Good Neighbors Read online

  “Yeah?”

  “When I use them, I don’t hurt,” Peter whispered. “I mean, it’s agony if I don’t do my hour or two. Every day. But it’s getting better. Every year, it’s a little better.”

  “Sure.”

  Peter held Arlo’s eyes. “People around here don’t know about my mirrors. They don’t come over. They think we’re weird. We stayed too long. I’m grown. Not a little kid. We don’t fit in. But Rhea Schroeder’s nosy. She got my mom to give her a tour. You see what I mean?”

  “She’s nosy,” Arlo said. “She’s a lotta things.”

  “But I wasn’t home yesterday. I was at the VA for my checkup. So were my parents. When we got back, we saw FJ Schroeder and Adam Harrison running out from around our backyard. The Harrison kid was crying.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And when I got inside, all my mirrors were broken.”

  Arlo felt his scalp tighten, because yeah, now he did see the point of this conversation.

  “Maybe I’m crazy,” Peter said, looking around, still whispering. “I have a hard time, knowing what’s real and what’s not.”

  “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “But somebody wrote a word across the shards. I didn’t tell my parents. They don’t need this. The word? It was snitch.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry you got mixed up in this,” Arlo said.

  Peter kept talking, not hearing Arlo at all. “I used to have to clean latrines once in a blue moon—that’s just the deal, it wasn’t a punishment. I was a good soldier. I got a Purple Heart and I deserved it. But I had to clean latrines. You see?”

  Arlo waited, still crouched, his thighs burning. Peter kept looking with intensity, like Arlo should have guessed by now.

  “The word. Snitch. I’d know. It was written in shit.”

  Arlo lost his balance and fell back.

  “But maybe I’m crazy. Because people don’t do that on Maple Street. It’s not like Iraq.”

  “You’re not crazy,” Arlo said.

  Peter sighed out with great relief. “They threw bricks at your house and one of them hit your wife.”

  “They threw them.”

  “They did it because they blame you for the Schroeder girl falling into the sinkhole. They think she was running away from you because you’d raped her, even though I saw you come home that night. I saw Shelly come out that morning. It never happened. It wasn’t possible. If she was running from anyone, it was her mother. But the neighbors believed her story and they think you raped all the kids on the block, don’t they?”

  “Aw, God. I guess they do think that.”

  “And then they broke into my house because I defended you. They broke my mirrors and smeared their shit. That’s what happened.”

  “Yes,” Arlo said. Even with his hindbrain clawing with old desire, Peter made the junk seem like a nonoption. Like suicide. “You’re not crazy, Peter. You’re sharp. But you’re on too much junk.”

  Peter winced. It was the first thing Arlo said that the kid had actually heard. Then he smiled, and it was clear to Arlo that he still wasn’t sure this conversation was happening. Wasn’t sure of anything. “Yeah. I know.” Then he lifted the case from his lap. “So here. Take it.”

  Ass on ground, Arlo took the case. Something heavy. “I don’t like these,” he said once he looked inside.

  “It’s loaded,” Peter said. “Only use it if you have to. Because they really are. After you.”

  Arlo closed the case. Peter didn’t say good-bye. He wheeled around and rolled fast for his parents, who were waiting in front of the service van to load up his chair.

  It was eight at night. Still as an echo chamber.

  Arlo stood to follow. To hand it back. But something prevented him. Mostly, it was awkwardness—did Peter’s aged parents really need to worry about all this? Didn’t Arlo owe the kid something, if only his silence?

  The safety of his children, who were back inside that house, prevented him. The neighbors prevented him, too. Because he noticed, then, that all of them were watching. The Pontis and Hestias and Singhs-Kaurs. The Harrisons and Walshes, too. Rhea Schroeder was standing in the middle of her dark dining room, under the misapprehension that he would not see her if she stood very, very still.

  What stopped him was snitch, smeared in shit.

  Friday, July 30

  Arlo would have carried Gertie over the threshold of 116 Maple Street, but the kids were buzzing around, so nervous and excited to have her back home that he was afraid they’d get underfoot and topple him. So he wrapped his arm around her and they walked in together, arm in arm.

