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2001-06-16 | 6:59 p.m.

Wandering down my front steps in my usual daze, I see a woman stepping into a car parked halfway between our house and the house next door (not Carmela's side, the other side). The woman is about my age, maybe a little older, and at a glance she possesses some of the same physical attributes as a golden retriever: athleticism, sturdiness, blonde hair. "We're going to get you some normal people in next door!" she shouts to me. I know the house has sold, but I don't quite follow her, so I say, "I'm sorry?"

"You're going to have some NORMAL people living next door," she says, in a swaggering, confidential tone that implies we have similar opinions about people. Maybe we do, maybe we don't. What she cannot know is the complicated effect that a phrase like "normal people" has on me. I feel a tiny spike of panic. Normal people can be just as problematic as abnormal people. Normal people have caused me oceans of grief. I don't mean this in an "I'm so crazy, you should admire my boho 'tude and funky shoes" way. I look more normal than normal, by which I mean that beside me, other soccer moms seem glamorous. (They are glamorous, actually, many of them.) Anyway, this woman is promising me normalcy. What she doesn't know is that I know the people who were in the house, and they didn't really bother me at all.

The story goes like this. About six months ago or more, I noticed that there were three newspapers on the walkway leading to my neighbor Mr. Bartkowski's house, including that day's edition, the Sunday paper. This reminded me that I wanted to remember to read the books section when I got back home. I wondered, briefly, if Mr. Bartkowski were away for the weekend. This seemed unlikely, given that he was in his 80s and seemed to have few interests.

A few days later, I looked out the window to spy on some high school kids who were sitting on Mr. Bartkowski's retaining wall. As my gaze wandered over their shoulders, I noticed that there were now many newspapers piled up on the walkway. Hmmm, I thought. When was the last time I had heard Mr. Bartkowski call in his cat at night? He had a very memorable way of calling the cat. "BLACKIE!" Like gears grinding. He had a gruff voice, a curmudgeon's voice, and he would stand on his back porch, very near our kitchen window, and bellow "BLACKIE!" When we heard it, we'd wince and giggle quietly.

No, I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard it. I thought it might have been the night before last. Or maybe it was as long as a week ago?

I checked the lights. The same lights were on at night and during the day. Maybe he was on vacation. But wouldn't he have taken his car? I asked Duff to go over and check. Duff pounded on the door, yelled into the house. Nothing. I asked him to call the police, and he did. He had to go to work then.

A little while later, a lone officer showed up and poked around. He came to the door and told me he couldn't see anything. He had pried a screen off, but couldn't smell anything. I told him that Mr. Bartkowski lived alone, was in his 80s, kept to himself. Did I know anyone who might have a key to his house? No, I didn't. I did know the grandson and his family. Sort of. He lived in the same building as my mother and sister. But I doubted they would have a key. "They're estranged," I explained. I told him where they lived anyway. The cop said without anything else to go on, he couldn't force his way into the house. I said I understood. I said I hoped Mr. Bartkowski was just on vacation.

"But it seems like he would take his car," I said.

Getting the kids ready for school, I realized the cop must have changed his mind, because now he had been joined by another fellow, either a plainclothes cop or a relative from a different branch of the family, and they were walking around the house together. Then, as I pulled the car out of the driveway, I saw the officer standing in Mr. Bartkowski's doorway, wearing heavy blue latex gloves. That can't be good, I thought.

[to be continued]

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