A Quiet Neighbor (5 page)

The room was quaint, as one would expect a bar
in a small mountain town to be: rustic tables and chairs, wood beams, and bare,
carbon-filament light bulbs speckled with dust. The wooden walls were cheaply
lined with the same material lining the two pool tables positioned near the
back, and were cluttered with California sports memorabilia, US flags, and
photos of exuberant, half-naked cheerleaders. Smoking and large dogs were
permitted, so the smell was far from pleasant. Mostly men in work boots, plaid
shirts and jeans (mirror images of the old man I met earlier) filled the bar
stools and ladder-backed wooden chairs. The light pine tables gleamed from the
many layers of lacquer required to endure years of hard use.

After a few minutes the noisy chatter returned
and I was forgotten.

A large jukebox stood in a corner and a young
man was hovering over it, contemplating the long list of songs. He settled on
Jailhouse
Rock
and moved toward the bar, leaning his solid body against the gleaming rail.
His posture was hunched but anxious as he drummed his calloused fingers against
the counter while peering into the back room from time to time. I took the seat
two stools down from where the guy stood, picked up a laminated menu, and
waited.

Scanning the menu, I noted most items were deep-fried.
When a matronly lady with a hearty laugh and large smile hustled over with pad
and pen in hand, I ordered a bowl of chowder and a glass of cider. “Excellent
choice. Our chowder is the best in the county,” she said grinning, showing off
the gap between her two front teeth. “So what brings you around to these neck
of the woods?” She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with excitement and the
hope of gossip.

“I thought you said the chowder is the best in
the county,” I said, giving nothing away.

She peered at me in silence, before brushing
off my unwillingness to chat with a carefree chuckle. “Honey, I wasn’t born
yesterday. Shouldn’t you be at school or work or something?”

“I took the day off.”

“For chowder?”

“Maybe.”

“Humph.” Clearly annoyed at my clipped answers,
she gave up and headed to the back to ladle a bowl of soup and pull a warm
cider. When she returned she eyed the anxious guy still strumming his fingers
against the lacquered counter. She plopped the bowl and mug in front of me
indifferently before addressing him.

“Nathan, what are you still hovering around
here for? Don’t you have better things to do than bothering Ms. Darling?”

At the sound of her name, I stopped slurping my
chowder and listened.

“Awww, Patty. I just wanna talk to her.”

“But maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you.
Have you thought about that?”

Nathan plopped on the stool, defeated. Nodding,
he said, “I know. But—Liz!”

Time stood still when Elizabeth flowed out from
the back room. She tied a crisp white apron around her blue dress, while her
brown hair was already tied back in a simple ponytail, accentuating her large
blue eyes and slender neck. Her lips were taut as she hurriedly clocked in for
her afternoon shift. Grabbing a damp cloth, she skirted around Nathan’s puppy
dog eyes and began wiping down the empty tables.

I watched curiously, hunched over my soup bowl,
as Nathan pathetically attempted to ask Elizabeth on a date. I sat hypnotized
as she made her way around the room, her hips swaying softly to the beat of the
music as she took orders, refilled drinks, and scrubbed grime off tables. As
she made her way back toward the bar stools, I swiveled forward and finished
off what remained of the thick chowder. Although the guy was at least a foot
taller and broader in chest, I wasn’t threatened. I felt more alive than I had
in years. She was the type of woman that could make a simple man feel
invincible.

“Would you like a refill?” Her eyes were
downcast and her sweet voice remained soft and steady, yet trepidation and
anger fizzled in the background. If I didn’t know what to listen for, I would
have missed it.

I nodded stupidly, still unable to speak or
even look her in the eyes. She passed by without a second glance. Reaching into
my front pocket, I removed the box that had weighed heavy on my heart for the
past few weeks. Unsure if the timing would ever be perfect, I opened the tiny
box and pushed it forward when Elizabeth returned with my refill.

The gold gleamed like diamonds in the dingy
room. The commotion in the pub heightened after a lengthy pause. I wasn’t even
aware of Nathan’s presence; my only focus was Elizabeth and her stunned face.
Fear eased into recognition and delight. Her cheeks bloomed into a rosy pink as
her blue eyes misted in tears. As if the ring were made of glass, she carefully
plucked the ring from the gray cushion of the box and slipped it onto her
delicate finger. Fluttering her hands in the air so the light caught the glint
of the metal, her lips curved into a delighted smile.

