The People Next Door (14 page)

Mick thought that Coach was bluffing. This whole third man business had made him uneasy, all of it had, and Coach was scared.
Why else would he make this big speech, only to brush it off, if he wasn’t simultaneously trying to come to grips with something
unexplainable and maintain his macho self-image? But he wasn’t going to argue, either. Arguing with men like Dennis Wisneski
got you nowhere.

‘If you say so, Coach. What do you want me to do about it?’

‘I want you to find him. I want to know who he thinks he is, coming out of nowhere to save your sorry life and then vanishing
without a trace like a miracle. But more than that—’ Dennis Wisneski adjusted his glasses and coughed wetly into his fist
again. ‘Goddamned if I’m not still coughing up the taste of that lake. More than that, I want to know what he did with Roger
and that gal Bonnie. I doubt there’s a hero in all this, but there might very well be a murderer.’

But why would someone kill Roger and Bonnie, only to save me? Mick thought again, but did not ask.

‘Okay, Coach. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I hear something.’

Wisneski climbed back onto his Kawasaki, his hairless bronzed old man knees almost as shiny as the green plastic faring. ‘Yeah,
you do that. And in the meantime stay the hell away from my lake. You’ve gotten your money’s worth this season.’

Coach U-turned on the dam path, the knobbies kicking up a cyclone of dust as he rumbled his way back to the boat house.

Some blond guy had saved his life. Mick thought back to the man who had been eavesdropping on his conversation with Sapphire.
Could be a coincidence, but nothing in the past few days felt like a coincidence. The question now was, who was he and why
was he so interested in Mick Nash?

The doorbell rang again.

Ingrid’s limbs pebbled with goosebumps and one hand moved involuntarily over her stomach. How had Briela known he was coming?
What was going on inside this girl? And what did he want? If it was even him, the blond man she claimed to have seen. It was
probably a coincidence, the UPS man or someone collecting donations for another cause. But it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
The room was charged with bad energy, invisible plus and minus signs buzzing the air while a metallic taste worked its way
onto Ingrid’s tongue.

‘Told you,’ Briela said.

‘I’m serious, Briela. Are you playing games with me?’

‘Nuh-uh.’

The doorbell chimed a third time, and the babysitter flinched.

Briela looked up at her with dull eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

It’s the middle of the day, for the love of God. Stop being such a baby
.

‘Stay here, all right?’

‘M’kay.’

Ingrid pressed her back against the wall furthest from the foyer window and sidled up to the door. She checked the peephole.

He
was
handsome, with neatly parted blond hair and soft, almost equine features. He wore a chambray work shirt so faded it was almost
white, the top three buttons open, giving him the look of a man on vacation. But she only caught a glimpse before he turned
sideways, his full lips working as if he were speaking to someone she couldn’t see.

Fine, fine. She opened the door halfway.

He moved slowly, as if the air were heavy around him. He looked up at her with mild surprise and then smiled, or tried to.
The impression was of a man who wasn’t used to smiling, because the one he gave her was strained, using only the corner of
his mouth. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and his eyes, which were low-lidded with irises of cobalt, did not so much
land on her as linger around the space she inhabited. He struggled to fix on a point and she wondered briefly if he was blind.

‘Is he yours?’ His voice was very deep, though gentle.

‘Sorry?’

The man snapped his fingers awkwardly but they made no sound. There was a clicking sound on the porch and then Thom, the Nash’s
Yorkshire terrier, came skittering inside. She jerked back, then was relieved. Okay, this was all about the dog. Thom had
free reign of the property, but usually never strayed far. He must have
gotten onto the new people’s yard, probably to leave a few chocolate welcome presents. Of course that’s what the man had been
trying to tell them earlier. He had come to let them know the dog was loose, then probably circled back after the dog got
away from him again while Ingrid was in the kitchen.

‘Oh, right, thank you,’ Ingrid stammered. ‘I’m sorry. Was he bothering you?’

The man watched the dog dart in and out of the living room. He was either extremely mellow or shy.

He said, ‘Is this where he lives?’

Ingrid thought that was clear by now, but whatever. ‘Yes, he belongs to the Nashes.’

‘The … Nash-es?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the Nash-es’ daughter?’

Ingrid kept the knob in her left hand, bracing the door with her shoulder. ‘No, I work for them.’

He frowned, then smiled as if just now remembering. ‘We have a daughter too.’

Ingrid wasn’t sure if he failed to hear her or simply chose to ignore the clarification.

He said, ‘We have already met each member of the Nash-es.’

‘Right, well, is there something else or …’

He smiled wider and before she even saw it leave his side, his hand had closed around her forearm. His touch was delicate
and brief, like a kiss that went around her wrist, leaving a cold ring that tingled and spread up her arm. She pulled away,
but his hand was already back at
his side and he was still smiling. She was so nervous, and he looked so calm, she couldn’t be sure now if he had actually
done it or if she was only imagining it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But are you happy with your, ah, employment? Do they take good care of you here?’

