The New Neighbor
When anyone in town needed help, they contacted Rocky Germain. They called when scratching sounds in the attic woke them at midnight, or when a late winter storm sent bone-chilling water gushing down the back stairs flooding their basement. Be right there, he’d respond, day or night. Afterwards, when the raccoon was liberated or the basement bailed and the carpeting dried with fans hauled from his home, he shook off attempts to pay him for his troubles. If pressed, his wife Alanna admitted he enjoyed a tumbler of smooth, smoky scotch on occasion. A generous man, Rocky was known to offer neighbors a pour at the happy hours he hosted.
“That Rocky,” Lucy said, “he’s as unselfish with his liquor as he is with his time.” Lucy, a widow since last fall, had called Rocky early one morning in January, panicked over frozen pipes. He’d taken charge, shutting off the water supply and staying to apply a blow dryer to the offending metal.
Everyone in the neighborhood counted on Rocky. That is, until Frankie arrived.
The purchase of 221 Brenner Avenue, directly across the street from Rocky and Alanna, caused a ripple in the placid surface of the neighborhood even before the SOLD sign appeared. Liz, who’d lived in the house for forty years, had barely passed away when her adult children first displayed her belongings onto the lawn in a giant ‘estate sale,’ then sold off the remaining parcel to a developer.
“Times change,” Alanna reminded her husband.
“Maybe in California or New York, not in Bowling Green. It isn’t decent.”
Alanna held her tongue. Her husband wasn’t speaking from experience. He’d never left the Buckeye State, never visited the Pacific Ocean or walked the streets of Times Square.
Rocky stood at the window, lace curtain pushed aside as an excavator demolished Liz’s home. The neighborhood endured its high-pitched beeping, a yellow monster prowling back and forth, tossing hunks of wood and plaster aside and ripping up half of the front yard.
“Honey, maybe you should go for a walk,” Alanna said. She placed a hand on his broad shoulder as they faced the destruction.
Rocky stroked his beard without answering. It was an inauspicious beginning.
Frankie’s move was preceded by an army of contractors. Landscapers pushed fat rolls of sod into position in the front yard and installed fully grown bushes that blocked the front windows—non-native species, from what Rocky could tell. He’d had the foresight to rescue Liz’s tulips and perennials before the excavator had begun its work. He’d recruited Selena, newly graduated from BGSU and back under his roof, to help dig up the bulbs and transplant them in their yard.
When the landscapers moved to the backyard, Rocky called Lucy and offered to clear out her brush, so he might keep his eyes on the work. He spied three men from a tree service cutting down Liz’s silver maple, stealing decades off the old giant’s lifespan and replacing him with a curated garden of raised beds. An eight-foot-high wooden fence went up next, wrapping itself around the yard and cutting off Rocky’s view.
“She’s the owner now. Nothing we can do about it,” Alanna repeated during May’s happy hour. The weather was fine, with a light breeze that swept the cluster of camp chairs arranged in a semi-circle in Rocky’s driveway. The neighbors sipped his Glenlivet and studied the house collectively.
“It doesn’t fit in with the neighborhood’s character,” Lucy said.
Avery, another neighbor, chimed in. “All of that dark trim, the metallic roof, and the blocky windows without shutters. It could be a factory, the way it’s designed.”
“Our new neighbor didn’t draw the plans,” Alanna said in rebuttal. “She bought it from the development company. They probably use stock blueprints.”
“Can you imagine forking over double the money—the cost of the land plus the tear-down and rebuild—and then not having any say-so in the set-up?” Rocky asked. “That boxy style has no charm. I can tell without even setting foot inside.”
“I found pictures of the interior on Zillow,” Avery said. “The kitchen is done up with fancy granite counters and the downstairs is now one giant room, like one of those TV design shows.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “If developers keep buying up properties and selling them off for huge profits, our property taxes will skyrocket.”
The neighbors looked to Rocky, who nodded, eyes scanning the block.
Selena came out of the house and set her drink down beside her. She hadn’t yet developed a taste for her father’s scotch. “I met our new neighbor last week. She came by to check on the progress. Her name’s Frankie.”
