by Ivy Pembroke
The dog sat, his tail sweeping happily out behind him. Diya, thinking it was safe, descended the staircase slowly and walked over to the door carefully.
The man said, “Sorry. He really is the street dog. He’s just been following us around.”
“Following you around where?” said Diya, glancing warningly at Pari, because Pari was grumbling under her breath.
“The street,” said the man. “I’m Sam, and this is my son Teddy. We just moved in, a few houses down.”
“Oh,” Diya said, as the recollection vaguely came back to her. “You have the pink bird outside in the garden.”
“Bob,” said the man.
“What?” said Diya.
“Bob the flamingo. That’s who the pink bird is.”
Diya was beginning to wonder if she should have opened the door at all. “Oh,” she said.
The man seemed to realize that he was behaving a bit mad, because he said quickly, “Anyway. We have just come to give you this,” and held out an envelope.
“Oh,” said Diya. “Did the post get mixed up?”
Which made the little boy—Teddy—give his father a look. The man called Sam said, “No. Sorry. We’re confusing everybody. It’s an invitation. We’re having a little get-together. To sort of meet all the neighbors. Nothing big or extravagant, just a little backyard barbecue.”
“Oh,” said Diya, because that wasn’t the sort of thing the street ordinarily did, and usually her days were busy enough without adding street socializing. But she didn’t want to be rude. In fact, she felt she had to be extra-polite to make up for Pari’s initial loud pronouncement that these people were weird.
Even if it was a little weird to show up on a doorstep with an invitation. Diya said, “Excellent. Thanks so much. And if you could just control your dog. I’m really not very fond of dogs.”
“He’s not my dog,” said Sam, which made no sense, because the dog was currently slobbering happily all over the man’s shoes.
“Thanks!” Diya said, and closed the door. And looked at Pari.
“And what was that, young lady?”
“That boy is trying to steal my dog,” Pari fumed.
“You don’t have a dog,” Diya reminded her. “That is not your dog.”
“He and I are at war.”
“You’re not at war. Don’t be so dramatic. And there was absolutely no reason to be so rude when they came to the door.”
“You can’t be nice when you’re at war.”
“You’re not at war,” Diya repeated, slightly more emphatically. “Now. Come and help me sort through Dad’s trousers.”
“What?” yelped Pari.
But, at Diya’s look, she did follow her upstairs.
* * *
“Do you know what I could really use?” said Pen to her goldfish Chester, who was swimming around his bowl looking unimpressed by Pen’s meager word count total for the day. “A distraction. Is it time to eat lunch yet?”
It was not, in fact, time to eat lunch.
Pen contemplated.
“Maybe time for a snack,” she decided.
Chester, with a flip of his tail, approved.
Pen wandered into her kitchen and opened her refrigerator and contemplated its contents. One of the dangers in working out of one’s own home was the constant access to food. At one time, Pen’s kitchen had been full of as many sweet and/or salty snacks as she could stuff into it. Then she’d done the article on modern food practices and now she was all about healthy and sustainable foods, but sometimes you just wanted a Jaffa Cake.
Pen sighed, rethinking her snack plan.
Which was when the doorbell rang.
Pen practically ran to answer it, opening it on the new family who’d moved in down the street. The father and the little boy. Pen had seen a woman around the house around the right age to be the mother, but not regularly, and she certainly didn’t live there, so Pen hadn’t yet untangled that one.
“Hello,” she said enthusiastically. “You lot are lifesavers!”
The man looked uncertain at this greeting. “We’re what?”
“I was just looking for an excuse to not be working, and here you two are.”
“Oh. Yes. Well.” The man looked like he didn’t know quite what to say.
“I’m Pen,” she said. “And I’m a writer. But that’s not why I’m called Pen. It’s short for Penelope.”
“I’m Sam,” he said. “I work as a consultant for corporations striving to improve the communication infrastructure between information technology specialists and particular groups of users in order to promote a greater symbiosis between—never mind, it sounds horrible. This is my son Teddy.”
