Muriel Calls the Neighbor

It was the time of the pandemic. On most days Muriel Blenkinsopp did not venture out of her house on High Street in Ashleyville, Ohio. She lived by herself, her husband having died five years before, and her children were now at home in another state a few hours away. She didn't even have a dog, though she would have liked one, but they seemed too much trouble to take care of. She didn't like cats very much.

Muriel had as her companions the television set, her computer, her books, and her phone. On most days during the lockdown she spent time with each one, hoping the long hours of the day would not stretch into hours of loneliness or even of depression.

Sometimes she looked out of her front window at the neighbors' homes. A new neighbor had moved in last summer, but the lockdown had already started, so she had not rung their bell and offered them a welcoming gift of homemade cookies. This neighbor lived across the street on the corner, and Muriel had no idea how many people lived in the tidy little ranch house.  

When she looked out of the window she sometimes wondered if others could see her. Well, who cared, anyway? Maybe if someone saw her looking out the window, they would wave or even call her.

Isolated. That's what she was. She almost never left the house. Her groceries were delivered to her as needed. She had enough stamps to write letters for the next year, since she didn't write letters that often. Muriel was savvy enough to be able to pay most of her bills online. So there she was, rather self-sufficient but longing for contact with someone, preferably someone who lived nearby.

A family lived next to the new neighbors, a family with children. They didn't need her. Then she thought about the woman who lived directly across from her. Younger than herself--but wasn't everybody?--this neighbor she thought was retired. Yes, she had to be, since Muriel rarely saw the neighbor's car leave the house.

What was her name? Isobel. Isobel Blackman. Her name was ironic, since she was actually a black woman. They had never talked, but on trips down the street they would wave at each other. Why hadn't we met, Muriel wondered. Didn't I take some cookies over to her house? Oh yes, that was when Isobel's husband was alive. Maybe he was still alive. Muriel had no idea. She did recall that when the couple moved in, she delivered cookies to their door, and Mr. Blackman answered the door. He introduced himself as Gerald Blackman, although he was white. Names were funny, Muriel thought, including her own name. Why had she, Muriel Smith, married someone named Jeremiah Blenkinsopp? Because he was a good man who loved her and, truth be told, she liked the individuality that her new name gave her. There couldn't be too many Muriel Blenkinsopps in the world.

So there she was, on a winter's day, thinking about a woman who lived across the street. Was she as lonely as I am, Muriel wondered.

She went to her computer, found the county library's website, proceeded to the reference department, and asked for the phone number of her neighbor. With a name and an address Muriel thought the library could supply a phone number, and they did. Sometimes a phone number would appear if you just typed a person's name and city into a search engine. Apparently, landline phone numbers were not top-secret, unless, of course, the number was unlisted.

Grabbing a cup of freshly brewed coffee, Muriel dialed Isobel Blackman's phone number and waited. The message machine came on. Muriel began to wonder if Isobel was in trouble. She had to be home. On the other hand, maybe she was screening calls. Muriel identified herself.

"Hello. Isobel Blackman? This is Muriel Blenkinsopp. I live across the street from you. We used to wave at each other before the pandemic came and then winter. I was just wondering how you were doing during this difficult time." Then someone picked up the phone.

"Hello. This is Isobel. Sorry, but I didn't recognize your number."

"Oh, that's all right. I do the same thing when I don't recognize a number. And almost all the time those people don't leave messages. I'm so tired of solicitors."

"Me, too."

"Well, as I said, I'm just calling to see how you're doing during this strange time."

"I'm by myself at the moment. My husband went on a business trip to Germany, then he got the virus, and now he's in quarantine and waiting for permission to come back. Just between you and me, I hope he doesn't come back until it's safe. How about you?"

"My husband died a few years ago. Before you moved here, I think. My kids live in North Carolina. Haven't seen them in months and months. Do you have children?"

"No. No, we don't. Wish we did, even though right now we wouldn't be seeing them, I guess."

There was silence.

"Well, Isobel, if you don't mind my nosiness, how are you spending your time during this weird pandemic that doesn't seem to want to end?"

"I'm trying to write a short story."

"Are you really? I'd like to try that. Haven't written anything since high school. I used to be pretty good, if I do say so for myself."

Isobel laughed. "My mother often used that expression. What do you think you'll write about?"

"No idea. What about you?"

"Clueless."

They were silent. Then Isobel spoke again. "How about we each write a story about two women who are neighbors but who don't know each other. One is black and one is white. The white woman calls the black woman because there is a pandemic raging and she wants to be friendly and keep in touch."

"Yeah, she wants to be friendly, but the pandemic has also made her lonely."

"So are we writing this together or separately?"

"I think we should write separately and then compare our stories. Maybe our different races will make a difference."

"Or maybe the fact that we live on opposite sides of the same street."

"Or the fact that one of us is a widow, and the other is married."

"Married to a white man! Don't forget that!"

"I guess it's time to exchange email addresses and start writing."

"Maybe this will be the beginning of a writing team. Let's write the most outrageous, exciting, improbable stuff."

"Sounds like a remedy for boredom and loneliness."

"Here's my email address."

By Anita G. Gorman

From: United States

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