Trolls

Aronson had been poor for most of his life. But he had been raised to be hard working and, if he had a roof over his head now, warm food on the table, and a wife and children who loved him, these things had been earned by the sweat of his brow. He had little sympathy for the "new poor," as he called them -- the less than bright, the homeless, the lazy. The people who, in his opinion, weren't even trying to find employment.

"Welfare," he would tell his wife. "Welfare's the problem. They don't have to work now."

"I suppose so," his wife would answer. "But I wish you could be more charitable, honey. After all, not so long ago, we were having trouble too. . . ."

"That's enough, Marcia," he would growl back. In fact, the trouble they had been through in the last recession -- when they had had to get help themselves until he had been able to find a new job -- was one of the reasons he hated the poor. They reminded him too much of his own past. Especially now when his family, too, had been re-exposed to the welfare system.

But mostly he hated the ones the guys at work sometimes called "trolls." The out-and-out, chronically destitute ones who slept under bridges or in cardboard boxes. These were the drab, gray, colorless people who begged for handouts and rooted through dumpsters. The ones that you smelled before you could see them.

These reminded him of the future. Of what he might be, if he let himself slacken.

These ones he feared.

***

He was walking home one Friday night from Leroy's Tavern -- he earned enough now that he could indulge in an occasional beer -- when he thought he saw something move in the alley behind his house. He didn't think much about it right then, especially since he had promised Marcia that he would come straight home from work that evening. Now, already two hours late, he had other worries.

But Sunday morning, when he was finishing mowing his back yard, the neighbor across the alley came to him.

"Hey, Aronson," his neighbor said. "You seen that mess underneath your bushes?"

Aronson shrugged. "What mess?" he asked. "You know I keep my property clean." The last he intended as a dig because, unlike some people on the block, he made extra efforts to maintain his lawn and his house in impeccable condition. Clutter, to him, was a sign of the poor, a sign long since behind him.

"You come over here in the alley. You'll see what I mean." His neighbor, a big man -- bigger than Aronson, even though he was no shrimp in his own right -- led him around behind the bushes and pointed downward. "That mess," he said.

Aronson looked where the big man pointed. There, tucked underneath his prize Dutch myrtle was a scooped out area, lined with newspapers, on top of which was a dirty blue bedroll.

"You see what I mean?" his neighbor said. "Not that it's any skin off my nose, seeing how it's on your property, but, since you're such a neatnik and all. . . ."

"Uh. . . ." Aronson didn't know what to say. "Uh, what is this anyway? How can it be here?" He had trouble breathing. "I. . . ."

"I don't know, Aronson," his neighbor said. He clapped a big hand on Aronson's shoulder, then turned to go back to his own back yard. "Now I ain't no expert or nothing like that, but if I were to guess, I'd say you had a troll camped in your garden."

A troll. In his back yard. Aronson stared, his mouth gaping, trying to think. A troll's campsite, anyway -- some kind of hole for the derelict to sleep in. He walked, as if dazed, back into his own yard, then turned and stared again.

Now, if he looked in just the right place, he could still see the blue -- faded, really, to more of a streaked gray -- under the largest of the shrubs. The shrubs that were supposed to shield his house and yard from the ugliness of the city outside.

He'd planned to watch baseball that afternoon while his wife and kids went out to the zoo, but, when he turned the TV on, he had trouble concentrating on the game. How long had the troll been there, he wondered. Now he remembered seeing that movement Friday night. But was that the first time? Or had the troll been sleeping in his yard since winter?

Then he remembered another thing: that the troll must be recent. He didn't go out in the alley often -- he disliked its dirtiness -- but, every Sunday night, he had to go out to take the garbage down to the street for pickup on Monday. Surely, last Sunday, he would have seen the blue on his way back.

Somehow, that the troll was recent, made him feel better. He went out again when the ball game was over and inspected the dirty sleeping bag and its newspaper "mattress." This time he saw there were other items. A wadded up jacket that served as a pillow. A cheap, cardboard folder that, when he looked in it, appeared to be filled with Biblical tracts.

Garbage, he thought. Poor people's garbage.

He got an idea.