“You came back,” she breathed.

“Of course.” I silently counted to ten,
patiently waiting for her to relax her tense shoulders. I knew she needed time
to let my presence sink in. Time for her mind to process the situation and not
be afraid. I gave her that time so I could reach out and touch her hand without
her flinching. I wanted to create the perfect moment. “I love you, Elizabeth.
Thank you for patiently waiting for me. Now, let me take you home.”

It is seven o’clock and dinner is getting cold.
The table is set with two economy sized bowls filled with dinner—our trusty
“meal bowls” that have serviced us well throughout the years. Usually filled
with one type of meat, vegetable, and a cup of brown rice—meeting all the
necessary nutrition requirements—the meal bowl has become a staple in our
household. Mr. Dimples’ bowl, stationed under the table, is already licked
clean.

I am starting to worry about Elizabeth and
wonder why she isn’t home yet. Maybe her last patient arrived late or they had
a staff meeting after work. Though that is unlikely on a Saturday, since the
office closes early. But why hasn’t she called? She would have called.

I make sure to turn the porch light on before
starting dinner so she doesn’t have any surprises. Danger lurks everywhere in
the dark. She hates the neighbor’s cat that seems to be out to get her, she
can’t stand the wind chimes clanging out back, and she especially despises
spiders. I can’t do anything to prevent the first two from scaring her, but I can
do something about the latter. I never want her to walk into a well-designed
web before she makes it to the front door. That could ruin the evening.

As predicted, the cat and the wind chimes bring
chills to Elizabeth’s skin, but she is grateful for the light that illuminates her
spider-free path to the front door. She comes in, arms full of groceries, wearing
a worn smile. Mr. Dimples puts up a good fight to win her attention, but I am
bigger and stronger and head in for a kiss.

“You made dinner? I thought we didn’t have much
in the fridge so I stopped by the market on the way home. I should have called.
I’m sorry.”

I reach for the bags of groceries with one hand
and hug my wife with the other. She seems disoriented and tired. I try to guide
her to the table, but she stalls. It is then that I eye the distorted orange
pumpkin propped by the doorway under the hazy glow of the porch light.

I shriek with glee, grinning from ear to ear.
“You bought us a pumpkin?”

“And a few special gourds to decorate the table
with,” she proudly adds.

“You’re a doll.” I lean in a second time to
kiss my blushing wife. “I was worried about you when you didn’t call.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was going to, but the
roads were so hectic and you know how I get when I’m frazzled. All I wanted was
to be home as fast as I could. Plus, I had to focus on the cars around me
before I got smashed to smithereens.” She smiles when I frown. I don’t even
want to think about the possibility of losing my wife to a careless driver and
she knows it. She is my everything and I am hers. Shifting her stance, she
continues, “Then I was thinking about dinner so I stopped by Keil’s on the way
home.” Her eyes drift to the meal bowls cooling on the table. “I didn’t realize
we had enough food for a meal bowl. If I’d known I would’ve headed straight
home instead of hunkering through the aisles fighting for the juiciest chicken
and freshest squash.” She grins. “I’m beat.”

“Well at least we have food for tomorrow
night.” I quickly place the purchases into the fridge and head toward the table
to pull the seat out for my wife.

Since the day I fell in love, I promised myself
that I would do everything possible to keep her safe, to love her, and to make
her feel like the happiest woman in the world. There is nothing I wouldn’t do
for my Elizabeth.

Some of our earlier dates were to the same
grocery store she went to tonight. The San Carlos shopping center, although
recently renovated with a fresh coat of beige paint and forest green trim,
still holds the drab historic look of the seventies. All the town’s necessities
can be found in this lot. There is the market, liquor store, pharmacy, hardware
store, a couple of restaurants/eateries, gas station, dry cleaning, and bank.

Our dates, such as walking up and down the
bakery, meat, and produce aisles, renting a comedy or action video from the
automated kiosk, or walking the aisles of the pharmacy, were cheap but
delightful. We used to walk along the well-stocked aisles, holding hands and
creating lively stories of what we would have in our model kitchen one day.

