Good Neighbors Read online

  It woke Steven, Jill, Marco, and Richard Ponti. Bolstered by their apparent heroism (they’d taken down a shooter!), they sped out from their house, hell-bent on protecting all of Maple Street from the monsters outside.

  It woke FJ and Fritz, who each walked alone and at a different pace toward the hole.

  But it did not wake or even startle Rhea, who brought up the rear. She’d been expecting it all along.

  On her way, she opened the Benchley mailbox, took out the gun she’d hidden there. As she unlatched the safety, she followed the shouts and the vision in her mind of Shelly’s open, knowing eyes.

  Sterling Park

  Monday, August 2

  Julia Wilde. Ella Schroeder. Charlie Walsh. Dave Harrison. Mark and Michael Ottomanelli. Lainee Hestia. Sam Singh. These were the remaining members of the 2027 Maple Street Rat Pack.

  The ground filled behind them, the hole narrowing ever smaller. Shelly had to be carried up the ladder. Between the rest of them, this was possible. They made sure not to lower or drop her until they were all out, and when they set her down, they did so carefully.

  When they reached the summit, they were no longer alone. Julia was not the last to let go of her dead friend. It was Ella who held tight, her face pressed deep into what remained of her sister’s soft, black hair. The Rat Pack surrounded Ella, keeping the adults out, as they knew Shelly would have wanted.

  The adults only watched, impotent in this as they had been in all things before. Ella curled up inside her sister, pulling the dead girl’s arms so they wrapped around her. The Rat Pack let this happen for a long time. Long enough that their own sorrow subsided, and they could be of use.

  And then they cleaned her, smearing away the last remnants of oil. With hands and grass and their own shirts, they excavated her features while they themselves remained painted and nearly indistinguishable. Slowly, Shelly appeared. Her face, so grown up with strong cheekbones and hollow under-eyes. Her bitten fingernails and long limbs.

  They continued to do this until every part of Shelly was revealed.

  * * *

  In the stark presence of a body, everything changed.

  The adults saw the care with which Shelly was exhumed by their children. They witnessed the bravery of which their children were capable, and they were awestruck.

  They made a second circle around Shelly Schroeder. Mesmerized, Dominick, Sai, and the Ponti men forgot they were supposed to shield Maple Street and in particular, the Schroeders. Or perhaps they simply abandoned that silly plan, faced now with its reality.

  Hands in pockets, Rhea limped forward. Once she came closer, the rest did, too. They saw Shelly’s sides and back, pristine yet mottled with tiny bruises. They saw, too, that her skort was stained with blood.

  “Let me have her,” Rhea said, but the Rat Pack would not. Dave and Charlie joined hands, to prevent her from pushing through the child-made link. Ella stayed wrapped inside Shelly. Rhea limped, circling to the weakest of them. She pushed through Mike and Mark Ottomanelli. Shelly’s shirt was lifted, her skort hiked up. Visible: horsehair brush bruises and pricks, still scabbed and never, ever healed.

  Ella extricated herself at last. Her expression was agony. “You did this.”

  Rhea fell, her knees buckling just like that time years ago.

  “You hit her with the brush. I was with her that morning. She was too sad to stay in the house. That’s why she ran out so early. It had nothing to do with Mr. Wilde and you know it.”

  Rhea tried to stand. She pressed her hands to the earth, grunting. The Rat Pack watched her. The grown-ups watched her. Fritz and FJ and all the rest. All eyes. Slowly, she stood. She gazed upon Shelly. Not sleeping. Not trapped in time.

  She screamed, as she had screamed last time. Howling and awful. The sound reverberated down the hole. It pounded against the earth and sky, shattering and augmenting in a hungry loop.

  The people of Maple Street heard, and this time they knew the answer to the question they had been asking all summer: Shelly Schroeder. Shelly Schroeder. What happened to you?

  They understood the scream for what it was.

  They made a wide path for Rhea as she staggered away from her daughter’s body, beseeching once again. No one wanted to be near her. To touch her. Way in the back, some were startled to see Fritz taking hold of FJ, as if to shield him. But mostly, they saw Rhea. Her mouth opened wide, an intolerable pain-wail emitting from and through her.

