not going into strange houses too powerful to overcome.
The
housewife returned in a moment and handed us a man’s tweed jacket!
Frederica
and I looked at each other in unspoken agreement, stammered our thank yous, and
dashed for the stairs.
Once
outside on the street, we wrestled with our consciences, feeling incredibly
guilty. The more we thought about that
nice woman giving us the jacket under false pretenses, the worse we felt. It was awful!
What in God’s name were we going to do with the jacket? We obviously couldn’t take it home. We also didn’t
want to throw it away because that would be even more guilt-provoking. Frederica suggested we give the jacket to the
first poor African we saw who looked cold.
I leapt at the idea as a good way to assuage my guilt.
The
first African we came to didn’t appear to be either poor or cold. However, he would have to do. He was astonished when two young, white girls
waylaid him and offered him a free jacket, out of the blue. He accepted it in pleased surprise, put it
on, thanked us effusively, though somewhat suspiciously, and went swinging away
down the street, singing.
His
happiness didn’t do much to lessen our guilt, but it was an experience to
reminisce and laugh over to this day.
Andrea
and Bronwyn were suitably impressed by my story, and I must admit I was feeling
a little less stressed by the end of it.
“You guys were pretty naughty, weren’t you, Mom?” said Anthea. “Deceiving little old ladies, burning up the
yard . . . whatever next? We’re not nearly
that bad.”
We
had reached the dude ranch by this time, and as soon as we checked in I
phoned my parents and Allen to tell them the news about my gravestone-tipping tenant’s
arrest. There was nothing I could do, of
course. Allen promised to keep an eye on
things at 51 Manson Street, but I knew it was going to pray on my mind for the duration of my mini-vacation.
*
* * * * * * *
When
the girls and I returned home after a somewhat relaxing few days, albeit sore
in the rump from horse riding, I rushed over to Schemmerhorn as soon as I could to learn the latest on the gravestone-tipping saga.
Bryan
answered the door and laughed at my anxious questions.
"It's
okay," he assured me. "The
police let Mamie go. They only charged
her with trespassing."
"Phew!"
I breathed. "What does she weigh,
anyway? All of ninety pounds? I thought it was a bit strange that she could
be responsible for knocking over seven hundred gravestones."
"Right. Her brother's doing some time for it,
though. Look, Mamie's not in, right
now. Was there anything else?"
"Yes,
well, uh, I apparently haven’t received a voucher for September's rent."
"Oh, er,
I dunno. Maybe you should call Social Services?"
"Do
you have your portion of the rent for me?"
"Nooooo,
not right now. Can you come back in a
few days?"
As
Bryan disappeared inside, Giselle came out of her apartment.
"I hear you had a nice
welcome to Manson Street, hey?" I said ruefully.
"Oh!" Giselle rolled her eyes. "I came here with all my stuff, ready to
move in, and there was police and TV cameras and God knows what else outside
the house. I didn't know what was
goin' on!"
“Well,
thankfully this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day,” I said. “By the way, do you have the @rent for me?”
“Oh,
yeah. Here you go." Giselle handed me a money order. “How do you want to work out getting the rent
in future?”
“I’ll come by on the first of every month between five and six p.m., to collect it. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah,
that’s fine.”
When
I phoned the #Department of #Social #Services the next day, I was told that as Bryan
had been promoted at his job, Mamie was no longer covered by Social
Services.
According to Bryan, he had
been promoted, but the very next day he was laid off.
Would Social Services listen? No.
They said they would resume covering part of the rent the following
month, but gave me some story about Mamie not having enough money in her
account to cover the rent for this month.
What
did that mean?
I
never did receive September's rent, and in October, I only received $325.00
from D.S.S.
Mamie and Bryan, of course still claimed they couldn’t afford to pay the $150.00
balance, so I was relieved when Social Services suddenly declared
that as of November they would be covering Mamie's rent in full.
I
also had a frustrating time the first couple of months trying to collect rent from Giselle. I
stopped by the house on the first of the month as arranged, but she was never home. After several wasted trips, twenty-five
minutes' drive each way, Giselle agreed to send me a money order every month for the
rent. This proved to be a much better
idea. The money orders usually arrived a
few days late, but at least they arrived.
The
next four months at 51 Manson Street were generally peaceful, except for a leak
in the attic, which resulted in Wim gingerly mounting a ladder to replace a
portion of roof. He has a great fear of
heights, does Wim.
Then
Giselle called to complain that the front porch was crumbling. She was right. Wim had to basically jack up the house,
replace the foundation, and construct a whole new front porch. The total cost came to $806.76.
Meanwhile
Action Pest Control had not lived up to its name. The #cockroach #infestation,
courtesy of Ray Molinard, wasn’t as bad as the one Natasha had caused, but it
took the Action Man five follow-up visits to completely eradicate the
roaches. The previous pest control
company, Greatest Pest Control, had managed to get rid of them in three.
What's more, Action
Pest Control recommended that I continue with monthly visits indefinitely in order to prevent another infestation from occurring.
“Monthly
maintenance is a good idea,” the Action Man told me when we happened to meet one
day at the house. “Especially in this neighborhood, with the type of tenants
you have living here. It only takes two
roaches, and in no time you’re right back where you started from. Prolific little buggers, they are.”
He grinned at me with a lascivious leer.
I
was inclined to agree with him. However,
the man was just too smarmy for words, and I had heard that Greatest Pest
Control had merged with another reputable company and was now charging only
$29.96 for maintenance visits.
Sorry,
Action Pest Control, you ain’t gett’n no more
action heah.
“I’ll
think about it,” I told him and then signed up with Greatest Pest
Control for monthly maintenance.
*
* * * * * * *
In
April, Mamie finally gave Bryan his marching orders. She also promised faithfully to pay me last
September's rent, plus the balance of October’s rent, as soon as she received
her tax refund. I wasn’t too surprised when
April turned into May and May turned into June, and still the money did not
appear.