Was he hitting on her or trying to hire her? ‘I guess so. They’re good people.’

‘Good people,’ he said. ‘That is true in many ways, I am sure.’

An awkward moment stretched between them.

‘So,’ she said. ‘That’s your house in the back, right? It’s really nice.’

‘Yes, for now. I hope we haven’t stirred up any ill will amongst your employers. We’re very respectful of the situation. We
believe in live and let live.’

This was now officially disturbing. There was something wrong with the man. He looked like one
of what Ingrid thought of as the catalog people, a model for the kind of spread that went out to shoppers with beach homes,
with those perfect white jeans and the shirt and the matching white leather sneakers. His eyes widened, then lowered again.

‘Well, thank you for bringing Thom back.’ She inched the door forward.

‘Who is Thom?’

‘The dog,’ she said.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Oh, is that the other daughter?’ His loose gaze drifted past her and his eyes filled with excitement.

Ingrid turned. Briela was standing in the foyer, at the
mouth of the family room. She was smiling at him expectantly, as if something had been confirmed to her liking.

Ingrid decided this was enough for one day. ‘I have to go. Goodbye, now.’

She shut the door.

She locked the door.

‘Briela, go to your room for a minute.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I said so. Now, please.’

Briela scowled and stomped off to her bedroom. Ingrid checked the peephole. He was still standing there on the porch, looking
around with his dumb expression. She thought of calling Amy or the police, but he hadn’t done anything really wrong. And maybe
he was just slow, except at the end there he seemed perfectly sharp. And curious. There was no crime in that. He seemed nice.
But there was something creepy about the way this whole thing had consumed nearly an hour.

She checked the peephole again. He was still there. She held her eye against the door a moment. What the hell was he doing?

He turned abruptly and smiled, his face looming right up to hers.

‘We have a daughter too,’ he said, the words thick through the door. He turned and stepped off the porch and went a few steps.
He stopped and looked back. ‘And a son. We can always use more help!’

Then his long strides carried him around the front lawn and he disappeared down the Jenkins’ driveway, back toward his fancy
new house.

Ingrid felt faint, her legs rubbery. She moved around the sofa in the family room and sat sideways to the window. Her stomach
was fluttery, as if he had kissed her, done something against her will. He hadn’t, though, right? He hadn’t done anything.
For a moment she imagined that he had. His smooth hands, his easy smile. That shirt so soft, washed out like his eyes. Her
heart was not racing, but it was doing something here. Thumping in a heavy rhythm, her chest misty with perspiration. She
felt a little ache between her legs, not unpleasant. She pinched her thighs together almost on reflex and the pressure magnified
the ache, delicately brushed it to life.

No
. This was not okay and did not fit. She had been repulsed by him and his creepy tone, and she was repulsed by him now. But
warmth became heat. It was as if her body knew something true that her mind wanted to be false.

She sat forward and looked out the window. He wasn’t there.
Good
. She should get up and tell Briela it was okay to come out of her room. But she was fatigued from stress and the air conditioning
felt good on her bare legs. It was nice just to sit here for a while. She leaned back and thought of his face, wondering how
old he was. Not very. Must have really done something with his life to have a house like that. People like that probably had
a family assistant just like her, and a maid, and gardeners, all kinds of help. Probably paid well too. More than the Nash-es.
She thought of his eyes again. It was almost like he had been offering her something. Not sex.
Something deeper, simpler, a door to a new opportunity. She thought about his eyes …

Then she thought of nothing.

Time passed.

She sat up, as if woken by a loud noise. But the house was quiet. She had been out of it for a good twenty minutes, maybe
even half an hour, but that did not seem important. She went down the hall. Briela was sleeping on her floor, a book folded
over one arm. She went back to the kitchen and stared out the window. Wonder what the others are like, she thought, and before
she had time to consider what she was doing, Ingrid opened the sliding glass door and walked out.

The driveway was long, but she barely noticed it. She didn’t wonder why the gates were open, as if waiting for her. She didn’t
notice much at all, only knocked on the door and waited. A minute passed. Maybe she had been mistaken. Maybe they didn’t need
her help. The sour taste of rejection rose up in her throat, and then the door opened. No one was there to greet her, but
there were voices.

Friendly voices urging her to come inside.

‘At the end of the letter, in our last paragraph, we want to sign off by thanking the prospect for their time and consideration,
but we also need to use this opportunity to
ask for the job
. Or, as they say in sales – and believe me, this is sales, you are selling yourselves – to ask for the sale, to close the
deal. May we schedule a time to discuss our mutual interests? The prospect is now confronted with a question he or she must
answer. When might be the best time to reach you? In other words, I want the interview. Do you see what I’m saying, people?
You’ve made your case, attached your résumé. Now it’s time to go to the prom, or, in your case, the interview. And we all
know you can’t go to the prom without a date, right?’