Pen waved at the little boy, who looked dazed.
Jack barked and wagged his tail and nudged forward to be petted, the shameless hussy.
“And Jack,” added Sam.
“Oh, Jack I know. I keep treats just here by the door for him.” Pen leaned over to grab one of Jack’s special dog treats.
Jack sniffed it and took it daintily, the way he always did, and then walked over to promptly bury it in Pen’s front garden.
“He loves them,” Pen said. “He keeps a whole stash of them in my front garden so he can get them when I’m not home.”
“Oh,” said Sam, turning from watching Jack’s antics. “Anyway, we were just stopping by to give you an invitation.”
“An invitation?” Pen pulled it over to her and opened it enthusiastically. “To what? Ooh, a backyard barbecue? How fab!”
“We thought it would be a good way to meet the neighbors,” said Sam. “Seeing as how we’re new here.”
“Oh, absolutely! Can’t wait to go! There are people who live on this street I haven’t spoken to the whole time I’ve lived here, so I am looking forward to meeting them!” Pen beamed.
* * *
“She was really excited,” remarked Teddy, as they walked back home after delivering the last invitation to the writer at the end of the street. Jack trotted along with them, looking very pleased at how their adventure had gone.
“Yes, she was. So that’s good, right? One excited person.”
“I thought it was weird,” said Teddy.
“Not everything can be weird,” said Sam. “It can’t be weird if they’re excited and weird if they’re not.”
“Yes, it can,” said Teddy wisely. “Life’s just weird.”
“Actually, I can’t even argue with you on that one,” remarked Sam, as they reached their house. “So there you have it. All the invitations delivered. Party forthcoming. Friends ahoy.”
“Don’t say things like ‘friends ahoy,’” Teddy said. “Nobody’s going to be your friend if you say ‘friends ahoy.’ I’m going up to play Mass Extinction Event.”
“Ah, yes, that perpetually cheerful and optimistic video game,” said Sam.
Teddy didn’t even appreciate the sarcasm, just ran up the stairs.
Jack stood at the door and wagged his tail.
Sam sighed and said, “Go ahead,” and Jack barked his thanks and went running up the stairs after Teddy.
Sam thought he really ought to point out that Jack wasn’t their dog, but it seemed like a lot of effort at the moment.
* * *
Bill was in the midst of heating some beans to spread on some toast when Jack’s scratch on the back door came.
Not that Bill had been worried that Jack wouldn’t show up—Jack wasn’t his dog, after all, as he’d told that little boy from next door; Jack belonged to the entire street—but it was nice to see him.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, as he let him in. “And where’ve you been all day? Roaming around the street handing out bloody party invitations?” Bill snorted, to show what he thought about that, as he greeted Jack with some patting as a reward for the nonsense Jack had had to spend the day engaged in.
Bill got Jack’s dinner and then finished getting his own dinner and then sat down at the table, to eat beside where Jack was noisily inhalin
g his food after his long, hard day.
Bill had tossed the invitation to the “backyard bar-b-q” on the table, where it sat, looking ridiculous, a hot dog smiling up at him.
“That sausage has eyes,” he told Jack, just because he felt Jack needed to appreciate the absurdity of that.
Jack snuffled into his food bowl in clear disapproval.
It was simply the most ridiculous thing. Who had ever heard of it? Showing up on someone’s doorstep just to babble at them about poison and then leave them with invitations with sausages with eyes. The last thing Bill would ever want to do is go to a barbecue with all of the odd people he shared this street with. Who knew what sort of food they’d try to get him to eat? And then they’d spend the whole time asking him if he was still okay living on his own, like he was a child who couldn’t take care of himself, like he hadn’t been taking care of himself before any of these people had even been born.
“The insult of the whole thing,” Bill said to Jack.
Jack nudged his empty food bowl across the lino in reply.
