SourlanD
by Mary D’Amore
Chapter I, Page 1
2001—I just got home from visiting my new landlord, the reclusive neighbor that I’ll be telling you about. This is a beautiful area! I don’t think that I could’ve found a place more isolated from society in all of New Jersey. Less than an hour’s ride from my New York apartment, no one would imagine that this is New Jersey, which New Yorkers always think of as that mass of highways and oil refineries on the northeast side of the state. This looks like the perfect place for someone like me who has such a negative attitude, not just toward people but toward life as a whole. I needed this escape into what feels like the wilderness, and I’ll pretend it is one—although it won’t take much pretending. Mr. Moore and I are a perfect pair to divide the isolation between us. A good-natured guy! He’d never know how much my feelings warmed towards him when I saw his dark eyes frown at me so suspiciously under his black eyebrows as I drove up, and when he buried his hands deep into his jacket pockets when I introduced myself.
“Mr. Moore?” I asked.
“A nod was the answer.
“Luke Legno, your new tenant. I wanted to let you know I’m here, and to make sure I haven’t annoyed you too much by insisting on renting Ponden Place. I heard through the grapevine that you’d had some thoughts … ”
“I don’t let anyone annoy me, if I can help it. Come in.”
The “come in” was said with a clenched jaw, and seemed to say “drop dead.” Even the fence gate that he leaned on didn’t move when he invited me in. I think that atmosphere made me determined to go inside. I felt interested in a man who seemed like even more of an introvert, the unpleasant kind, than I was.
When he saw my Beemer parked in his narrow gravel driveway, he waved to a man doing some sort of work outside, calling as we walked toward the house, “Joe, pull Mr. Legno’s car into a space and bring up some beer from the cellar.”
“Here’s the only guy who works for him I bet.” “No wonder his grass has gone to seed and deer are the only hedge-trimmers.”
Joe was an older man, but tough looking and wiry. “Who’s this rusticator?” he mumbled under his breath, while taking my car keys from me, looking in my face so sourly that I immediately decided he was suffering from a bad case of indigestion and his wise-crack had nothing to do with me personally.
Sourland Farm is the name of Mr. Moore’s place. “Sourland” being a reference to its location on the Sourland Mountain, a large forest in the middle of the state. The highest point isn’t that high, but the way it rises from the surrounding farmlands has earned it the title of 'mountain.'
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