“Her name is Frankie?” Rocky asked.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” Lucy asked her. “It smells awful.”
“It’s kombucha,” Selena said, replacing the bottle’s lid.
“How old is Frankie?” Rocky asked.
She tilted her head. “I’d say she’s ten years older than me, early thirties.”
“Kind of young to afford a new build, am I right?”
Selena didn’t think her father expected an answer. It was unclear whether his point was that Frankie was young or that she was a young woman. She knew what it was like to be judged by her elders; she’d attended her father’s happy hours since she was old enough to play without supervision, buzzing around the backyard and darting back and forth to grab snacks. When she came close enough, the adults talked at her, complimenting her dress or her manners; her contribution to the conversation was optional.
With Rocky as her father, she’d grown up under the neighbors’ watchful eyes and learned to keep to their rules. Lucy’s house was located on the same corner as the bus stop; with a swish of curtains, she’d monitored the goings on of the neighborhood’s children from elementary to high school. On one particular day in middle school, Selena had exited the bus calling out a boy who’d annoyed her, raising her voice. Lucy, as if it were her duty, picked up the phone and recounted to Rocky “Selena’s inappropriate behavior.”
She found herself in hot water practically before she’d crossed the threshold at home. “Dad, Jacob is constantly on my case, and the bus driver never does anything about it! Why does Miss Lucy have to get me in trouble, anyway?”
Rocky had pointed at her with one thick finger. “You should be grateful people in the neighborhood are looking out for you.”
Returning after college to the familiarity of the old neighborhood and her father’s happy hours came as a surprise only to her. Once a Buckeye, always a Buckeye, was a favorite Rocky saying.
A fleet of Amazon vehicles preceded the neighbor’s arrival. Instacart followed, blocking the narrow street with their delivery vans. In the first week, Frankie herself was practically a ghost. She zipped down the driveway every morning as the automatic garage doors silently released her then swallowed her vehicle whole at the end of the day.
“Why would you take up a chunk of the home’s footprint with a big garage?” Rocky asked. “The driveway isn’t good enough for her?”
Alanna, hearing the edgy tone in his comments, encouraged him to spend a night out with his old work crew from the plant. “I’m worried retirement isn’t wearing well on you,” she’d said.
A neon-green truck pulled up at the new house the next morning, Doody Calls was written along the sides in large letters with a cartoon dog painted on the window. “I guess the lady has a dog,” Rocky said, watching as a man in a green t-shirt unloaded a shovel, swung it over his shoulder and pivoted to the back fence.
A week later, Rocky spotted the new owner when he and Alanna were returning from their evening walk.
“Can I help you with those?” he asked, hurrying over as she pulled restaurant to-go bags from the trunk of her robin’s-egg-blue Bronco. He hadn’t realized how tall she was, a few inches shy of his 6’1”.
“I’ve got it, thanks.” She pressed the bags to her side, chin up, as if Rocky might rip the bags from her hands.
“I’m Rocky and this is my wife, Alanna. We live across the way.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you out working in your garden. I’m Frankie.”
“So, what’s Frankie short for? Francesca?”
“It isn’t short for anything. It’s just Frankie.”
Alanna kicked Rocky’s boot lightly and gave him a look he read instantly. You know yours is Rocky, right? But Rocky had a given name, Rochford. That was the difference.
Frankie stepped back towards her new stone walkway. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be bumping into each other.”
The thing was, they didn’t bump into each other. In fact, of the neighbors present at the next happy hour, Lucy was alone in happening upon Frankie in the wild, inadvertently sitting beside her in Ginni’s Nail Salon.
“It felt so awkward,” Lucy said, as Rocky refilled her mug. “Thank you, dear. We shared a few pleasantries and then she gave me one- or two-word answers until the conversation petered out. All I did was ask a few questions.”
June arrived warmer than usual. The trees were in full leaf and the stretch of lawn matched their vibrant, glossy green. Gazes drifted past Liz’s tulips in Rocky’s yard as a lone bee hovered over her transplanted perennials and settled on her new house.
“I looked her up,” Avery said. “She doesn’t have a social media presence, at least not on Facebook or Instagram.”
