The Neighbors Are Watching (7 page)

“I was wondering if I could get a glass of water,” Diana said. “Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” Dorothy said. “Of course.”

But neither one of them moved. Diana stood tilted backward slightly to balance her uneven weight with her hands resting on her belly. She was wearing cheap dusty flip-flops and a gauzy sundress that didn’t quite hide the outlines of her body underneath it. Her long hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail and there were tiny dots of perspiration above her upper lip. She smelled of sweat and white flowers. Dorothy thought that Diana looked particularly young today, but despite that, not at all vulnerable. This confused Dorothy, as did Diana’s total lack of shame and her willingness to let—almost force, really—everyone see the state she was in. Dorothy had already been married for years when she became pregnant with Kevin, and even though there was nothing to hide, she’d still been
discreet about it. That was the core of it, Dorothy supposed. She just couldn’t understand why this girl felt she had nothing to hide. And why was she just standing there, Dorothy wondered. What was she waiting for?

Diana cleared her throat. The vaguest hint of discomfort shadowed her face. “So can I get …? Do you mind if I get that glass of water?”

“Oh,” Dorothy said. She realized then that she was standing in the entryway to the kitchen and that in order for Diana to get herself the glass of water she wanted, she’d have to push Dorothy out of the way. Dorothy hadn’t even noticed that she’d been hovering like some kind of mountain lioness guarding her territory, but that must surely be the way it looked to Diana.

“I’ll get it for you,” Dorothy said and opened the cabinet where she kept the glassware. Diana looked relieved. Dorothy filled a glass with water from the faucet and handed it to the girl. “Would you like something to eat? I have some cookies or … chicken.”

Diana smiled—suddenly and dazzlingly. “Cookies or chicken?” she asked. “Sounds tempting, but no thanks. Do you have any other water, though? This water smells so bleachy. I’m sorry, I just … I’m just not used to San Diego water, I guess.” She held the glass out to Dorothy, her smile fading but not disappearing entirely, as if they were both in on the same joke. Dorothy wasn’t amused. There was something in the gesture that struck Dorothy as not rude, exactly, but presumptuous. As if she were owed something just for being here.

“Sorry,” Dorothy said. “All we have is tap.” She thought about the gallon of Sparkletts on the top shelf of the fridge and wondered if Diana sensed she was lying. But Diana just stood there impassive, one eyebrow half-raised, and slowly lifted the tumbler to her lips to drink.

“Thanks, Mrs. Werner.”

Diana turned, water in hand, and headed back up the stairs to Kevin’s bedroom. Dorothy bristled. There was something in Diana’s tone that scraped against her nerves. It was uncharitable to feel so hostile toward this girl who clearly had plenty of troubles to deal with, but Dorothy couldn’t
help herself. There was something about Diana that just made her uneasy. It felt to Dorothy as if Diana had brought an air of bad luck into the neighborhood. And no, Dorothy told herself, that wasn’t because Diana was black (well,
half
black, really), or that she was a pregnant teenager, or that she was almost certainly wrecking Joe and Allison’s marriage.

That last part was Joe’s fault primarily, though Dorothy believed that Diana probably made things much more difficult for Allison than they had to be because, truly, Diana was just not a very endearing person. Really, Allison was the victim in all of this, and you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Allison was not dealing with it well at all. Allison had only allowed Dorothy in once since Diana had arrived (last month, when Dorothy had taken over one of her famous chocolate cheesecakes in the hope that Allison would unburden herself of what must be a very trying situation—because Dorothy was there to listen and to help), but she could tell that Allison was a mess, all bloodshot and disheveled and unwilling to even grunt out a thank-you before she sent Dorothy back to her own house. She’d been drinking too, pretty heavily by the looks of it, and it was only the middle of the day. Way, way before anything like happy hour. Maybe Allison should have been made of tougher stuff—worse things had happened to people after all—but Dorothy felt bad for her and wished there was a way she could help Allison open up.

