Good Neighbors Read online

  She went down on tiptoe. Knew the house well enough that she didn’t need light. She got to her back door, and he was there. He didn’t usually break rules. He liked his parents too much. It made her feel special, just like that morning in Sterling Park, when he’d taken her hand.

  He waved through the glass. He looked more grown than she was used to. She’d never noticed before, that he had nice skin. It wasn’t pimpled like hers, but clear.

  She opened the door. Was scared to look at him, but happy to have him. Happier than she’d have been with Dave, she realized, because Dave had something hard in him. Even when you were joking around, you couldn’t really let down your guard, because he might tease in a bad way.

  They walked through the kitchen. He was at her side instead of behind, and he stayed quiet. They went up together, to the only place that made sense—her bedroom. She closed the door behind them, turned on just the reading light. The bed was made because her dad had made everybody keep up their chores. She was glad for this. But she also didn’t want to sit on it, because then he would sit on it. They’d be sitting on a bed together.

  She sat on her windowsill. He came next to her, peered through, to his own house. Studied the new vantage.

  “I’ve wanted to know what that looked like for a long time,” he said.

  “What does it look like?” she asked.

  He shrugged. Smiled just slightly with lips that were more pink than red. Looked around her room, at the Billie Eilish and Ruby Bridges posters, at her pile of manga. He lingered on the floor, on her purple cotton underpants, which she hadn’t put away. She wished they were fancy days-of-the-week, like Shelly’s.

  “You were going to the cops?” he asked.

  Julia nodded. “She was getting hit. It was my idea, but she wanted to. We decided together.”

  “Who was doing it?”

  “Her mom.” She’d been worried that telling too many people would betray Shelly’s trust, but once Julia said it, she felt a weight lift. That meant it was the right thing.

  Charlie breathed out. She expected him to ask lots of Charlie questions. When was she hit? How often? Had Shelly considered telling a school counselor instead? Was Julia even sure it was true, because Shelly was kind of a liar. But all he said was, “That’s awful. It makes sense, but it’s awful… I wondered what you guys were doing out there for so long. I was afraid she was being mean.”

  “She wasn’t. I think she wanted to get me alone. But she was so turned around she didn’t know how to make it happen, except by doing what she did.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. He was still standing in front of her. She scooted so they could share the sill. The window was still open, their backs precariously exposed. Jostling, he lifted his arm, circled it around her waist. His hand cupped her stomach, then reconsidered and went loose. She liked the smell of him: expensive detergent and pretzels.

  “Is that okay?”

  She nodded. “I was lonely in this house before. It’s nice that you’re here.”

  Charlie looked at her in a way that she felt all through her chest. “What else happened with Shelly?”

  “It was going on for a while. I don’t know how often. It wasn’t the hitting that bothered her. Kids I knew in Brooklyn used to get spanked and they’d laugh it off. It was the secret. That’s what was messing her up. She thought she was going crazy,” Julia said. “She thought we all knew the secret. She thought we knew but weren’t helping.”

  Charlie took this in. Didn’t seem surprised by it. Julia remembered how he’d talked about 118, and its perfection. “Did you know?” she asked.

  “I wondered,” he said. “But it’s not something you ask somebody. Not Shelly, at least. And like Dave said, everybody’s got problems.”

  She leaned into him. His hand flopped around, and then decided. He rested it on her hip. She leaned into his chest and started crying again. He was wearing a Giants T-shirt and shorts, warm and damp with sweat.

  “I keep wishing I’d done or said something different. Then she wouldn’t have fallen,” she said between sobs. “My family wouldn’t be in trouble.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not your fault.”

  She sat up. His eyes were wet, too.

  “What is it?”

