The First Night of One Thousand and One Nights, 2012: Charity Should Begin with Neighbors

One Thousand and One Nights, First Night: Charity Begins with the Neighbors
Title: charitybeginsnextdoor
Translator: Fengxing Xiaoyao
Word Count: 38818
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There is no fairness in life, so when you fight back, any despicable trick will do!
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Christmas is always my favorite time of year. I got married early and have two very lovely daughters, but my marriage was rather uneventful. We fell in love very young, when I had just entered community college and Denise was starting her senior year, and we decided to get married. A big factor was that her family was happy to accept me—because I had never had a family before—which made me feel like a real member of their family. Now I can admit that perhaps I enjoyed being part of this family as much as I loved Denise.
Two teenagers, completely clueless about life, believed their passionate love could solve everything. But life rarely works that way, so our breakup was inevitable. I'm not an all-star player, not an outstanding athlete, and certainly not Rhodes Scowler with a 12-inch penis [Note: a star student from Arkansas, always eloquent and confident about his life plans]. I'm just an ordinary student in your eyes, with above-average grades, a player who spends a lot of time on the bench on the soccer team, and I only gave my virginity to the girl I eventually married at 18.
When life got tough, we had no idea how to cope and always yelled at each other. Her family often intervened, trying to help resolve some issues, but as time went on, even wonderful sex couldn't bridge our differences in hopes, needs, and ambitions. Finally, we had to announce our breakup. Sometimes, I think it's a miracle we lasted five years. Because of our love for our children, we were finally able to see our past problems clearly, and we peacefully made a truce, focusing on our daughter. Even though Denise and I couldn't live together, we ended up divorcing quite amicably. We shared our time with our daughters, lived just a block apart, and worked together to minimize the impact of our personal disagreements on their upbringing. Initially, I shared an apartment in a bustling area, but eventually bought the smallest one in the same school district for convenience. While it was often far beyond my needs, it felt more like a home when my daughters were with me, and our two-mile neighborhood was nice, mostly young families in older, smaller houses. Most people were friendly and helpful with each other's repairs; over the years, I knew many names and would greet each other at the grocery store or while shopping. I had become a suburbanist; this was our fourth Christmas since the divorce. Denise was now living with Eric, a guy I wished I could despise, but he was a well-mannered fellow with a respectable job and a wide range of athletic interests. He doted on my daughters and didn't try to take my place. After a while, we developed a friendship, which was a good thing. My child support was determined by the court to be slightly over $1,500, and the children were also covered by my health insurance. Although we weren't required to pay child support to my wife because our marriage hadn't lasted long enough, I still paid an extra $500 a month, simply to make sure my children had a better life. This was what I truly cared about. Initially, the expenses were a bit difficult for me, but my focus on work led to recognition and a promotion. Two promotions within three years made money no longer an issue, although the increased business trips meant I couldn't spend as much time with my children. Denise, however, never complained and always tried to help me. In return, I covered some of my daughters' expenses, including music and piano lessons. Christmas was a special occasion, and we celebrated it as an extended family. I would arrive early that day, and the whole family would have breakfast together and open all the presents. I really tried my best to make sure my daughters received what they particularly liked. At six and eight years old, they are still small and have only simple needs, which is the magic of Christmas. All the relatives and friends come over in the afternoon with more gifts, and then we enjoy an old-fashioned Christmas dinner in the newly decorated house. It feels really good to be a part of it. I have time off during Christmas, while Denise has to work, so we agreed that the children would stay with me from Christmas to New Year's Day. She could leave whenever she wanted, and we would usually find a way to give her time with the children. We agreed that I wouldn't leave the city during this period, and even if I did, it wouldn't be for more than a day. I'm happy to have two weeks with them in the summer, usually spending them on the beach.
