Good Neighbors Read online

Arlo found a chair for Gertie and had her sit. She noticed him fidgeting, getting annoyed. “Don’t blow your top,” she whispered.

  Bianchi returned. “You’re on surveillance at Penn Station the night before the incident. And we have a witness who places you in your home for the subsequent duration.”

  Gertie burst into gasping tears. Arlo and the detectives surrounded her.

  “It’s the hormones,” she muttered. Arlo rubbed her back. “Don’t touch me!” she said.

  Arlo let go. “Give her space,” he said, and they all backed up.

  “I’m sorry to put you through all this, ma’am,” Gennet said. “Can I get you more pizza?”

  “Don’t look at me crying,” Gertie answered, which she knew sounded nuts. “I don’t want you to see me cry.”

  Except for Arlo, they averted their eyes. She pulled herself together.

  “Who was the witness that vouched for me?” Arlo asked.

  “Somebody called Peter Benchley,” Bianchi answered. “A veteran. He witnessed Shelly’s actual fall, from his window. He says she fell because something had been punching up, making the wood weak, and that checks. Forensics matched the dog to the teeth marks on your daughter’s hand.

  “Benchley says he was up all night. Insomnia. He says you didn’t come out until it was already going down.”

  Arlo let out a sigh. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad he was watching.”

  “You can go. We’ll be in touch,” Bianchi said.

  Clear-eyed now, Gertie fidgeted with her cardigan, handed it back. “How did you know to ask Peter Benchley?”

  “I was on Maple Street. Rhea Schroeder named a great many witnesses. I went door to door,” Bianchi answered.

  “To the whole block?” Gertie asked. “You asked the whole block about Arlo? What did you ask?”

  “I spoke with the witnesses Mrs. Schroeder named. Mr. Benchley came forward on his own. So did your Atlas friends. But the Atlases hadn’t seen anything. These are the questions I asked,” Bianchi said. “It’s protocol: Can you corroborate the witnesses’ story? Do you have any new or unreported information about the incident? Has the suspect been behaving strangely? Have you ever seen him acting strangely around the child in question?”

  “Oh shit,” Arlo mumbled.

  “I don’t understand. I told you about Shelly. That there’s evidence of abuse. If you’re so interested in finding the truth, why aren’t you at that house right now? Why aren’t you asking the neighbors about Rhea?” Gertie asked.

  Gennet spoke at last. “We’re getting full, conclusive statements regarding all parties. There’s not enough evidence for a warrant. But I have passed the information along.”

  “It would be a lot easier if we found the body,” Bianchi resumed. “Most rape cases in this age category show bruising and vaginal scarring. If we find the accusation against you specious, you can always sue. Probably not in your best interest. It’s smartest to just forget about today. But I can give you the full report so you know. You’re entitled to that.”

  They stood nervously, waiting for the receptionist behind the intake desk to print the report. The office was surprisingly empty. Just a few plainclothes police worked at their desks, leaving another twenty desks empty.

  Gertie’s knees were weak. “I don’t think I want to know what that report says.”

  But the receptionist was done by then. She handed the report to Arlo. Witnesses included Rhea Schroeder; Ella Schroeder; Nikita Kaur; Sam Singh; Linda, Dominick, Mark, and Michael Ottomanelli; Lainee Hestia; Steven Ponti; and Margie Walsh. The list of witnesses in Arlo’s defense was much shorter: Peter Benchley.

  * * *

  Gertie and Arlo got into their Passat. Halfway to Maple Street, he pulled over. Gertie opened the door and vomited.

  Shaken, they got back in and continued home. They’d only been gone for a day, but in that time, their whole world had changed.

  Sunday night on Maple Street. Cars were parked in driveways, dining room curtains opened for late-day dinner light. But they weren’t playing on the trampoline or barbequing burgers, like they ordinarily would have done on a weekend evening. No, they were inside, looking out. Gertie could see faces peeking from windows. Weirdest and most unsettling of all, they’d set up the Slip ’N Slide. It looked like they’d only recently, hastily, turned off the water and scattered. The Wildes’ entire side lawn was ruined. Just mud and viscous oil. Not a blade left of grass.

