A Quiet Neighbor (9 page)

Not even a picture was printed, although five
were provided. My favorite picture is the one I took of her about five years
ago. She was crouched over her prized flower bed, sun streaming through the
laced purple openings from the swaying peppermint tree, the breeze blowing back
her soft brown hair, and the slight exertion painting her cheeks pink. She
looked radiant and the world wasn’t going to get a chance to see it, not even
in black and white.

I stare over at Mr. Dimples. The black pug
huddles in his bed in the corner of the kitchen, softly wheezing in sadness.
Mr. Dimples hasn’t moved from his position except to slurp some water and take
a leak. Watching Mr. Dimples, sadness floods my veins and subsides into hollow
emptiness.

I am like a piece of driftwood, floating in the
ocean, eventually tossed and destroyed by the chopping waves, numbly waiting
out my fate until it is time for pieces of me to sink to the bottom.

I, now, more than ever, cherish the fact we
didn’t have any kids. I would have to suck it up and put on a happy clown face.
I would have to look after them, or worse, they would be looking after me,
strangling me with their pity looks and overprotective suggestions. I would
have to move in with one of them or be put in a home. I would never be able to
mourn my loss in peace.

New tears tumble freely down my face.

Amidst the looming shadows and screen of
depression that stain the walls a dusty yellow, I mourn for my dead wife, and
for the years I spent and will continue to spend loving her.

With tears streaming down my face, I close my
heavy eyes and imagine my wife brushing her lips against my cheek, the smell of
rose petals on her breath, and the scent of peppermint tinting the air.

With great sadness I remember how she used to
tug at my fat “wings” and caress the lean muscles along the length of my back.

“You’re my cutie,” I used to whisper.

“And you’re my petutie,” she used to counter
with a mischievous grin.

The pain shoots through me like a weighted,
gold-tipped bullet careening seamlessly past the other organs and zeroing in on
the one that matters most: my heart.

Her image is slipping from my memory, her face
fading into a blank white. Squeezing my eyes tighter, I try to conjure up
another memory, another glimpse of my wife, anything to keep her fresh in my
mind a little longer. It’s been a long time since I wanted something so much I was
willing to sell my soul.

A new image emerges and I sigh in relief. I
remember the way her long hair tickled as she leaned across me in bed to turn
off the alarm. Most mornings I slept through the annoying buzz—set to go off at
six-thirty every morning—but there were some mornings I’d just let it ring so I
could feel her warm body press against mine. I cherished every moment her soft
skin skimmed mine, every moment I smelled lavender in her hair, and every
moment I was able to feel the warmth of her sweet breath upon my lips.

Normally, the first few years of marriage are
fondly remembered and cherished. The sense of newness sparking the air.
Learning new delicious facts about each other. Building a life. Trading kisses
and hugs. Desperately feeding each other’s sexual hunger with surprising
stamina. Then as the years pass, normalcy returns and routine kicks in. Days
become strained, sex becomes robotic, and loneliness or a sense of loss wiggles
its nagging head into one or both minds. A baby emerges and a closeness that
seemed lost momentarily returns. The baby cries, sleep deprivation is imminent,
and nostalgia for the single life comes and goes in waves throughout the years
to come.

But for me, the last five years of marriage are
what I cherish and cling to, while the first few I try desperately to ignore
and bury. If I had the notion that hypnosis could erase those first few years,
I would have surely shelled out the dough to make it happen. But I am a skeptic
like many are, and I never looked into the possibility.

After getting married at the courthouse near
Big Bear, with Aunt Angie and her boyfriend as the only two witnesses, I
brought Elizabeth to my newly spruced up apartment in Clairemont. I remembered
the way she stood, slightly off balance, taking it all in. The fresh peach
paint that coated the slightly marred walls. The scrubbed clean linoleum and
pale green formica countertops. The floral upholstered couch and simple full
bed with white cotton sheets. The pipes still rattled but the drips had
stopped. And muted noises still filtered through the paper-thin walls that
sandwiched us in a box between the noisebags (heavy footers, weed smokers, and
wailing bottle-fed kids).

Quietly she walked the apartment, her butterfly
steps causing loud squeaks in the loose floorboards. Every few minutes she’d
pick up a knickknack and examine it before setting it back down. She aimlessly
would turn on the faucet and watch the water run down the drain. She’d take a
seat on one side of the couch and then the other. Then she’d stare at the bed,
a haunting look staining her face a pale shade of gray. Averting her eyes,
she’d casually move on to examine another new find.

The first night she allowed me to undress her
and make love, she laid so still, her head turned to the side, a lone tear
trickling down her face. The second night, she flinched and I stopped mid-way,
no longer feeling the need to continue. The third night, we laid side by side
fully dressed and silent, with a foot of space separating our cold, untouched bodies.

