The house they bought has been empty for three years. Someone moved out in a rush and left some unfortunate decorating schemes. A tough sell for any realtor. And the house doesn’t really fit with the rest of the neighborhood--wood cedar shingles that look like they belong on a cottage in Northern California. The rest of the houses on the block are brick, built in the 1920’s for tire executives and managers.
The house has a history: whoever moves in has always had a reason to move out quickly, staying just a year or two. The other neighbors never get to know them. It seems to attract the recluse, the different, the mysterious at best.
Years ago, the owner at the time bought a buddha placed him on the front porch near the door. He is a slender buddha. He is smiling with every part of his face but his mouth, one hand raised in blessing.
Two years ago, a family moved in. A man, a woman, two daughters. When I stop to chat and welcome them, he tells me he has four girls at the Catholic school down the road. The older two live close by, he says. With their mother.
Days later, walking the dog, I stop by again and talk with the woman. They have moved up from Columbus, to be closer to the older daughters. She seems uncertain when she says it, as if she’s trying to remember exactly what the reason is and it seems like it must be that. What else would it be? She ushers the girls past me, into the house.
I never speak to them again. I see them less and less. The car is rarely in the driveway. Today I think they must have moved; the house seems vacant. The grass is mowed but the hedges aren’t trimmed. No flowers like last year. All the drapes are shut.
Something is wrong in the house. Buddha is blessing. Peace to this house. Peace. Peace in this house.
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