But Christmas is still different; it has its own unique charm. I always make a list of things my daughters want, but I also start shopping for the seasonal essentials at the end of November. Of course, I won't skimp; I'll buy them all, just to make sure I don't miss anything. Stores, online auctions, Craigslist—any
way I know, I'll try to get the hottest gifts. For the first two years, I was scolded by Denise for buying every gift on the list, leaving them no chance. Now I had a separate list of items I shouldn't buy. I had just finished wrapping forty-four gifts; all of Brianna's were wrapped in brightly colored Barbie paper, and Arona's in Hannah Montana portrait paper. December 5th was the earliest I'd ever finished most of my shopping. Of course, I still had a few things to pick out, including for Denise and Eric, but my daughters also needed attention. The gifts were carefully arranged in my living room, where they would remain until Christmas, when I would take them to Denise's house for the big celebration. The phone rang; it was Denise's mother, Sharon. I rushed to the hospital in a somber 11-minute daze, but I was too late. Denise and Brianna had died en route, and Eric had died ten minutes before I arrived. But my beautiful little Arona was fighting for her life, and at a crucial moment. She had always been a warrior, never backing down from any challenge. I knew she would overcome this enemy. This car accident was a special incident. A car was trying to avoid a coyote on the road, while an 18-wheeler truck behind it, trying to avoid the car in front, wobbled into another lane in the suburbs and crashed head-on into my ex-wife's van.
The accident killed six people, and a little girl is still fighting for her life.
Sharon and I stayed by her side outside the intensive care unit. Six hours later, the doctor came out and announced that the most dangerous moment had passed and her condition had stabilized. We hugged each other excitedly and cried like children. We stayed by her side, at least one of us never leaving her side. When my baby woke up and spoke, Sharon woke me up. For three long days and nights, we watched her slowly recover in the hospital. The worst thing was that her bruises, wounds, and contusions flared up all at once the next day, but they gradually subsided after just a short while. I'm not a devout Christian by nature, but I instinctively knelt by her bedside, praying that God would take care of her and offering prayers of thanksgiving, hoping to pull her out of this terrible ordeal. At 4:18 pm on December 7th, she suddenly left me without any warning, without any reason. One moment she was there, the next she was gone. The doctors suspected blood clotting, and I suspected their incompetence. I finally understood why people were so depressed, why they were in such agony. I went home, locked myself in, and soon after, I unplugged the phone. Damn it, to be honest, I ripped that damn phone line off the wall so I wouldn't have to listen to another round of people's fake sympathy for my "loss of a loved one." Cellphones were even easier; I just turned them off.
A few colleagues came over, comforting me that I could stay as long as I needed. They brought me food and newspapers, staying for the socially accepted minimum time in this situation before leaving Dennis's family to handle the funeral arrangements. They initially tried calling me, and even came in person to ask about the funeral expenses. I gave them a $10,000 check to take care of my daughters, which nearly wiped out all my savings. Where else could I have spent it now? I certainly couldn't attend the funeral looking like this, so I took a shower and put on a funeral-appropriate outfit. It was a gloomy day, with a gray sky, a 20 mph wind that nearly blew the outdoor tents away, and the roads were muddy from the previous night's rain. "What a fucking good day." "Thank God, blaspheming someone who's already depressed, well, you can go to hell."
I clasped my hands in mourning and kissed the cheek that reached out to me until I couldn't take it anymore. These are all hypocrites, fake sympathy. After expressing their regret, they went back to their cozy little nests, eating meat sandwiches. Go to hell, all of you go to hell. For fourteen days, I stayed in that dark room for two whole weeks. I didn't turn on any lights, didn't watch TV, didn't shower, didn't shave. I was either sitting in a chair in a daze or tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. A few more visitors came after the first two days, but I rarely let them in, and soon they wisely stopped showing up. Only Cathy next door didn't let me fall into complete oblivion; she would come to see me every day, at least three times a day. I didn't usually let her in, but she had a spare key for the back door that I gave her in case of emergency, and she used it without hesitation to open the door. She would always open the window a crack, wave a stick to get me out of bed, or at least make me sit in the living room.