The funny thing was that Dorothy had felt she and Allison were really starting to form a bond over the last few months before Diana showed up. Allison had started coming to church, and even though they didn’t really talk that much about anything in particular, they’d begun walking to St. William’s together on Sundays—it was such an easy, pleasant walk from their street and good exercise to boot—and Dorothy felt they’d developed a sort of camaraderie that went beyond being neighbors. Allison was what in the old days you’d call “a good girl.” She had a high moral standard—you could tell just from the way she dressed—conservatively, never showing too much cleavage or leg. This was important for a teacher, even though nobody seemed to pay attention to that fact. Look at all those women having
sex with their students who were as young as
thirteen
. Dorothy shuddered just to think about it. Allison was the kind of woman who probably couldn’t even wrap her mind around such a concept. Unlike some of their other neighbors. Jessalyn Martin in particular.

Dorothy’s thoughts turned dark and silty as her mind formed a picture of Jessalyn’s tight skirts, bleached hair, and oversized breasts. Everything about that girl was cheap and nothing about her was real. Which made it even more ironic that Jessalyn’s big claim to fame was that she’d been on a reality show. Dorothy couldn’t even remember the name of it now, but she did remember Jessalyn’s appearance because she had seen every one of the three episodes that Jessalyn had been in. This was not by choice, but because Hank Martin had been so insistent. That was before Jessalyn had moved in, taken over, and packed her father off to Beach Gardens, an assisted-living facility for seniors, even though Hank was in less need of assisted living than his daughter was. He’d been doing fine and loved nothing better than to putter around with dirt and flowers, and had given Dorothy many a gardening tip over the years, like how to get rid of those horrible white flies on her tomato plants with a spray of water and dish soap. Four years ago or so, Hank told Dorothy that his daughter was going to be on television. It was just one of those shows where they put a bunch of people together to see who could argue the loudest and win the money. That was how he put it. You should watch, though, Hank told her. She’s very pretty. And smart too. Sure to win.

The show turned out to be an insult to the intelligence of everyone who watched it, including Dorothy, which was why it had barely lasted one season before being canceled. As Dorothy recalled, Jessalyn hadn’t actually failed any of the challenges, but had been voted off the show because none of the other contestants could stand her.

Dorothy had been embarrassed for Hank. It was a feeling he must have shared because he never mentioned it to Dorothy again. Nor would she have given it a second thought, but then Jessalyn showed up in all her glory, moved in, and took over. Not that Dorothy wanted to have anything
to do with her, but in all the time Jessalyn had been living there, she hadn’t been over to say hello even once. Dorothy could only imagine what the house looked like inside now—or what had happened to Hank’s cherished garden. But of course, she didn’t have to imagine, she’d soon be finding out firsthand. The Neighborhood Watch list needed to be updated, a task that Dick had volunteered for but that Dorothy had been saddled with, and now Dorothy needed to go to each house on the street and get cell phone numbers, license plates, and names of immediate family members.

If she was being honest with herself, Dorothy had to admit that she didn’t mind organizing the Neighborhood Watch list as much as she let on. She complained to Dick about it, but there was no real bite in her words. The truth was it made Dorothy feel more secure to know these details about her neighbors. And even though everyone participating got a copy of the list, it was Dorothy who knocked on the doors, who looked inside the houses, and who got to make the final judgment about what she saw there. Mindlessly, Dorothy walked over to the hutch in the breakfast nook just off her kitchen, opened the drawer where they kept all the Neighborhood Watch information, and pulled out the Fuller Court master chart.

Laying it on the table, Dorothy unfolded the chart and smoothed it flat, admiring the clean, color-coded lines she’d drawn to designate the different houses and property boundaries, tracing her finger along the thick upside-down
U
of the street. There they were, the Werners, anchoring Fuller Court, all their information and contacts completed in neat type. Directly across from them were the Suns, a perpetual thorn in Dorothy’s side. They were consistently difficult to pin down and get information from. In fact, Dorothy knew almost nothing at all about them and it appeared that they liked it that way.

Mr. Sun left his house, briefcase in hand, every morning at 7:00
AM
(Dorothy knew this because her dining room, where she sat with her morning coffee, faced the street and had a direct view of the Suns’ driveway) and didn’t usually return until 6:00 or 7:00
PM
. Their son, who was Kevin’s age and who attended Kevin’s school but who Kevin didn’t hang out with,
sometimes came outside in the late afternoon and shot baskets into a hoop installed above their garage. Other than that, Dorothy never saw him and didn’t even know his first name (“I don’t know,” Kevin had told her when she’d asked, “everyone just calls him Sun.”). She could, however, hear him practicing piano through open windows on an almost daily basis.