Some days I’d come home from work and she’d be
down on her knees scrubbing the spotless floor raw until the linoleum started
to peel up to reveal the cold cement foundation. Other days she’d be sitting on
the couch staring aimlessly into the peach colored wall.

With all this, she never left, never cried,
never complained, and also never expressed any feelings of warmth or love. Yet
I continued to love her. I cared for her, fed her, and worked to keep a roof
over our heads. Then finally after a few months had passed, she held my hand.
She made a conscious effort to trust me.

The nights were sometimes long and dreary. Nightmares
would haunt us both as she screamed herself awake, drenched in sweat and
splotched with tears. I’d hold onto her when the pain dug its nails deep into
her subconscious and awakened scarring memories.

Resisting the desire to send her to see a
therapist, I did what I thought best and gave her space when she wanted it and
held her tight when the monsters invaded her dreams.

The nightmares started to dwindle and fade.
They sparked up less frequently and with less intensity. A single touch led to
a hug and then a kiss and then much more. After a couple years I watched her
blossom into a rose, delicate and sweet. She bloomed, and one day she held me
in bed and whispered “thank you” in my ear, and I knew it was all worth it.

Her hot breath stirred a need in me that I
thought was dead. The following night she looked into my eyes and showed me the
hunger and love that I once believed I would never live to see. I let her take
control that night, afraid to startle her or bring back the fear. She seduced
me. It was awkward, careful, and slow, but it was wonderful. She finally was
able to completely trust me and let herself be loved.

I had unraveled every fragile layer and exposed
her large beating heart. We were in love. And we had a marriage that most
envied. It was simple. It was beautiful. It was ours. And now it was gone. A
memory. A distant dream.

Haggard from the overload of rushing memories,
I rub my throbbing temples and open a bleary eye. What purpose do I have to
live now? What joy will I get out of a life without Elizabeth?

Wearily I stand from my lonely chair—usually
our chairs touched when we ate our meals or drank our tea—and walk up the
lonely oak steps to the bedroom to finally sleep.

The queen sized bed, which seemed too big when
Elizabeth was alive, now seems like a fortress of solitude. We only used a
small fraction of the bed because I had grown accustomed to holding her tight
even when asleep (to help keep away the bad dreams that sometimes still haunted
Elizabeth when she was stressed). Now I hold onto her pillow, but it isn’t the
same. Nothing will ever be the same again.

There are days and nights she enters my dreams.
The good ones I cherish, the bad ones jerk me awake and send me toward the
tumbler of scotch I now keep by the bedside table. I purchased a bottle
immediately after her death and can’t seem to function without it. I have never
been a heavy drinker. It only takes one long burning sip to drown my sorrows
and sedate my aching heart.

I know I won’t be able to keep up the mourning
widower act for much longer. I will have to return to work, rebuild a new
routine without Elizabeth, clean my house, and take care of Mr. Dimples alone.

But not today.

Today I will continue to morn and self-loathe.
Today I will wallow in despair, pain, and regret.

Tomorrow is another day. Leave the work and
responsibility for tomorrow.

Chapter
Four:

Monday,
January 9, 2012

6:30
A.M.

Loral Holmes:

The shrill buzzing of the alarm clock isn’t
what stirs me from underneath the warm covers; what does is Tory and Bella,
taking turns annoying me awake.

“Loral, Loral, wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP. Are
you awake?”

Two pairs of anxious gray-blue eyes, crusty
from sleep, peer over the bed.

“Shit,” I grumble. “Why don’t you see what Tess
and Brett are up to?” What I want to say is
go bug them and wake them up
instead
.

“They’re sleeping.”

Great, so I’m denied my beauty rest because the
actual adults in this house can’t seem to act like it.

“Alright, go get dressed and then I’ll make
breakfast,” I say.

The girls release their grasp on the edge of
the bed and run for the closet. I try pulling the covers over my head to avoid
seeing the mess they are probably making in our room, but an image of the time
Bella dressed herself flashes in my mind and I have to get up. A few weeks
back, Bella decided to be a big girl and dress herself in a pink tutu, placed
over bright green tights and coordinated with an Elmo t-shirt and tap shoes. I
don’t want to give people any more ammunition than necessary to snicker about
our family.

Coffee is waiting for me in the kitchen. The
smell is intoxicating as it filters in steaming curls, lulling me forward. I
grab a mug before the girls race down the stairs. I have the girls eat cereal—their
choice—and make toasted bread with butter for myself.

Tess strolls into the kitchen by the time I finish
with my first mug and pour myself a second. She is dressed in a cream suit and
shock orange pumps, looking radiant as ever. She always says cultivating her
appearance is part of her job. Her makeup is flawless and her hair flows in a
light, shimmering cascade down her back. She could have been a model or an
actress—or so I’ve been told time and time again by the many men who’ve shared
her bed—but she is instead a successful real estate agent.

