A Quiet Neighbor (6 page)

Unwilling to move, he hesitates. “Loral?”

Aggravated, I am unable to hold back a sigh.
“What?”

“I love you.” Quickly he leans in to kiss my
cheek before hoisting himself up and over the windowsill. I am too shocked to
utter a witty comeback. He might be my so-called boyfriend, but we’ve never
kissed before nor said the forbidden three words.

I stand by my window in sadness, watching Mike
run back to his party, hiking up his oversized jeans in the process.

Why can’t I love him back? If I were any other
girl, someone smart, wealthy, and shiny like a new copper penny, I know I’d
have no problem getting lost in his hopeful eyes and gentle yet awkward caress.
But I feel damaged, cold, and marred by life and its unfair hand. The truth is
I am just not good enough for him.

His puppy love might be able to overcome all obstacles
within the protective bubble of San Carlos, but once he steps out into the real
world, he’ll snap out of it and realize I am not enough. He can and will do
better. Why can’t Mike see that? Everyone else seems to.

Just last week when I was invited over for
dinner, his mother had clearly insinuated that I wasn’t good enough for her
little boy.

Vivien Cobb is one of those snooty housewives
with salon-teased hair and dry clean only dresses. A string of pearls hangs
religiously around her thick neck, and she never goes out of the house without
sporting her gaudy diamonds. She is the type of mother who values family and
money and doesn’t condone people or actions that hinder or come between the
two. Mrs. Cobb holds the purse strings while Mr. Cobb fills the purse.

The cherry wood table with its intricately
carved pedestal and side leaf extensions gleamed under the chandelier lights.
An itchy wool rug tickled my toes as we sat against high-backed chairs with
French upholstered padding (the French seem to prize opulence over comfort).
Polished silverware was placed beside porcelain plates and dainty teacups. On
the table were stainless steel chafing dishes filled with fried chicken, mashed
potatoes, and overcooked Brussels sprouts.

The overelaborate dinnerware was Vivien’s
clever and subtle way of showing me that I didn’t belong. The point was clearly
made.

Almost immediately, Vivien took the first jab.
“Oh honey,” she chuckled, “not
that
fork. That’s for salad, use this
fork.” Vivien picked up the fork nearest her plate and smiled, smug.

Mumbling a few choice words under my breath, I
picked up the dinner fork and imagined Brussels sprouts sticking out between
Vivien’s professionally-whitened teeth. “I’m not sure why salad forks are on
the table in the first place if they’re not meant to be used.”

Pretending she didn’t hear, Vivien placed her
fork down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin. “Loral, I
was curious. Where do you see yourself going to college?” Without pausing, she
continued, “You are going to college aren’t you? Because my Michael is set on
attending the prestigious UCLA to study law. He’s going to be a great
prosecutor, just like his father.” She smiled, almost accusatorily.

It was one of those half-smiles, directed more
to intimidate rather than to convey warmth. If the comment and smile were
intended to provoke me or make me crumble to the ground, Vivien wasted her
breath. I already knew Mike was going to accomplish so much more without me
than with me. I didn’t need his mother reminding me of that.

Before I could swallow my piece of extra-dried
chicken and provide a smart-alecky answer, Mike spoke in my defense—he always
spoke for me when he knew the question was tough, awkward, or a below-the-belt
insult—and said, “She’s going to be a novelist. Loral’s a wonderful writer and
she’s very creative.”

Cringing, I felt angered by Mike’s innocent
defense and gallant praise, as well as embarrassed. Writing was a hobby. I
never considered making a career out of my meaningless scribbles, and how dare he
announce that to his parents. Besides, who would want to buy anything I’ve written?

No, I wasn’t going to be a writer. Instead, I
was going to be a waitress in a cute remote city where people didn’t look down
at me with their pointy noses, make rash judgments, and criticize me. I’d be
accepted as one of their own, without so much as an Internet search or
background check. I didn’t belong here, but maybe I would someplace else.