As they gazed at the house, Frankie’s garage swung open like a mechanical jaw. The Bronco backed quickly into the street. They saw her flutter a wave from the open window as she passed, sunglasses reflecting the sunset, wind blowing her blonde hair behind her.
“Guess she’s not coming,” Lucy said.
Rocky looked in the direction Frankie had gone. “That shiny Bronco Sport set her back some. The base model is at least forty grand and I’m betting she went fully loaded.”
“Did anyone actually invite her tonight?” Alanna interrupted.
“Yeah, I texted Frankie,” Selena said.
“And?”
“She had other plans.” A blush swept up her neck when the circle of neighbors turned to her, relieved she hadn’t mentioned that Frankie had a date.
“Well now, my girl here has a tale about our resident ghost.” Rocky said, raising his glass to Selena.
The blush rose in her cheeks. “We went out for a glass of wine last weekend. It wasn’t a big deal.” What had they even talked about? Being single in a small town, the perils of online dating. Nothing she cared to have the neighbors know. “Frankie went to BGSU for grad school, then took a job at Corning. She was renting a place nearby before buying the house. I think she still spends time in the other neighborhood.”
“Corning, huh? Must be an executive to afford all this,” Rocky said, gesturing with his glass toward her house.
“Lanna, maybe we ought to meet our problem head-on,” Rocky announced the morning after drinks with the guys.
“’Our problem’?” Alanna asked as he gathered the keys to his truck.
He gestured across the street. “We should have made the first move, welcomed her officially to the neighborhood. Let’s take a trip to Total Beverage, pick up a housewarming gift.”
Rocky took his time selecting the bottle, based on Selena’s suggestion of a light Chardonnay. The following Saturday, he and Alanna stood side by side on the porch as Frankie opened the door. The entry sill, raised to protect the foyer from the elements, made her as tall as Rocky.
“Hello, neighbor,” Rocky said, his voice louder than usual. “We wanted to offer an invitation to our happy hours. We have at least one a month and as you’ve seen, we’re pretty informal. You can stop by anytime.”
Frankie accepted the bottle with thanks, cradling it in her arm. She held her ground in the doorway. Behind her, he glimpsed only a staircase, new wooden steps polished to a high gleam.
“So, I noticed you live on your own here, and if there’s anything you need help with—” He paused at the slight twitch in her lips. “Well, I’m pretty handy with a wrench, is all I’m saying.” He didn’t quite kick the imaginary dirt with his toe, but he didn’t meet her eyes, either.
“Thanks, but the house is under warranty. If anything goes wrong, I’ll get the contractor to come out.”
Without acknowledging her response, Rocky surveyed the lawn. “I see your lawn guy missed the curb line when he mowed this morning. Wouldn’t be a problem to swing by with my edger and neaten that up for you.”
“Oh, no worries. He’ll take care of it when he returns to mulch.”
“I’ve got it. No worries. Thanks, but…” The words rang in Rocky’s ears. They stood until the silence grew awkward, then he and Alanna made their excuses. He motioned to a flagpole mount sitting empty at the edge of her porch and as he was about to mention its purpose, but Alanna gave a gentle pull on his arm. She closed the door and he heard the click of the lock.
It turned out Frankie knew the mount’s purpose. A flag went up soon after, in time for a group discussion at July’s neighborhood happy hour. The hottest part of the day was behind them, but Selena could feel the steam rising off the asphalt driveway.
“That bracket on the porch is made for the American flag—the red, white, and blue,” Rocky said.
Selena tuned out the conversation. The summer sun picked up the flag’s colors fluttering in the breeze, the brightness of the oranges and reds and yellows reflected in Frankie’s bay windows.
“The factory making the flag mounts probably doesn’t mind as long as you buy their product,” Alanna said.
“You know what I mean, Lanna—” he said, an irritated note in his voice. “And you’re wrong, besides. Look at the advertisements on TV. Families have displayed the American flag in front of their homes for generations. It’s tradition.”
“Guess she’s sending us a message,” Lucy said.
“You mean she has pride? Or she’s an ally?” Selena asked.
“A what?”
“Never mind.” She regretted her remark; judging by Lucy’s tone, her neighbor was operating in ‘read only’ mode, unwilling to accept new input, another point of view.
