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My Neighbor

 In my favorite film, "Rear Window," James Stewart becomes convinced that his neighbor has committed a murder. Stewart observes--like a filmgoer--as his neighbor does strange, wordless things. Stewart is watching a silent film, trying to make inferences, considering possible interventions.


I have admired my neighbor for years. He speaks a mile a minute, and his brain is teeming with conspiracy theories. He believes that he bought his house from the children of Nazis; he says these emigres hid in the house, and never left, for many decades. The children buried their Nazi parents in the backyard--and, when my neighbor enlisted the help of gardening experts too quickly, chaos ensued.

My neighbor thinks that the couple on Walton gets off on privately torturing dogs. He thinks that the owners of the local pub secretly hate children--and they express themselves by spitting in certain bowls of soup. Also, in his particular vision, our local Fourth of July is a seething cauldron of tension, an invitation to class warfare; in his view, it's just a matter of time before the evening produces a "body count."

I see the world differently when I'm with my neighbor; it's like spending several hours with the essays of David Sedaris. But, now, I think that my neighbor is dead.

I think this because he has disappeared. After months of friendly texting, invitations, neighborly dinners, he has evaporated. Meanwhile, his spouse has dyed his hair purple. What can this mean? "I'm having a midlife crisis, because of a divorce"--? "I'm having a midlife crisis, because I've just committed murder"--?

For a while, my cheerful husband refused to believe that we had been ghosted. He would continue to send texts to my neighbor, and he would continue to receive (ostensibly "regretful," discouraging) replies. But one spouse can send texts in the "voice" of the deceased spouse. Recall that this is what happened after Brian Laundrie murdered Gabby Petito.

Something has shifted; I don't understand.

I'll continue to investigate.

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