The Neighbors Are Watching (22 page)

“What? How do you know that?”

Jessalyn wanted to kick herself. It was entirely unnecessary for Joe to know how she’d come into that particular piece of information, especially since he seemed so completely naive about what was going on in his own neighborhood. In her haste to reassure him, she’d revealed too much, and there was little time to dial it all back. So Jessalyn gave him what she liked to think of as “the look,” an expression that promised a good time but only if the questioning stopped immediately. It had taken her years to perfect that look with its bedroom eyes, tilted chin, and pouting lips, but it was worth the effort—her own form of instant hypnosis.

“Joe,” she said, giving his face a quick but meaningful caress, “it’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”

He’d left it there, not willing to press for more details and needing to go to work, for which he was already late. Plus, he was so relieved that she’d agreed to watch the baby that he was practically stammering with gratitude.

Jessalyn backed out of her bedroom quietly, as if turning around would wake the baby. She left the door open but didn’t know if she’d be able to hear any crying from downstairs. She decided she’d just have to keep coming upstairs to check and make sure, which seemed like a ridiculous plan, but that was what you got for leaving your baby with someone like her. As she wandered into her living room, idly turning on the television and flipping through the channels on mute, she thought about Diana and felt a twinge of annoyance for this girl whom she didn’t even know. Why had she decided to have the baby in the first place? Did she want to be like one of those celebrity teen moms? Why didn’t these girls realize that nothing was like it seemed on TV? Jessalyn was less than ten years removed from her own high school graduation, but it seemed like things had gone backward by at least fifty. None of the girls she knew who’d gotten pregnant in high school weighed any options other than which clinic would provide the easiest and least expensive abortion. It wasn’t smarter or more honorable to have a baby and then not be able to deal with it afterward, which was obviously what had happened to Diana. Unless the girl really
was
in trouble. But Jessalyn didn’t want to think about that.

There was nothing worth watching on television. Since her own dismal experience, Jessalyn had a hard time watching any kind of reality show without gagging, but these days reality shows were all you could find. She was about to settle for a lame cooking show on the Food Network when she heard her doorbell ring and froze, her hand gripping the remote control like it was a gun. She wasn’t expecting a date, her night was free, and none of her very small circle of friends would drop by unannounced. An unexpected visitor could only mean trouble or bad news and for that
reason Jessalyn wanted to ignore it—pretend she’d never heard it in the first place. But all her lights were on and it was obvious she was home. Her visitor would know that, whoever it was. She took a step toward the door and stopped again, half-amazed by her own indecision. But when the bell sounded a second time, she realized that it was probably Joe and that thankfully, he’d come back earlier than he’d said. She ran a hand through her hair, tousling it a little, and strutted over to the door.

The man she knew only as Spence (first name or last she had no idea and had never asked) stood in her doorway holding a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in one hand and a small silver box in the other. He was wearing suit pants and a dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His round forehead was shiny with perspiration and his eyes were very dark. His face was pale, but his neck looked flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was prepared and got the words out first.

“I know, I know,” he said, grinning. “But I need to celebrate. It was a big day for me today. A
big
day. And nobody I know can appreciate that more than you.”

“I …” It had never happened before, Jessalyn realized. Not one of them had ever just shown up. There were rules. There were levels of fantasy to maintain. She hadn’t prepared for this, didn’t know what to say, and was angry at herself because of it.

“If it’s not convenient, just say the word,” he said. Jessalyn could see that he was looking over her shoulder into the house, his eyes scanning for signs of another man. If he could get away with it, Jessalyn thought, he’d probably be sniffing the air. “I know this is
unexpected
, but”—he waved the bottle of bubbly in the air—“I took a chance. What do you say, Jessie? Are you up for a little company—because I know
I
am.”