  She walked through the crowd that parted for her.

  At last, she came to the back. To Gertie Wilde, who did not budge.

  “Rhea,” Gertie said.

  Rhea’s stark and terrified expression went still. She stopped screaming, and at last there was quiet.

  “This is the worst thing,” Gertie said.

  “You and Arlo did this,” Rhea said, loud, for all to hear.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I feel so bad for you,” Gertie answered. And the people of Maple Street at last understood what Gertie had meant when she’d said she was sorry.

  Rhea fidgeted inside that heavy pocket and took a closer step.

  Gertie didn’t know what Rhea carried. Her instincts warned her to protect Guppy and shrink away. But that old conversation had been playing in her mind: I’d like to talk about it with you, because I know you like Shelly. I know you like me. I know you won’t judge… God, aren’t I a monster? She’d been thinking, too, about the way she’d shirked in a moment just like this, with Ralph the dog: a body found, over the hole.

  Still, these thoughts were not what moved her. What moved her was Julia, who’d gone to such reckless lengths to produce her best friend.

  Gertie opened her arms.

  Bewildered, Rhea froze, hand in pocket. “It was Arlo,” she said, still loud enough for all to hear. “He raped her at sleepovers. You all can see the blood.”

  “Your daughter is dead,” Gertie answered. “There was an accident and now she’s dead.”

  Rhea’s breath gulped and gasped as if she were drowning. “She’s not dead. She’s in the murk. I have to find a way to the other side,” she said. And then she heard herself, recognized all the eyes on her, and looked ashamed. “It was Fritz,” she said. “He did it. He hit her. He raped her. And Dom Ottomanelli, too.”

  “Rhea, she’s dead. Your daughter is dead.”

  Panting, Rhea clutched her throat as if some living thing were caught inside it. “She’s not dead. She doesn’t know I’m sorry so it’s not permitted.”

  Gertie was crying, too. It wasn’t just for Rhea, but for Shelly, and for her own children. “Of course she knew,” Gertie said. “They always know.”

  Rhea took her hand out of her pocket, holding on to nothing. Gently, careful of Guppy, she pressed herself inside Gertie’s arms. Gertie held her. The women remembered that they’d once been friends.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rhea cried, tears falling.

  “Shhh,” Gertie whispered back. “Don’t think about that. Don’t think about anything but Shelly.”

  “My baby. I’d die to have her back,” Rhea said.

  “I know,” Gertie said.

  “Oh, Gertie,” Rhea wailed, clutching tighter now, hanging off of tall Gertie Wilde. “It hurts so much.”

  “I know,” Gertie said.

  At last, Rhea felt this thing she’d been too afraid to confront. She cried not for herself, or for her secrets, but for Shelly. The people of Maple Street witnessed this, and understood why they’d been watching all this time. They’d needed to be here for this moment. Not to tear down, but to support. They crowded closer, a different and better kind of circle.

  And the lonely thing listened. The lonely thing stayed alone.

  For Rhea, it was unexpectedly cathartic. Real friendship. A true connection. The unburdening she’d coveted for so long. It felt so wonderful, for the briefest of moments, to be known. To be seen for the monster she was, and nonetheless accepted. It was the truest moment of her life.

  * * *

  B
ut there are some people whose greatest fear is to be known.

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

  Hofstra University Press, © 2043

  For years, the press has participated in widespread scapegoating against the people of Maple Street. They’re blamed for their part in both the victimization of the Wildes and for the death of the Schroeder family. Authors like Donovan and Carr use the neighbors’ contrition in the aftermath of Shelly’s discovery as evidence of guilt. But the people of Maple Street might easily have pitied all parties, regardless of their guilt or innocence. It’s a testament to them and to Rhea that they embraced Gertie Wilde rather than ostracizing her.

  As Linda Ottomanelli states, “I know that lockbox was found in the Benchley mailbox. And I know the police think Rhea used it against Larry. But I was awake that night. It was my turn for the neighborhood watch. I know what I saw. Gertie hit her own kid.”

