The Hulk

     Amy first heard about him through the grapevine on the school playground during recess. She wasn’t sure whether it was just puerile gossip or whether there was some truth to it. Whatever it was, it sent chills down her spine.

     After all, he did live next door to her.

    Having moved to the city recently, she didn’t have many friends. Being shy and reserved didn't help either and she hung on to the periphery of groups of giggling girls. Not that she cared. She preferred being on the outside. She was the observer striped of opinions just witnessing and taking in information about people and places without prejudice. She felt much like Alice at Mad Hatter’s table amused and entertained except for that bustling afternoon on the playground when she heard of the Hulk. It made her uneasy and for the first time she wished she was part of the group; for the talk around him started just as quickly in hushed whispers as it dwindled in unfinished sentences and left too many questions unanswered.

    Now as she trailed behind the group her complacency was shaken, which propelled her to, rather clumsily, grab the closest elbow and give it a harsh pull. The girl gave a start, stumbled a few steps and pulled herself away, a look of annoyance. She stammered 'The Hulk's my neighbor.' This piece of information stopped the group in its tracks but the fact that it came from Amy made it all together more intriguing. Most seemed to take notice of her for the first time and regarded her with quiet contemplation.

    She stood defiantly, eyes burning and resolute in getting more information. The color rose to her cheeks and her lips, which had turned a shade paler, quivered uncontrollably. She shrank under everyone's hard stare but maintained her composure. Her hair tied back in a stiff braid exposed every little feature of her face, every little flicker of emotion. Her arms drooped by her sides, fingers curled loosely at the knuckles. She wasn't particularly pretty but it was her small frame, her easy mannerisms, her shy, resigned attitude that was so nonthreatening that it left most, who spent time with her, feeling confident and superior.

    One had to feel a bit sorry for her as she stood alone with no friend or a good story for cover. It took the girls some effort to break the stinging silence.

   'She's timid. He doesn't like aggressive people' said someone at last. They waited for a response. When they got none they walked off in silence.

     Amy watched the retreating figures before continuing aimlessly down the road. The sun was high up with not a wisp of cloud in the washed-out sky. She stopped momentarily looking down the desolate road till it turned a corner, her mind fixed on him. She remembered seeing him a couple of times on his driveway polishing his metallic 1976 Cadillac DeVille. There was nothing unusual about him except for his big build and formidable disposition. He was hardly seen and rarely spoke. A mysterious man but after the talk at recess he seemed to take on another dimension for Amy. They said he was a convict; a hardened criminal. A slight word, a mean gesture and he would do you in. He was as mean as they come they said. Thoughts crowded her mind.

    The still torrid air made her dizzy. She continued down the road in a half stupor. The Cicadas made loud sounds all day. Their calls grew sharper and more high pitched as it got hotter. It was the only sound you heard; the cicadas unanimously hitting a crescendo till it gradually died down only to begin in a few moments.

     The road turned and almost immediately gave way to an open field. It sloped gently to a small embankment where water flowed quietly. She sat close to the river; a sense of peace come over her as she watched the water form tiny ripples as it moved along the banks. The sharp sun, the quiet gurgling of water, the shrill of the cicadas and the soft grass made her drowsy. For a while she forgot herself and drew in every bit of the scene. In this moment there were no thoughts; in this moment she was happy. 

      Before long she fell fast asleep lulled by the sharp sun and the buzzing of the dragonflies. It was dusk when she woke up to the sounds of boots hard against the asphalt. The orange over the horizon was turning a quick black. The commotion seemed to get closer. She looked in it's direction and saw an angry mob. Their torches light up the evening sky as they marched in her direction. A mob of unbridled anger. She looked about for cover but saw open fields. The very fields that comforted her now seemed to turned against her. She cowered down in the grass with bated breath. The ornery crowd inched closer and the clamor sounded louder than ever when suddenly, she felt a rough tug and within seconds was scooped off the grass by a pair strong arms. She turned to see a big man, his face lighting up sporadically by the dancing flames. She couldn't tell who he was as he hurled her on his shoulder and ran as fast as he could to get away from the crowd.

     The mob grew more and more distant and their loud cries were reduced to a muffle. They passed through the open field and into a thicket and to her amazement came up on her neighborhood from a back road. It wasn't until he reached her driveway that he put her down. 

     It was the Hulk.

    'Next time be careful where you go. I might not be around to help you' he said, a look of concern and asked her to hurry home.

    Speechless, Amy stood watching him in disbelief as he walked away. Ignorance fuels fear and now suddenly there was nothing to fear. She smiled to herself.

Her little secret. She would let the girls worry. 

Postprandial

It's the silence that stings.

After everyone's gone, the music's stopped and the drinks have stopped flowing.

It's the silence that's difficult to bear.

She goes over the stories of the evening trying to find a place in them. She can't. She lets it go.

She looks over the kitchen, the leftovers, the half eaten plates, the half empty glasses and the dishes in the sink. Those dishes. Her heart sinks.

Maybe later.

The evening feels distant now. Still lonely, she lets out a sigh. Maybe call a smaller group next time? She wishes she had spent a quiet evening by herself. At least they had a good time. She looks over the spoils of the evening - cushions askew on the sofa, ash trays on the floor and candles flickering on their last tiny bit of wick.

A sweet concoction of perfume lingers in the room. She finds comfort in it. But it doesn't last long. The silence is overwhelming. It comes stinging back like a bee.

She decides to take a quick walk.

It's pitch dark and frigid. She pulls her jacket tighter and starts down the lane. There's not a speck of light. The houses make foreboding silhouettes against the dark sky. She wonders who the inhabitants are, what their stories are.

Everyone has one.

A couple blocks down she notices a tiny room on the lower level of a big house light by a lamp. A man bent over his desk hard at work. The room is quite stark. A wall painting and a couple of empty shelves. She wonders who the man is; wonders what his story is.

Thoughts start crowding her mind. She wonders how she got to where she is. Not that she ever had it all. But she feels worse off now than when she started.

So many battles to win, demons to slay, wounds to heal and miles to go. Day after day, week after week. Will it ever get easy?

Her toes start to feel the cold despite the thick boots. She walks till the end of the lane and quickens her pace to head back home. The wind's picked up. It sure is chilly.

She gets closer to the house of the tiny room. This time there's no light. She notices a man standing on the driveway. A long dark cloak flutters lightly around him. His face hidden deep within the hood. Curls of smoke rise up into oblivion from it. She wonders if it's the man from the tiny room. He watches her, a dark looming figure, as she passes by the driveway. She sees no arms, no face. It's all blended in the darkness of the night. His face, a hollow abyss.

'A few close people is better company than a large crowd with little in common.' His voice cuts through the air like a knife.

She gives a start. How did he know?

She jiggles the key in the door frantic to get in.

The candle are out. The house in darkness. She turns on the light. Home, a familiar place. This time the disarray provides her comfort. The dishes piled up in the sink don't feel as daunting and the silence is welcoming. She sits on the sofa to catch her breath.

So lonely. The evening's left her feeling more despondent.

She looks about her and sees a paper on the center table and turns it over.

On it, someone's scribbled, 'Silence is eloquence.'

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. Next time, a quiet evening.