She would bring me food and put it in front of me, and if I didn't eat, she wouldn't leave. I insisted on getting my keys back, and she handed them to me without a word, but the next day she brought out another one because she had several copies made. What a nosy woman! Also, she was always nagging me to eat the breakfast she made, and she would chat with me. Good heavens, this woman was so talkative! I was exhausted just listening to her. She knew everything about the neighborhood—everything from gossip and politics to rumors at school. She knew everything. Who was doing what, complaining about those still decorating for Thanksgiving, the Christmas explosion in their front yard, the desolation of the church, the neighbors' grudges, and so on. She would sit there talking and talking, drinking tea (or whiskey or Coke if the sun was setting), and she would also bring me a cup. I still didn't care about anything. Two weeks had passed since the disaster, I had lost more than ten pounds, and I was utterly despondent, wanting to dig a hole and bury myself. But Cathy would never let me do that. She'd made it her personal mission to get me back on track and back to a normal life. Then one day she handed me two guns and told me what to do. She walked up to me and slapped me hard across the face. "Damn it, Alex, get on with it! Life's tough and unfair, but there are people just as bad as you, and people worse off. You're always in your own backyard; if you had eyes, you should be able to see that."
"What do you know?" I said hostilely. "I see your kids are alive."
"I know my mom died when I was six, and my dad left us when I was thirteen, leaving Mike to raise my sister and me. He was only seventeen then, but he stood tall like a man and did his best. That's what I know. Life is really tough."
“Life is tough. No matter how sad it is to be alive, death is the end of it all. If life isn’t what you want, try to be optimistic. When God closes a door, he opens a window. If I ever hear that bullshit again, I swear I’ll kill someone.” I roared. “Alex, you’ve been treated unfairly. You had two beautiful little girls, and now they’re gone. Your past life has been ruined, and you’ve lost all hope of living. Although your situation is worse than mine, I still want to remind you that there are others who are worse off, and they still live on despite the pressures of life. You should do the same.” Cathy said to me, kneeling beside me and holding my hands. This woman was someone I only knew. She was a middle-aged mother of three growing children and a husband who prioritized work. Her life revolved around her family, managing the household, keeping the house clean and tidy, and decorating for every holiday and season. Now it seemed I had become her latest domestic issue. What did I care? Couldn’t she see that I didn’t want her help?
"Yes, Ethiopians are starving, Nigerian children are dying of AIDS, monks are being massacred somewhere. It's an unpleasant world. Hmph..."
"You don't need to look at places as far away as Ethiopia. There are many people struggling to survive right here in your neighborhood. Open your eyes and look. If you don't like this injustice and don't want to do anything about it, you can just think of it as everyone being in the same boat. You can consider changing your environment, changing your mood, and living a good life."
Some of what she said definitely lingered in my subconscious. I lay in bed for about 14 hours as usual, but when I woke up, I was thinking about her repeated words. Some people might be living worse than me in places I didn't know about. I mentally went through everyone in my neighborhood, and really, no one was living that badly. Of course, Neil, who lived three doors down from me, was unemployed, but his wife still had a job, and he was looking for one too. Harris, around the corner, had a son in Iraq, but I could tell he was doing well, and they had three children. The Martins down the corner, though they often argued or fought—the police had even been called once—still lived together. What was Cathy referring to?
I broadened my thinking, encompassing the entire neighborhood, and then something suddenly occurred to me. The family two houses down the alley behind us, next to Cathy's house. Barry Morrison drove his car into an empty lot behind our local high school and shot himself there. I didn't know much about that family, just that they existed. When Cathy arrived, I had washed off the grime and sweat and was drinking a Coke in the living room. "Good morning, Alex, it's a nice day outside. Why don't we sit on the porch?"
"The Morrisons, tell me about them."
She put her teacup in the microwave to heat it, then went out my front door and sat in one of my rocking chairs.
I followed her angrily and sat down in the rocking chair next to her. "What happened to the Morrisons?"
“Cindy and her daughter Erica. You can’t get to see her easily. She works two jobs, trying her best to keep their house. They’re still in court with the insurance company over compensation; the policy states that they won’t receive compensation if it hasn’t been two years. His policy had been in effect for several years, but he changed the terms about two years ago. She’s been trying to sell the house, but it’s worth less than the mortgage balance, and nobody wants to buy it.”
“How’s the little one?”
“Erica isn’t doing well. She gets called in by the principal twice a week and barely speaks. The school is discussing expelling her.” Cathy explained, sounding very upset. “Does anyone know why he did that?”
“He didn’t commit a crime, he wasn’t fired, he didn’t embezzle, it’s unclear what happened. But he’s obviously been suppressing it for quite some time, though as far as I know, the whole situation is still a mystery.”
Finding the whole thing confusing, I said to her, “His manner of death must have been a huge blow to this family.”