  Her temporary bed was the ground-floor couch. She’d been ordered by the doctor to stay in it, feet propped, until her next checkup, when they could be sure the swelling was gone. No stairs. It was still morning and the mercury would take hours to reach its summit. Right now, it was ninety-six degrees.

  Once the kids went to their rooms, Arlo showed Gertie the gun. It surprised him when she held the thing with skill. “It’s a .42 revolver. Safety wasn’t on,” she said, clicking it into place. “See this? Red means dead. You have to pull hard.” She pulled a metal piece and the red disappeared.

  Then she emptied the chamber. Reloaded. Six bullets, no extra. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

  “Do you?”

  “Gun shows and beauty pageants. They go together like peas and carrots.”

  While their kids stayed in their separate bedrooms, unusually quiet, she showed him how to aim, how to hold, how to carry.

  “Did Julia mention where that Pain Box evidence was hidden?” Gertie asked, nonchalant.

  Arlo loaded the chamber. Bullets landed with metallic clicks. “She doesn’t know. I asked her.”

  “It’s in that house, though,” Gertie said.

  Arlo put the safety on, pointed. “Should we break in?” he joked.

  Gertie waited a beat. “Maybe.”

  They decided to keep the gun in their bedroom, closer to him. While she knew better how to use it, her behavior in the hospital did not marry well with a gun.

  * * *

  Friday morning passed into afternoon. They learned that the special diver had given up, unable to traverse the underground tunnel. It was too small. The rescue workers packed up and went home. Trucks pulled out. Neighbors went inside their houses. Reporters disappeared. After the weekend, the hole would be filled.

  No body recovered.

  The Wildes waited for police to arrive. An arrest, or another inquiry. Someone at the police station had to be making a decision right now. Choosing whether to proceed with the case against Arlo Wilde.

  But hours passed into late afternoon and nothing happened. No police came. Due to the excavation, the hole and surrounding broken ground had grown to an improbable sixty square feet, the entire park and streets and pavement slick with tar. It looked like a terrible massacre had happened, and the Wildes began to wonder if Maple Street’s madness, having gone too far and frightened even itself, had died down.

  It was disappointing, then, when a new set of authority figures arrived at their front door. These introduced themselves as representatives of Child Protective Services. They’d been alerted by the police of potential child endangerment. Could they talk to Arlo alone, at their office?

  “I thought this got settled already,” Arlo said as he stood at the front door. “Call the Garden City Station and check for yourselves. Detective Bianchi.”

  “This is a separate investigation. The Garden City Police are obliged to forward all child endangerment reports. They only alerted us this morning.”

  “They didn’t tell us they’d do that!” Arlo said. His voice, like sometimes happened, got louder than he’d intended. They authority figures cringed, then came back more ferocious.

  “They’re not obligated to tell you. We’ll need to clear this up. Today. Now.”

  Arlo looked behind the door, back at Gert in the den, who was listening. At least the kids were still ups
tairs. “I’m tired of this. It’s not right. I need to take care of my family.”

  The man in front put his hand on Arlo’s shoulder, and normally, he’d have acted cool. He’d have suffered through. He shoved the guy hard enough to knock out his breath.

  “Sir, we have the power to remove your children from your home!” the other guy shouted.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry,” Arlo said, hands lifted in the air. “I didn’t mean it. I take it back.”

  “He didn’t mean it. He’s so sorry!” Gertie said in her fake light voice that was too close to baby talk. “Better go with them, hon. Sooner you get it done, sooner it’s over and we can have dinner.”

  Arlo walked back to Gertie. The investigators from CPS followed though they had not been invited inside.

  “Sir? Do we need to call the police?” one of them asked.

  Arlo fake smiled. The rage underneath was palpable. “You take care of yourself,” he said to Gert.

  She held his eyes. “Stay calm.”

