OUR neighbor died. We didn’t know about it immediately, though, although only a waist-high brick wall separated his wide lawn from our cluttered yard. We did not know much about him except three things. First, he moved in three months ago. Second, he rarely left his house. And, third, he has a big family.

“How’d you know they’re his family? They could be his friends,” my youngest son often challenged his sister.

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“Aba! If they’re his friends, then why don’t we see other cars in his garage? Why don’t we hear his gate opening? Why don’t we ever see taxis stopping in front of his house?” my eldest would challenge.

“Yeah,” my other son would smirk, “But. If they’re his family, how come we’ve never seen even just one of them?”

During the first month our neighbor moved in, that was the kids’ usual banter when they come in for dinner after playing out. Somehow, watching the shadows moving inside our neighbor’s house became a culminating activity for their afternoon games. Their squabble about those shadows usually ended when we asked them about their day. So at dinner, we talked about school friends, cousins, neighbors, basketball, drama club, school band.

That first month, my husband and I talked about our neighbor, too. “He only scowled at me when I greeted him the other day,” my husband griped.

“From what I heard from the other neighbors, you’re not the only one who received such special treatment.”

“Some neighbor. The kids should be careful about their little game. The neighbor might notice and get nasty.”

“Let’s not worry about the kids. They’ll soon get tired of their game.”
True enough, the novelty of having a new neighbor wore off. Once in a while, though, the kids would come in from their play and announce, “We saw a shadow of a small boy,” or, “There are just three shadows tonight.”

One morning, I was surprised to find the neighborhood carpenter at our door.
“Excuse me, ma’am, are your neighbors on vacation? I kept ringing their doorbell but...,” he shrugged. “I’m supposed to work on his brick wall today.”

“Well, I did not notice him leaving his house. Why don’t we go over and take a look? Maybe some-thing’s wrong.” In my mind, I thought, Too bad the kids are in school.

Surprisingly, his gate was not locked. Neither was his door, but when we opened it, a strong stench of decay held us back and at the same time compelled us to go inside.

There was no one in the living room. In the kitchen, the table was set for six. Our neighbor sat at the head of the table, slumped in his chair, pale and bluish, already in a nascent stage of decomposition. Sitting on the other chairs were two women, two men, and a boy.

I called the police to report his death. Near his telephone, I saw an organizer. It was blank, except for a note for that day. It read, “Carpenter will come to put up more wall. Snoopy kids next door getting on my nerves.”

He was immediately buried because of his state. Nobody went to his funeral.

The police reports said he died of heart attack. But I wonder. Is that really why our neighbor died?