“At least that’s the extent of it. That poor woman was already exhausted.”
"But what does all this have to do with me?" I asked. "Nothing. Nothing to anyone. They rely on themselves, all of them."
"No families help them?"
"As far as I know, that's not the case. We rarely see them if there are other people around, I'm absolutely certain of that."
"Cathy, how do you know all this?" I had to ask her. "People like to talk to me, I'm a good listener," she said with a smile. We sat quietly enjoying the fresh air and finished our drinks. "You're a good neighbor, Cathy, thank you," I whispered. "What can we do, we're neighbors?" she said, extending a hand to gently pat my arm.
What can we do, we're neighbors—that's the essence of being neighbors!
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Cathy brought me dinner again, and I realized how hungry I was. After I finished a whole plate, a smile appeared on her face. "Alex, let's go for a walk. You can relax your legs." It was
a bit chilly outside, so we both dressed warmly. She led the way, and we crossed our block and arrived at the neighboring block. We turned back at the next block, and she told me about the history and habits of every place we passed. She was a good listener, but I wondered when she would be quiet for a moment and listen to what other people were saying about us arriving at a place that was apparently Cindy Morrisons' house, because the "For Sale" sign said it all. The messy yard and overgrown bushes indicated it hadn't been tended to for months, which certainly didn't help its sales prospects. The paint on the door was faded and almost completely peeling off, and there were no Christmas lights or decorations. If the place remained like this, I think the real estate agents probably wouldn't even earn their commissions. Through the window, I could see a Christmas tree on a table, probably two feet tall, lit with white lights. Strangely, Cathy had fallen silent before we even reached the house and didn't say another word until we left the block. She only said one thing: "Poor thing."
We practically circled back to my house, and our conversation turned to concerns about the weather and safety, neighborhood issues, and the like, carefully skipping any discussion about the Morrisons.
I felt a bit cold after the walk, so I invited Cathy in for a coffee. She preferred Irish espresso, and we drank it by the gas fireplace, warming our old bones. My damn neighbor, and her kind intentions! She not only made me think about my pain and injustices, but also about the poor girls behind my house and the suffering they had to endure. Damn it, it's not fair! I guess I'm still not ready for someone's kind company. I was furious with the whole world and threw my coffee cup against the wall, shattering it. I leaned against the wall, burying my head in my hands, trying to hold back the tears. A grown man doesn't cry. Cathy stood up, gently stroked my hair with her fingers for a moment, and then left through the back door. She kindly left me alone, giving me more time to savor my pain. ***************
December 22nd, just three days until Christmas. When Cathy came over that morning, I was already up and dressed. I was wearing my work clothes, with coffee and bagels ready. "You're up early," she commented, pouring herself a cup of Javanese coffee. "It's almost 10," I reminded her. "Not that early."
She laughed. "Lately, anything before noon seems early to me. Any plans?"
I nodded. "I was thinking of going to the Morrisons' to see what I could do outside their house, maybe tidy it up a bit. If they're really planning to sell it, at least make it look presentable."
"You're such a friendly neighbor."
"That would give me something to do. I need to get away from this damn house."
After finishing my coffee, she walked with me across the path, my yard work tools packed in a cart. The grass was dormant for winter, but it was long, and the bushes were out of control from lack of trimming. I didn't notice when Cathy left, but she brought me some sandwiches for lunch a few hours later, insisting I rest first. I had finished trimming the bushes and cutting the grass, packing the cuts into bags. I had just finished trimming the edge of the lawn when she arrived. I stopped to rest for a moment and listened to her chatter about the behavior of people in the neighborhood, how sad it was that no one had offered to do any of the chores I had just finished in the past few months. "I think we victims of this fate need to help each other."
"You seem a hundred percent better now. If you want to work in the backyard, I have the key to the back door."
"I suppose you will."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "You mean I won't be surprised anymore. I bet you'll always help others whenever possible."
She sighed. "Not that much. Because of her damn pride, she doesn't want to accept any help from anyone."
I shook my head. "So you're telling me she might send the police to bother me?"
"What if she does? You know you're doing the right thing. I'll bail you out if necessary."
