A Quiet Neighbor (3 page)

Down below, Bella tries desperately to keep up
with Tory, but her orange arm floats make it impossible for her to maneuver in
the water. Already tired of the game, Bella’s wide smile is both innocent and
mischievous. If I didn’t have five years of experience and a couple weak
moments tucked under my belt, I might have fallen for those twinkling,
melt-your-heart-like-butter eyes. But I know better, and am no longer fazed by
their preened innocence.

 “Actually, I’m fine. Thanks, Bella for
thinking about me, but I can stay out for hours without delicious-lick-my-lips
snacks.”

Bella frowns, her eyes welling on cue. The
first time she accomplished that, I was proud. The second, not so much. “Maybe,
can you bring us a snack? Huh, Loral? Pu-leaz?”

I sigh. How can I say no to that face? “If you
two play quietly in the shallow end and don’t try anything dangerous, I’ll
bring you both a glass of lemonade and some crackers.”

Bella pouts at the word crackers. To her chubby
ears, crackers equal healthy, which equals not delicious. Before she can
complain and explain in her five-year-old vocabulary how cookies are better for
you than crackers, Tory interrupts and responds excitedly on their behalf.
“Thanks, Mermaid-Mommy. We can do that.”

“Good. I’ll be right back. Remember, I’ll know
if you don’t keep your word. Mermaid-mommies have heightened sight and
hearing.” I give each of them one last commanding look before climbing down the
ladder and quickly entering the house. All I hear is muffled giggles and light
splashing. I estimate I have about ten minutes before Bella gets antsy and makes
a move.

I am halfway to the fridge to retrieve the
pitcher of lemonade I made earlier when I notice Brett casually hunched over
the white-tiled countertop making a sloppy sandwich. Unaware of my presence, he
takes a swig of beer and lets out a single belch.

Straddling the frayed living room carpet and kitchen
linoleum, I contemplate whether to leave and come back once he returns to his
bedroom hideout or brave the awkward silence that will ensue. Letting out a
straggled breath I step onto the linoleum, yellowed with age and lifting at the
corners. My palms grow clammy and my pulse quickens. I tuck my fingers into the
tiny pockets of my jeans to steady them. There is no reason to be nervous, but
I am. It’s been six years and yet we still feel like strangers.

The afternoon light filters in from the window
above the sink and glints off his dark hair. His black hair is slicked back,
framing the sharp angles of his stern face with photographic precision. And
with his brooding blue eyes weighed down by thick dark lashes, he could make
any woman weak in the knees. But why does it have to be my mother?

Brett is thirty-four years old, five years
Tess’s junior. At six-foot-three, he towers over me, adding to the discomfort.
As always, Tess chose her significant other with a discerning eye, trained to
spot out the genuine leather from the faux-imitation. But somewhere behind that
strong handsome face is a darkness that lingers. A secret, hidden beneath a
cool exterior. Sometimes the unknown is to be feared more than the known.

I fear the unknown inside of Brett.

Drawing in a few deep breaths, I coax a smile.
“Making a sammy?”

Upon hearing my voice, Brett stubs his foot
against the metal stool that is precariously placed under the counter and turns.
Wincing from the pain, he clumsily picks up his plate that holds a turkey and
cheddar sandwich on two slices of wheat bread. Hummus oozes out the middle
where he had taken a cursory bite. His brooding eyes flicker momentarily to
mine before settling on his plate. Hunger seems to ebb from his mind.
Hesitating, he picks up his half-finished plate and mumbles, “Oh, hey Loral,
help yourself.”

I am about to inform him that there is lemonade
in the fridge when he shuts me out.

Without lifting his eyes, Brett quickly sidles
behind the kitchen table, brushing against the plastic blinds, to cross over to
the living room. The blinds rattle nosily, the bottom plastic scraping roughly
against the windowsill. I flinch from the sound. Brett avoids taking the direct
route—straight across the linoleum floor, between the marker-scribbled oak
table and fridge—on the off chance we’ll touch.

