CREEK ROAD GANG
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The Cannibal Kids
Next Door
Jackie Kearinscopyright 2009
A gentle breeze blows through my open bedroom window. It carries the aroma of freshly cut grass and the sound of screaming from the woman who lives next door. “No, no, no, no, no” she trills in the key of G, as her young twin boys systematically bite her bare legs. I swim up from sleep hearing her again and feeling angry again that we have to wake up to this noise. I know that I should be more kind, but this is the second spring that we have all been dealing with the cannibal kids next door.
This is not my neighbor’s first rodeo, as they say. She has a lovely daughter who is about nine years old. How in hell she turned out so well is a total mystery to me – but I feel that her grandmother, who lives with the family, must have had a hand in molding her behavior. The boys, however, were set loose on a Spanish-speaking nanny, who has little influence over them, but still has lots more control than their Mom has.
Mommy is very verbal and speaks at about one hundred miles per hour. She also must have been a Lit major, as the boys are named Flannery and Fitzgerald. Bad choice, that, as when she tries to scold them, three syllables is a lot to get out of your mouth even at a speed at which she sputters. “No, Flannery, don’t bite Mommy, that’s not nice and it hurts.” Then, “No, no, no Fitzgerald, it’s not nice and it hurts Mommy.” Meanwhile Flannery has taken another bite and so on. I wonder if she regrets their pretentious names now? It would be so much easier if they were named Mike or John.
Now wide awake, I look out my upstairs window to see Mommy flailing her hands, as if she were swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes, not hitting the boys but trying to get them off her. I hear myself say, “Stop, now,” a little too loudly, and the mom and the evil twins look up to locate the bitchy cuckoo bird that must be in a tree somewhere. Meanwhile my husband Steve nods tiredly as I ask for the umpteenth time, “Why does she use so many words? She should just say ‘No.’”
In 2009, the twins had little facility for language. They were two years old and I honestly didn’t understand why that was. Neither the parents nor the nanny encouraged them to talk at all. So, of course, biting and screaming was a fabulous way to get someone’s attention. Did I say screaming? I meant screeching – deafening, headache giving, even if you lived next door, screeching. I was angry with the parents, but felt badly for the boys. They really couldn’t help it that they hadn’t been given the right tools, words, to express themselves.
Now it was 2010 and another spring was starting with biting wars and we looked forward to another long summer of too much, “Flannery and Fitzgerald, that’s not nice to do that, you really shouldn’t, you should probably put that down or maybe pick that up…” Ugh…
But on the breeze that spring morning there also came a hopeful sound. The boys were jabbering – between taking bites of Mommy. They weren’t hungry for skin, they were starving for language. Still the parents and nanny remained clueless. So, occasionally, I would see them outside and they would pick up a ball and I would shout, “Ball” out my window, or “Stick” or “Hose” or “Truck.” It was like I had a crazy kind of Tourette’s syndrome. But Flannery and Fitzgerald would repeat what I said, and remember the words and finally their sister and parents noticed and fed the boys the language the boys so yearned for.
So, a happy ending, yes? Not exactly. By the time summer ended the evil twins had stopped nibbling on the nanny and started screaming loudly at her instead!
This is not my neighbor’s first rodeo, as they say. She has a lovely daughter who is about nine years old. How in hell she turned out so well is a total mystery to me – but I feel that her grandmother, who lives with the family, must have had a hand in molding her behavior. The boys, however, were set loose on a Spanish-speaking nanny, who has little influence over them, but still has lots more control than their Mom has.
Mommy is very verbal and speaks at about one hundred miles per hour. She also must have been a Lit major, as the boys are named Flannery and Fitzgerald. Bad choice, that, as when she tries to scold them, three syllables is a lot to get out of your mouth even at a speed at which she sputters. “No, Flannery, don’t bite Mommy, that’s not nice and it hurts.” Then, “No, no, no Fitzgerald, it’s not nice and it hurts Mommy.” Meanwhile Flannery has taken another bite and so on. I wonder if she regrets their pretentious names now? It would be so much easier if they were named Mike or John.
Now wide awake, I look out my upstairs window to see Mommy flailing her hands, as if she were swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes, not hitting the boys but trying to get them off her. I hear myself say, “Stop, now,” a little too loudly, and the mom and the evil twins look up to locate the bitchy cuckoo bird that must be in a tree somewhere. Meanwhile my husband Steve nods tiredly as I ask for the umpteenth time, “Why does she use so many words? She should just say ‘No.’”
In 2009, the twins had little facility for language. They were two years old and I honestly didn’t understand why that was. Neither the parents nor the nanny encouraged them to talk at all. So, of course, biting and screaming was a fabulous way to get someone’s attention. Did I say screaming? I meant screeching – deafening, headache giving, even if you lived next door, screeching. I was angry with the parents, but felt badly for the boys. They really couldn’t help it that they hadn’t been given the right tools, words, to express themselves.
Now it was 2010 and another spring was starting with biting wars and we looked forward to another long summer of too much, “Flannery and Fitzgerald, that’s not nice to do that, you really shouldn’t, you should probably put that down or maybe pick that up…” Ugh…
But on the breeze that spring morning there also came a hopeful sound. The boys were jabbering – between taking bites of Mommy. They weren’t hungry for skin, they were starving for language. Still the parents and nanny remained clueless. So, occasionally, I would see them outside and they would pick up a ball and I would shout, “Ball” out my window, or “Stick” or “Hose” or “Truck.” It was like I had a crazy kind of Tourette’s syndrome. But Flannery and Fitzgerald would repeat what I said, and remember the words and finally their sister and parents noticed and fed the boys the language the boys so yearned for.
So, a happy ending, yes? Not exactly. By the time summer ended the evil twins had stopped nibbling on the nanny and started screaming loudly at her instead!
* * *
Biographical Note: Jackie Kearins was born and raised in Massachusetts. She studied Medical Assisting in college and has worked in doctor’s offices, clinical hospital and basic research laboratories ever since. In 2005, Jackie left her profession to become a full-time homemaker. She began taking an autobiographical writing class in January 2009. She lives in the Philadelphia suburbs with her husband, three children and two cats. See Author Index Prose A-K for more of Jackie's stories.