I asked her to open the back door and help me check how the trimming was going. The backyard was in worse shape than the front yard; the fence needed repair, some planks were cracked, some were loose, and a large section was about to fall over. Fortunately, my tools were just two hundred feet away at the end of the path, so I quickly got to work, determined to finish before the owner came home. The biggest problem was that the base of one of the fence posts was rotten; replacing it with a new post and applying some quick-drying cement solved the problem. I should be able to install the fence beam and the new 4x4 fence within an hour. Just then, I turned around and saw a little girl, about seven or eight years old, standing on the porch watching me.
"I just wanted to fix your fence before it fell down. I hope you don't mind."
She just shook her head. She just stood there watching me, making me feel uncomfortable. I was a stranger to her; she probably wouldn't talk to me. Maybe I should leave. "I'm just about to clean this up and go home. I can come back and finish it after your mother gets home."
I straightened my clothes a little, wiped my hands on my pants, and pointed to the houses over there, explaining, "I'm Alex Reid, I live at the other end of the path."
She nodded. She reminded me somewhat of my own daughter, who was about the same age. Her hair was as long as Arona's, the same blonde, but without the shine of Arona's. Arona, my lovely little Arona. I closed my eyes and seemed to see her again, lying on the hospital bed, covered in wounds and bandages, fighting for her life. Her hair was wrapped in bandages, a few strands of blonde hair peeking out, darkened by sweat. Her body looked so small on that sterilized white hospital bed, my Arona…
It all felt like someone was tying bandages tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe. I turned my face away, not wanting Erica to see my breakdown; she had already suffered enough. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I started walking towards the back door. I had to get out of here as soon as possible. I had only reached the driveway when I was already in tears. I slammed the back door shut, collapsed to the floor with a thud, buried my head between my knees, and clutched my head in my hands. It's Christmas again, damn it! Christmas! My daughters should be with me, shaking their gift boxes, frowning and guessing what's inside. But Alona and Brianna are gone. Their young lives were cut short. They hadn't had a chance to see the rest of the world, they hadn't found their place, they hadn't even experienced love. There will be no more shaking gift boxes, no more stomach aches from too many holiday sweets, no more late-night parties that made me worry; no more learning to drive, no more striving to get into the college of my dreams, no more bringing a boy home for the first time; no more worrying about countless exams, no more spring break, no more dances. Everything is gone. I wept silently. The little girl, who had lost her father, stood beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder, while I was still overwhelmed with emotion. "Erica! You know she doesn't want you to leave the house if your mother isn't home. Mr. Red is alright, he's just tired. Now you should go back." Cathy pulled my arm, trying to get me to my feet. “Okay, Alex, don’t stay here. I’ll take you home.”
I knew she was right. I stood up and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “I’m fine, wait a minute.” I forced myself to calm down, took a few deep breaths, and then stood up straight. “It’s okay. Seeing her just made me a little overwhelmed, and it all came on too fast. But I’m fine now, I need to clean this place up and put the fence back in place.”
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
We cleaned the yard in just a few minutes, using a wheelbarrow to carry bags of trimmed materials to the back of the road. Then I ran back to my house, grabbed all my yard repair tools, and went back to fix the fence. I used two 2x4 planks to support the new posts before attaching the planks. Cathy’s help made things much easier. After we finished, we both stepped back a little and looked around the yard carefully. It felt much better now. "I'm going into the house to prepare Erica's after-school snack. That's all Cindy asked me to do. Why don't you come in with me?"
"I don't know if I should go in. Cindy doesn't know me, and she probably doesn't want me in her house when she's not home."
"Don't worry about that, she'll be fine. Just come in for a little while, it'll only take a few minutes."
I followed her through the sliding glass door. Erica was sitting on the floor watching TV, and I didn't even look in that direction. I was worried that seeing a TV show I shouldn't be seeing would bring back more painful memories.
"Where can I wash my hands?" I asked Cathy. She pointed to a door: "In there."
I turned and headed towards the bathroom. "Don't use the toilet, it can't be flushed anymore."
I could hear the water running in the toilet. I washed my hands and dried them on my shirt because there were no towels in the bathroom. Then I opened the toilet lid to check inside. Nothing complicated, except the chain connecting the plug and the extension rod was missing. After lifting the rubber stopper, I found the chain was just below the lip of the stopper, which was why the water was flowing. I reattached the chain and tested the flushing; it worked perfectly. "Fixed, it was just because the chain came off."
