There is a Sherlock Holmes story, “The Copper Beeches,” that includes a scene in which Holmes and Watson are travelling through the countryside in a train. Watson remarks how peaceful it all looks, and how innocent must be the lives of people in those picturesque, isolated cottages. Holmes contradicts him at once.
“It is my belief, Watson,” he says, “founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside... Look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields... Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser."
I’m sure Holmes was right about this, as he was about most things. I often think the same way, driving or riding the train through the suburbs of Long Island. Who knows what goes on in all these separate houses, little boxes close together but as isolated as any rural cottage, where we live our private lives. The word “private” is the key here. In privacy, anything can happen, and people are always amazed when some vile crime is discovered in a quiet suburban street. Interviewed on television, the neighbors express shocked disbelief. “This is such a nice neighborhood. He was such a nice man, and he always kept his lawn trimmed. You would never imagine he had all those bodies in the basement...” Sherlock Holmes, obviously, would have imagined it. He wasn’t deceived by tidy exteriors or well-kept gardens.
I work mostly at home and the view from my upper window is entirely suburban. There’s no rolling countryside, no mountains, no ocean, and no soaring city buildings, but only a small slice of suburban real estate - two backyards and the corner of a third. Naturally, I take an interest in what happens out there, because I have nothing else to look at.
Almost nothing happens out there, unless you count squirrels and the occasional deer. I must confess that this is disappointing but reassuring, too. If our neighbors are monsters of depravity, they keep it well hidden.
I’ve lived in villages where you may know a great deal about your neighbors, and they about you. In the suburbs, we know almost nothing about the folks next door because they are invisible. We all drive everywhere, and there is no street life. So, all we may know of the people who live closest to us is what kind of car they drive how often (if ever) they wash it, when they go to work and come home, the name of their cat if we’re lucky, their gardening habits, and their political views if they put a sign out at election time. If they are not inclined to be friendly, that’s where our knowledge ends. We are surrounded by people, but we might as well be living in the wilderness.
This gives almost unlimited scope to the imagination. What’s going on over there? The secret of other people’s lives is tantalizing. You can see how conspiracy theories grow. Even if your own life is entirely innocent and boring, as mine certainly is, you never know what those people over there might be up to.
As I look out of my window, trying to imagine other people’s lives, I can’t help worrying a little about what they may imagine when they look back in my direction.