I watch Brett in silence as he makes a beeline
up the stairs. Before I know it, I am swallowing a large lump in the back of my
throat. Willing away the stinging tears that fill my eyes, I turn toward the
fridge. Gripping the handle with clenched fists I tug open the door with enough
strength to rock the bottles and jars inside. The cool burst of air alleviates
some of the sting, but not all.

When Brett appeared in my life six years ago
and married Tess a few months after Tory was born, I thought his awkward
behavior was due to his new surroundings and the fact that he was intruding on
a somewhat dysfunctional mother-daughter family. Sure, we had our quirks, but I
was positive that every family had their share of antics and what most
psychologists would peg as “dysfunctional tendencies.” Then there was the added
stress of being a new father, husband, and stepfather. Surely, he needed time
to adjust, but six years was more than enough time, and he still seems stuck
and unwilling to let go of whatever he is holding back.

Once, awhile back when the awkwardness raked at
my troubled thoughts, I invaded Brett’s space and tried asking him point blank
what it was about me that he couldn’t stand.

It was a Monday night. Tess was still at work
and the girls were sleeping. After showering and changing into my drawstring
shorts and nightshirt, I headed downstairs for a glass of water. Brett was on
the couch with a cold beer in his hand watching a Lakers game. His legs were
kicked up comfortably on the low glass table and his free hand was tucked
behind his head. He didn’t notice me standing awkwardly by the foot of the
stairs, hair dripping, because if he did, I’m sure he would have high-tailed it
out of there.

When the game reached a commercial break—the
one with the idiotic Doublemint Twins riding on a tandem bike—I slipped out of
the shadows and took a seat on the scratchy upholstered loveseat opposite the
leather couch. His body tensed immediately. The beer can crackled under his
tightened grasp. His eyes searched for an escape, but alas, he remained
sitting, face dark and unmoving in the shifting, bluish glow of the television
screen.

Just as with any other difficult conversation,
it started off with me clearing my throat and the obvious question, “Brett, can
we talk?”

The basketball game came back on but neither
one of us watched. Brett’s eyes were fixed on the screen but they weren’t
moving with excitement; they remained rigid and cold. His voice, almost
inaudible, came out in airy puffs. “Sure Loral. What’s this about?”

For a moment, I lost confidence and my voice wavered.
My brow creased trying to formulate the words into educated sentences. This was
an adult conversation and I wasn’t about to get tossed aside like a nagging
child. Fidgeting with my shirt, I said, “Why do you avoid me?”

Brett jerked in alarm by my bluntness. Cold
sweat beaded along his hairline. His hands were shaking as he set the beer down
on the table. Condensation rimmed under the can. Rubbing his agitated hands
roughly against his jeans he shifted in his seat. “I’m not.”

“Do you not like me?”

“I like you.”

“Do I smell?”

“No. You smell fine.”

“Then what is it?”

Uncomfortable silence pierced the air. Finally,
as the basketball game was ending—Lakers besting the Clippers 101 to 88—Brett
rose. “Sorry Loral, but I, uh, almost forgot…I need to make an important call.
Can we continue this conversation later? Great. Thanks.” Two claps on my back
like a good ‘ol chum and he was off.

Angry tears welled in my eyes as I heard the
door slam upstairs. Who would he be calling? He was estranged from his parents,
had no ex-wife or kids to speak of, and he was at the moment unemployed.

Later that week, I tried confiding in Tess, but
she was in a hurry—always running late in the morning—and told me to try a little
harder and cut him some slack. It’s not like it could be easy for him to marry
a woman with a tween daughter. Plus, she loved him.

I wasn’t sure if she actually loved Brett or if
he was a casualty from her last affair, a rebound that would be tossed aside
once a better man approached. Maybe Brett questioned that himself and that was
why he was acting so weird. That, I could understand and deal with. But as the
years passed and it became clear that Brett was planning to stay for the long
haul, I couldn’t shake the feeling of bitter resentment.