From the window I spot Bella skipping ahead of
the family, dressed as a black cat and towing a puffed bag filled with
cavity-causing candy. Scrambling, I quickly turn off the lights and movie and
snuggle under the covers. I am not in the mood to play the
guess-how-much-candy-I-got game. Recently, I haven’t been in much of a mood for
anything except writing in my notebook.

A FULL MOON GLOWED IN THE DARKENING SKY,
casting
white light on the town below. Graying clouds hovered threateningly over the
swaying sycamore and oak trees that lined the streets. The pitter-patter of
excited children dressed as witches, vampires, princesses, ghosts, and pumpkins
echoed in the dark. Tired parents trailed sluggishly behind as their glow-stick
laden children scattered ahead and attached themselves to groups of other rambunctious
children. The doors stayed open longer, the heat escaping, while the cold night
air swooshed past the anxious children with painted faces and masks made of
gleaming cheap plastic.

There was something wonderful about the smell
of the crisp fall air, especially the night of Halloween when sparks of joy,
spooks, and fun glittered the darkened sky. Tonight, the clouds drew in closer,
whispering hints of rain. Wary parents peered up with dread, hurrying their
children along to grab their candy and scoot.

Fathers hoped they’d be home in time to catch
the last few minutes of the basketball game and mothers hoped to have their
kids in bed by nine at the latest. Most wouldn’t get their wish tonight. Most
would barely have a chance to pull risky items from their kids’ stash before
their children taunted and screamed, running on a sugar-high that wouldn’t
crash until ten. If they were lucky.

Neil Wilcox:

8:52
P.M.

Looking to my left, I catch a glimpse of my
beautiful wife’s rosy cheeks and puffed breath. We’ve been walking hand in hand
down the familiar wide, paved sidewalks of San Carlos with our designated
child, Mr. Dimples, the black snot-faced pug we adopted from the pound.

Spending three years trying to conceive a child
through in vitro and other expensive, high-tech methods—each trial, test, and
surgery inevitably leading us down the rabbit hole from one sleepless night to
another—left us with the regrettable decision to stop trying and just get a
dog.

To me, it was a no-brainer, the right thing to
do. It wasn’t in the cards for us and I couldn’t handle seeing Elizabeth go
through countless rollercoaster days of hope and then more of despair. But
Elizabeth didn’t want to give up; she wanted the chance to be a part of a
miracle even if it meant losing our house, savings, and souls in the process.
She was lost in the muck of it and couldn’t see clearly. I had to open her
eyes.

Now we have Mr. Dimples.

For the most part he’s like any other child. He
craves attention, loves cuddles, and snores when he sleeps. Elizabeth suggested
we try adopting a child but I begged her not to. I drew the line, pushed my
opposing case on her and won. It was the first time I raised my voice and
although her trembling face broke my heart, I didn’t waver. I couldn’t.

There are far less hoops to jump through and
papers to sign when adopting a dog versus a child. I feared what the stress of
strangers digging up our past would do to Elizabeth’s fragile mental state. I
couldn’t take the chance, so I pushed dog adoption until she agreed. We never
spoke of having kids again; the idea sloughed from our active memories and
festered like a latent sore.

Owning a dog still meant a life change. Waking
up half an hour earlier than usual, rushing home during my lunch break, and
going for an after dinner walk in the evening. All of this I knew and was
prepared for. What I didn’t realize was the idea I’d grow to love the change.

The puppy teased a new glow in my wife’s face
and the daily walks became a therapy session—a time when we could wind-down
from our stressful day and reconnect by holding hands and breathing in the
fresh open air.

Halloween night is the best time to walk a dog.
Excitement is in the air and there are so many children to be distracted by,
hands to lick, and other dogs to bark at.

Elizabeth loves dressing Mr. Dimples up in tiny
costumes. She’ll spend weeks dreaming up a design, picking out the fabric, and
sewing under a dim light with a needle and thread.

Sometimes a dark shadow flashes across her eyes
when she sees the little children grab hold of their mother’s hand and stand on
their tippy-toes to kiss their mother’s cheek. But as quickly as the shadow
enters, it vanishes.