“My Ring camera caught you taking a walk with her the other day,” Lucy said. “First time I actually saw her dog. What is it, a Schnauzer mix?”
“His name’s Scout. Frankie adopted him from a shelter,” Selena said. Just yesterday, Frankie had admitted her reluctance to engage with the neighbors: I’m sorry, but I feel like every time I leave the house someone is ‘working on their lawn,’ and watching my progress. Should she tell Frankie about the Ring camera? The way her neighbors could monitor her movements—and from anywhere?
It wasn’t like she disagreed with Frankie, but her friend viewed the neighborhood as an outsider. Most of the friends Selena had met at BGSU came from small towns in Ohio, the same as her. Everyone knew everyone else’s business within “the bubble,” like which dorm neighbor shut their door when they had a guest or let their guest stay overnight. She knew what to expect if she found herself on the wrong side of the door.
Now, it was as if Frankie had sketched a portrait of the neighborhood, created a vision that portrayed her father and her neighbors in a slightly different color scheme than the one she was familiar with. She couldn’t shake the new image, the small-mindedness of it all. You need to ignore the other voices, set your sights on your own future, her friend urged. Where do you want to be in ten years? Selena had thought of nothing else for the past month.
An email popped up in her Yahoo account from the neighborhood listserv the next day.
New neighbor flying one of those rainbow flags with the pink triangle on the side. What does that even mean?
She flinched; Frankie had a presence on the listserv; she’d sent her an invite to join after they’d first met. What were the chances she’d seen the post? The comments continued, bouncing back and forth, some friendly, some vicious.
It’s a pride flag. Get over yourself.
She doesn’t need to flaunt her lifestyle like that. It’s not very neighborly to push her views in our faces.
What’s wrong with the good ol’ American flag?
Right-O, Dan. The owner should be flying the red, white and blue. BTW, have you noticed how tall she is? Taller than any woman I know. Anyone peek at her past?
Maybe someone should. You know, her name is ‘Frankie.’
What kind of name is that for a woman?
Exactly my point.
Selena knew she was writing into the void, but she couldn’t resist a response. Is this what you all think welcoming a new neighbor looks like? Why can’t you let her be? She didn’t waste her time checking for responses.
In November at the first happy hour after Frankie had moved out, the neighbors defended against the cold air with thick sweaters and jackets, sipping coffee laced with Rocky’s scotch. Alanna had sent her regrets, staying in her darkened bedroom with a migraine.
Dry, brittle leaves drifted down under a grey sky, settling onto Frankie’s yard and piling up around the For Sale sign. No one seemed eager to discuss their former neighbor, but the topic was so raw a temporary lull developed.
“Could be any number of reasons why she’d move after a few months,” Rocky said, stretching his legs out in front of him, saying his neighbors’ unspoken thoughts.
“Like what?” Avery asked.
“Overextended herself with the house, the car. I’ve seen it happen. Young people don’t understand how to be frugal. The minute the loan goes through, they splurge on brand new furniture for the house. The bank gets wind and rescinds the loan.
Selena’s phone buzzed. Frankie: Settling in. Come for a glass of wine after the appt and celebrate yr new job? She added a thumbs up emoji and slid her phone in her pocket.
Rocky glanced her way. “Need to make a call?” His tone was casual, but the glance was penetrating. Had he seen Frankie’s name on the screen?
“Text from the pharmacy. My prescription is ready,” she said easily.
“Want a shot to warm you up?” Rocky asked, the Glenlivet bottle raised.
She shook her head, watching the sun on the horizon. She had an apartment to view up in Toledo, and a friend to meet. It was time to say goodbye. To wrap things up here.
© Mary Sophie Filicetti
Mary Sophie Filicetti is a teacher whose fiction has appeared in Red Rock Review, The MacGuffin, The Saturday Evening Post, Stanchion, Every Day Fiction, Montana Mouthful, Nightingale and Sparrow, The Magnolia Review, and 365 Tomorrows, among others. She holds an MFA from Spalding University and is a first fiction reader at Little Patuxent Review. She lives in Arlington, Virginia.
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