  No one waved at the Wildes as they parked and started down the sidewalk. They didn’t walk away from their windows, either. They watched.

  When the Wildes retrieved their children from Fred and Bethany Atlas, they expressed their deep gratitude and stanched their tears. Fred said he was still looking for a lawyer. It was tricky. People don’t like to be associated with that kind of accusation, and when they do, they charge a lot. Arlo should be prepared for photographers. This could leak to the tabloids.

  “If we’re detained again, could you take the kids? Otherwise, I’m worried it’s foster care,” Gertie asked.

  “Sure!” Bethany called from the couch. “We love them so much!”

  Fred walked them to the door, his voice lowered. The kids walked ahead down the lawn. “She’s back in the hospital tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll be at work or with her. They say we’ll know right away if it works. This targeted gene therapy. A week or a month, they say.”

  Arlo and Gertie stayed frozen on the stoop.

  “I want to help you,” Fred said. “But…”

  Arlo walked back up the steps. Clapped his friend on the back, and when he saw that was welcome, he hugged him. Fred shook with quiet crying. Arlo held him. The distraction from his own burden was a relief. “I didn’t even tell you I’m sorry about your dog. I’m sorry about your dog, Fred… You take care of your wife. Don’t worry about another fucking thing.”

  “We’re here if you need us, Fred,” Gertie said. “Anything. Both of you. I swear to God, I mean that.”

  * * *

  After Fred shut the door, they caught up to their kids. Julia squeezed her dad, hard. Larry took both their hands and walked between them, the way he liked to do when he was scared. Seeing her good, kind children in full flesh, a certainty came to Gertie Wilde: her husband was innocent.

  Her relief was great, and so was her fury. She hated Rhea Schroeder more than she’d hated anyone in her life.

  Rhea was sitting out front with Linda Ottomanelli and a glass of red wine, the half-filled bottle between them. She was still wearing yesterday’s black linen suit. Bitumen stretched out from the hole now in thick seams. It crossed under the sidewalk pavement and up again, daubing the yards.

  “Gert,” Arlo barked in warning.

  Gertie walked up 118’s wide, well-kempt slate. Rhea and Linda raised their eyes. Gertie’s speed increased. She stood before them. Linda looked away. Rhea did not. Between them was the note the Wildes had written, only someone had added to it and drawn over the words with the kind of red pen teachers use to grade papers:

  MURDERING RAPING

  Thinking of you.

  FUCK

  —The Wildes

  There’s this thing that happens to people who’ve grown up with violence. It changes their hardwiring. They’re just slightly a different species, built more for survival than for social networking. They don’t react to threats like regular civilians. They do extremes. They’re too docile over small things but they go apeshit over the big stuff. In other words, they’re prone to violence.

  Gertie approached Rhea now, when a shrewd person would have walked away, licked wounds, and if she was crafty, mounted a covert counterattack. But a switch inside Gertie had flipped. There wasn’t any going back.

  “Fuck you, Rhea Schroeder. You beat that child and we both know it,” Gertie shouted. “I should have called the cops on you months ago.”

  Linda gasped.

  Gertie reared. With an awkwardly slow launch, she punched the concavity between Rhea’s chest
and her shoulder. At first, Rhea did not fall back. The impact wasn’t great enough. But after a second, she pretended that it was, and slumped.

  The people of Maple Street saw this. The adults and the teenagers and the Rat Pack children, even Julia and Larry.

  Gertie didn’t wait for retaliation. She walked around the Schroeder house and yanked the Slip ’N Slide that was drying there, dragging it back to her own house. Her pretty dress that she’d worn for Shelly’s homespun funeral got mucked with dirt and oil. She stomped into her house, a public tantrum, leaving Julia and Larry and Arlo behind.

  Back at the stoop, Rhea Schroeder followed Gertie with her eyes.

  * * *

  Once the neighbors witnessed Gertie’s act of violence, the impartial line they’d been trying to balance sprang firmly back to Rhea Schroeder’s side. Rhea had taken the blame for something that was entirely their fault. They felt responsible. It was true that she had a gossiping tongue, but in her kindness to every one of them, and in her inclusion of the terrible Wilde family for so long, she’d proven that she was a good person. The people of Maple Street owed her their loyalty.

