PEDOPHILES IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

Dear Registered Sex Offender,

I used to love your tiny New England house. With its white shingles and darling screened porch, it looked like it was right off the pages of a New Hampshire calendar. And the tree at the edge of the driveway that separates your house and mine, was shaped so perfectly it seemed like magic must have constructed its beautiful branches. But that was before I knew who you were. This morning as I pull up my bedroom shade, the first thing I see is the botched house-paint job of baby blue done by two men with sprayers in their hands and cigarette butts in their mouths. The lovely tree limbs, they have been hacked off and have fallen lifeless to the ground. And now I have a clearer view of you.

Every morning I watch you waddle off your porch in a blue uniform, suspenders stretched over your mounded belly, and climb into your truck. Where do you go? Throughout all hours of the day and night, there is a parade of characters going in and out of your house. Who are they? And the little boy? I saw you tussle his hair and lead him inside. Is he one of your victims? Because after reading your public profile of child sexual abuse, I personally can’t believe any child would be safe in your company.

Yes, it was me who called and reported you. Seeing that child get off the bus every day in your driveway made my blood boil. I have made two calls to the local police, two calls to state officials, and correspondence with a child help website. The day I called the school department and asked them if they knew they were dropping a visiting child off at a registered sex offenders home, was the last time I saw him.

But he’ll be back. If not him, someone else. Because as the police told me, as much as they want to stop child sex offenders, all that they can ask of you is that you check-in once a month to say you are still residing there. In the tiny New England home, from the pages of a calendar.

I’m still watching,

Your Neighbor