  * * *

  It hurt the middle of Gertie’s back to get up but she did it anyway. She went to the stoop and watched the car take Arlo away. It was late afternoon now. The sun had crested and was now dropping back down behind the tree line but the damage was done. The whole block was hot enough to melt. You could see tar sand all over. Since she’d been gone, it had risen. The park, the lawns, the street, all oil smeared and leading, like a spider’s web, to that enormous hole.

  The cop car stationed for the day was parked in front of the Atlas house. Gennet was inside. Most people were at work or picking their kids up from camp or summer tutors. But Rhea was out there. She waved to Gertie like everything was great. Smiled wide and happy. Maybe the happiest Gertie had ever seen her.

  An hour later, Detective Bianchi stopped by. He said he wanted to see how she was feeling, and also to relay a message from Arlo, given she probably didn’t have reception. CPS had taken him into custody. He’d be staying overnight.

  “Four more families stepped forward. They’re saying Arlo may have interfered with their children, too. We’re keeping it out of the papers as best we can.”

  Gertie winced, bit her lip to stay the tears. “Arlo’s not a hunter. He’s not that guy. You met him. You must know that.”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Fuck you. Why didn’t you search Rhea’s house? Why didn’t you look for that evidence? That’s the real crime here, that Rhea got away with hurting her own child. And now she’s getting away with framing my husband for it, just in case a body turns up and they find it scarred or God knows what, they’ll blame him and not her. Why are you helping her do this? What’s wrong with you? Is it that you can’t stand the scandal she’s making? Everybody’s rooting for poor victim Rhea, and you’re afraid to stand up? It’ll get in the news that you’re defending a pedophile?”

  She hit a nerve. Or maybe he just didn’t like getting yelled at by a pregnant lady. He left. Told her that the cop driving by every hour would also relay messages between her and Arlo. She followed him to the door, wincing with pain as she moved one foot after the next. Watched him get into his car, her fury leaking away, leaving just sadness.

  Rhea was still on her porch. She smiled at Gertie again. Big and cheerful.

  Gertie thought about what Julia had told her, about a Pain Box hidden someplace in Rhea Schroeder’s house. She thought about how tomorrow, Rhea would be at work, and so would Fritz.

  Slowly, Gertie smiled back.

  Saturday, July 31

  Gertie watched as Rhea drove her Honda out from the crescent and to Nassau Community College—her usual Saturday-morning routine. Then Fritz took his Mercedes and headed for BeachCo Laboratories in Suffolk County. The kids were still inside. FJ and Ella. She knew that. But she also knew this was as empty as that house was going to get.

  Julia and Larry were eating cereal. As a reward for their general hardship, Arlo had selected Lucky Charms. Julia was giving Larry all her green clovers. In return, she was getting the purple horseshoes. The milk was swirled brown rainbow.

  “You’re not gross,” Gertie heard her whisper. “But you’re still weird.”

  “I know,” Larry answered. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

  Julia chuckled, looked at him with surprise. “That was good! Good for you!”

  Gertie tousled Larry’s short hair, then Julia’s blond little mop, too. “I’ll be right back,” she told them.

  Her back hurt less if she walked very slowly. She wore a tank top and stretch pants, her hair in a ponytail. Because she was Gertie, she also had on hoop earrings, a long chain necklace to distinguish her cleavage, and silver eye shadow. She walked around the back of her house so the cop parked out front wouldn’t see.

  Her lawn was small and caked with littered things: a Wiffle ball, a deflated basketball, some boxing gloves. The Slip ’N Slide had ruined anything resembling grass. What remained was a top layer of sand oil. She walked past all this, and cut her way through the naked privets that divided the plots.

  Into the Schroeders’ property. The grass here had a green hue. Despite the drought, they hadn’t shut off their underground sprinklers. There was more oil back here, too. It pooled. Her eyes followed to the thickest center, where some birds were trapped. It was like a bath they couldn’t escape. What startled her wasn’t the sight, but the realization that these were the first birds she’d seen in weeks.

  Gertie came to the back of the Schroeders’ huge Tudor. The kind little girls dream about, if they’re taught to have those kinds of dreams. The windows were all open. Everyone’s windows were open. The heat.