  He sniffed. Breathed until he had control. “I keep thinking the worst of this has happened, and then another worse thing happens… Your dad got blamed and that was bad. The whole block went after him, even my parents, and that was worse. It turns out Mrs. Schroeder was hurting her and we never even knew. She must have been so sad. That’s bad, too. But you know the worst part?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “She’s down there, Julia. Shelly’s down there. She fell and she’s probably dead and I knew her since we were five. I shared ChapStick with her and I took swim lessons with her and I shared my Pirate’s Booty every day of third grade with her and she’s gone. People in your life can just go away and you never had the chance to say good-bye. I’m sad now but I won’t be forever. I’ll forget her. That’s the worst thing. We all just move on, until we’re dead, and then everyone else moves on.”

  He was crying now, trying to hide it. Gentle, she took his hands away from his face. “You won’t forget her,” she said. “I send her messages with my mind. I push them out and down the hole. I tell her I love her. I tell her to stay strong.”

  He smiled through his tears. “I like you, Julia.”

  She didn’t have an answer for that, and she didn’t want to think about it, because they were talking about Shelly, and Shelly was more important. Still, he made her feel safe. She liked being close to him. This was a stolen thing in the night. A remedy to the trouble with her mom and dad, and to the mean thing she’d said to Larry. A good kind of secret in the midst of so very many bad ones. She turned her face. Closed her eyes and leaned in.

  It took a second. And then she felt his lips. They were warm and soft and wet from tears and spit.

  It was a quick kiss. Her first. A good one, too.

  “Was that okay?” he asked.

  “I liked it.”

  He squeezed her waist. Kissed her again. She opened her mouth. He opened his, too. This one lasted longer, and she felt it in the rest of her body, not just her lips. She wasn’t as scared anymore, or as lonely.

  After, she leaned into him. “If that new diver doesn’t find her this week, they’ll fill the hole. They’ll bury her down there. She’ll be trapped. Nobody’ll know what happened or that my dad’s innocent. He’ll go to jail, and she’ll be buried with a lie.”

  “I know,” Charlie said. “It’s not right.”

  “We could do it,” Julia said.

  Charlie didn’t immediately say this was a bad idea. Dangerous and crazy. He was full of surprises tonight.

  “I’m smaller than any diver. I could go down there before they fill it. You could stay above and make sure I’m okay. We could save her.”

  “When?” Charlie asked.

  124 Maple Street

  Thursday, July 29

  Shit’s tough all around, Dave Harrison had once told his favorite members of the Rat Pack. This was particularly true under his own roof.

  Dave’s mom, Jane Harrison, was standing under the small hall chandelier next to Rhea Schroeder. Dave was at the top of the stairs, his view partially obstructed. He could only see his mom’s floral skirt, Rhea’s loose linen. He had the bizarre impulse to chuck an ax at the chandelier. It would fall, pinning them both to the floor like old-school criminals.

  “Did you hear about the twins and Lainee Hestia? He got to them, too!” Jane exclaimed. She kept her voice low, like gossiping about the neighbors was a secret best kept from fourteen-year-old boys.

  The worst part was, nobody talked about Shelly anymore. Nobody wondered whether she was still alive down there, a frightened and lonely miracle.

  “Sam Singh, too,” Rhea said. “Maybe all of Nikita’s c
hildren. It just came out.”

  “Dominoes. My God, Rhea, you must be going crazy. Jail’s not good enough. He ought to be castrated,” Jane said. She was standing on the left side of the Sharpie line that bisected the hall. Like she didn’t care, a super alpha dog, Rhea stood astride. It cut her right in half.

  His parents used to hide the Sharpie line from the neighbors, but since the hole and then Shelly, they’d stopped bothering.

  “The detective—what’s his name, Bianchi?” Rhea asked. “He was drunk. Is that bad to say? I don’t want to besmirch his character. He’s definitely trying very hard. Maybe just Parkinson’s? Parkinson’s or whiskey. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “He swayed?”

  “He had to hold on to the door. And he told me there wasn’t enough evidence.”

  “How much more evidence do they need?” Jane asked. “Can you imagine the therapy these children will require? The damage? It’s years. As a preschool teacher, I’ll tell you: they’ll never recover. It’s going to hurt through entire generations. I get sick just thinking about it.”

