The She Shed by Leah Orr

Author:Leah Orr [Orr, Leah & Orr, Leah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orrplace Press
Published: 2022-12-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

. . . And Then There’s Angry Betty 1973

Betty moved into the house across the street in the fall of 1973, shortly after the former resident, Doctor Nose Job, died. I don’t remember his real name anymore, just what everyone else called him.

After completing our walks, we ended the mornings back at my house for coffee and cupcakes or muffins that Millie baked the night prior before starting our days—mine at the hospital, Randall the fire department, and Millie volunteered at the library. Millie and Randall usually shared a cupcake. Millie liked the frosting while Randall preferred the cake.

“The cake is too boring,” Millie would say.

“The frosting is too sweet and frivolous,” Randall would say. Those two were each other’s yin to their yang.

This particular morning, as Betty was moving in, we waved at her, but she scowled at us. Strangely, she then sat on her lawn while we were watching her. She picked a few weeds with yellow flowers, nestled in the St. Augustine grass, and started eating them. Not knowing how to respond to that gesture, we turned away and scurried into my house. We peered past the curtain in the living room through the window at her still sitting down chewing weeds. She sat glaring at us angrily, like it was a staring competition. We eventually gave in and walked away from the window.

“Good heavens, I have no idea what is wrong with that old lady,” I said.

“Psychedelics maybe,” suggested Randall.

“We need to go by and meet her,” said Millie enthusiastically.

“Absolutely not, Millie,” I warned. “There is something mad wrong with that old lady.”

“No, Adeline,” she said. “We must be neighborly.”

Millie grabbed my arm, pulling me across the street while Randall ambled behind reluctantly. Millie knocked on the door, but Betty did not answer. Millie knocked again—silence from inside. In the distance, a train chooed and chuffed, a staple Jensen Beach midday musical chorus of white noise we locals enjoy. Millie knocked for the third time, and finally Betty whipped open the door and said, “WHAAAT do you want!”

“Hello . . . I am Millie, this is Randall, and this is Adeline. We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. I will bring you some muffins tomorrow if you like.”

“My name is Betty,” she said, calming down slightly. “I don’t want to make any friends. You can leave now,” she said while trying to close the door.

Randall caught the door and asked, “Would you like to come over for some sweet tea later? We will be across the street at Adeline’s if you care to join us.”

While Betty was taking a moment to decide how to respond, I peeked behind her and discovered, draped over a dining room chair, a litany of neon-colored housecoats—orange, purple, pink—and two gray wig head stands, one donning a gray wig styled in a bun, the other wig wrapped in hair rollers stationed upon the dining table. Hmm, I thought. This is strange. Up close she does not look very old.

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