Ever know one of those houses in your neighborhood where nothing good happens there? I never believed in paranormal bunk like curses and such, but some homes...you have to wonder. There was one a block from me and I swear, whichever family moved into them, there was always tragedy or misery in one form or another.
208 Legris Street is a bungalow built in 1920, a much later addition of the first homes built in our neighborhood, the first being 1781. The street I grew up on wasn't created till the 1950s and that was during the boom when the WW 2 vets settled down.
I can probably use their real name as they have moved away, so long ago. The Lavoie's were of French Canadian extraction and mostly unhappy as I remember them, except for one. I became friends with the youngest one, Lisa, when I was five. She was a 'later' five so was one grade ahead of me in school but that didn't matter, we clicked. I remember her as fun, kind and surprisingly, not yet ruined by her crappy home life yet.
Her older brother Mike, I guess was about ten and though I didn't know it, was the first gay person I met. When you're five, you don't judge anyone really as you don't know anything yet about 'labeling' so you tend to give everyone a fair chance. That until you're told by the older kids, other parents which people are no good and pesona non grata. Mike, was a very effeminate boy who rather play with the girls, jump rope and when he walked, swung and swayed like a palm tree. He also could be pretty nasty personally if angry. That would've been my first exposure to flamboyant bitchiness.
Lisa's mom just did housework as I remember her never really stopping. There were few times I was in Lisa's house and I when I was in there, the walls had holes in them, there was laundry piled up and the place looked old and worn out. It wasn't “dirty” as her Mom kept most of it at bay, but I think it's tide was too much for her.
The late 60's still had a lot of Eisenhower overtones in our neighborhood and little girls wore dresses most of the time. Lisa was no exception. One time while I was in her Mom's kitchen, watching her work, when I noticed this large skin disfigurement on Lisa's upper arm. The summer dress she was in exposed her arms. The skin looked like it had melted like wax then solidified. Being five, I blurted out, “What happened to you??!!” Lisa responds, “My Dad threw....”
“Would you kids like Charms Pops?” her Mom interjected in a flash, cutting off Lisa's answer.
Being five, you quickly shift your focus when someone offers you Charm's Pops.
It wasn't till much later that I found out Dad flung a pot of water at Lisa, a pot from on top of the stove.
Lisa's house had a large shed where the dirt driveway was. It was a great “playhouse” except for one thing, it stunk to high heaven of tar in the summer. The entire thing was wrapped in roofing shingles, 50's EPA unapproved, DuPont made shingles which out gassed when the summer sun hit it. We would play in it, despite the stink, till her Dad came home. Every day around 5pm, Lisa and her brother Mike began the warnings..”We have to get out of here soon....it's getting late...we have to play elsewhere.” Some times we didn't get out before five and her Dad came home, ranting and raving about us kids being in there. The guy was one of the angriest men I knew as a kid and I couldn't figure out why. Hell, I was five, what did I know. After Dad got done chasing us out of the shed, he'd go inside and a new round of shouting started, sometimes followed by a loud thud. “Honey...I”m home!”
The Lavoie's weren't rich and bordered on poor nearly every day. Looking back, I assume the constant stress of paying a mortgage and having a shit paying job like her Dad did, plus Dad being a natural dick, didn't help matters. It was not a happy home.
But for some reason, Lisa was usually cheerful, open and ready for the next thing we kids would get into.
Her brother remained a prissy, complaining bitch most of the time though.
One day, Lisa told me they were moving. “Moving where?” I asked. She didn't know, only that they were moving. So we had a month or so of friendship when one day, she wasn't there anymore. Some neighbors were of the mind of, “Good riddance, they're GONE.“ but I ended up missing Lisa.
The next family to move in were the Dirter's. I kid you not, their last name was Dirter.
I never did know how many people were in the Dirter family. I suspected two because I saw just one, Jim Dirter, a kid a year older than me and a possible Mom Jim would talk about. The house remained a mess including the grass-less yard. I do have to admit it was a neat dirt yard, there was no junk lying about for months at a time.
Jim didn't associate with us much, he probably thought we were beneath him, we thought he was beneath us. The times we did see one another, we all noticed Jim's usual wardrobe consisted of dirty white tee shirts, and crummy looking, too big jeans. We would bust his balls about that but he didn't change, it was always the filthy white Hanes tee shirts, of course he would not change, he was a Dirter!
Since our paths didn't cross, we rarely hung around or knew what his family's story was and we didn't care anyway. If he had a Mother...or other relations in that house, they must've gone out around 2AM as we rarely saw them.
Then one day, he moved away.
Years later, he shows up driving a Ford Bronco. We were in our early 20's then and we found out his family had moved to South Kingston. We asked how did he manage to get a brand new Bronco and he tells us, “the job I have on the trawling boats in Galilee...I made $60,000 last year.” (This was 1985...60 g's for a 21 year old kid).