She catches the glint from the gold chain that
hangs possessively around my neck when I hand her a mug of coffee.

Taking a sip, Tess casually says, “What’s
that?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I totally
forgot about the necklace, yet I still manage to sound defensive.

Tess takes another sip of coffee and lifts a
single brow, eyeing the section below my neck and around my collarbone.
Registering the look, my face heats and my hand rises instinctively to cover
the knobby ring, trying unsuccessfully to hide it. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing, huh? Let me see.”

“No.” I pull away from Tess’s teasing grip, but
the ring has already peeked over my v-neck shirt. The chain glimmers brightly
under the fluorescent lights.

I sulk while she examines the necklace and its
gaudy charm. I cannot believe how stupid I am to wear a v-neck. I’ve been so
good about hiding it over the past week and somehow it slipped my mind. I
forgot it was there.

Suppressing a smirk, Tess says, “Hmmm, isn’t
that something? A guy’s class ring? You never told me you and Mike were an
item.”

I shrug defensively. “You never asked. Besides,
I’m thinking about breaking up with him once the school year is over.”

“Really? And why would you do that? He’s a
doll.”

I frown and mumble, “Exactly.”

“Really, Loral. Sometimes, I wonder if you are
really my child. Having a boy fawn all over you is a good thing. Trust me.”

“You should know,” I retort. Tess goes through
men like candy.

“You know, when I first met Brett, it wasn’t
all fireworks right off the bat. It took work. But those first few
moments…those were the best.” Tess sighs as her eyes glaze, deep in reverie.

“Yup, got it. You don’t have to rehash how the
two of you hooked up. We know.” I motion toward the girls.

“Really Loral, sometimes you’re a little too
brash. Young love isn’t something to sneeze at, it’s something to cherish.
You’re only young once. Take advantage. Don’t settle, but by all means don’t
wait until one day you wake up and your skin just hangs and you have too many
gray hairs to know what to do with.”

Tess has a way of making every topic about her.

She starts retelling the story of how she and
Brett met and I drown her out. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard the story,
and it won’t be the last. It’s like she’s set on living in the past—as if the
present isn’t as glamorous as she had hoped—and ran out of time for a redo. At
times I wonder if the girls and I are just a crimp in her style.

There is no doubt in my mind that Tess
originally went to the Onyx Room, not for its vibrant and eclectic lounge
filled with strong colors, textures, and cool lighting, but for its alcohol.
Vodka tonics are Tess’s go-to drink and I’m sure she had her fair share before
meeting the love of her life.

I’ve never been to the Onyx Room, being
underage and all, but I got the gist of the place online. Live jazz sets the
tone, catering to the realm of the upper class with its polished black bar,
steel stools, tinted glass, track lighting, and exclusive drink selection.

Tess says it wasn’t anything special, pretty
much the norm expected of any dive bar: dim lighting, sticky floors, deafening
music, eclectic customers, and lots of drunken bastards. Some looking to wallow
in their misery, some needing to feel important while eying the competition, others
hoping to get laid, or those who just weren’t ready to go home and face their
families.

Tess probably fit into the latter. I know there
were times she wasn’t happy with her life choices. If she had a redo, I
probably wouldn’t have been born. But of course, she would never say that to my
face. A daughter just knows.

Tess tells us that she chose the stool at the
far end of the bar to be alone. She swears she wasn’t looking to hook up or
start a lively conversation. And yet, she says the key is to look disinterested
and wait to be found. It’s always best to be the chooser not the pursuer. And in
following her golden rule she says she hardly noticed when he came over to take
her order.

“What’s your medicine of choice, Miss?”

She remembers his voice was gravelly, whatever
that means. She tells us she asked for a soda—her code for vodka tonic—and when
she looked up, his bold blue eyes alarmed her; and for a moment, only a moment,
she seemed to lose her taste for soda.

She says he had her at that moment.

He had a way about him, she says, that must
have charmed many women into dropping a twenty or two into his massive tip jar.
She remembers his hair was a thick mass of jet black, slicked back to frame his
sculpted face. Wearing black slacks and a button up shirt with the sleeves
rolled up at the cuffs, it was easy to tell that his body did justice to his
handsome face.

“Diet or regular?”

“Do I look like I need a diet?”

“No you don’t.”

Tess pegged him as a young thirty, which piqued
her interest even more. When Brett arrived with her medicine, she let her eyes
hold his. She always says the eye hold is key.

Tess spends her free time cultivating her look.
She is definitely a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. Seductive,
mysterious, elegant.

She says she had him at that eye hold, but if
it were me, I’d probably think the guy was just angling for a big tip.