Sometimes we’d make a game of it and snoop over
people’s shoulders to peer into their carts. I would rate the carts based on
its content and describe what meal I’d make us with the cart that scored the
highest. The best one was a cart filled with a package of ground turkey, red
potatoes, tomato paste, onions, garlic, carrots, canned corn and beans, and an
assortment of spices (garlic powder, cumin, chili powder, and paprika). I
described a culinary chili masterpiece. The only thing missing from the cart
was a box of cornbread mix.

I don’t know what came over me, but I had to intervene.
I scanned the checkout lines until I spotted the lady with the chili cart
waiting three carts behind the register and made a dash down the baking isle. I
probably startled Elizabeth, but I couldn’t help it. I was on a mission to make
the meal perfect, as if I were desperately trying to make ours perfect. I
definitely shocked the chili cart lady but in the end she agreed with my
addition and thanked me.

Elizabeth and I always talked about our future.
“Just wait,” I would whisper in her ear, “one day we will have our own
well-stocked kitchen with all the good eats and glittery appliances that your
heart desires. I will make it happen. You’ll see.”

Although I’m a year younger, I always make sure
she can count on me. Age is merely a number and ultimately it is my actions
that reflect my role in the relationship. I’m the protector and she is my
guiding light.

“Thanks again for the pumpkin,” I whisper in
her ear, “I love you so much.”

“I love you more.”

Chapter
Two:

Monday,
October 31, 2011

7:30
P.M.

Loral Holmes:

Just as I figured, I got grounded that day at
the pool for not keeping a close eye on the girls. Bella skinned her knee after
stumbling over a loose piece of flagstone jutting from the pool surround.
Luckily she didn’t break a bone, hit her head, or worse. Then I would be
receiving a harsher sentence rather than just missing tonight’s yearly
Halloween shindig over at Mike’s house.

Michael Cobb is my best friend turned
boyfriend—not by choice but due to the natural progression of not refuting the
situation. Apparently he liked me for years—or so he claims—waiting in the
wings until I noticed him. Come to think of it, he was always there to walk me
to class, ready to go for a run just as I headed outside in my running gear,
and offered his friendship without asking for mine in return.

Eventually, I gave in, and then before I knew
it, got slapped on the back with the label of “Mike’s girlfriend.” At first I
was annoyed, but then I realized I was above the rumors and petty drama
surrounding high school and shrugged it off. The fact is, I actually enjoy
having him around.

Mike is a sweet guy, with sandy brown hair that
remains tousled from running his fingers relentlessly through the thin strands,
bright puppy-dog eyes that luminesce every time he catches my attention, and a
stocky build from playing quarterback on the high school varsity football team
(Go Patriots!).

I met Mike when my new family moved into town a
few years ago. He was out shooting hoops in his driveway with a few of his
friends. I caught him missing a pass when I stepped out of Tess’s car. While
his friends were eying the Beemer, Mike was eying me.

He told me later that he received a few nudges
and catcalls from his friends, but he shirked them off. He was instantly
infatuated when I couldn’t have cared less. Nothing against him, but how can
you be infatuated with someone you haven’t even met yet? Plus, I was in no mood
to make friends that day. I didn’t want to move to a new house, with a new car
and a new family. It was weird, uncomfortable, and I missed my old life. The
life before Brett came into the picture, when it was just Tess and me.

Being popular, wealthy, and charming, Mike was
invited to every birthday party, event, and trip in the school’s social
calendar, to which he always tried to drag me along as his plus one. Most of
the time I met his plea with a frown and abruptly declined, but I could never
say no to his Halloween bash. Not because it was the biggest event in town, but
because everyone arrived as someone or something else and I loved the
possibility of being different for a day. To be someone else. To not be Loral
Holmes.

There is distinct disappointment laced in
Mike’s voice when I call to inform him of my plight. His puppy dog whimper does
little to lessen the chill that ices my heart.

To most, my demeanor is off-putting at best. I don’t
try to be unfriendly; it just comes across that way. Only Mike has been willing
to crack my icy surface and patiently await my approval and trust. Mike has
been my only friend and ally at Patrick Henry High School and we both seem to
be fine with that.