Jessalyn smiled and made a show of licking her lips. She was playing for time, the wheels in her brain turning too slowly. Spence was changing the parameters of their relationship and it was going to have to be discussed and sorted out. But she couldn’t talk to him about it now—he was in no frame of mind to have one of those conversations. He was obviously high.
Something speedy—coke or meth. She could practically hear the crackle of his brain and crease of his cheeks as he stretched them with that frantic grin. The Widow might mellow him out, though. It was lucky that she happened to be wearing low-rise workout pants and a cropped T-shirt and hadn’t taken a shower since the morning. Spence had a thing about the gym and felt about activewear the way most men felt about lingerie. He liked athleticism—and the taste of sweat. And it was also fortunate that there was nobody else around so that part of the fantasy stayed intact, which was probably a big relief for him even if he did know he was taking a chance of ruining everything with this impromptu visit. So there was that. There was also need—for both of them. And just like that, the decision was made.

“Well,” she said, “I just had a workout. I was going to jump in the shower, but I could wait for …”

“About an hour?” he asked, one foot already crossing the threshold.

“I could wait for an hour,” she said, and stood aside to let him in.

Wrong, Jessalyn thought. Something was wrong and she should have known it as soon as she saw him at the door. She was sitting in mud-flap girl pose, her knees drawn up and her head tilted backward. There was a line of cocaine on her left breast and a pool of champagne on her crotch. Spence was bent over her like a dog, alternately snorting and lapping. She could feel anger or tension buzzing off him, something barely controlled—not like him. She should have known. He didn’t want any small talk—no time for a civilized drink out of crystal flutes in the living room—just straight upstairs to the big room and the big bed.

“I brought you a little present,” he said, and placed the small silver box on the nightstand. Her eyes followed his hand, watching the box land, taking note of its exact placement, and when she turned back to him he was already unbuttoning his pants. “Not the bed,” he said. “The floor.”

“So,” she said, “what’s your big news?” But it was useless. She was
sticking to a script that had been changed without her knowledge or approval and he was having none of it.

Now here they were—the drugs a new twist, but one that she hadn’t had the nerve to forbid. There was something wrong with him and she should have known better. Her eyes found the clock and calculated the twenty-six minutes left in what she already knew was going to be the longest hour of her life. He was grunting. “Lay down,” he barked. He poured the remainder of the bottle over her. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, she thought as he loomed over her. His eyes, black from their dilated pupils, were forming a plan, and Jessalyn knew—knew now with no doubt—that it was about to go badly wrong.

“What the fuck is that?” He jerked his head up, reddening—those expensive hair plugs of his standing out in sharp relief against the shine of his head.

“Wha—” Jessalyn started, but then she too heard it outside the buzz of her own head. The baby. In her bedroom the baby she’d completely forgotten about had woken up and was screaming her little head off.

“Is that a fucking
baby
? What the
fuck
?”

“I …” Jessalyn sat up. Champagne rolled sparkling and sticky to the floor. “Shit. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“What?”

“It’s the neighbor’s baby. I—I’m babysitting.”

“What the fuck?” he repeated. He stood up. The baby’s wails grew louder. Jessalyn couldn’t decide whether she should go pacify the baby or stay there and pacify Spence.

“I wasn’t expecting you tonight,” Jessalyn said.

“You could have told me there was a baby here,” he said. “Before you let me in.”

Jessalyn stood up, and they stared at each other for a moment. She tried so hard not to, but Jessalyn flicked her gaze downward, just long enough to see that Spence was done in and long enough for him to see her do it. “Are you going to do something about that crying?” he said.

“I could …” Jessalyn was lost—completely unable to figure out what was the right thing to do. “I could go and close the door,” she said. “It’ll just take a second. She’ll quiet down.”

As she was looking at it, Jessalyn knew she would remember the expression on his face until the day she died. It was a toxic mix of disgust and contempt shaded by loathing, both for her and for himself, the likes of which she had never seen. Never, never before this moment had Jessalyn felt as naked or as ashamed.

“Fuck that,” he said and picked up his pants from the floor. He looked over at the silver box and then back to her. “Keep it,” his mouth said, but what Jessalyn heard was
Whore
, as loud as if he’d screamed it in her ear.

He was gone less than five minutes later and she knew he would never be back. Jessalyn put on a thick white terry-cloth robe and went into her bedroom. She picked up the baby and held her to her padded shoulder. “Okay,” she said, “okay now.” She rubbed the baby’s back, so small and sweaty, and smoothed the back of her head. “Okay, shh, baby, okay.” Jessalyn rocked from side to side, patting, rubbing, soothing. In a minute she got quieter, still crying but no longer hysterical, small sounds of need coming from deep inside her baby chest.

