Starting
Point Sounds of neighborhood grump echo through the years
By SUE DIAZ
He was the neighborhood grump. I knew it. My sisters knew it. So
did his two daughters -- curly-haired, bug-eyed Sandy, and her little sister,
Debbie, who was my 8-year-old friend and the best double dutch jumper this side
of Packard Avenue.
It was impossible not to know about the grump, especially in the
summer. On an evening in mid-August, with the temperatures and humidity still
floating in the 90s, every house in our little tract had thrown open its
windows, unlocked its doors. A fishy breeze from nearby Lake Michigan ruffled a
pleat or two of the flowered drapes in the living room, lifted the top page of
that weeks TV Guide, resting on the coffee table near the plastic
birds-of-paradise.
But instead of relief, the breeze mostly brought sounds -- the
Mouseketeers theme song from other living rooms, the whistle of a
neighbors pressure cooker, the flush of a toilet, the ringing of a phone.
And voices. Moms calling kids inside to wash up for supper, little brothers
crying over skinned knees.
I knew what time every family on our street ate supper -- shortly
after 5, after the dads came home, swinging their lunch boxes, booming their
hellos.
Next door, Sandy and Debbies family always ate later. They
and their mom had to wait for their dad, Art, to drive home from his office job
in downtown Milwaukee.
Tall and angular, with a pointed nose and a forehead that inched
toward forever, Mr. Zeller didnt boom his hellos, he yelled
his God dammits. He was at it again tonight.
What is he so mad about this time? I whispered to my
mother as we stood together by the kitchen sink finishing up the dishes. Mr.
Zeller didnt carry on like this everyday, but often enough.
Maybe Debbie left her bike in the driveway again. Or he
cant find his slippers. Who knows? my mother sighed. I swear,
I dont know how Bernice puts up with that man.
Bernice, soft and vulnerable as the tomatoes she so carefully
tended in their backyard garden, never yelled back at her husband. Arts
arguments were always soliloquies.
At our house, no one yelled. My dad had been known on occasion to
harrumph his displeasure, and my mom might shake her finger at me and my
sisters from time to time and mutter ominously, If you ever pull a stunt
like that again ... But yelling? Even when the windows were closed?
Never.
Debbie and I never talked about her dads outbursts. They
were just part of the neighborhood -- like the smell from the local meat
packing plant, like the cracks in the sidewalk. Without the power to change
him, it was just easier -- and, maybe, kinder -- not to talk about this
yelling.
Mr. Zellers voice -- with all its bite and bitterness --
washed over me. I held my breath and a dishtowel, and watched the bubbles
popping on my moms side of the sink. I felt scared. Scared that the world
wasnt as safe a place as I wanted to think it was. Scared of the power
parents wield over each other and over us kids.
Later that evening I heard Mr. Zeller again -- at the organ in his
living room. He had recently started to play, using a program that taught music
by means of color-coded keys. Talent and time werent necessary, just the
ability to distinguish green from red, blue from yellow.
Earlier his gravelly voice had ripped through the settling-in
sounds of a summer evening; now the sad, sweet notes of Pagan Love
Song waltzed into our lung-open lives. That the same person was capable
in the same evening of producing such awful words and such a pretty song
confused me.
I was even more confused the next morning. Looking out the front
window still in my pajamas, I saw the grill of Arts great green Pontiac
swing into the street. Slowly, the car began to pull away. As usual, Mr. Zeller
was in the drivers seat. His left hand squeezed the steering wheel, and
he turned his face toward his house, focused his eyes on the front window. From
where I stood, I couldnt see his daughters, but Sandy and Debbie must
have been there, because with his right hand he was blowing tender little baby
kisses in their direction.
Who was the real Mr. Zeller? I wondered. The man whose voice
exploded with words he should have had his mouth washed out with soap for
saying? Or the father who closed his eyes and swayed, ever so gently, to the
whole notes of a love song, and who, next morning, blew fluttery kisses to his
two little girls? How did these two characters coexist in his 6-foot frame? It
didnt make sense. Not then.
Not now either, really. But I do realize its possible. With
40 years and thousands of miles between me and those summer days, I know that
life has more shades of gray than even the biggest box of crayons, and that
families often manage to forgive what old neighbors cant forget.
Mr. Zeller went on to walk his daughters down the aisle at their
weddings, to bounce his grandchildren on his bony knees and to holler and swear
every so often as well.
Now on tranquil San Diego nights when the windows are open and the
shadows long, I hear the settling-in sounds of the evening and think about the
Mr. Zellers of this world. And I see the one I used to fear through the prism
of lifes hard-to-swallow realities -- a complex human being of infinite
possibilities and singular failings, trying each morning to blow the slate
clean with the breath of his tiny kisses.
Sue Diaz writes from San Diego.
National Catholic Reporter, June 4,
1999
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