Cathy nodded and turned back to making pan-fried cheese sandwiches. Brianna loved them. But you can't cut the sandwiches, yet you have to remove the crust. I never got another chance to remove the crust. I took a deep breath and went to check the front door. "Cathy? I need to go home and get the sander and some paint; this door needs a good fix."
"Go ahead. Cindy won't be back until late, and if we get into trouble with the yard and fence, another door won't hurt."
Fifteen minutes later, I was sanding the door with a portable electric sander, removing the remaining rotten paint. Actually, I didn't have much work to do, as most of it had already peeled off. I brought three types of paint, all approved by the Homeowners Association. I asked Cathy, "Which color do you think I should use?"
"Let's ask Erica." A few seconds later, she brought Erica over. "We're going to paint the front door, Erica, which color do you like?"
We could choose white, light blue, and brown. She pointed to light blue and then sat down to watch me remove the hardware, tape the hinges and bottom panel together, lay down a tarpaulin, and begin painting from top to bottom. I turned and saw the little girl watching me intently as I worked. I saw the Christmas tree next to her, which was small and bare, with only a small box underneath. Christmas trees shouldn't be like this! Christmas trees should be very large, with all sorts of decorations, each with a special meaning. Handmade special embellishments, numerous photos of family members. Popsicle decorations glued on with Elmer's glue, various twinkling lights, lollipops and gold leaf decorations, and an angel on top. The base of the Christmas tree should be surrounded by lots of presents, tied together or scattered around, so many that it's hard to even get close to it. This is the first year I haven't had a Christmas tree. Before, we would usually go out as a family to visit one of the Boy Scout Christmas tree fairs and choose the biggest, most complete one to put in our living room. Then we'd come home and decorate it together, play Christmas carols, and enjoy eggnog. We'd take the lights off, change the bulbs that weren't working, and reposition the metal ornaments needed for the decorations. That was what we'd do all day. But not this year. Never again. I realized I'd stopped painting and was staring blankly at the Christmas tree. A long trail of paint dripped from my brush down the door. The little girl looked at me quietly, as if she understood me. "Would you like to help?" I asked. She looked around, as if asking if I was talking to her. "Yes, you,"
she nodded shyly. I reached into the bucket of my paint tools and took out a small brush. I pointed to the paneling on the lower half of the door and said to her, "You can paint here, around the edges of the panel. You'll need a small brush like the one you have to get it right; you need to paint into the seams."
She nodded, dipped her brush in paint, and began painting directly along the edges of the panel. It was quite good. "Great job. Keep doing it." I turned back to finish painting the upper half, working around her, sometimes having to bend over above her to paint. She watched me work, and I saw a mischievous side of a little girl. As she started backing away, I had to bend down further in front of the door to paint. "Hey!" I pretended to be angry. "You did that on purpose
, didn't you!" She giggled, clearly ignoring me, and continued painting. My heart skipped a beat; it was nice to hear her laughter. "You started tormenting me when you started painting. If I wasn't blocking you, you could have painted the edges of the hinges and the baseboard."
Erica nodded and continued painting carefully, slowly and attentively working on the edges before moving on to the hinges. As she meticulously finished, I knelt beside her, painting the lower half of the door. We switched places so I could paint the area around the hinges while she finished the bottom. "Not bad," I commented, extending the tool bucket for her to put her brush in. I sealed the paint can, removed the protective tape, and stepped back to check the finish. The little girl stood beside me, her blonde hair a reminder of the excruciating pain of losing a loved one. I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Very good. Do you think your mother will like it?"
I looked down at the little girl; she thought for a moment, a smile slowly spreading from the corners of her lips to her entire face. She nodded twice. I clenched my fist and slapped it down, just like I used to do with my daughters. She was startled and shrank back, then stared at my face for a moment before clenching her fist and pressing her knuckles against mine. As dusk quietly approached, we enjoyed the last rays of natural light of the day together. Cathy came out and stood beside us, praising us highly. "The blue is wonderful, Erica's great choice."
