Good Neighbors Read online

  “Yeah. I know. You said. But he looks at me normal.”

  “He doesn’t,” Rhea said, which did not feel like a lie. More like a perceptive extrapolation. “He’s got his eye on you. You’re just too young to understand it. Do you promise you’ll keep away?”

  Shelly nodded, blushing softly.

  Rhea set her papers aside and retrieved the Crock-Pot dinner she’d made. Shelly set the table: plates, utensils, and glasses. When both were finished, Rhea leaned down and held her daughter’s slender shoulders, kissed her graceful neck.

  Of all her children, Shelly was Rhea’s greatest burden and her greatest gift. The child could be impossibly sweet, volunteering for the first flu shot of the season so her little sister could see that they didn’t hurt. She cried at the sight of homeless people. She could also be terrible, hitting Ella hard enough to bruise, mouthing off to teachers, screaming loud enough to hurt Rhea’s ears. She tended to fixate on Rhea’s moods, twinning her own to them in ways that were both flattering and alarming. Though she was the brightest Schroeder child by far, Rhea had recently concluded that she would go to community college, and then live at home after graduating, too. People with her kind of fragility needed a strong foundation from which to grow. It would be Rhea’s privilege to scaffold this child. To keep her close until she was strong enough to stand on her own.

  “Forget the Slip ’N Slide. I’ll take you and Ella to Adventureland tomorrow. All day if you want.”

  “Please let go of me,” Shelly said.

  So Rhea did. She walked into the hall and called up the stairs. “FJ! Ella! Dinner’s ready!”

  FJ came down first. He’d be starting at Hofstra University as a freshman in the fall. He was lean and muscular and so quiet that the family often forgot he was present. He’d been a submarine man all summer, surfacing at the house in the early hours, sleeping until noon. He was popular in school. Every night was another graduation party. But he managed to keep up his preseason lacrosse practice, so she figured: Why cramp his style?

  Outside, the Rat Pack still skidded across the yellow plastic Slip ’N Slide. Everybody was eating ice pops, laughing hard, covered in tarry muck. It did look fun, she admitted. Rhea drew the curtains, so her own kids wouldn’t feel excluded.

  Nine-year-old Ella came down last. Like Rhea, she had hazel eyes, close-together features, and a habit of frowning when surprised or happy. “Sorry. I was reading!” Ella said. “Nicholas and Smike just ran away and I had to know what happens to Fanny. She’s my favorite.”

  “Brilliant!” Rhea pronounced. “Harvard. I’m sure of it.”

  “I read that book,” Shelly said. “Smike is an outcast. O-U-T-C-A-S-T. It’s very sad. What did he have, Mom? Cerebral palsy?”

  “Don’t spoil it for your sister,” Rhea answered. “And don’t phony. You Netflixed the miniseries. The day you read a chapter book to the end is the day I have a stroke.”

  “Shelly watches Buffy. It’s all she does is watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer on her screen in bed at night,” Ella volunteered as she scooped half the stewed beef from the tureen. “She loves Angel the vampire like he’s Dave Harrison and she makes me play Dawn and it’s so lame!”

  Shelly looked down at her plate. “I do not love Dave Harrison, and I did read Nicholas Nickleby.”

  If the family heard Shelly, none responded. The sounds were forks and spoons, rattling plates, water glasses lifted and replaced. Pretty soon, dinner was done. Rhea drained another glass of wine, her second, which was her limit on weekdays. FJ got up without asking. He seemed preoccupied by something. Probably a girlfriend. He was always having high drama with some girlfriend.

  “Magic words,” Rhea said.

  “Can I go?”

  “You may be excused.”

  “Can I go, too?” Ella asked.

  Rhea nodded. “PJs, brushed teeth, and two more chapters.”

  “I’ll do a book report. You’ll love it so much! Because I’m a genius!” Ella cried, all enthusiastic sincerity, then bounced toward the stairs.

  Last, it was just Shelly and Rhea. Rhea eyed her empty glass. With the heat this high, even the central air-conditioning couldn’t combat it, and she’d lost her appetite. She poured just a little more, letting the sweetness sizzle on her tongue, then fade as a means of making it last. Shelly watched. Noticed, in ways the others never did.

