Weird Shorts | Page 7

"See there where it runs from tree to tree."
Humoring him, Andrea looked closely at the first tree. There was nothing there -- except a faint, thin trace of color, perhaps shoulder-height, winking in the sunlight. She looked to the next tree, and there it was again. Suddenly she could see fine strands of color weaving around the yard in intricate patterns, much like those artsy pieces where colored threads were strung from pin to pin to form a pattern or picture. Only here the pins were trees and shrubs and fence posts and lampposts. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw a virtual maze of variously-hued threads delicately intertwined to form an incomprehensible but lovely design.
Amazed, Andrea turned back to the old black dude. He was smiling broadly at her, obviously pleased that she could see his work.
"It's beautiful, sir, but what do they do?"
"They protect the family and the property. Each color has a specific function, and every time I come to mow, I add another protection or repair a broken thread."
"Protection from what?"
"The first one I lay is usually protection from vandals and thieves. Then I add on from there -- storm damage, disease, even termites and other pests." The old black dude's face shone in satisfaction and pleasure. "There are many more kinds of protection I can lay."
Andrea turned her gaze to the neighbor's house on the other side of the Hales' house. A few of the protection threads extended from the Hales' yard over to the Whites' yard.
She said "But, sir, the Whites don't hire you to mow their lawn. Why do some of the lines go into their yard?"
"The Whites are conscientious and caring people, and sometimes the lines weave themselves over into other yards. Look at your own yard, Missy."
Andrea peered at her backyard and saw that some of the same protection threads ran here and there. But there were also other lines made of colors unlike those in the Hales' yard, though just as beautiful, looping gracefully around and around, forming a pattern distinctly different from the one created next door by the old black dude.
"The protection lines are all over my yard," she exclaimed, "but the pattern is very different from the one here."
"Yes, Missy, don't you understand? The protection pattern in your yard is the one woven by your husband, and it is much more potent than mine here. It's his home. He cares about it, and his protection is instinctive, not conscious like mine. You're a lucky woman, little Missy. I see he loves you deeply."
Andrea stood and walked to the fence, easily passing right through a few of the old man's protection lines. Then she stepped through the gate into her yard and reached out a finger to touch one of the fine threads laid by her husband. She plucked it gently, and it thrummed, setting off all the other threads until a substantial melody emerged, a joyous and comforting tune.
She ran back to the picnic table and said, "Thank you, thank you so much for showing me this."
He smiled at her, clearly pleased. Andrea gathered the remains of their refreshments and walked back to her house, turning this way and that, admiring the lovely web in her yard.
The young woman began to take walks through her neighborhood in the cool of the morning, searching for the colors and patterns of protection lines. She could easily discern the difference between one family's and another's design, could tell which house was full of love and which was devoid of it. Still, the distinctive threads laid by the old black dude ran up and down each block, sometimes many threads in a yard, but occasionally only one or two. Every time she walked back into her own yard, she marveled anew at the beauty and intricacy of its protective pattern, more precious than any of the others she'd seen, and her heart swelled with the knowledge of her husband's devotion to her.
One Thursday morning as Andrea and the old black dude munched their cookies and sipped their tea, they heard a thumping sound, one that seemed to vibrate inside their bones. The old man rose and walked toward the front of the Hales' house. Andrea followed. Suddenly he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her with him behind a large shrub. Together they watched as an older car filled with tough-looking young men drove slowly by, rap music booming rhythmically at top volume through expensive stereo speakers.
To Andrea's amazement, her well-groomed neighborhood abruptly took on an unkempt, dingy aspect. The yards looked weedy and sparse. The houses seemed in desperate need of paint, and the windows needed washing. Trees wilted, garbage piled up, cars sagged. The trolling car passed more rapidly down the block and turned onto