  Slowly, she tried to twist the back doorknob. It didn’t turn. Locked. She lifted the straw WELCOME mat. Underneath was a copper-colored key.

  She pushed it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Not a fit. Not a fit?

  A few strides to the side, surrounded by hedges, gutter stairs led down. She walked them, slow and unsteady. The steps were caked in years-old grime. She got to the bottom. The cellar door.

  The key fit. She turned it, ever so softly. A click!

  She opened the basement door to the Schroeders’ house.

  Inside, the soft floor had cracked. Shining bitumen pushed through. It webbed and then pooled in the middle of the room and when Gertie stood over it, she could see her own reflection. It came back distorted, her face a bluish tint, her eyes reddish black. A couple of mice squeaked, trapped in its morass. Her shoes got filthy and she couldn’t help but make tracks as she walked into the next room.

  She’d never been down here. Hadn’t known this basement was finished. There was a dry bar, unused. She looked behind. Instead of bottles, a stack of bricks. Bright red.

  She snapped a photo with her phone.

  She opened a closet door. Empty red wine bottles were stacked. Maybe fifty. Maybe one hundred. It was hard to count. The dark walls inside seemed to glimmer. She flashed her phone light and saw that this glimmer was the gossamer wings of small fruit flies, trapped in oil on the walls and floor and even the ceiling. She covered her mouth with her shirt, afraid the stench might contaminate the baby.

  She opened the next closet. Here was the same. Bottles. Empty but not properly washed, so they smelled fermented and sweet. Glimmering with trapped flies. Rhea must have been hiding them here ever since the sinkhole. The garbage men couldn’t get through. She must not have wanted to use the community bin by the 7-Eleven, worried neighbors might discover how many bottles she went through every week. Gertie’d known that Rhea could knock them back. But she’d never guessed it was this bad.

  Where was Fritz in all of this? Did he see what was happening in his home? Did he care?

  To keep from tracking oil, she took off her shoes and tucked them behind the landing, then started up the stairs. Opened up. This door led to the open kitchen, which stretched along marble counters and nooks and stainless steel appliances, all the way to the dining room in the front of the house.

  It smelled cl
ean in here. Like bleach. And vaguely, like something burnt.

  Her heart beat fast at the wide-openness of this first floor. Here, there was no place to hide. She could get in trouble if she got caught. Jail. With Arlo gone, the kids could wind up in foster care.

  Her heart was pounding. Guppy kicked, too.

  She walked slow. Through the open room. Past the Schroeder family Christmas photos neatly magnetized to the refrigerator, marking every year for the last twenty-plus. Red sweaters, blue sweaters, green sweaters—they always matched. Past the strangely blackened sink. Past the oak dining table that was Rhea’s prize. There were plates scattered across it and stuck-on crumbs. What looked like spilled milk that hadn’t been sponged, too. It had ruined the wood.

  Gertie walked out and through the hall. She could see the front yard from here. Her own small house with chipped paint and random, rusted toys strewn all over. It was dumpy. They hadn’t taken care. She’d never seen it from this vantage before and it left her so embarrassed she stopped looking.

  She started up the stairs. Creaking, creaking. She could hear sounds coming from the bedrooms. Ella and FJ. Where were they? Would they catch her?

  Creak, creak, creak.

  At the summit. Down the long hall was the master bedroom. A smaller bedroom, too. One door was open. She peered. Ella Schroeder sat on the floor with a pillow hugged to her knees. She watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer with intensity, even though the picture was mostly snow.

  Gertie tried the next door. Opened. Awkward and man-sized, FJ lay on top of his sheets in just loose, light-blue boxers, sleeping deep. He seemed so smug, this brick thrower. This would-be baby killer. She noticed something before walking away. There was a circle of dark stain. In his sleep, he’d soiled his bed.

  She got to the small bedroom off the master. Shelly’s room. The door wouldn’t open. Something blocked it. She bent down, belly pressed against her knees, and reached through the crack to ease a bright-pink item of clothing out of the way. She opened the door.