  “Mom?”

  “Yup?”

  “I’m out. Of tampons.”

  “There’s nothing in Gretchen’s old room?”

  Shelly tugged on her loose navy blue skirt, which Rhea could now see was damp in the crotch. It was on the fabric of the chair she’d been sitting on, too. Red against tan. “It happened just now. I just realized. I’m sorry,” she said.

  Rhea sighed. Who doesn’t know when they have their period? Things like this only happened to Shelly, which was why she feared the child would have a nervous breakdown, a kind of psychological aneurysm, before adolescence finished with her.

  Tears rolled down Shelly’s cheeks to the bib of her blue shirt. Her shame was in extreme excess, and this worried Rhea, too. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Calm down. Take a shower while I clean up. I’ll brush your hair first, then I’ll be ready to drive to the store. Does that work for you?”

  Shelly clutched her mother’s wrist. “Do you think we could take a break? For tonight? And not brush my hair?”

  “You know what happens when we do that. Boomerang. It’s ten times worse tomorrow. Just put in lots of conditioner. I’ll make it as painless as I can.”

  After Shelly left, Rhea cleaned the kitchen and turned the laundry. She could still see Maple Street out there. Imaginary conversations played. These were directed at the dumb neighbors, who were going to give their kids cancer, and at pregnant Gertie, who’d proven to be the worst kind of friend. And then at Fritz. And then at every rando in fragile Shelly’s future, who might one day threaten her or make her feel bad, and then at her jealous accuser, who’d ruined her career, and finally, back at Gertie. Her face made expressions as if inhabited by ghosts.

  At last, she started up the stairs.

  Fritz Jr.’s door was shut. She knocked. He opened a crack. She could see an open bottle of Heineken on his night table. She handed him his uniform, cleaned, for practice. “You’re going out tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be smart. Don’t drive.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise.”

  He smiled small, his only way of smiling, sweet kid. “I will.”

  The next door belonged to Ella. It was open, the girl sleeping atop her bed in her street clothes, Nicholas Nickleby open on her chest. Rhea took off her shoes for her, but even with the air-conditioning, the heat was such that she didn’t bother with a blanket.

  Last, Shelly. Lost in thought, she broke her own rule and opened the door without knocking.

  Shelly was standing in the center of the room, wet from her shower, big towel tightly cinched. Her taut body was precious as a colt’s, with big feet and hands and eyes, the rest not yet grown in. She was perfect, and loved perfectly. And if she seemed off sometimes, too dark and too sad for a rational person her age, it wasn’t Rhea’s fault.

  “Mom?”

  Something gritty and inscrutable unfurled inside Rhea Schroeder. A thing that had piled over the years, growing too large to control, too heavy to jettison. A murky monster. Holding the brush, she walked inside and shut the door.

  THIS ACCIDENT

  July 10

  Map of Maple Street as of July 10

  *116 Wilde Family

  *118 Schroeder Family

  INDEX OF MAPLE STREET’S PERMANENT RESIDENTS AS OF JULY 10, 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), Shelly (13), Ella (9)

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

  122 The Cheons—Christina (44), Michael (42), Madison (10)

  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 The Simpsons—Daniel (33), Ellis (33), Kaylee (2), Michelle (2), Lauren (2)

  134 The Caliers—Louis (49), Eva (42), Hugo (24), Anais (22)

  TOTAL: 52 PEOPLE

  From the University of Washington’s faculty personnel file for Rhea Schroeder (née Munsen):

  On February 12 of 2005, the accuser, Aileen Bloom (English Literature PhD candidate, 2008), claims that Associate Professor of Literature Rhea Munsen invited students of her graduate seminar, The Internet as Reverse Panopticon, for after-class snacks at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, a local hangout. As Dr. Munsen is a popular professor, the entire class arrived, whereupon they resumed the heated philosophical debate they’d been having in class. A truce was reached, but Ms. Bloom continued to argue with Dr. Munsen. The rest of the group approached the counter for pastries. Ms. Bloom then excused herself to the ladies’ room.