“Maybe I can talk to your mom and stepdad and explain
that I need you to help with the decorations. That way you can at least come
for the beginning of the party and snag a few treats on the way out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I can be very convincing when I want
to be. Parents love me.”

“Yeah, I know. But remember last year? I don’t
think they’ve forgotten about that yet.”

Through the pause, I can almost visualize Mike
blushing.

Last year I made the mistake of sneaking into
Tess’s closet to put together a Halloween costume. Apparently, the nurse outfit
was too revealing for Tess and Brett and cost me a scolding from Tess and the
silent treatment from Brett. The look on his face when he saw me walk down the
stairs was priceless. A cross between seeing a ghost and seeing a bloody clown.
Brett didn’t look at me for a week and ever since, he avoided me as much as
possible.

I still don’t understand what the big deal was.
I was sixteen then and all the girls my age were wearing similar or more
scandalous costumes for Halloween. It wasn’t like I even had anything to show.
The white button-up dress was a tad short and the crisscross in the front
dipped a bit low, but everything else was covered.

A part of me wonders if last year’s costume
scandal played a role in this year’s grounding sentence. Brett looked pleased
when Tess grounded me, although I have a hard time deciphering his smirks, smiles,
and frowns. They all look the same to me.

“Well it won’t be the same without you. I’ll
save you a caramel apple. I know they’re your favorite.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure you’ll have fun without
me. You probably won’t even know that I’m not there.”

“I’ll know,” he admits wistfully.

Stepping into the shower, I anticipate a
peaceful night alone, removed from the hectic household. Trading my freedom for
a night to myself, I can’t wait for a night of snuggling under the covers,
nails deep into a scary movie, munching on buttery popcorn, while Tess and
Brett take the girls around the neighborhood to trick-or-treat and stockpile
their bellies with sugar, chocolate, and gummies galore. I’m sure they didn’t
realize at the time, that grounding me meant grounding themselves to
trick-or-treat duty.

The steaming spray of water pounds down over my
chilled body. Shivering slightly, I ease back my head, greedily soaking up the
high-pressure steam that warms my bones. Tonight I have the luxury of spending
thirty minutes in the shower rather than the normal ten. Taking my time, I
lather my skin with Tess’s prized body wash that smells of flowers and leaves
my skin feeling like silk. I don’t care much for the womanly scent but I take
pleasure in using what is forbidden. Happily, I douse the sponge with more body
wash and lather my body a second time.

As I bundle up in my terry-cotton robe, I can
hear the music thumping from across the street. From the vantage point of my
window, I can see kids dressed up in Halloween garb piling out from the line of
cars parked along the street. More cars circle the neighborhood trying to find
parking. Lights flicker and glow from the decorated front porch.

From my years of attendance I can visualize the
house (inside and out) decorated with cotton webs, ghouls, goblins, witches,
skulls, vampires, and loose eyeballs. There is always a huge ice sculpture of a
hand, face, or body part floating in a large bubbling punch bowl, filled with
blood-colored punch. Dance music blares through the recessed high-def speakers,
mixed every so often with creepy snippets of howls, footsteps, scratching
noises, and heckles.

The party is always a hit. Nearly everyone from
our grade is invited; the unfortunate souls left out beg for a box-of-horror
invite, sometimes breaking into tears, other times escalating to bribes and threats.

A box-of-horror invite consists of a simple
cardboard box covered in thick black felt paper with wisps of stretched cotton
to simulate cobwebs. Inside is also black with a single battery-powered light
bulb that turns on when opened. The eerie glow from the dim bulb illuminates a
plain card that provides directions to Mike’s house, time, and stipulations.
The stipulations either depict what costume to wear, what secret password to
use for admittance, or what noise to make whenever a key word or sound is
heard.

This year’s invite is tucked away in my desk
drawer. The stipulation I received was to kiss Mike every time I hear a howl.
Of course I wouldn’t have played along. I never do. But I am sure there are
many more howling snippets planted in the music this year.

My house is a deep contrast to the Halloween
shindig going on across the street. The dark halls and rooms are cold and
silent. Every groan and creak from the walls and floorboards is genuine and not
made for a cheap thrill. Loneliness is embraced.

