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Taryn Bowe
Neighbor

Every June, for as long as Livingston can remember, he’s come to his family’s cottage on Lake Chandelier, a blue bungalow with a narrow staircase leading up to two small bedrooms, a tiny bathroom tucked between. The front porch wraps around three sides, overlooking the lake and countless birds. His father once knew the names for all of them, but he died in 2002, and now it’s only Livingston and his dog, Francie. His mother refuses to step outside her golf community in Bonita Springs.

Last week, Livingston arrived at the lake depleted by months of teaching, expecting to rejuvenate himself with long-distance swims, rigorous walks, and books galore. Irritating then, to find the long vacant summer camp next door hopping with machines and people. Nail guns firing, backhoes clawing and shifting rocks. Cars and pick-up trucks churning up great mushroom clouds of dust as they rumble along the usually sleepy dirt road Livingston and Francie walk in the mornings and evenings. Inside the cottage, Livingston tries to plug his ears against the noise, but he can’t shut it out completely, and Francie, growing older, now thirteen, cowers in the corner as if each fresh clang is a brutal assault against her peace.

One morning, Livingston returns from a swim to find one of his new neighbors parked on his porch. The man is large and hairy, like a sweaty bear. Swirls of sawdust cling to his eyebrows, cover his jeans. He sticks out his hand and apologizes for the chaos. In less than two weeks, his family is opening their overnight camp for sick kids. His name is Roger. He’s lost a daughter to complications of a condition that affects the spine. “So, it’s personal,” he says, his hand still waiting. “Skin in the game.”

Livingston tightens the towel around his waist. He tells the neighbor it’s nice to meet him.

“Is that your dog?” the neighbor asks, pushing past Livingston’s knees to where Francie’s nose presses against the front door screen. “She probably thinks all our noise is the sky crashing down,” he says. “Probably thinks it’s the end of the world. Me too, Killer. Me too.”

He reaches into his pocket and brings a fistful of sunflower seeds to his mouth. When he asks Livingston if he wants any, Livingston says, “I’ve got to get going. See you around.”

Livingston opens his door and escapes while the new neighbor bends over his porch railing and spits a steady stream of sunflower shells into the hydrangea bushes below. Then the neighbor steps down from the porch and wanders back to the camp using the path Livingston and his father long ago cut through the woods.

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