You never know what goes on behind closed doors....

Walking away from my high school campus, chemistry book in one hand, violin case in the other, a busload of football players from the next school unloads, and I keep my head down towards the asphalt as I pass them, unaware of the gawking. They hold their flattery, and if they hadn't, I wouldnt believe them, because I do not see who they see. The shade of the tall oaks and maples cannot shield my anxiety as I start my journey home. There are few winding roads and no hills in this little hamlet of middle to upper middle class families, where the proximity to NYC justifies the high cost of real estate. The large homes I walk past are in a straight line and close to the road on small lots, making it too easy to glance in the windows from the sidewalk. Truly I mean no harm to my neighbors and there is no derelict intention to invade anyone’s privacy, so I would not call myself a voyeur. If they only knew my pain, wouldn’t they be pleased to know the momentary pleasure they all offer me?

If needed, I come up with antics, like putting my violin on the ground and pretending I’m tying one of my worn shoes. My long blond hair now covers my face just enough to conceal my yearning stares. Through the bay window, inside 214 Tulip Avenue, stands a young sandy haired boy talking to who I’m sure is his aproned mother in the center of living room. Her arm is delicately placed on his shoulder and her eyes look into him in a way that allows me to imagine her say, “I cherish you son. Come and enjoy my fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk and tell me all about your school day.” Inclined to stay and stare, and strongly opposed to the absurdity of my desire to be him, it is hard to pull myself away, but I must and do continuing on towards home till I come across two young girls inside 256 Tulip Avenue.

Looking around 360 degrees, I see no one, so I linger for a minute, peeking into their home from behind the giant sycamore. Perhaps it is sisters I am observing sitting on the couch laughing. They are poking and tickling each other affectionately, when a man, I assume their Dad, comes into the picture frame of my view. He is making a “Nani Nani Foo Foo” gesture at them and the two girls are clearly in on the joke. The scene infects me, making it hard to hold my laughter, and I can see myself as part of their family, in the room with them, telling knock knock jokes and watching Laugh-in later that night, eventually going to bed, safely tucked under my purple down comforter with a smile on my face. When I hear the footsteps of Mr. Kemnitz coming around the corner, I am not worried that he has caught me in the act. He’s ancient and suffers from dementia, often found wandering around the neighborhood, sometimes in his pajamas. The spell is now broken and I forget why I stopped, so I forge on towards home, and it is soft music that captures me next at 310 Tulip Avenue.

Barely audible, the faint sound is coming through the unopened casement window. Is it Mozart or Chopin? From the back of his head, I can see a young man playing the piano and two adults, presumably his parents, one on either side of the Steinway look towards him with a peaceful certainty, knowingly moving their heads in tempo. If I could conjure a dream, I would stand beside the pianist, me and my violin, in concert with his magic fingers and all in the room with awe, would applaud my talent, seeing me, hearing me, understanding that I hear the music too.

And then just like that my walk is over and I must enter the stucco house with green shutters, and dark drawn shades, 360 Tulip Avenue, the place where I live and don’t breath. The bills are piled high in the foyer, ignored, other than the tab left by the local liquor store. Perhaps she’s asleep, if I am lucky, passed out from a binge that has no time limit, just a never-ending nightmare. The gratitude felt along my walk helps me up the dusty staircase, and it will remain with me if I can make it to my bedroom without being accosted. Would it soften my realty if I could face the truth; if I ascertained that my fantasies were nothing but big fat lies I’ve been telling myself all along? How is it all wrong if a lie sustains me?

How could I know that the mother at 214 was also an alcoholic and would die of cirrhosis of the liver in a few years? How could I know that the father of the girls at 256 went to jail for sexual assault? How could I know that that young man playing the piano at 310 was autistic and would live in a group home upon his parent’s death. If they walked by the house at 360 Tulip Avenue, would they wonder what goes on behind the dark drawn shades? If they saw me walk in, or better yet if they knew me, they might say, "She is pretty, kind, talented and smart, but I would say, "I don't know who you see, liars, all of you."