Elderberry Lane's Gossip Turns Dark

Under the soft embrace of Elderberry Lane during the day, gossiping about neighbors was sped along like birds in an angry gust.
Once the crickets started their tune and the waning day dyed the sky with lavender, the bellies of the back fences would hum with heated conversation. Lawn chairs squeaked. Tea glasses clinked. And mouths, well—they ran wild.
Eleanor Pickett looked over the top of her fence with her visor on and chatted with her long-time neighbor, Gus Darby.
Eleanor chuckled and looked straight at Gus, asking, "So, Gus, what's new with your pickleball matches?"
With a grin, Gus answered, "Same old slow serves, as always." However, I'm still spryer than Bob on Finch Street. Poor Bob is playing his pickleball better than a heron after the storm.
Eleanor snorted. What I'd forgotten is that he was still muttering about HOA bylaws. According to the gossip, he saw Willa rechecking the heights of mailboxes.
"Willa?" Gus gasped. A look on her part would certainly choke a man's breath from his back.<br>One look from her would wither the spirit of man.<br> How she looked at you could make your heart cease to beat.
Eleanor leaned in conspiratorially. "That's not all. Someone told me how she slept at George's every other night.
Gus gave a low whistle. I'm feeling a little ruffled myself. Didn't she use to joke: she wanted a guy with bark, not a magnolia, right?
Their laughter echoed off the lawn and beyond the fence to other neighbors' conversations beginning to overlap.
Our regular nightly neighborhood get-together Roost was in progress.
Lurching in her chair, Albert Jenkins raised her cane to greet them. Is it them again without me this time?" Alberta joked from her rocking chair.
"You're just in time, Birdie!" Eleanor called back. Alberta had gained her nickname due to her fondness for helping young birds, but it suited her brusque manner quite well.
"You seen Lucille today?" In his turn, Alberta slowly began to sit in his chair and asked. She's been chirping about a newcomer. Chatting about how he walks through the neighborhood like it is his.
Gus pulled a sour face and said, "Oh, that'd be Ryder Dane. Somebody who recently moved in – a fellow in a muscle shirt riding a motorcycle. He lives on the property that once belonged to old Mr. Crenshaw.
With his tattoos only slightly less than feathers, he said. "Eleanor muttered. He sticks out like a hawk in a henhouse.
Alberta laughed out loud, saying, "Lucille insisted she caught him posing at his mailbox." "Twice."
Very soon, more chairs were being moved, and more heads came around. No less shy Marjorie (known as Robin thanks to red hair), big-voiced Dennis (after his nickname, Jay), and sweet young Cassidy (also known as Chick) clinched to the fence, listening intently with curiosity.
Wasn't Ryder mentioned, wasn't he?" Marjorie asked, her smile curiously tightening her lips.
"You did," Eleanor confirmed. She promised it would surprise you with what she learned from Lovey Dovey.
Otherwise known as Doris Evans, Lovey Dovey applied on blush every morning post-retirement and breathed in the manner allegedly soothing wild dogs.
Love Dovev informed me that Ryder had had unexpected guests all night. A young someone."
The whole crowd held their breath sharply.
And this 'someone' is not from Elderberry Lane, Gus insisted dramatically.
"From outside the flock?" Dennis gasped. "Outsider nesting behavior?"
Cassidy giggled. "That's the type of talk you'd hear at the National Bird Watching Convention."
"Hush now, Chick. This is the gossip about the finest feathered crop ever, "Eleanor scoffed.
Night after night, they continued this manner, weaving up lively yarns full of pointy bird images like the dexterous sewists. The narrative stretched and crushed reputations, but they reunited again each night.
But this time, something changed.
That night was the third evening for Ryder's speculation when he came in.
He didn't sit down and bide his time to get onto the fence or graciously ask if he could enter. There he walked in, passing between the porch lights, the rustle of his boots against the dry grass.
"Evening," he said. His words were said in a quiet roar, as though the thunder's roar lay around the corner of the grey sky.
Chairs shifted. Alberta's cane froze mid-rock. Cassidy slowly put her iced tea down on the table.
"I did not intend to intrude on your fellowship," Ryder said with a smidge of smile. "This group was picking up every night and I had been curious," so I saw what they were doing.
Eleanor recovered first. "Well, bless your feathers. Pull up a chair. We're just... exchanging news."
"More of a cacophony to me," he laughed. "But sure. I like birds."
The Roost, all of a sudden, turned civil and offered him lemonade.
For a couple of nights, Ryder appeared back. Said little. Smiled more. Listened.
But then, on a later night, Lovey Dovey didn't show.
The next night, she was accounted for.
Her lights were off. Her car was parked—no cooing from the porch.
She's never been out of The Roost," Eleanor said, suddenly sounding uneasy.
Cassidy nodded, worried. "Maybe she flew the coop?"
They laughed weakly.
However, the next morning, her cat had been found resting on Ryder's porch.
Then Marjorie vanished.
Silence seeped in as every bird of Elderberry Lane became silent one by one.
The chairs sat empty. Porch lights flickered out.
Ryder still came. Still smiled.
Eleanor only challenged him alone on one night.
Ryder, she whisper-voiced lightly, her fingertips clenched in her cardigan, "Some birds are happiest when left to soar on their own."
He tilted his head. "There is a time that some songs are drowned out by the cacophony of silences."
A rumbling that spoke from the dark had caught their attention. From long distances, dim laughter, conniving gossip, and the sound of wings cutting through the air still traveled to her.
But it was too late.
Only her visor remained planted on her fence post, rustling softly in the morning draught.
The Elderberry Lane had lost its voice after that quiet span.