***

That night, after supper, after Marcia had started the dishes, he took the garbage out as usual. But, after he'd left the bags by the curb, he went to the bush that the troll's things were under. He pulled the sleeping bag out first, and folded it neatly, then the newspapers, and folded them too. He carried them carefully to the street and placed them, neatly stacked, next to his and his neighbors' garbage. Then he went back and pulled out the folder and the jacket, and placed them next to the garbage as well.

He wiped his hands on the back of his pants. That should do it, he thought. Bastard should've known better than to put his stuff in people's yards anyway. Now, when he finds it out with the other trash where it belongs -- if he even finds it at all -- maybe he'll get the hint.

"Honey, you took a long time," his wife said when he came back inside. "Is something the matter?"

He shook his head. "Nah." He kissed her stiffly.

"The kids are already in bed," she said. "Would you like a beer? I thought maybe we'd watch some TV or something."

He started to say yes, but then he realized that something did bother him. Where do these poor people come off, he thought. Barging in on private property like they belonged. Maybe he should have called the cops, except that he realized the cops most likely wouldn't have helped him. Not that he didn't pay taxes and all. But they'd probably have called it a private matter.

"Honey?" his wife said.

He shook his head, no, and walked out of the kitchen.

He went to bed early. ***

Monday it rained and, by the time he got home from work, the only thought he had about the weekend's incident was that, maybe, he'd actually done the troll a favor. After all, not even a vagrant would actually want to sleep in a downpour. Better, whoever the person was, that he find a bridge to camp underneath or maybe some abandoned building. Someplace that would be dry.

In any event, Aronson had more important things to occupy his mind. The boss had yelled at him at work and, later, at lunch, one of the other guys made some remark about how he smelled. The boss was always crabbing about something, though, and, as for the other, he had had his shower as usual that morning.

Anyway, things picked up that afternoon. Still, after work, even though it was only Monday, he stopped by Leroy's on his way home. He didn't stay long and, when he got home, as far as he knew his wife didn't even notice his lateness.

After all, everything ran a little bit slow when it was raining.

The rain continued off and on Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday, however, was bright and sunny and, when he got home, he went into his back yard to clean up any twigs that the wind and rain might have knocked down. The yard didn't look that bad, he thought, when he finished up. Not like his neighbor's. His neighbor's yard was always unkempt, with grass that looked like it needed a mowing and, even though it had rained that week, had faded from the lush green of his own yard to a dried-looking sickly yellow.

He had just turned to go back inside when his neighbor called him. "Hey, Aronson," the larger man yelled, "it looks like your troll's made himself real comfy."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Aronson asked. He looked at the bush -- he didn't see anything at first, but, if he squinted, maybe there was a little blue and, perhaps, just a touch of faded-grass yellow.

"Come on out in the alley," his neighbor yelled. "You'll see it better. Me, I gotta go back inside. I think my wife's calling me in for dinner."

Aronson shrugged and walked slowly out to the alley, trying to make himself look casual until his neighbor had disappeared. Then he whirled and ran to the bush on the alley side.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispered.

The hollowed out place in the bush was larger. Again there were newspapers, more than before, and the dirty bedroll, a more solid blue than he remembered. And above the bedroll, hooked to the bush's branches with twine, was a piece of filthy yellow plastic. The plastic was draped, like a little tent, over not just the bedroll, but also an ancient sofa cushion propped up like a chair back. A cushion Aronson remembered seeing that Sunday evening set out with one of the neighbors' garbage.

"Jesus," Aronson whispered again. He bent to rip the plastic tent down, but suddenly stopped. He looked around him -- the sun had just set, even though the sky was still a pale gray -- and he wondered what time the troll came "home."

He took two steps backward. He didn't want a confrontation. He wasn't a coward by any means, but he knew from conversations at work that a lot of the homeless got the way they were because of drugs. And people on drugs, he knew as well, often got paranoid.

And violent.

No, he thought. It was almost dark, so he'd just leave it be. But tomorrow, or else sometime on the weekend, he'd take the stuff out with the garbage again and, this time, he wouldn't just leave it folded where it could be seen and brought back again.

He turned to go back -- he thought he heard yelling. His wife's voice calling him in for supper.

He paused in his back yard one more time to stare at the bush, then at the ground around his feet. He kicked at the grass.

Even in the growing darkness, he could tell that it too, like his neighbor's lawn, had faded from green to a greenish-gray yellow.