“I’m sorry,” Jessalyn said. “I’m so sorry.”

D
orothy hid under the eaves, her back pressed hard against the stucco wall, and drew deeply from her first cigarette in too many years to count. It was very stale, but that didn’t matter at all. She blew out a cloud, watched the breeze waft it over her star jasmine, and inhaled another. No coughing, no awkwardness holding it between her fingers. Smoking, like so many other relinquished bad habits, was like riding a bicycle. It didn’t matter how long it had been, you never forgot how. She held the cigarette to her lips again. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this bad old friend until now. For a minute all she had to do was focus on inhaling, exhaling, and feeling the nicotine rush inside her skull. It didn’t stop the thoughts from jamming her brain, but it made them, however briefly, a little more tolerable. At the very least, it gave her something to do and a reason to stand still as she pondered what was surely coming next.

Dorothy had never believed in karma, either as a serious philosophy or a light half-joking explanation for unpleasantness or bad luck. She believed, instead, that it was possible to nullify the past with the present. In her opinion everything had an expiration date and that included actions and events. In other words, if a tree fell in the woods thirty years ago and there was nobody around now who had heard it, then it had never fallen in the first place. It had been imperative for Dorothy to hold fast to this line
of thinking in order to form the days, months, and years of her life into her own reality. But that thick layer of protection she’d constructed over time had suddenly thinned into nothing. What went around had indeed come around.

But not all of it.

Dorothy inhaled the last of her cigarette and carefully crushed it out in a small glass ramekin she’d brought outside for this express purpose. The rest of it—maybe even the worst of it—was still on the way. Although, she thought, what had happened with Kevin was already bad enough for this and several other lifetimes.

Dick was with Kevin now. The two of them were investigating an alternative school in which Kevin could finish his senior year and graduate high school. Dorothy had not been invited on this outing. The excuse Dick gave for excluding her was that he needed “man time” alone with his son, but Dorothy knew the real reason was that he blamed her for everything and thought that by shutting her out of this particular decision he could make it all right. Ultimately of course he would have to ask Dorothy what she thought and would have to bring her along for any kind of meeting because Dorothy alone had gone to see teachers, counselors, and principals throughout Kevin’s school years. Dick would have no idea what to do or say—especially when he had to explain why Kevin needed a new school to begin with. Because Dick still didn’t believe that Kevin had a
substance abuse problem
, even though Kevin had admitted to taking drugs. It was, Dick believed, someone else’s fault: society, Dorothy, even that girl. Especially that girl. As if Kevin were completely lacking in any kind of free will. And as if another school, another location, or another mother would make a difference.

But Dick’s attitude, including his resentment at her failure as a mother, didn’t hurt Dorothy nearly as much as the blame she heaped on herself. To not have noticed—or maybe to have willfully ignored—that Kevin had a drug problem was both inexplicable and unforgivable. How much longer would he have lived if Dick hadn’t gone into his room at that moment and
tried to wake him up? And what if she hadn’t insisted that they leave, thus prompting him to go up there in the first place? Dorothy could barely even ask herself those questions, let alone speculate on their answers. Although she’d been almost catatonic with shock and fear at the hospital, she managed to gather that it had been a close call. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind—it flashed in front of her all day and woke her up at night—of her son lying there on his bed, one arm fallen to the floor, his skin so pale, and Dick leaning over him, desperately trying to breathe life into him to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. She hated to admit it to herself even now, but at that terrible moment as she stood frozen in the doorway watching Dick sweat and work on his son, gasping the command “Breathe!” as if Kevin could hear him, Dorothy was sure that they’d lost him. She sensed the weight of excruciating grief descending on her and knew that she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She gave up. And for that moment of faithless surrender Dorothy’s guilt was the sharpest and most painful. Because even after the paramedics arrived and raced Kevin to the hospital, even after she and Dick stumbled into the brightness of the emergency room and allowed the doctors to take over, she still didn’t believe her son would survive. When a doctor came to tell them that Kevin was okay, Dorothy was surprised. It seemed like a cheat—the last one she would ever be able to get away with.