  Soon thereafter, Dr. Munsen followed Ms. Bloom to the ladies’ room, whereupon she kicked in the locked stall door…

  Maple Street Group Chat

  July 5, 2027, 2:05 p.m. [email protected]: Hey, guys. Anyone having reception issues with Verizon? I can’t get a connection and I’m supposed to post grades tonight!

  July 5, 2027, 2:31 p.m. [email protected]: Same here and I’m Sprint. Took me half an hour just to post this!

  July 5, 2027, 3:14 p.m. [email protected]: Okay—I left the block and am getting a better signal. Verizon says it’s the sinkhole. Lots of people have called.

  July 5, 2027, 3:21 p.m. [email protected]: My cable’s out, too. AT&T.

  July 5, 2027, 8:16 p.m. [email protected]: Check this press release put out by Hofstra: Bitumen reported to interfere with satellite signals.… No point calling your provider. It’ll work again when the hole gets filled.

  July 6, 2027, 3:30 a.m. [email protected]: WTH? They’re telling us it’s safe but there’s something in the air that’s strong enough to interfere with satellite relay? Pretty sure that’s a vague description of radiation. Guys, stay inside. Windows closed. Lots of showers. Please!

  July 6, 2027, 8:04 a.m. [email protected]: Rhea’s right. I’m getting other people’s phone calls when I do connect. It’s weird. I didn’t know cells could have crossed signals.

  July 6, 2027, 3:58 p.m. [email protected]: How are we supposed to communicate? Sheets out windows?

  July 6, 2027, 4:15 p.m. [email protected]: It’s getting worse. Had to post this from Little Doves School. Sprint says to just wait. So inconvenient!!!!!!!!

  July 7, 2027, 10:49 a.m. [email protected]: Is this normal?

  July 8, 2027, 3:16 a.m. [email protected]: Nikita—no! It’s not normal. Never happened here before.

  July 9, 2027, 10:02 a.m. [email protected]: Hi guys! Rhea! You work so hard! I miss you! I miss all of you! So glad we sorta caught up at the BBQ! Just wanna let ya’ll know about an open house I’m showing Saturday mourning at 1425 Savile Row, Glen Head, which is souper pretty to visit. Thought ya’ll could like to take a trip away from this heat!

  July 9, 2027, 1:03 p.m. [email protected]: Please remember—this is a community site. No advertising!

  116 Maple Street

  Saturday, July 10

  “Triple digits for the twentieth day in a row. That’s got to be some kind of record!” a static-riddled NPR host announced. Since the sinkhole, everything was static. “What’s gonna happen next? Is it gonna rain frogs?” the host asked. Then she started talking about all the global warming refugees dying at the border. It was all so depressing that Gertie Wilde bellied up between the kids eating Froot Loops at the breakfast bar and switched off.

  “I’ve got an open house in Glen Head. While I’m gone, I want you guys to go out and get some fresh air.” She pointed at the trampoline on the Ottomanelli lawn, where all the kids were jumping. “Look. The Rat Pack’s up and at ’em.”

  Julia didn’t look. “Those nerds? Their parents won’t let them go outside until the hole’s filled.”

  “I guess last night we started something, ’cause there they are, Jules.”

  “It’s too hot for outside,” Julia answered as she stretched, still without looking. Her legs went one way, her arms the other, while her back arched. She was wearing Arlo’s Hawaiian shirt that brushed the tops of her knees. Not exactly street wear, but the loose fabric would keep the heat rash away. Larry was the real problem. He was wearing green shorts and a green turtleneck, because it was the only green top he owned. He’d decided that green was organic, and would make him a real boy instead of an “aspy cyborg.”

  “I’m serious. Get your shoes on and brush your teeth,” Gertie said. “I don’t want you screaming like banshees, waking your dad as soon as I’m gone.”

  “Can I eat avocados for dinner? Are they expensive?” Larry asked.

  “What?” Gertie asked.

  “OMG, you are so weird. It’s because they’re green, isn’t it?” Julia asked.

  “He’s not weird. Don’t say that.”

  “Sor-ry, Lar-ry,” Julia answered in singsong. “You’re sooo not weird.” Even this early in the morning, her curls were damp with sweat. “Why can’t we wake Dad? He could take us to Jones Beach. That’s outside.”