Bill got Jack more food and thought that you let one new person into your house to talk about whittling and the next thing you knew people were knocking down your door thinking you were the sort who wanted to go to a “backyard bar-b-q.”
No more of that, Bill decided firmly, and looked down at Jack.
“What do you think’s on the telly for us tonight?”
Jack licked his hand, which seemed to indicate a happy optimism about the television schedule that Bill didn’t share. But that was what was nice about Jack.
* * *
Arthur walked in with Chinese, to an empty house. Which meant that Max had lost track of time and was still painting. So Arthur stuck the food in the microwave—which in his head qualified as “keeping it warm”—and turned to make his way upstairs to Max’s studio. Pausing when his attention was caught by the invitation on the kitchen table.
“Huh,” remarked Arthur, and took the invitation with him.
Max’s canvas was covered in reds and oranges and yellows.
It was both impossibly sunny and impossibly intense, and Arthur, looking at it, had the same feeling he’d had the first time he’d ever looked at one of Max’s pieces: What the hell is that all about, and I need to meet the artist.
“Hi,” Arthur said, and kissed the back of Max’s neck deliberately to nudge him out of his artistic reverie.
Max started anyway, and then turned to him fully, his smile wide and beaming. “Oh, look, a handsome man has wandered into my house. I shall abandon my art forthwith.”
“I like it,” said Arthur, gesturing to the canvas.
“Do you? Thank you. I’m not sure where it’s going next, or if it hasn’t got there already. Must sleep on it. Did you bring food with you?”
“I did. Also.” Arthur held up the invitation. “We’ve been invited to a party?”
“We have. I’m guessing the hot dogs will be edible and not anthropomorphic at this party, but one never knows. Let me change and wash the paint off me.”
“There’s some in your hair,” said Arthur.
“Then I suppose I’m taking a shower,” remarked Max ruefully, brushing at his hair, which left it in even wilder red spikes.
Arthur left Max to his shower and went downstairs and raided the fortune cookies because he was starving and they were there. You have new invitations that could open new doors, read his fortune. Arthur snorted and left it on the counter with the barbecue invitation to amuse Max.
It was a gray, wet day and the flowers in the back garden were shimmering with moisture and there were no children dashing through, nor stray dogs.
Max came up behind him and settled his chin on Arthur’s shoulder to look out the back door with him.
“Remarkably quiet in our back garden,” noted Arthur.
“No untoward dangerous liabilities?” said Max.
“Sit and eat,” said Arthur, and poured the Chinese food onto plates, because that made him feel more like they were competent adults.
Max had grabbed the fortune off the kitchen counter. “ ‘You have new invitations that could open new doors,’ ” he read out loud.
“And we do have a new invitation,” Arthur said, sliding Max’s plate of beef and broccoli in front of him and sitting down with his own plate of lo mein. “So are we going to that thing?”
“You were the one who wanted to start socializing with the neighbors,” Max pointed out.
“I just thought it would be polite,” said Arthur. “I don’t know if I want to have to start having dinner parties.”
“Oh, the horror,” said Max. “Perish the thought.”
“We don’t cook,” Arthur reminded him.
“But we order takeaway so brilliantly,” said Max. “Anyway, he has funny ideas.”
“Who does?”
“Sam. The new neighbor. Wanting to get to know all of us. He came round personally to drop off the invitation. Very keen on all of us being friends, apparently.”
“Hasn’t he got other friends?” asked Arthur. “Why does he need to be friends with us?”
“People who haven’t met their friend quota yet are so tiring,” said Max.
Arthur pointed a chopstick at him. “Don’t pretend that you like meeting people. I am definitely friendlier than you are.”
“You’re an insurance agent.”
“You’re a tortured artist.”
“Fair enough,” said Max, and took a bite of beef and broccoli.
Arthur poked at his noodles and ventured, “Are you thinking it’d be good for us?”
Max looked up queryingly.
“To meet new people?” Arthur clarified.
Max considered, chewing, then said, “It might be.”
