A Quiet Neighbor (15 page)

Chapter
Twelve:

Thursday,
May 24, 2012

6:40
P.M.

Neil Wilcox:

The late afternoon sun still holds its fury and
flames above the dusty blue sky. The air is still, suffocating. No generous
gust of cool air to provide respite from the blistering heat.

Sweat beads through remnants of sunblock on my
face and neck, dribbling into the yellowed, baconed collar of my shirt and
rippling downward until my white shirt appears clear. Removing a hand towel
from my sports pack, I dab my face and neck. Months of walking during the rain
and heat—with occasional two-hour-plus excursions—presents the need for a few
essentials (sunblock, light jacket, umbrella, extra shirt, towel, water,
granola bar, doggie snacks, bowl, flashlight and spare batteries). I am
prepared. I am not going to miss a day of walking. I must catch a glimpse of my
Betsy.

The heat is taxing and starts to wear on Mr.
Dimples’ aging body. His shiny black coat roasts under the blaze of the May
sun. A quarter mile into the walk, Mr. Dimples slows and scuffles to the side,
yearning for solace in a shady patch of grass, snorting when he finds none.
Pity rises in my chest before I can summarily squelch it.

“Oh no you don’t. We’re not going to turn back
now. What would Betsy think if we don’t make our daily trip to say hello?” When
the pug makes no motion to budge, I begrudgingly kneel and scoop Mr. Dimples
into my sunburned arms, walking the rest of the way to the corner of Golfcrest
and Tuxedo.

Five months of religious walking have trimmed
my body to a lean 150. My belly fat is almost nonexistent, and the calves of my
legs bulge tight when exerted. My skin, once shy of gray, has turned a burnt
reddish hue over a leathery texture. My trusty fisherman’s hat has dulled from
the many washes and I’ve gone through more Costco multi-packs of white
undershirts than during my entire adult life. No amount of bleach can save them
after a few weeks of punishing sun, sunscreen, deodorant, and sweat.

Trudging up the steep cement hill sets fire to
my lungs as my breathing comes in short and rapid succession. In a few minutes
I’ll start gasping for some semblance of oxygen. The arches of my feet scream in
pain, but I keep marching onward, my mind rooted elsewhere to a past more
enjoyable than the present. My hazel eyes turn vacant behind five-dollar Blue
Blockers. The sweat and sunblock mixture dribbling into the corners of my eyes
should sting me blind if I noticed, but I don’t. I stride on, unfazed. My eyes are
vacant, affixed forward; my mind is set in the past.

At the top of the hill, if I chose to take a
moment to inhale the beautiful scenery that cascades before me, I would see
majestic rocky slopes to my left and mounds of rolling green hills to my right.
Rows of never-ending palm, ash, oak, and sycamore trees intermingle with specks
of multicolored rooftops from the intricate web of houses down below. During a
storm, a foggy haze cascades along the mountaintops and caresses the windswept
horizon. On certain evenings, the twilight sun inks a marvelous kaleidoscope of
color into the spreading clouds. Ribbons of sherbet swirling breathlessly in
the air. But for me, none of these sights matter. For me, only my darling Betsy—who
waits for me in the corner white house with blue shingles—matters.

The sun sets to my right as I follow the gentle
curve onto Tuxedo. This downhill stretch is normally a breeze compared to the
previous half-mile march up Jackson, but with a pug tucked into the crux of my
arm and the heat beating vigilantly on my right side, there is no immediate
relief. My shins scream and my knobby knees crack as I dodge the late-summer
thistles jutting from the sidewalk.

After a few more minutes of hearing Mr. Dimples
pant and wheeze, I snap out of my passive hypnosis long enough to set Mr.
Dimples down and place a canary blue bowl beside him, into which I dribble a
few splashes of water from my bottle. Watching the pug lap up the water
enthusiastically, I take a moment to steal a few long swigs myself.