***

Friday he stayed very late at the bar. It was fully dark when he came home so he just ate his supper and went to bed. Saturday he didn't feel well, but Sunday afternoon he went out and ripped the troll's things out from under the bush. This time he stuffed them into trash bags, like regular garbage. And then, on a sudden inspiration, he didn't leave them in the regular place at the curb, but carried them down to the block below his and left them out with the garbage there.

He scarcely talked to his wife at all when he came back inside, and he noticed the children seemed to avoid him. He figured that, yeah, maybe he'd been kind of gruff those last few days -- after all, he'd had things on his mind. He vowed that, now that this troll thing was over, he'd make it up to them.

But Monday his boss put him on extra hours and, when he got home, his wife started yelling. "Why didn't you at least call me?" she said. "I could have held supper. Maybe put the kids to bed early. . . ."

He growled in reply. He should have apologized, he knew, but, damn, he was tired. He did try to kiss her, later when it was time for bed, but she turned away from him.

The hell with it, he thought as he went to bed alone. I'll make it up to her -- we'll do something special. Right now, though, with the pressure at work, and that stuff last week. . . .

He dreamed about trolls.

***

Tuesday he had to work late again, so it wasn't until Wednesday night when he first saw the lanterns. He hadn't been feeling that well after supper and thought he'd go out for a breath of fresh air. He went in the back yard and sat for a while, looking up at the stars. But then, when he finally got up to go back in, he thought he heard music.

It came from the alley. He whirled and stared and, through the bushes, he saw spots of color.

The spots glowed and pulsed, not too brightly, but like distant stars that had somehow fallen into the alley. He took one step forward to look more closely, but then he heard voices. People singing.

Trolls having a party.

He stopped in his tracks. Because of the bushes that bordered the alley they hadn't seen him.

He did not want a confrontation -- at least not right then.

He turned and tiptoed back to the house, the sound behind him getting more raucous with each new step. He eased himself silently into the kitchen and locked the back door.

This time he would call the police, he decided. They'd have to come this time -- because of the noise. Even they would have to agree that disturbing the peace was a public matter.

He went past the living room to the hall phone, then stopped for a moment when he saw his wife watching TV.

"Marcia," he said, "do you hear that singing?"

"What singing?" she answered. "And what's that smell, honey?"

"You mean you can't hear it?" Then suddenly he realized he couldn't hear it either, at least not over the noise of the TV. So much for calling the cops, he thought.

"Honey, you're trembling," his wife continued. She got up to come to where he was standing. "I'm worried about you. Are you feeling okay? You've been acting so strangely lately. . . ."

He grunted something -- he didn't remember what. He pushed his way past her and stalked up the stairs. He stared for a long time out through the hall window over the back yard, out toward the alley. He was sure he saw lights and shadows -- pale, colored lights and the moving shadows of people dancing -- and heard faint music.

He went to the bathroom -- he smelled the odor his wife ha

d mentioned. The odor of trolls. It must have permeated the back yard.

Again he slept alone.

***

Thursday his boss called him into his office and told him to take the afternoon off. "We owe it to you, Aronson," he said, "for the extra you put in Monday and Tuesday." Aronson thanked him and turned to go when the boss cleared his throat. "One more thing," he said. "You might consider using the time to see a doctor. You haven't been looking at all well these past weeks."

Aronson left, but he went straight home. He went through the back yard, out to the alley, and there he saw, not just one bedroll, but a whole village carved out under the bushes that lined his back yard. There were tents of all shapes, of all kinds of fabrics, in prints and pastels. There were blankets and quilts and sleeping bags, cut down lawn furniture, tables and chairs. There was cooking equipment on rusted, gas camp stoves and, strung on wires between the electric and telephone poles in the alley itself, there were rows of colored paper lanterns.

"That's it," he said. He spoke out loud -- the camp, he knew, would be unpopulated until the night's darkness.

He went back to the house and got out his checkbook, glad that his kids were still at school and his wife wasn't back yet from her own job, so he didn't have to answer their questions.

He went downtown.

He found a gun shop that wouldn't ask any questions either and bought a semi-automatic rifle. He had them wrap it until it looked like it was just a long box, and he took it into Leroy's with him on his way home.

He stayed so late that his wife was already in bed by the time he got back to his house.