In the third row, Rudy Pieshka cupped a hand over his feathery lip and said, ‘I thought you couldn’t go to the prom unless
you were cooked on loco weed.’

Half a dozen of the others snickered, and Amy wanted to bite Rudy’s ear off. She looked at the clock. Twelve minutes left.
Nothing of substance would come of that. She’d talked too long, hadn’t left enough time for writing, and because the weekend
would scatter
their brain cells like pixie dust, she would have to summarize the components of the cover letter all over again next Wednesday.
They were at least a week behind and the interview process was going to be a circus. She’d mentioned, offhandedly, that they
should start digging out their best business attire, for the rehearsal sessions, in order to get used to dressing up for the
real thing. That had earned her a round of complaints. I gotta go shopping at TJ Maxx now? What if my moms won’t let me borrow
her heels? I’m applying for a job as a janitor, Mrs Nash, does that mean I should bring my own mop?

‘Let’s take the last ten minutes to compose our background bios. We can add this paragraph to the rest of the letter next
week. Remember, keep it short. No one wants your life story, just the two or three most relevant sentences. Ready? Go.’

Groans and small talk for the most part, a lot of texting. Two of the sixteen students actually whipped open their notebooks
and began scribbling.

Amy returned to the chair behind her desk, her eyes landing on the two empty seats at the back of the class. Eric Pritchard
and Jason Wells had not shown up today, and neither boy nor his parent or guardian had called in with an excuse. If one of
them had been present, she might have been tempted to believe the other was ill, or had a work scheduling issue. But both
at the same time meant they were ditching together. She shouldn’t be happy about it, but in truth she was relieved. They never
listened, never took notes, and spent most of the
three-hour sessions interrupting her and generally filling the room with an air of defiance that the others fed on.

Amy opened her grade book and added some notes in the green margin.
Angela making progress, is genuinely concerned about her baby, future finances, etc. Keith Ramsey slipping, mentioned quitting
job (his second of summer), expects more than min. wage, address realistic expect. in down economy
.

She shuffled a stack of résumés she needed to take home and mark up for revisions, slipped them into a manila folder, then
into her briefcase. She sipped her Diet Coke but it had gone warm. She thought of dropping it in the steel can but it was
mostly full and would splash all over. She would leave it here on the desk for Dick Humphries, custodial engineer. Teach him
to chuckle at her window graffiti.

Amy caught movement to her left. Without raising her head, she tilted her chin in that direction. Out in the hall, walking
very, very slowly past her classroom doorway, was Eric Pritchard. He wore the same dirty jeans, seventiesera clunking brown
hiking boots with their woven red laces, and his camo-shirt-jacket thing.

Swinging in his right hand, the one most visible from her position, was a butterfly knife. The lower gold perforated handle
dipped down and looped back into his palm and the blade rotated as the upper handle swung down in the same windmill arc. He
was looking right at her as he did this and he was not smiling. He wasn’t even scowling or sneering; in fact he looked almost
bored. The knife pirouetted lazily in and out of his palm, and
the casual ease of the display (he might have been tossing a rubber ball to himself) made her want to throw up.

And then he was gone, continuing beyond the door-frame, hiking boots thunking slowly down the hall until the only sound was
the rising chorus of her students’ voices as they anticipated the bell. Well, there were no bells here, or if there were,
they weren’t used for summer-school sessions of Workplace Econ. But the kids didn’t need a bell, they knew three o’clock the
way roosters know sunrise. Amy remained glued to her chair, eyes on her papers, her mind empty as the authoritarian in her
reeled away to some deeper corner of her self. The sweeping second hand cruised past the black twelve, and her students erupted
from their dirty, scratched desks and filed out – to her relief – as if she weren’t even there.

She thought of waiting until they had all gone before checking the halls to make sure
he
wasn’t there, waiting for her, but decided it would be safer to move with the herd.

She did not see Eric Pritchard on her way out, his white Honda was not in the parking lot, and his codependent sidekick Jason
Wells was nowhere to be found. They couldn’t be bothered to attend class, and yet Eric had dropped by to send her a message.
Impossible to pretend now that the graffiti had been a one-time prank. They were coming for her, and they would keep coming
until they got her.

She did not cry on the way home this time. She was too numb to cry, and when the numbness wore off, there
was only a white-hot brick of anger. She thought,
I hope something bad happens to them. I don’t care how hard their lives have been, or that they are only kids, or that they
are lacking good role models, I really don’t. Because I am all out of sympathy and empathy and politically correct nurturing
teacher bullshit. I hope Eric Pritchard and his dangerously dumb cling-on just have themselves a nasty fucking fall and never
get up. I hope the skinny little mouth-breather pulls that knife on someone who can teach him how to use it
.

The intensity of her sentiments made it a kind of prayer. The strangest part was that, when she got home, her fear and anger
were gone, all gone, the burden lifted. As if someone powerful had been listening.

As if someone had heard her sin, and absorbed it.