“Oooo,” Bella chants in between mouthfuls of
Lucky Charms, “Loral and Mikey, sittin’ in a tree, K-I—-S—”

I clench my jaw and flash a menacing stare,
causing Bella to freeze mid-chant. When I turn back to face Tess again, Bella
starts giggling uncontrollably. Bits of milk-drenched cereal flick off her
spoon and onto the table. Tory smiles gleefully, mouthing the rest of the song.

“Ugh,” I flail my arms in the air and storm out
of the kitchen. I slip into my worn red Converse, pick up my backpack and slam
the front door on my way out. I decide to wait in the car.

Neil Wilcox:

5:23
P.M.

The late afternoon air is brisk. Most of the
leaves are by now trampled into tiny brown flakes, blanketing the sidewalks and
gutters, lifeless, then flying like celebrationless confetti each time the
blustery wind smacks them around.

Kids return home from school and worn parents gear
up for their second shift—homework to check, dinner to prepare, laundry to do,
and bills to pay. Dogs bark eagerly—wagging their tail if they have one—itching
for a snack, a loving scratch behind the ears or a pat on the belly, and a free
run outside in the lollapalooza of scents. Dinner will be consumed with
reptilian consciousness, the televisions will buzz in the background, decaying
peoples’ minds in a mild hypnosis as their jaws hinge and slack, hinge and
slack.

Bundled in a lined gray windbreaker, I walk the
familiar yet lonely path around the block—a three mile trek around San
Carlos—the same loop Elizabeth and I diligently walked when she was alive.

Walking into the wind, I do my best to face
away from the cold air that nips my face and pierces my eardrums. Jamming my
hands into the deep cotton lining of my jacket pockets, I hunch forward,
thriving on the burning pain thrumming in my chest.

After Elizabeth’s untimely death and the
State-allowable mourning period, work has commenced for me without a hitch,
except for the fact that I am neck deep in paperwork, filing, and phone calls.
Besides a handful of sympathetic looks upon my arrival, the “let me know if you
need anything” stares, and the “I’m here if you ever want to talk” platitudes
that are frequently tossed my way as segues into otherwise impersonal
shop-talk, things are pretty much the same. One measly hour is all it took for
the sympathy to expel from their semi-human hearts, replaced by workaholic
numb-nuts that are relieved to have another warm body kicking around to
delegate tasks.

With all the technological hype and uproar
linked with the movement toward being “green” and environmentally friendly, I can’t
understand the need for paper documents. Just by looking at the five stacks of
mounting paperwork, the stress creeps back to fit snugly in that familiar old spot
behind the eyes.

In an ideal world, the filing would have been
sorted and dealt with before my return. Unfortunately, the workplace isn’t a place
to make friends or saints. It’s a place to earn a paycheck and nothing more. I
shouldn’t have expected anything, yet I still did.

Mr. Dimples still won’t budge from the bed
Elizabeth made him. At his age (nearing fifteen, or 73 in doggie-years), it is
a wonder that he is still alive. So I make the trek around the neighborhood
alone for the third time this week. Walking alone—single man in his late
forties—seems to warrant a few nervous glances and dodged greetings.

Although I am simply minding my own business—walking
at a steady pace—paranoid women pass me by quickly, defensively turning their
bodies away from mine, moving to the other side of the road, or picking up
their speed until I am out of arm’s reach. The women purposely avoid eye
contact as though their lives depend on it.

Do I look like a killer? A bad guy? A rapist?
Never before when I walked the loop with my wife did I receive such hostility
and criticism. Before, I was the adoring husband who held his wife’s hand while
taking a relaxing stroll around the block with their adorable pooch. Now, I
seem to be pegged as the dangerous man with shifty eyes and bad intentions.
Yet, all I am doing is walking for the sake of exercise and soaking in the
surrounding views of the neighborhood. I’m a taxpayer, dammit, just like they are.
Don’t I also have the right to enjoy a little neighborly stroll around the
block?

I continue my walk, shaking my head slightly at
the thought. The idea humors me so much I stop mid-stride and break into a
chuckle.
I am now the village creeper.

Tuxedo Park lies ahead. A teenage boy dressed
in high school physical education garb (Patriot green-and-gold) runs with ear
buds jammed into his ears, the deafening noise damaging a couple more brain
cells. The boy cuts through the park, passing a group of middle-aged women on
the way. Women greet him just fine. They smile and wave, delighted to see a
youthful spirit enjoying the fresh outdoors in an era where most are trapped
indoors with glazed eyes while microwaving their brains with electronics.
Nevermind
the kid’s indirect investment in the hearing aid business. He probably does
drugs, to boot!

The same group of middle-aged women is now heading
toward me. I watch in awe as they draw together, forming a solid unit, and
silently whisk past me without anything more than a wary glance while clutching
their purses tightly to their breasts.
What the hell!