Arthur tapped his chopstick against his plate. “How did he seem?”
“Fine. Not any more annoying than most other people are.”
“Ringing endorsement.”
“Well, I didn’t want to be too extravagant in my praise, then you’d know I was lying.”
“Then we’ll RSVP for this backyard barbecue and be friendly neighbors.”
“You have new invitations that could open new doors,” said Max wisely.
* * *
“So,” said Sam, as they sat down to a dinner of cheese toasties. “What was your adventure for the day?”
Teddy gave him his hopeless-dad look. “Clearly it was walking around the street handing out envelopes that everyone thought were poisoned or mixed-up post. What was yours?”
“Yeah, same,” admitted Sam.
* * *
Anna Pachuta, hunting through the kitchen for her stash of chocolate, was listening with half an ear to her daughter’s recap of the day, and then heard something that made her lift her head up and look at her more closely.
“We got a what?”
Emilia was sitting munching on a bowl of grapes set out on the table. She said, plucking a few more grapes off, “An invitation to a barbecue.”
“Whose barbecue?” Anna asked in surprise. None of their friends struck her as likely to have a barbecue. They were too busy to even make cups of coffee these days.
“The new neighbors’,” explained Emilia, popping the grapes into her mouth.
“The new neighbors,” echoed Anna blankly. Her head hurt. She couldn’t keep up with other people’s lives; she was barely keeping up with her own life.
“Yeah, you know, they just moved in where the Thurstons used to be.”
“Good,” said Anna, pulling out some chocolate and sitting at the table with Emilia. “Have they got rid of that horrible dog?”
“No, Mum, it’s the street dog now,” said Emilia.
“Emilia, that’s ridiculous. We can’t have a street dog. It terrorizes the cats. Maybe we should go to this barbecue so I can have a talk with them about getting that dog under control.”
Emilia rolled her eyes.
Anna frowned at the reaction but didn’t say anything ab
out it, because honestly she felt like she was home so seldom these days that she didn’t want to spend what little time she had with Emilia fighting with her.
The kettle clicked and she got up to make herself a cup of chamomile tea—her customary treat at the end of the day, after the burst of chocolate reward—and said, “What did you do all day?”
“Not much,” said Emilia. “Painted my nails again.”
“It’ll be better when the summer holidays are over and school starts up again,” Anna said.
“Dad said maybe we could go on a proper holiday before school begins,” said Emilia.
Anna couldn’t help that she snorted. “Really?”
“Dad said maybe we could go to the seaside.”
“Your dad is always saying ridiculous things,” Anna said.
“How would you know?” asked Emilia. “Do you even talk to him anymore?”
Anna held her gaze and took an even sip of her tea. The tea was too hot for such a big sip but she wasn’t about to let that show. She said, “Of course I talk to him. I’ll talk to him when he gets home tonight, about going to the new neighbors’ barbecue.” And about how impossible a trip to the seaside was at the moment.
“Okay,” said Emilia, sounding skeptical.
And Anna wanted to prove her daughter wrong, of course she did, but in the end she was too tired to wait up for Marcel and just left the invitation on his side of the bed, for him to see whenever he wandered in, and curled up in bed with the cats.
* * *
Darsh came home to find his wife there for once.
He said jokingly, “Is there no one who needs a curry somewhere? Have you exhausted the world’s demand for welcome baskets?”
“Ha,” said Diya, and he grinned and kissed her and looked down at what she was cooking.
“Is that for us, or destined for a friend of a friend of a friend?”
“For us,” said Diya.
“Shocking,” said Darsh. “Where are the children?”
“Upstairs. I’ll call them down for dinner in a second.”
Darsh, shifting through the mail on the table, paused on a picture of a smiling hot dog. “What’s this?”
Diya glanced at it, then rolled her eyes. “Oh. Strangest thing. The new neighbors are having a party.”
“And invited us?” asked Darsh, confused. “Do we know them?”