As far as Mrs. Sun went, there were only rare glimpses. Dorothy had caught sight of her only once, when the woman was coming home on foot from a trip to the supermarket, but by the time she had thought of a reasonable excuse to run outside and accidentally-on-purpose run into Mrs. Sun, she’d disappeared inside her house and the opportunity had been missed. Of course, Dorothy had tried just knocking on the door, her Neighborhood Watch list in hand, but had gotten a response only once, when the Sun boy had answered, told Dorothy he’d pass the message along to his mother, and dismissed her. The Suns had been living in that house for over a year, but they might as well have been ghosts for all anyone saw of them. Dorothy understood the need for privacy, but thought that these kinds of extremes indicated that they had something to hide. And if that were the case, the Suns were rank amateurs. The best way to hide things, as Dorothy well knew, was to act as if you had nothing to hide.

Dorothy moved her finger around the bend in her chart, grazing through the Martin house, drifting through the Montanas’, and coming to rest at Sam and Gloria’s house, which was right next door to hers. Sam and Gloria had two cell phone numbers but only one car listed, Sam’s Camry. Gloria’s white pickup truck, on which she had plastered a rainbow bumper sticker, was not accounted for. Of all the houses on the street, Sam’s was the one Dorothy had the least interest in. Or maybe it wasn’t a lack of interest exactly—more like a certain level of repulsion. No, repulsion was too strong a word. She was … 
repelled
, that was it. Dorothy knew it was well into a new century and she was just as tolerant as the next person. People had a right to live the way they wanted to, et cetera, et cetera. But there was just something
wrong
about those two. Maybe it was the fact that they both
had kids, because Dorothy didn’t care how many times you read
Heather Has Two Mommies
or
Daddy’s Roommate
, it had to be confusing for a child and that just wasn’t fair. And obviously
someone
agreed with that notion because Sam’s and Gloria’s kids didn’t live with them, and why wouldn’t two small children live with their mothers unless something was very wrong with those mothers? Not that Sam and Gloria ever acted like a couple. No, they
pretended
to be just friends. Dorothy didn’t get it. Neither Sam nor Gloria was anything to look at, really. Well, maybe Gloria in a big
athletic
kind of way, but Sam was so skinny and …

“Dorothy!”

Dorothy jumped at the sound of Dick’s call, instinctively clutching her Neighborhood Watch list, almost crumpling it. Why was he shouting for her? She folded the list and placed it back in its drawer.

“What is it?” she called out, knowing he couldn’t hear her over the sound of the television.

“Dorothy!”

Dorothy walked—faster than she wanted to—into the living room. Dick sat in his preferred spot on the couch, eyes on the game, with the remote control in hand and a bowl of chips and can of beer at the ready on the coffee table.

“What is it, Dick?”

He didn’t answer her right away—kept his gaze trained on the television as if she wasn’t standing there, until a point or a goal or whatever was scored, then shouted, “Yes!” and finally turned to her and said, “Is that girl here again?”

“Yes,” Dorothy answered, the simplest response being the easiest in this case.

“What the hell?” he asked her.

“I don’t know, Dick.” Dorothy wondered—not for the first time—why Dick seemed to have such a needle to Diana. It went beyond her being a knocked-up teenager because his attitude wasn’t one of paternal
disapproval. It was more like he was
personally
challenged by her—as if she’d done something specifically to anger him, although as far as Dorothy knew, he’d never exchanged more than five words with her.

“What are they doing up there, Dorothy?”

“I don’t know. Hanging out. What do kids do?”

Dick raised his eyebrows—slowly, so she’d be sure not to miss his implication.

“You’re his mother, Dot. Don’t you think you should know?”

“Do you want me to go barging in there and check up on him like he’s a baby?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I was just about to make … you know, for the party … you’ve got the burgers, right? Anyway, I need to get ready for … why don’t
you
go up there, Dick?”