I didn’t realize how much I needed to feel
loved, to have a father that protects, and to be a part of a complete unit.
When Brett and the girls came along, they disrupted the team-of-two bond,
although dysfunctional, that I had with my mother. Tess never grounded me, set
boundaries, or said the words “I love you.” I learned to clean up after us both
at an early age; I packed my own lunch, picked out my own clothes for school,
and taught myself that eating too much chocolate right before bed wasn’t a good
idea.

I never contested Tess’s love because I was
still here. She could have tossed me out of the house like the many guys that
she took in, but she kept me, which had to mean that I was important, right?

By the time I place the sandwich fixings back in
their respective compartments, I am fuming. It unnerves me that Brett’s
nonsensical demeanor again rattled me and I am equally annoyed by the fact that
I long to have him hold me in his arms the way he holds Tory and Bella—like a
real daughter.

A few more months and I’ll be out of their
hair, maybe attending a school up north or in another country. With my poor
grades I’ll be lucky if I get accepted to San Diego State. Is college even for
me? Maybe I should just bail early and run away. Maybe get a job, become a
waitress in a small town. Start fresh, become a part of a real family in
another place.

Pouring the crackers into a plastic bowl, I
hear faint cries calling me from a distance.
Bella!
The time on the
stove reads two forty. It has been twenty minutes. My stomach flips and a large
knot lodges in my throat. Panic sets in.

I was gone too long. I am going to be in for it
now.

IN THE SAME NEIGHBORHOOD,
a few
streets down from where Loral was running to check on her sisters, Neil Wilcox
was inserting his home key—one of the many copies made during the fifteen years
he and his wife, Elizabeth, lived there—into the brass keyhole and entered the
dark two bedroom, one bath condo.

Immediately he was greeted with the barks and
whimpers of an excited Mr. Dimples, the pug. Home from work, Neil headed for
the kitchen, gave the pug a friendly pat and a couple dog biscuits to chew on
while he perused the cupboards and fridge for a hearty snack of his own.
Settling on a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a tall glass of
almond milk, he set the materials on the limestone countertop and turned on the
under-cabinet lights. By the time he finished making his snack, Mr. Dimples was
snoozing in his plush bed by the glass slider.

Opening the sliding door that separated the
kitchen from the tiny backyard, he let the sun flood into the room, streaking
the maple floors and stainless steel appliances with its warmth.

Chewing on his sandwich, he stood in a daze,
admiring his well-kept garden, as the drumming headache eased away along with
some of the stress-lines marking his careworn face.

Neil Wilcox:

2:43
P.M.

Work was more stressful than normal. Every day
seems worse than the previous and the dreaded pace isn’t slowing down anytime
in the near future. Answering service calls regarding lawn chairs isn’t my idea
of a-cure-for-cancer kind of job, but being immersed in the daily humdrum of
the office with its frantic meetings and irate callers sure makes it seem like
it.

After sixteen years in the business, being
micromanaged by an idiot boss who just graduated from college and doesn’t know
the first thing about lawn chairs or customer service is tough. Add in the fact
that the company downsized last summer—leaving me to handle the workload and
customer service calls of three outdoor furnishing specialists while also
cutting my benefits—and the job went from unfulfilling to excruciating. “You’re
lucky to even have a job in this economy,” is becoming the new catch-phrase and
anthem for the United States. I sure don’t
feel
that lucky.

The final heat of summer beats against the single
glass pane door as I enjoy the last bite of my satisfying fat-enriched snack.
Peanut butter is a staple in our kitchen cabinet. I tend to consume the gooey
goodness by the heaping spoonful and never get tired of it. And not the
sugar-and-chemical crap, either. Only the natural stuff, the good stuff. I’m
sort of a peanut butter snob, if there is such a thing for brown goop that has
an allowable quota of insects and rodent hair.

Mr. Dimples finally stirs in his bed when I
open the slider and step out onto the patio. Figuring I have at least thirty
minutes before my wife arrives, I decide to make myself useful and clear the
dead leaves that have fallen askew from the neighbor’s overgrown trees.