  They converged that night. They came outside to escape the stifling heat, and inevitably found themselves at the hole. Here, they discussed. This had happened: a child had died and even the police knew it wasn’t an accident. There was blame. A cancer was growing on Maple Street.

  Linda Ottomanelli, who had considered herself Rhea’s best friend until Gertie Wilde moved in, was the first to suggest a brick. She hoped to get back into Rhea’s good graces. Supporting his wife, who’d been down lately, Dominick refined the idea. And then the Ponti men, plus the Hestias, who wanted to be of use, added their thoughts on how best to execute such a plan. Margie Walsh felt it should happen soon. Tonight.

  “What do you think, Rhea?” Linda asked.

  Rhea shook her head in sadness. “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” she said. “But I don’t see any other way.”

  Consent given, the inchoate scheme took form, and so many contributed to its birth that none felt wholly responsible. They were passengers, riding the momentum of something greater than themselves.

  They waited until long after lights went out. They wore dark clothing. As if they’d gotten the idea from their children’s Slip ’N Slide games that afternoon, some ducked down. When they came back up, their faces were smeared with oil.

  As levity or as a scare tactic or something in the vague in-between, twenty-year-old Marco Ponti turned on his phone.

  Monday, July 26

  There are certain prisons from which other people can provide no solace. Gertie and Arlo fell asleep with white space between them, each tucked into small bundles on opposite sides of their bed. Staticky music played. It entered the cracks of 116 Maple Street. Gertie heard it first. She shook Arlo by the Elsa Lanchester–tattooed shoulder. “Listen.”

  Arlo jackknifed.

  “Somebody’s playing ‘Wasted.’ ”

  Arlo pulled the blinds. “There’s someone out there. Wait. More than one, I think. It’s hard to see. They’re all… They did something to their faces.”

  Something crashed against the window nearest Gertie.

  The creaking air conditioner fell out the window, she guessed. Or maybe it was the old computer that they’d turned into a fish tank. She jolted, struggling, but couldn’t sit upright. Her belly felt like it had been punched by an industrial stapler to the mattress.

  Was it the music? The heat? Why was she stuck?

  “Arlo! Where are you?” she pleaded. Music played louder. The part where he’s watching cartoons the first time he gets high. “Arlo! Why won’t you answer?”

  The lights came on. Skinny Arlo was standing over her, all four tattoos bright and animate against his pale, needle-scarred arms.

  “The kids! You need to go check—” Gertie started, but her voice sounded muddy to her own ears.

  “Give me,” Arlo said, taking the phone from her bedside table, kissing her cheek and the side of her lip gentle and quick.

  “Why am I…?”

  She saw then that the window was broken, and the floor beneath it spilled with shattered glass. She followed an imaginary trajectory across the room. Through the window, up toward the bright white ceiling, and then back down, over the bed.

  “It’s my wife. I need an ambulance. 116 Maple Street. Can you hear me? Are you getting this?” Arlo looked at the phone. “They got my wife!” he shouted at it, then dialed all over.

  By now the kids had woken. They stood in the doorway, Larry in just underpants even though he was too old.

  “You’re ’kay, babies. We’re all ’kay,” Gertie croaked as blood surged, sealing her nightgown to her belly.