  “I’m learning so much about the justice system,” Rhea said. “You hear it’s corrupt. You read it in the paper. But living it’s a whole different thing.”

  Dave took a step down the stairs. Then another. Now both women could see him. He glared at Rhea Schroeder, and it was totally unreal, because even though she was a grown woman, she glared right back.

  It felt like a bite. Like having your face clamped down on by a python.

  His mom acted like it was normal. Like it was totally cool for this lady to be standing in his hall, visually skewering him. He figured it out right then. His mom was scared of Rhea. And the reason Rhea was glaring like she hated him was because she really did hate him. He was the only Rat Pack member not to come out against Arlo Wilde. He hadn’t toed her line.

  Dave looked away. Rhea relaxed, victorious.

  “A neighborhood watch is a marvelous idea,” Jane said.

  “Oh, I’m so relieved you agree. I hate to seem overboard,” answered Rhea.

  “I think you’re calm.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad. We’ll take turns. One house at a time. I’ve spoken with everyone but the Benchleys—they’re leaving for Florida. And the Atlases. She’s too sick. Plus, they don’t have children. I don’t think they really understand any of this. Did you know Fred tried to find Arlo a lawyer? Can you believe that?”

  “We’re the last?” Jane interrupted. “You should have come sooner! I’m very good at organizing.”

  “I came this morning but you weren’t home. You would have been third.”

  “Third’s good. That’s part of the club.” She said this like she was making a joke, but she absolutely wasn’t.

  “Great. Either Linda, Marco, or FJ will drop off the schedule. We’ve all got two-hour shifts. It’s very important. You can’t shirk or who knows where that pervert’ll strike.”

  Jane nodded.

  “I’ve been very clear with the Pontis and it bears repeating. Violence is the last option. This watch is to keep that from happening,” Rhea said.

  “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”

  Rhea smiled. “That means so much… But there are no sides. Arlo’s in pain, or he wouldn’t have done the things he’s done.”

  Jane made this funny barking sound. A cry. Voice cracking, she said, “I don’t know how you can be so understanding.”

  Dave came halfway down the stairs, alarmed by the sound of his mother’s pain.

  “I hope you never have to understand,” Rhea answered. “Take care of your mother, Dave. Bye-bye, Tim,” she called, and then was gone.

  Tim?

  Stomach tight, Dave looked behind. There was his dad in a ratty bathrobe, unshaven. Bitumen still caked the creases of his eyes. Three days since he’d been part of that brick-throwing mob, and he still hadn’t washed it off.

  His mom, down below, looked up. Direct eye contact. Not with Dave. She took a baby step over the Sharpie line. You never knew when this kind of thing would blow up. When they’d start yelling horrible things at each other. In his mind, Dave psychically blew her back into the safe zone. Then he blew her out of the house. Then he blew the whole house away and was free.

  For a sick man, his dad took the stairs fast. They met like that, each facing the other. Standing close, his dad spoke directly to his mom for the first time in recent memory. “I’ll help with the neighborhood watch.”

  Silence. Then, “Are you well enough?”

  “Yeah. It doesn’t ache today. The little fibers. Thank you for asking.”

  They started for the kitchen, shoulders so close they nearly touched, Sharpie line between them, like that coyote and sheep dog from those old cartoons, relaxing at the end of a long day.

  * * *

  Soon after, Dave broke the house arrest that the Maple Street parents had quietly agreed upon. Charlie Walsh opened on the first knock, like all he did was sit around, praying for visitors. He’d planned to suggest that they sneak out and drink the oilcan of Foster’s that he’d nabbed from his big brother. But the inside of Charlie’s house (pretty furniture, books organized by subject, happy family photos on the walls) looked so inviting. “You got any food?” he asked.

  “I’m making a turkey sandwich. Want one?”

  As they ate, Charlie said, “I’ve been talking to Julia. We’re gonna find Shelly.”