  Steven Ponti agrees. “For a second, I almost changed my mind. I felt really terrible. It almost worked. But then I thought about it. There’s no way all of us could have made it up. Sure, Rhea might have hit Shelly once in a while, but what Arlo did to every kid on Maple Street was so much worse. There is no doubt in my mind that I did the right thing. He was guilty!”

  Sterling Park

  Monday, August 2

  All life-changing hugs eventually end. Like a one-night stand between mutually damaged parties, these endings are often awkward. Their authors tend to retreat, giving each some space. So it was with Gertie and Rhea. They let each other go.

  After, Nikita Kaur brought a fresh white sheet out from her house and draped it over Shelly’s body. This, she fussed with, unsure of whether to wholly cover the child or leave her face exposed. And then again, was it wrong to whitewash her bruises? Conceal, after the children had gone to such efforts to raise her up?

  It was Marco Ponti who lifted the sheet over her forehead, leaving just tufts of glossy black hair. It was Sally Walsh who pulled it back, revealing Shelly’s high cheekbones and V-shaped chin. “Let her breathe,” Sally announced.

  There, the sheet remained.

  The police arrived with the dawn. Detective Bianchi lifted the sheet and peered under. His expression didn’t change, though surely he noticed the bruising. Surely it had to have come from the horsehair brush from Paris that her mother had bragged so often about. The nightly sessions the girl had endured, for cornrows and plaits. For long, soft hair as silky as gossamer wings.

  Shelly. She’d once flipped lithely on a trampoline.

  A blue-striped coroner’s van pulled softly into the crescent, wheels rolling over bitumen and pebbles. Doors opened. Shelly was packed into its hold. The doors shut softly. Rhea covered her ears with her palms. Others held their chests or wiped their eyes or bowed.

  It was at this point that Fritz approached Rhea. She would not have him. Her ears stayed covered. And so he whispered something inaudible to his son, then drove his Mercedes out of the crescent.

  Rhea watched him go, her eyes dull.

  Bianchi asked the rest of Maple Street to remain. He took statements from witnesses, including the children. Rhea was seen nearby, pacing large circles around the hole, her body hunched, her gait uneven. The children answered questions with soft voices, parents holding them by their shoulders. Occasionally, they pointed at Rhea.

  Last, Bianchi approached Rhea. He stopped her pacing by standing in her path. She bumped into him. They didn’t hear the question he asked, only her answer, which she called out loudly. “I think… I think someone did that by accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she said, pointing at the empty ground where Shelly’s body had been.

  They sat on the bumper of the John Deere out there. The interaction was not climactic. He smiled sometimes, and so did she. He walked her back to her house. She leaned on him. He shut the door. Saw her safely home.

  The mystery of Shelly Schroeder was over.

  One by one, the people of Maple Street went home. This long, hot summer had caught up to them. A terrible poison had seeped inside their hearts. Expunged at last, the muscle was that much wearier.

  118 Maple Street

  Alone in the house, Rhea staggered to her bedroom. Flung off worn clothing and stood in the hot shower. Remembered her dad. They used to share this red afghan blanket, her head tucked into the crook of him, feet kicked up and piled next to each other on the old coffee table. She remembered the candy apple smell of him. The safety of a dark room, the TV playing.

  She dressed. Saw her reflection. Wild, silver-black hair, complexion greenish from exhaustion and a diet composed mostly of red wine. She winced at the sight, frightening herself. Who was that woman?

  She put the gun back into her sweater pocket. It wasn’t safe anyplace else. The children might find it. She came down her stairs, each step a white shock of excruciating pain. Her kneecap floated now, removed from its joint.

  The children hadn’t returned to her. The house was empty. Where were they?

  She looked out from her dining room window. Like birds after a storm, Maple Street chirped softly. She saw FJ out there with the older Harrison boy. They huddled conspiratorially and she knew that he was telling secrets. Badmouthing her. He had a right, of course. Everyone has a right to speak. She tapped her fingers against the glass. He stiffened and looked in the direction of 118, first through her bedroom window and then through the dining room window. Maybe he saw her. Maybe he didn’t. He backed up, waving for the Harrison boy to join him.