  SNITCHES

  July 26–31

  Map of Maple Street as of July 26, 2027

  *116 Wilde Family

  *118 Schroeder Family

  INDEX OF MAPLE STREET’S PERMANENT RESIDENTS AS OF JULY 26, 2027

  100 VACANT

  102 VACANT

  104 The Singhs-Kaurs—Sai (47), Nikita (36), Pranav (16), Michelle (14), Sam (13), Sarah (9), John (7)

  106 VACANT

  108 VACANT

  110 The Hestias—Rich (51), Cat (48), Helen (17), Lainee (14)

  112 VACANT

  114 The Walshes—Sally (49), Margie (46), Charlie (13)

  116 The Wildes—Arlo (39), Gertie (31), Julia (12), Larry (8)

  118 The Schroeders—Fritz (62), Rhea (53), FJ (19), Ella (9)

  120 The Benchleys—Robert (78), Kate (74), Peter (39)

  122 VACANT

  124 The Harrisons—Timothy (46), Jane (45), Adam (16), Dave (14)

  126 The Pontis—Steven (52), Jill (48), Marco (20), Richard (16)

  128 The Ottomanellis—Dominick (44), Linda (44), Mark (12), Michael (12)

  130 The Atlases—Bethany (37), Fred (30)

  132 VACANT

  134 VACANT

  TOTAL: 39 PEOPLE

  From Newsday, July 26, 2027, page 68

  A Garden City woman was rushed to NYU Winthrop Hospital early this morning when a brick crashed through the window of her residence, 116 Maple Street. The woman, Gertie Wilde, remains in critical condition. She is twenty-seven weeks pregnant.

  Because of satellite interference, an ambulance was not immediately available. An investigation of the incident is ongoing. Detective Don Bianchi asks that anyone with information contact the Garden City Police Department.

  From Believing What You See: Untangling the Maple Street Murders, by Ellis Haverick,

  Hofstra University Press, © 2043

  With the brick, all of Maple Street became complicit. We know now that nearly every family was represented. These families have been framed as a mob. Angry and intemperate, striking without evidentiary foundation. In the years since, many of them have voiced public contrition.

  But many others have not, and it is these in whom I’m interested. A decade later, Linda Ottomanelli has only grown more adamant. “Arlo hurt that girl. Gertie covered for him. We knew that. I mean, the guy ran stark-naked through Sterling Park. Somebody even said he had a boner, and he was chasing Shelly so hard she wound up falling down a sinkhole. Can you imagine how frightened she must have been? I mean, before that, he’d hurt her so badly that she’d bled all over our trampoline. What more proof do you need?” Linda told me in an interview at her apartment in Floral Park, Queens, where she and Dominick have downsized to in order to pay outstanding medical expenses. “Can you imagine, my having to see that horror? To talk my kids through it? Their best friend was murdered right in front of them! The monsters who’d done it were living a hundred feet away, off scot-free. No wonder Mark had a nervous breakdown. No wonder he hung himself, God rest his soul! And Michael, who’s to say his multiple sclerosis isn’t from stress?… I could never get them to admit it—it’s so shameful when it happens to boys—but I’m convinced Arlo hurt them, too. They didn’t turn out normal… Something messed them up.”
>
  Jane Harrison agrees. “What I learned from Maple Street is that you can do your best, try your hardest, prep your children for the brightest possible future, and then a monster buys the house next door and ruins everything. The day he moved in, I knew. I could see it in his eyes. Honestly, I know he’s long gone, but those eyes haunt me still.”

  “We weren’t crazy,” says Marco Ponti. “We were protecting our own. I only wish we’d done more, sooner.”

  Indeed, many of the Maple Street children have failed to thrive. The Ponti boys are in jail. Sarah Kaur ran away from home at twelve. Her older brother Sam Singh dropped out of soccer upon returning to school that fall, though he was expected to join the varsity team. He’s one of many children on the block who never went to college—a rarity for Garden City during that time. Finally, it’s been well publicized that FJ Schroeder’s best friend, Adam Harrison, became a heroin addict. What’s less widely known is that his drug use started that summer.

  Given these outcomes, it’s no great leap to theorize that the children were traumatized. My contemporaries posit that the Maple Street murders caused irreparable damage. The children blame themselves for spreading a false narrative about the Wilde family, kindling Rhea’s madness.

  But does this theory hold water? The evidence of Arlo’s innocence has never been conclusive. It’s entirely possible that his actions are what haunt the survivors of the Maple Street Massacre. They’re traumatized because, even more than a decade later, they’re too ashamed to reveal what he did to them.

  It’s time we reexamine, giving credit where it’s due. In putting a stop to the Wildes, the people of Maple Street were heroes.

  120 Maple Street

  Monday, July 26

  Peter Benchley was out of practice placing calls. He fumbled a few times, therapy mirrors reflecting his movements like silent ghosts.