  116 Maple Street

  Thursday, July 29

  At dinner that evening, the Wildes were interrupted by a bang on the door. It sounded like a rock. Arlo’s first instinct was to flip the table and use it like a shield.

  Another rock: Bam!

  “Hey! Hello?” a man’s deep voice called from outside. “It’s me! Peter Benchley!”

  “Stay here,” Arlo called to the kids, gruff. Then he checked the window. There was Peter, right at the edge of the stoop. He’d been tossing pebbles because his chair couldn’t traverse the steps. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Just stay where you are,” Arlo told Julia and Larry, then went out, shut the door behind him, and met Peter at the landing.

  The guy wore a plain white T-shirt and khakis pinned back. He was carrying a leather case on his lap. He’d shaved, but there was a pallor to his complexion. His eyes were pinpricks. More than a decade sober, Arlo still felt a twinge at the back of his neck. A pull and release pleasure-memory.

  He crouched and extended his hand to Peter. “You vouched for me with the cops. I never thanked you. Thank you.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. It meant something to me and Gert that you helped us and you stood up. Can I do anything for you?”

  Peter let go. He had a loose grip and baby-soft skin, like maybe he only rolled that chair once a week. “I need to tell you something,” he said. His voice was distant, like he was only half living in this world. Arlo remembered that feeling with fondness and alarm. It’s different from drinking. It’s different from anything you can imagine.

  “What?” Arlo asked. Though he didn’t want that hot shot of white gold, he could hear the pant of desire in his voice.

  “They’re after you.”

  “Who? Did you happen to see which one threw the brick?”

  “Do you know for how many years I’ve been looking out my window?”

  Arlo shook his head.

  “I grew up here. But all my friends moved away. I’m like Peter Pan,” Peter said with a smile.

  “Sure.”

  “I know these people like the ridges of my stumps.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’ve always been predictable. Sleep and eat and work, it’s always the same. And then this thing happened.” He nodded his head in the direction of the hole. “And it’s all different. They’re different.”

  Arlo stayed crouching in front of Peter. His knees wobbled, off-balance, and he steadied himself by lowering his hands to the bitumen-sticky ground. “
What’s different about them?”

  “Did you know I was in Iraq?” Peter asked.

  “I figured.”

  “A kid set off a homemade bomb. He was holding it. His parents made him do that, I guess. Or whoever.” Peter’s eyes stayed far away. “The boy died instantly. So did my CO. I wasn’t hurt that bad. His bones turned to shrapnel inside my legs. The problem was that pieces of his marrow got mixed. The boy’s immune system grew inside me. That’s why the amputation. That’s why the mirror therapy. My whole room’s covered in mirrors. People think it’s made up. I’m a junkie. But it’s real. Did you know that?” He didn’t wait or look to Arlo for acknowledgment. “It hurts so much that I can’t even wear the prosthetics—they’re just for the mirror therapy. I wear them to see my reflection as a whole person. So my brain gets confused and thinks I’m healed. Anyway, when it happened, when that boy did that to me and my CO, I heard these cheers. The people in hiding. Civilians. Neighbors. They cheered.”

  Arlo pictured that. Tried to.

  “There was this energy to the place. It wasn’t happy cheering.”

  Arlo gave up crouching and balanced himself by holding on to the sides of Peter’s chair. Up close he saw that Peter wasn’t as old as he looked. It was just his sunken eyes.

  “Maple Street has that same electricity.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s hysteria. And I don’t even know why. I don’t know if it’s about you. You’re just the target.”

  Peter nodded behind him, at a handicap-accessible airport shuttle van. A man was loading luggage while a couple in their seventies, the senior Benchleys, waited at the curb. “It’s too hot for them. They’re making me leave for Florida.”

  “Bet you could use a change of scenery.”

  Peter nodded.

  Dark had settled over Maple Street. You could see movement through the open, lit-up windows of half the houses. There weren’t any night sounds, though. No crickets or cicadas or hooting birds. It made their own voices carry that much farther.

  “I wanted to tell you about my therapy mirrors,” Peter whispered.