Firefly

Chapter 2

After placing the wicker basket on his kitchen counter, Bay stepped through the rear door to a cement, shaded patio. He headed to the right, over the short grass, and to the thicket of Pennsylvania trees that separated the two properties by Lake Erie. Among the oaks, maples, and birches, he smelled the sweet and soothing aromas of summertime. Bay made his way through the plot of trees and crossed his property line, trespassing on Henry Ni’s land.

Henry’s iced-purple Spark sat in his asphalt drive, telling Bay the dry-cleaning chain owner was home. Recently widowed at the age of fifty-seven, Ni had spent more time at home than in his dry cleaners; not that Bay blamed him because of the man’s horrible loss and hardship after loving his wife for the last three decades.

Ni had an in-ground swimming pool, fire pit on a circle of cobblestones, and Adirondack chairs. He and his wife, Cha, had lived in their storybook-perfect Tudor for the last thirty years where they raised three little Nis. The little Nis were now big Nis, two of which lived in New York City and were quite successful. The third and youngest little Ni, Ha Ni, had her own place, an engineering husband, and two children in downtown Erie. Ha managed an independent bookstore called Page-Flippers, which sold mostly over-priced paperbacks of all genres.

Bay walked up to Ni’s back door, a transparent screen in a green aluminum frame. He tapped on the metal frame three times, and Henry Ni appeared a few seconds later in a pair of cutoff shorts and a white T-shirt that said in bold and blue lettering Be Nice to Me, I’m Having a Bad Day.

Ni stood at five-two, plump, and had short gray hair. The neighbor tilted his head upwards and stared at Bay’s six-one frame, studying Bay’s thick head of blond hair, blue eyes, thinly sloped nose, and perfectly pink complexion.

“You need brandy again?” Ni asked.

“Not this time,” Bay said, remembering an afternoon some two months before when he was trying to attempt his hand at creating butter, brandy, and cinnamon tarts.

He’d asked Ni for a cup of brandy instead of driving the two miles into downtown Channing and purchasing a bottle of brandy at Spirits, a local liquor emporium.

“What you need?” Ni asked, checking Bay out from head to toe, studying him as if he were a giant invading his territory.

Bay knew Ni was a straightforward neighbor without drama and didn’t want to cause the man any problems. Politely, he said, “I saw that my garden gate was left open this morning. Did you, by any chance, fetch some vegetables again?”

Ni shook his head. “No vegetables. No fetching. I always close when done getting vegetables.” Ni nodded. “Keep nice with you. Good neighbors. No problems.”

“Yes,” Bay agreed. “We are good neighbors.”

“You…you using my pool,” Ni said, pointing a finger at Bay, poking it in his direction.

Bay shook his head. “I’m not using your pool.”

“Towels wet in morning when I get up. Footprints your size on cement around pool. You definitely using pool. You swim at night why I sleep.”

Persistent, Bay continued to shake his head. “Mr. Ni, I haven’t been using your pool.”

“You only person around. Good neighbor. No problems. But you use my pool. It okay. You just need to bring your own towel. No use mine. No more wet towels. No more.”

Bay thought it best to nod and agree with the man, although he hadn’t used the man’s pool in over a year, let alone one of his swimming towels that hung over lawn chairs next to the pool.

“Yes. Sure. No problem.” He left Ni’s property in confusion, just as quickly as he arrived, scratching the side of his head in a state of wonderment.

If Ni wasn’t in my garden, and I wasn’t in his pool, who was?