***

He hid the gun in the downstairs closet and slept on the couch, not waking until his wife and kids came downstairs the next morning. He shaved and changed and got to work late. He went through the motions of his job in a semi-daze, scarcely speaking unless he had to. When quitting time came, he went back to Leroy's.

He got home late, although not as late as the previous night. But this time, when he went into the house, he found a note on the kitchen table.

"I don't know what's happening to you," it said. "I wish I could help you, but I don't know how, and the kids are afraid. That's why I thought it would be best if we spent the night at one of my friends' apartments tonight -- it's someone at work and you don't know her. . . ."

The note went on, but he couldn't read it. He noticed that the paper was damp, as if his wife had been crying when she wrote it, then realized that he was crying as well.

He went straight to bed -- he wanted to eat, and yet, at the same time, he didn't want to. He thought he heard music one time when he woke, but he wasn't sure that it wasn't a dream.

He got up in the morning, but didn't shave. He just had a cup of black coffee for breakfast, then went to the back yard and got the lawn mower out of the garage. He mowed the lawn twice, front, back, and side yards, and trimmed the edges -- except for the back part along the bushes -- on his hands and knees with a clipper. He weeded the flower beds at the sides, wanting, he didn't know why, to make sure everything looked perfect. He scarcely even stopped that afternoon when his wife came by to pick up her things.

"The kids are still at my friend's," she said, standing behind him. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

He stood up and looked at her, scarcely recognizing her in the coat and hat she usually wore when they went on vacations.

He wanted to say something, but -- it was if he no longer knew the language. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

"It's your choice, honey," his wife finally said, her voice high and squeaky as if she was trying her best not to cry. "I-I'll . . . maybe I'll send a note when we get settled. . . ."

She turned, gathered up the boxes she'd packed, then went to a car that, he only now realized, had been waiting for her all along in the driveway.

"I. . . ." Now he could speak, but it was too late. He looked in the direction she'd left, at the faded out tones of the street and the buildings. He looked at his lawn, at the drabness of the clothes he was wearing, the steel-colored sky as day drifted to darkness.

And then he heard voices -- loud, happy voices. The trolls. They had done this.

He ran into the house. He ran to the closet and pulled out the rifle, tearing off the paper wrappings. He fumbled the bullets into its clip and ran out to the back yard, out to the alley.

He whirled and raised the gun to his shoulder, then brought it down again. All around him were dancing people. Color and brightness. Motion and light.

He turned to the Dutch myrtle where it had started and stared at the bright glowing yellow and blue of the bedroll and tent, fully visible even through the tangle of dark leaves. Sitting on the bed was an old man.

"You," Aronson shouted, over the music. He raised the rifle again to his shoulder. "You took my wife from me."

"No," the man said. He crawled out from underneath the shrub and stood up slowly. "You left her behind when you came to join us."

"What do you mean?" He swept the gun's muzzle in a half circle to take in the others, male and female, still dancing and singing in the alley as if he wasn't even there. "You have no right to be on my property. That's why I've come out here -- to tell you to leave."

"We can't leave, Aronson," the old man said. "We've always been part of you. A part of your own heart."

"The hell you are, mister." He shouted now. "You. You people playing the music. Stop and get out of here. Stop, or I'll shoot."

He aimed at a tall man playing a banjo. The man didn't stop.

He pulled the trigger. The gun didn't roar, but simply made a soft, popping sound, and the man disappeared.

He aimed at another, a woman with an accordion this time, and pulled again. Another pop and the music was quieter, the colored lights dimmer.

"You see what I mean?" he said to the old man. He aimed at one of the dancing couples.

"You'd better not drive us away," the old man said. "We're too much a part of you."

He pulled the trigger. The lights and the colors faded again, just enough to notice. He fired another round, this time aiming at one of the tents, and then again and again and again at dancers, musicians, bedrolls, lanterns, pausing only when it was time to jam in a new clip.

"Wait, Aronson," the old man said. "Think what you're doing. Think what you'll be if you no longer have us. . . ."

"You're the one who should have thought," Aronson growled. He turned and looked into the dimming night -- the dancers were gone. The alley was empty, except for the old man.

He raised his rifle.

"Think," the old man said again. "Think where you come from."

He pulled the trigger.

He smelled the smell of trolls drifting from him. The air, not cleaner, but just without odor. He put down the rifle and looked around him, trying to go back.

To find his house.

But all he saw was a uniform, featureless, unending gray.