The sky darkens to a dusty, grayish hue. The
sun is no longer in my direct line of sight but I can still feel the sweltering
heat. Cars rush past in loud whooshes, probably hurrying toward a home-cooked
meal surrounded by loved ones or to their television set and an ice cold
six-pack. Wiping the sweat that drips unabated from my face and neck, I watch
in ominous silence as the pug laps up the remaining droplets of water. Starved
for more, Mr. Dimples whimpers and scratches the dry bowl with his paw,
dragging it in small circles. Blind to Mr. Dimples’ needs, I place the bowl
back into the pack and hoist the disgruntled pug back into the crook of my arm.
Can’t waste any more time.

Marching on, the park comes into view. I can
hear the shrieks and giggles of children playing on the swing set, and louder
still, the handful of adults cheering and heckling at their kids’ soccer game
as it culminates in the final intense seconds. A few walkers pass me without so
much as a vapid nod. A soccer dad hesitantly pulls the greasy handle of the
blue plastic port-o-potty positioned just off the grassy field, looks both
ways, and nonchalantly disappears into the stinky fumes.

Once I pass the outstretched field, the teeming
throngs of snot-nosed kids, the boisterous parents who self-medicate by
clap-shouting at their six-year-olds to
hustle-hustle-hustle!
on the
field and
move-move-move!
to the car afterward, and the gleaming blue
shit-box in the corner, I feel a rush of anxiety, a tickle of adrenaline, and a
spark that seems to shine through the dull haze in my unblinking eyes. I am
close. So close to seeing Betsy again. My chapped lips lift into an ominous
grin as I walk forward.

Reaching the old oak tree, I set Mr. Dimples on
the uneven sidewalk. Wavering slightly, the pug makes it to the grass and marks
his spot. Darkness falls and the heat simmers to quiet warmth. The breeze sends
a sharp chill radiating down my spine as my drenched shirt seems unpleasantly
cool against my skin. I make the snap decision to change into a new shirt.
Quickly, and in the dark, I duck behind the oak to make the switch.
Need to
look good for my Betsy.

After a few minutes of waiting beneath the oak
in trepidation and strained anticipation, I see her.

A dark sedan makes its grand approach toward
her house in silence. Elegantly designed, gleaming even under the orange glow
of the street light, the make and model obscured by bright headlights—the car is
a mirage, a barely-there shadow casting twin beams of light.

The driver makes no attempt to turn off the
engine or dim the lights. Glaring through the blinding white haze, I make out the
figure of a man, notably cocky by his one arm draped over the wheel and his
eyes set on the rearview mirror. Seemingly annoyed to wait—an act he probably isn’t
accustomed to—he has his other hand hovering over the horn. I notice the drapes
inside the house rustle slightly. The man must have also noticed the movement
because he lowers his hand.

The door to the white house with blue shingles
cracks open and a flushed woman dressed in a glittery plum dress with
thigh-high slits and a plunging neckline slips furtively out, clueless to the
fact that with another second’s hesitation, Mr. Cocky would have belied her
escape to the entire block with several curt blasts of his luxury horn.

Even from this distance and in the veil of
night, I recognize her. She is the lady in the tailored deep blue suit last
Halloween. Is Mr. Cocky behind the wheel her husband? The same man wearing the
green pullover? No, for some reason I can’t fathom seeing the man in the green
pullover driving that slick vehicle, it suits her more. Plus, why would the
husband wait impatiently outside while the wife sneaks in secrecy? Unless, that
is, they’re playing one of those bizarre games married couples play to spice up
their marriage. I never had to stoop that low with my Betsy.

Then the door swings wide, and as if answering
my silent prayer, she appears. Her brown hair is dripping wet and clinging to
her ivory skin. Her lake blue eyes drown in tears as she slumps to a pleading
kneel in the open doorway. The lady in the glitzy dress gives a distressed look
back and mouths a few exaggerated words of conciliation. My Betsy shows no
effort to understand, and the lady enters the gleaming vehicle without further
sign of remorse.

The dark sedan immediately zips away, leaving a
faint wisp of high-octane fumes in its wake. My Betsy, dressed for bed in a
rumpled shirt and drawstring shorts, doesn’t move from her huddled position.
Deep, heaving sobs escape from her lips like a tortured animal after losing a
battle. Her wounds are open; she is exposed and vulnerable.