Erica stopped admiring her masterpiece, turned to look at Cathy, blinking as if she were seeing Cathy for the first time. She looked around the neighborhood, then went back into the house, sat down in front of the television, and remained silent. Cathy asked, "Ready to wrap up?"
"Yes. Let's call it a day." I packed up my paint supplies, and with a few quick movements, I erased all traces of my work from the place. Except, of course, the front door, the yard, and the fence. Oh, and the toilet, though that was a minor matter. Back home, I cleaned myself up and sat down to reflect on what I had done. A complex, indescribable feeling lingered in my heart, along with a slight sense of guilt for having been so unrestrained in someone else's home. But the thought of that little girl and everything she had to go through made me feel that anything I could do to help was worthwhile. Thinking about it, I realized my behavior had actually teetered on the edge of danger, and that I hadn't been very kind to those who wanted to help me. I decided to try and salvage the situation. I found a new cord for my phone, plugged it in, and got it connected. I picked up the phone and heard the dial tone – great!
I made a call list and began my cleanup. I called my friends, neighbors, and colleagues one by one, apologizing for my behavior and thanking them for their concern. Generally, they forgave my rudeness and promised to help me if I needed anything. Only a few calls remained. I paused to rest, wondering where Cindy and Erica were; they seemed to need help more than I did. I picked up the phone and dialed Dennis's house, knowing this call might be quite difficult. First, I apologized for leaving the funeral arrangements to them and thanked them for everything they had done. While talking to Dennis was difficult, the conversation with my former mother-in-law, Sharon, almost exhausted me. We talked about our time in the hospital, waiting for Alona to wake up. Listening to Sharon's heartbroken sobs, I had to pause and try to control my own turbulent emotions. Even after my divorce, we were still able to get along, and I was grateful for each other's support during that devastating time. I promised to visit in a few days, but she insisted on having some documents to sign. My last phone call was to Steve, my roommate for three years in college and my best friend in the world. I hung up on him twice on the first day, and he left me at least a dozen voicemail messages, which bothered me and made it even harder to forget. Besides, I had a hidden motive for calling him; the phone rang a few times before going to answering. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my heart; I felt so much lighter, at least I didn't have to face him anymore. “Steve, this is Alex. I’m sorry…”
“Alex, I’m here, don’t hang up, I’m here. Let me shut this damn machine down, don’t hang up!” I heard the static on the receiver, then the echoes of our voices faded away. “God, Alex, you’ve ruined me.”
“I’m sorry. That hurt was unbearable for me, I just never want to hear another word of comfort.”
“I understand.”
He definitely would understand. When we were in our final year of college, his father passed away, and he was devastated too. He started drinking, skipping classes, and indulging in promiscuity; you could say he wouldn’t give up on any woman with breasts. I did my best to take care of him, collecting his assignments and projects, even pleading with all his professors. He slowly pulled himself together and finally accepted reality. Five years later, less than a year after he graduated from law school, his mother left him. I flew over and spent a week comforting him. I knew it was incredibly painful—he was an only child, with only a few relatives, none of whom were close to him. Although he finally recovered from the greater pain, the price was his girlfriend—he had nothing left to lose. We were like brothers, perhaps even closer. We still are, so Steve understood everything that had happened to me. I opened up to him, talking about my pain, my grief, everything about my daughters. We talked on the phone for a long, long time. While I was venting, I heard him putting his wife to bed. I desperately needed someone to listen to everything that was hurting me, to vent my pain and grief.
"What can I do? Anything, you know. Do you need me to fly over?"
Although I really wanted him to come see me—we hadn't seen each other for almost a year—he was now the head of the household, and it was Christmas. "No need. Stay with your family. I'm much better now, and I'll call you if needed."
"Of course."
"I should also apologize."
"Apologize?"
"I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you when your parents passed away. I've never experienced the pain of losing a loved one, and I can't fully understand what you went through."
"Shut the fuck up. You've always been there for me, man. You always have, especially when everyone else is gone. I'll never forget that. Okay, that's enough. There's no need to be stupid about this anymore."
I couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Alright. By the way, there's something else you might be able to do for me."
"Anything. After all, we're friends."
After all, we're friends—that's the true meaning of friendship!
***************

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The First Night of One Thousand and One Nights, 2012: Charity Should Begin with Neighbors

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