Saving Ivy

chapter 3-4

Chapter 3

Ivy’s neighbor is a painter. She learned this because of a mail.

Most people get to know their neighbors because they see a moving van and then they peek furtively between the blinds, and it’s only civil to go over and bring cookies and welcome them to the neighborhood. You know, that ‘Hey, how’s it going, how do you do, what do you know?’ questions and all that neighborly shit.

But the house in front where the new neighbor lives is dark and just looks empty most of the time. The exterior is light blue with white linings, the yard is neat and green, all in all, just a typical home. There’s just something about it that seems.. hollow.

Not that it’s any of Ivy’s business, in fact, one week passed and she didn’t even think abut him. Until one cloudy day when she checked her mailbox and discovered a letter that was addressed to a certain “Ezra James Smith” , followed by the address of the house in front of her’s.

Ivy took the letter and walked up the flagstones to her neighbor’s house and rang the doorbell. She stood there dumbly, wondering if the guy is a serial killer and he’s slaughtering somebody right now.

Finally, the door opened, swinging inward into the darkness.

The handsome guy from last week stepped forward. He was in gray sweatpants and a white cotton shirt, barefoot. He stared at Ivy.

Ivy help up the letter. “ I got your mail.”

The man peered harder at her, not even looking at the letter. “ I have a mailbox.”

Ivy flushed, mentally berating herself. Stupid! Why didn’t I think of that?  “ Well aren’t you just a ball of sunshine! I’m just trying to be neighborly, sherlock.I’m Ivy by the way.” She said brightly, pushing the letter into the man’s hand.

The man looked at the letter for a moment, then he looked up at Ivy’s retreating form. He walked out and followed her, grasping her hand in his.

“ I’m Jamie.” He said softly. “ Thank you. “

Then he hurried back inside and closed the door.

Chapter 4

Jamie wouldn’t call himself a lonely man.

Sure, he played his cards close to the chest. His mother once called him weird. His father once called him aloof. But really, he just doesn’t like talking to people.

And so he paints. 

The thing with painting is that it’s real. You can see it. You can smell it. You can hold it in your hands and watch it mix, creating a kaleidoscope of hues and colors.

If you ask him what he thinks of Art, he’ll tell you, Art is for the pretentious. It’s for those people who glue Mcdonald’s burger wrapper in a canvas, splashes some paint and then tells the world how deep and intelligent they are.

Art is like a license to be strange. Oh you think his room is messy? His music choice is depressing? His wardrobe is monochromatic at best? Well fuck you. He’s an artist.

He was the sort of person everyone knew and liked, but if you ask anyone where he was born, they’ll admit that they don’t know.

He was born in Lawrence, Kansas. Not that it matters.

But though he didn’t have many close friends, he didn’t think he needed many. The few he had compensated for the lack in quantity. He had his sister, Anna and his dogs Mozart and Salieri and.. okay, that was it. So what?

He placed his well oiled, cast iron pan on the stove, and fried an egg for breakfast. He whistled and gave mozart and salieri their food. he turned the stoved off and placed the egg on a plate.

He drew a smiley face on the egg using ketchup, and opened a video of a little girl in his laptop. He sat down as the video started to play, over and over.

“Who’s the best big brother in world?” his recorded voice asked.

“ JAMIEEE!!!” the little girl answered, giggling as a hand appeared on the screen, holding up a flower and placing it on the girl’s head. “ Do I look like a princess now, jamie? Do I?” she asked.

“ Yes, you do. You’re my princess. And big brother Jamie is the handsome prince.” He said, synching with his recorded voice.

He sat there in silence, wiping the tears in his eyes, he cut the smile off the eggs face and started eating.