A lump forms in my dry throat as I helplessly
watch from the shadows. Why can’t I move? I need to get to her fast. I need to
console her. I’m the only one who can.
Betsy…it’s okay, my sweet Betsy. Just
wait a little bit longer and everything will be okay
.

Loral Holmes:

7:55
P.M.

…Twirling and swirling, round and round…

Picking myself up from the cold tile floor of
the entryway, I grit my teeth in angst and pound up the stairs to my room.
Grabbing my cell phone from my desk, I dial Mike’s number before I have a
chance to think.

“Loral?”

“Can you come over?” My voice quivers
unexpectedly.

“Loral? Are you okay?” Worry infuses his voice.

“Mike, are you coming over or not?”

“No, I mean yes, of course I’ll come.”

“Come in through the bedroom window. I’ll leave
it open.”

“Lor—?”

Snapping the cell phone closed I take in a deep
breath before heading downstairs toward the squeaky chatter of cartoons filling
the living room. Tory is kneeling on the carpet, diligently coloring an outline
drawing of a princess over the coffee table. Flecks of crayon wax dust the
glass. Behind her Bella is snuggled in the deep-seated cushions of the beige
couch, holding her favorite doll of the week, her round eyes transfixed on the
animated characters bobbing up and down the screen.

Under brief examination, the girls are okay.
The dramatic plight of Tess and Loral doesn’t seem to have disturbed the girls’
evening. Any psychologist would have noted that the unfocused expressions and
seemingly normal activities in the family living room should have lit a large
neon warning sign above my head. But I am too pissed and too preoccupied with
my own troubles to notice the blaring distress signals from my sisters.

I plaster a phony smile on my face and say,
“Okay girls, I’m going to be busy in my room for a bit. Can I trust you guys to
stay put and not wander outside?”

Bella doesn’t blink or budge. Tory’s small head
perks up and gives a faint nod before she goes back to coloring, pressing the
pink crayon into the outline of a gown until it breaks from the pressure. I choose
not to see the trailing tear zigzagging down Tory’s face. Tonight I am going to
be selfish. Tonight I want to pretend everything is normal.

I hear Mike shuffling around the room, probably
anxious and perplexed by my sudden call. Determined, I head upstairs and close
the door behind me. The door misses the catch and is set slightly ajar. I don’t
notice. My anxious heart pounds against my chest for what I am about to do. I take
a few confident strides over to Mike, who is precariously positioned at the
edge of my bed, uncomfortable.

The window is still open. A cool breeze rustles
through the pages of a teen magazine on my oak desk. Taylor Swift is on the
cover, an ad for mascara on the reverse. The bed slants slightly from his
weight. As I inch forward, slowly closing the gap that separates us, his
childlike eyes widen in alarm, and I feel more confident. The bed creaks as he
shifts his weight.

Hovering over him now, I flick the ball cap off
his head. A mix of grass, dirt, sweat, and the cologne he probably doused
himself with before heading over leaves a trailing scent in the air above him.
Crinkling my nose, I let my fingers run through his matted hair (I saw Tess do
this once). He lets out a low, guttural groan. As I move to lift his Patriot’s
shirt over his head he quickly jumps off the bed and backs himself against the
wall, stunned.

“Whoa. Loral what are you doing?” Gulping for
air, he swallows reflexively. His eyes are slightly glazed from temptation but
his arms are held out to act like a tentative barricade.

I am worried he’ll stop me, but I smile,
coaxingly. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I playfully reach for his shirt
again, he jerks back. Oh god, this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I
decide to put in all my chips and seductively remove my shirt instead. Adamant to
go through with my plan, I push forward. Finally, something is happening. Mike
stands gawking at my naked body.

I know he’s been patiently waiting and wanting
this moment to happen for years. I’m giving him what he wants, what I should
want. Tess gives it away so easily, why can’t I? I’m her daughter aren’t I? Her
blood? I must enjoy sex, too.