  Julia was out on her stoop. Ella was with her, smiling softly as Julia taught her a hand game:

  ABC, My Momma Takes Care of Me

  My Papa Drinks Black Coffee

  Ohh, Ah, I Wanna Piece of Pie

  Pie Too Sweet, I Wanna Piece of Meat…

  She would have to collect them soon. Bring them inside and make them eat like any other day. If she wanted, perhaps it could be like any other day. She could come back from this after all. Jail time wasn’t likely. Not with a good lawyer. Child Protective Services might come calling, but she’d keep up appearances.

  The things she’d done—those bad things—she’d never do them again.

  Fritz could be a problem, but she knew how to work him. He needed her, after all. So did the kids. If it made them happy, she’d offer to see a therapist or whatever. Clean out the rotten parts. Become the mom she’d pretended to be—wanted so much to be. She’d do this right. She’d become clean in this best way. Not a magical way. This was her last chance.

  She would start today. Right now.

  She opened the door. Heat slammed down, along with the scent of sweet bitumen. She started for Ella, knee screaming. Holding a suitcase, Gertie opened her own front door. She didn’t smile like she used to, all needy and hopeful. She hardly even nodded.

  It occurred to Rhea then that despite their hug, Gertie would not stand by her. Of course she would not. Her husband and son were in a hospital. Rhea had put them there. She and her daughter were living in a motel. As soon as they were able, Gertie Wilde and her family would sell their house and move away. They’d find a new block and new neighbors. Gertie would never speak to her again. Too much ugliness had passed between them. It wasn’t possible.

  Tomorrow or the next day, Bianchi would return, knocking on doors, taking second statements from the judging people of Maple Street. She would sit center to that judgment. She changed direction and started for Gertie now, to say good-bye. Her knee screamed, and the pain felt so familiar. Like that other time, when she’d knocked down a bathroom door.

  Dizzy. It felt like time overlapping.

  Gertie set down her suitcase. Whatever she saw in Rhea, she didn’t like.

  Rhea kept coming, because she had to explain.

  She wasn’t insane, she would tell Gertie. She knew it was magical thinking, like people who talk about their spirit guides or the power of turmeric. But that day of her dad’s convulsion, when the lights had blinked in
the dark through a beautiful and infinitely dense space, it had felt so real. It had felt like a promise she’d made to four-year-old Rhea, to never forget. To always believe, even when logic and adulthood told her otherwise. She was special. She’d gone back in time and saved her father. She was not vulnerable. She was not in danger of losing everything because the sole person charged with her welfare was damaged. Her powers would repair him, keep them in this perfect place under a warm blanket, forever.

  So many times, when the indignities had mounted—unkind kids teasing her for her hair, which she’d never combed because there’d been no combs in her house; fellow teachers at U-Dub who’d gossiped, calling her weird behind her back; Aileen Bloom, with her Tory Burch sweaters and perfectly coiffed blond hair, whose family had paved for her a perfect future. Her dad, especially her dad, who’d died because she hadn’t been around. He’d had no one to pretend for. She’d gone back to that house to clean it out and found it covered in bottles and vomit.

  So many times, she’d felt the murk of it accumulate. In her dorm rooms, her studio apartment, her small office nook, she’d tried to go back in time, knowing it wasn’t possible, but hoping so very much. She’d wanted to loop through to the past and do it right that second time. She’d brush her stupid, wiry hair that she hated so much. She’d say all the right things when she got teased, turning it around so that everyone loved her. She’d laugh at bitter Aileen Bloom, knowing the woman was beneath her. She’d never enter that bathroom stall. She’d go back in time and save her dad. Make him better, and in doing so, save herself.

  She’d come through clean and new.

  Hand in her pocket, making sure that gun stayed safe, she limped. Sweating hard. Seeing almost nothing, except for Gertie’s terrified expression.

  “Hey!” she shouted, and her voice sounded so angry. She tried again, “Gertie! Hey, girl!” she screamed.

  A car pulled into the crescent. Fritz’s Mercedes. He stopped right in front of her and opened the door. His expression was all wrong, too. He wasn’t happy to see her, like he should have been after all she’d done for him. His expression was grim.