Apparently, he wasn't bullshitting us. We asked a neighbor who when younger used to fish. He told us that because of Reagan, the relaxed fishing limits, the 0% loans needed for boats and equipment and the new fangled computers that were installed on boats that had under water radar allowed you to make a killing. Everyone was doing it.
“If I wasn't so damn old, I'd be doing that!” he told us.
Jim Dirter wasn't dirty anymore. He even had nice clothes on that day.
The next family to move in were the Derry's. Now this was a much more normal, younger family. We had taken a liking to the Dad, Steve, as he was just only 10 years older than us, so just close enough to be part of our generation and young enough to understand us. He didn't mind that we hung out on his corner, drinking, as long as “we were quiet about it and didn't get the cops involved.” We liked him enough not to break that trust. Though a couple of us puked on his nice lawn from time to time.
He and his wife, I think, had three boys, two for sure I do remember. They were typical kids that rampaged across the neighborhood. Steve adored his first born as most parents do. He would take him fishing and hunting as Steve was one of those “outdoors types.” We see Steve come home on a Sunday night with a bloody deer strapped to the front of his truck. He and his young son would hop out, all clad in camouflage like they were Green Berets. It was one of those Dad/son relationships where they did everything together, and I mean everything.
So, we watched the boys grow from kids to teens and Steve being the woodsman type, wanted a house in the forest. He told us one day they were moving to Rehoboth, which to this day, is fairly wooded and a bit countrified. The perfect place for him.
Not a year later, we had received the news the oldest son was dead at 18 from a heart attack.
Being the times it was, late 80's, we assumed it was due to cocaine intoxication which will give any teen boy a heart attack if you snort too much. How the hell else can a teen boy die of a heart attack?
We never heard from Steve Derry again after that, but for one time.
Mike and I, after carousing in the Providence nightclubs...JR's Fastlane, we had ended the night at Bill's Restaurant on Newport Ave. It was open late to catch the drunks on a Saturday night and did a brisk business too. The food was typical diner fare and it was cheap and decent.
Mike and I opted to sit at the counter on those padded curricular chairs that spin all the way around when someone sat down next to us a few minutes later, clad in camouflage.
“Steve?” I say.
“Heeeeyyy....Ron! How's it going?” he says.
We talk for a few minutes about Rehoboth, his job and what not.
Ok, look...I know I have a trace of autism in me. My social skills aren't always on point and I don't read the situations always correctly....or I forget about some massive FACT about a person I should keep in the forefront. It's not malicious...it's just me being stupid..again.
“You know Steve,” I say to him, “You're the only hunter I know who would sit in a tree stand, in northern Maine, in mid December....freezing to death for a chance at a deer. Damn, you had that Rambo mentality that most deer hunters never had...what hunter risked hypothermia like you did.”
I then ask the wrong question because I was not thinking.
“Steve, you still hunt?”
He quickly looks at me, with a direct stare, and I can see his eyes are getting glassy.
“No...no...I stopped after Mark died.”
In my head I say...”FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!! You DUMB shit!! You brought IT up! Of ALL things, you brought THAT up!”
I felt like a First Class Heel. I can have a special talent of shoving my entire foot into my mouth.
Now that I remember Mark's death, I steer the conversation to...less...shittier subjects. Steve kept up with me and Mike and when he finished his bagels, he got up and said good bye to us, walked a bit then turned around and said, “I remember you guys when you were young...what a crew you had then...you guys did stuff I'd never do when I was that age...and those times you all threw up on my grass.”
I could tell from that he wasn't pissed at me...Thank God!
Even more years passed, and I mean up to last year when I found out what really happened to his son.
Another neighbor, who is a terrible gossip yet has ALL the information on every family around here set me straight.
She too had a son near Mark's age and they palled around a lot. She also had a pool and every summer the kids would be in it. She tells me one day, she goes out and watches them and notices Marks lips are bluish and he's panting a bit. She goes over and looks at his fingernails and they too are bluish. She had asked him how he felt and he said “OK..this happens from time to time...but not often.”
She continued to watch him and he seemed to be OK.
I say to her, “Well, makes sense huh? A weak heart then you dump that much cocaine on it? It's going to go bust.”
“Cocaine? He didn't die of cocaine! The autopsy report found weak heart valves...it was a congenital deformity that barely showed itself. He died in his sleep in his bed....”
“Really? I say. “I didn't know that!”
“No one did...right up to the day he died...it was the coroner that found it...bit too late though.”
That's how an 18 year old dies from a heart attack.
The next family that moved in 208 Legris I know little about. It's because we kids grew up, became adults and are too busy with life to notice the neighbors. Add to that the loss of the Eisenhower times when neighbors actually spoke to one another. All I know of the current owners is that they have a very active, barky dog that will yap at you as you drive by. The house since then has been improved, there is a lawn now and I know of no tragedies.
Perhaps the curse has been lifted?
Our Amityville House