Walking down the stairs, I cross a litter of
shoes, dolls, and crayons to get to the kitchen where I proceed to pop a bag of
buttered popcorn in bliss. Not bothering to turn on any lights, I watch in the
darkness as the faint glow from the microwave illuminates my face. I smile, but
I know sadness lurks in my eyes. I never feel completely happy.

Like a hawk, I watch the bag inflate with
air-popped kernels slathered in butter, and stop the microwave twenty seconds
short. A few unpopped kernels are better than a bag half-charred black. When
the popping ceases, I sprinkle salt and garlic powder into the bag, give it a
hefty shake, and pour the popcorn into a large mixing bowl. The pungent aroma
spreads fast throughout the halls and clings to the furnishings with a fury
that will inevitably last days instead of hours.

Settling into my bed with a large bowl of
popcorn and my favorite scary movie loaded in the DVD player, I enjoy the rest
of my sentence, alone in the dark, getting scared shitless by Stephen King’s
It
.
As Mike would have mentioned if he were here, “an oldie but a goodie.”
Definitely a goodie.

Just as the red balloon on-screen rises
ominously into the light blue sky, I hear a scratching sound and freeze.
Worried, I try telling myself I am imagining the sound. But when I hear the
scratching sound again, I lower the volume. This time the sound rises in a
clunky duet with my rapidly beating heart.

Drawing in a few quick breaths, I slowly turn
toward the window, forcing myself to face whatever it is I fear. Gripping the
remote I lean toward the window as far as I can without getting out of bed,
almost certain I will see a grizzly clown grinning from behind the thin window
pane, corners of his lips dripping laughably in blood. What I see instead is a
loose branch blowing in the wind that taps every few seconds against the
fragile glass.

It is just a branch.

As I settle back under the warmth of the covers
a
thump thump
shocks my system; a meaty hand slaps the glass pane,
twice.

I jump and scream.

In a flash I am out of bed and crouched on the
floor, trembling with fear.

A crop of sandy brown hair, bloodied by a
protruding meat cleaver pops into view. Shaking, I push open the window and a
gust of wind blows through my damp hair. Anger brews like fire in my belly. I am
pissed.

“Mike? What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” I pull Mike over the windowsill by his shirt collar and watch him fall
in a large clumsy heap onto the champagne carpet below.

Exasperated from the climb, it takes a few
moments for Mike to catch his breath. He is dressed as a kid who got killed by
a meat cleaver. His face is painted white. Black makeup encircles his bright
blue eyes. Red paint is splotched all over his clothes, dribbled down the left
side of his face, and caked in his hair.

He grins like an idiot. “I came to see you. I
wanted to make sure you weren’t sitting alone in a dark room brooding about not
being able to attend the best party of the year.”

I poke a finger at his chest, but what I really
want to do is smother him. “You better watch out. If that chest puffs out any
further, you’ll be on the bench for the rest of the season for sure.”

“Naw,” Mike pounds his chest with his fists,
“this chest is made of steel.”

“You wish.”

He pauses and fumbles with the zipper on his
jacket. I forget how sensitive he is.

Biting back a curse, I curtail the need to
place my arms around Mike’s shoulders and protect him from the dark realities
of the world we live in. Mike’s unfailing innocence produces a desire to slap
and hug him at the same time.

“Here,” Mike unveils a large candied apple
protected by clear cellophane, decorated with tiny orange pumpkins that he’d
been unsuccessfully trying to hide in his jacket pocket. The caramel is already
melting from his body heat and clings to the cellophane in a sticky mess. “I
thought you might want a sweet treat to nibble on.”

“Thanks Mike, but you really shouldn’t have
come. Everyone’s probably wondering where you disappeared to.”

He shrugs. “I have some time before they send
out the troops.” He eyes the red balloon distorted on the frozen screen and
then glances wistfully at my bed. “I can stay and finish the rest of the movie
with you if you’d like.” His bright blue eyes enlarge, hopeful, briefly
reminding me of Bella whenever she tries to coax me into something I don’t want
to do.

“Actually, I’m kinda tired and was about to
turn off the movie right before you came and scared the shit out of me.” I
watch his shoulders droop in disappointment. “You should really head back to
the party. I’m sure you’ve outdone yourself this year.”

His smile returns. “I sure did.”

“I thought so…well, you should head back. Good
night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”