  “He’s exhausted, Jules. Plus there’s some kind of algae bloom. The beaches’re closed,” Gertie answered. “I left the Slip ’N Slide out front and Margie Walsh said you can attach a hose to her house anytime. It’ll be better than sitting in here getting baked. Which reminds me, you’re not to play near the sinkhole. And you’re to keep your eye on Larry.”

  “Why don’t you take Larry?”

  “You’re talking about me like I’m not here,” Larry said.

  Holding her belly, which felt way too heavy for twenty-five weeks, Gertie faced the both of them. “Enough! Get your flip-flops and sun block! Now!”

  “But they’re mean!” Julia cried.

  “You played with ’em last night. They’re perfectly nice kids. Better than anybody from East New York, for sure.”

  “They were nice ’cause you bribed ’em with ice pops. Besides, Shelly wasn’t there. It’s Shelly that counts. The rest of ’em follow.”

  “Well, what did you do to Shelly?”

  “Nothing!”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about!” Gertie announced as she squeezed her baby-bloated feet into a pair of black, size-ten Payless pumps. She tried her best not to notice the condition of the house: a pigsty decorated with puckered, home-stitched drapes and creaky estate-sale furniture.

  “Fine, you dictator,” Julia said.

  “Good,” Gertie answered.

  Afraid he’d get teased, Larry left Robot Boy behind. The three of them headed for the front door. Once out, Gertie got into her dented red Passat. Larry and Julia made their way toward the Rat Pack.

  Windows down, engine idling, Gertie watched.

  The more Julia walked, the more she hunched. By the time she got halfway to the trampoline, even her head and pimpled neck hung heavy. “Wanna play on my Slip ’N Slide?” she called to the pile of kids.

  Shelly Schroeder stopped jumping. Her hair was braided intricately, about ten of them all down her back. It had to have taken hours for her mother to set. “When’s your mom gonna get that crappo ca
r fixed? It looks like it’s made outta clay,” she hollered.

  Gertie stiffened. Replayed the words, to be sure she’d heard them right. How could such viciousness have come from sweet Shelly Schroeder? This was a girl who’d set Gertie’s table for dinner without asking, who used to watch the Robot Boy show with Larry when nobody else’d had the patience. A girl who squirmed at Animals on National Geographic on the TV because she hated to see the otters get hurt. What had gotten into her?

  Julia stole a glance back at Gertie. She and Larry looked so flummoxed and out of place. Help me, Julia’s expression pleaded.

  Gertie rolled down her passenger-side window and leaned, but the seat belt caught her belly and held her. She used the time to try to think of something to say.

  What was going on here?

  The last time Gertie’d spent a serious chunk of time with Rhea had been back in April. Rhea drank too much wine and didn’t eat enough pesto that night. Gertie’d done the opposite because she’d just found out she was pregnant. The two of them wound up on the front porch, Rhea in tears, mumbling gibberish. For her own good, Gertie’d cut her short. Called it a night. They’d still been friendly the next morning. Waving and texting and such. No overt hostility. She couldn’t imagine Rhea held a grudge over something so small.

  But then, what was the problem? Why all this attitude?

  It had taken all her courage to approach Rhea on the Fourth of July. She’d felt like a beggar with that half-eaten bag of Ruffles, crashing a party right in front of her own house. Was it an accident that we weren’t invited? she’d asked straight-out.

  Of course! I’m so sorry! she’d honestly expected Rhea to answer. We forgot and used an old chat chain! Then they’d laugh and catch up like old times, because suburban college professors aren’t supposed to be petty. They don’t invent problems and instigate pointless fights. They’re bigger than that, aren’t they?

  No accident, Rhea’d said. Then she’d grinned this stark, toothy grin, and Gertie’d been totally gutted. It had hurt to see that kind of grin, because she’d known what it meant. She’d seen it before, on her crazy stepmom, Cheerie, who’d kept Prozac in the Vegas-era Elvis sugar jar, and she’d seen it on fellow pageant contestants, right before they Vaselined somebody’s wig, and she’d seen it on the handsy judges whom Cheerie had liked so much. Hunters grinned like that.