It pains me to see my wife aching. I never want
her to be without and I’m the type of guy who will move mountains just to crack
a smile on my wife’s lips. But I will never risk the chance of losing Elizabeth
again, even if that means she goes through life with one regret.

Last year, Elizabeth dressed Mr. Dimples as a
tiger. This year, since Mr. Dimples is the color black, except for the small
white indent on his left cheek, she dressed him up like a cat—an oxymoron since
Elizabeth hates cats. After all, Halloween is a time for tricks and scares, and
cats scare the bejeezus out of her.

“Puppy!” A girl in a black cat costume squeals
in delight. Swinging an overfilled plastic bag a little too jubilantly, a
couple Snickers and Tootsie Rolls carelessly spill over and get left behind for
another kid to scoop up. “Hi puppy, I’m a cat too, except my tail isn’t real.
See?” The girl twirls around so we can see the faux tail tied to her waist. “My
name is Bella, what’s yours?” Kneeling down to accept the sloppy kisses, the
girl’s round eyes peer up anxiously waiting for a response.

“His name is Mr. Dimples,” I say.

Giggling, Bella exclaims, “Mr. Dimples? That’s
funny!” Her sun-kissed pigtails bounce up and down as she excitedly pets Mr.
Dimples. Turning back, she motions for her sister, dressed as a pink princess,
to come and join them.

Down the street, a distinguished man and woman
increase their stride to catch up. The man wears jeans and a green pullover
sweater, while the woman is dressed in a tailored deep blue suit and designer
heels. Faces on both are strained and agitated by their daughter’s unexpected
flight.

“Mr. Dimples, this is my sister Tory. Tory,
this is Mr. Dimples. Isn’t his name funny?”

“Bella, it’s because he’s a boy and he has a
white spot on the left cheek. Right? Am I right, mister?” Suddenly unsure, Tory
looks up at me, questioningly.

I wonder what the girls see when they look at
us. I am dressed in a white powdered wig and puffy navy blue suit and Elizabeth
wears a similar wig and full brown skirt. Our faces are both powdered a stark
white and we both wear ruffled white blouses signifying an earlier era.

“That’s right. My, aren’t you a smart girl,”
Elizabeth says.

Tory’s lips curve into a smug smile. Bella rolls
her eyes.

As the girls continue to pet Mr. Dimples and
receive gracious hot licks, their parents finally catch up to them, haggard and
out of breath.

Elizabeth extends a hand and smiles. “You have
two beautiful daughters.”

The woman in the blue suit shakes Elizabeth’s
hand daintily. “Yes, well, they’re quite a handful. You know how they can get.
Children will be children, I suppose.”

I wince and clear my throat, noticing the
slight recoil in my wife’s shoulders. “Hi, I’m George, and this is my lovely
wife, Martha, and of course, our child, Mr. Dimples.”

“But he’s a dog,” Tory counters, her tiny brows
knitting in concern.

“Tory!” The woman in the blue suit shoots her
daughter a look of disapproval.

Tory flinches, mumbling, “But he
is
a
dog.”

Elizabeth hikes up her heavy skirt and kneels
in front of the pink princess. In a soft voice she says, “You know, you’re
right, Mr. Dimples is a dog. Actually he’s a pug. But I guess, since we don’t
have any children of our own, we consider Mr. Dimples to be our child.”

“Oh,” Tory mumbles, shooting her mom an I-told-you-so
look.

“Come on kids, time to go home.” The man in the
green pullover eagerly rounds up his kids, obviously distracted, and turns
toward their house. Before they are out of earshot, the man turns—remembering
his manners—waves and yells, “Happy Halloween!”

I nod. “Happy Halloween,” I yell back and
casually hook an arm around my wife’s frail hip. We pause in place, taking a
moment to canoodle under the old oak tree as our so-called “child” finishes his
business. As Elizabeth bends down to pick up the fresh droppings, I notice the
handsome family entering the corner white house with blue shingles. When I see the
glow from the downstairs window marking the family’s entrance, I think,
now
that would be the kind of house I would have gotten if we had kids
.