“Oh, me too,” Gen adds. “I’ve been eyeing him from across the street.”
“So, did you get up close to him?” Linda asks.
Dawn nods vigorously. “Yes.”
Gen drains the rest of her glass. “Is he as sexy up close as he looks from over here?”
“Ladies, I know I’m late forties and married, but...” She fans her face with her hand. “Oh, yeah.”
“What does he do?” Gen asks.
“He owns his own business, and he says he works a lot.”
“How old do you think he is?” Linda asks.
“I’d say maybe thirty-five-ish?”
Gen stretches her arm across her protruding belly, picks up her book from the coffee table, and flicks through the pages. “Does he live there alone?”
“He says he does.”
“Mysterious.” Linda flings the back of her hand against my arm. “Maybe you should get to know him, Claire. Sounds like he’s single. Owns his own business, lives in that nice big house all by himself.”
My face must be turning as red as my hair. I can feel the heat rising into my cheeks. But I smile, thankful they all still think there’s hope for me. “Thanks, but it will be a long time before I get involved with any man again.”
6
It’s dark when the women leave Gen’s house.
I swipe the wine bottles off the coffee table. “I’ll help you clean up.”
Gen stifles a yawn as she pushes a cork into a half-full bottle of chardonnay. “Here. Take the rest of this one with you.”
We carry the glasses and bottles into the kitchen just as Gen’s kids thunder through the hall. Amelia cries out in a mix between a call to battle and a howl of defeat. Colton chases her with a raised golf club.
“Colton Painter!” Gen spins around, the glasses in her hands rattling together. “You put your father’s club back where you got it right now. You are not allowed to play with those!”
Unfazed, Colton continues his pursuit, wielding the silver wedge as if it’s a blade.
Gen lunges toward the sink, half-flinging the glasses into the basin, breaking one of them. Then she lumbers down the hallway after the kids. “Colton! Do you want to be grounded from your video games? You’re on your way to losing them for this week.” Her voice echoes, eclipsing her offspring’s screams.
I place the bottles on the counter and hover over the sink. The tall, stemmed glass has broken away from its base. As I listen to the ongoing chase upstairs and footsteps thumping overhead, I begin picking shards of glass out of the stainless-steel basin while glancing out the kitchen window.
Across the street, lights flare in the new neighbor’s house. A shadow crosses an upstairs window.
I throw the broken glass into the trash and put the others in the dishwasher. The screaming upstairs stops, and it sounds like Gen is getting the kids in bed. A few minutes more and she’s back downstairs in the kitchen.
“I cleaned up the glass.”
“Thank you.” She exhales heavily as she crosses to a cabinet, her fingers pressed to her forehead. “I hate it when Trey leaves me to deal with them.” She takes an amber bottle from the shelf and dots the palm of her hand with two pills. “You know, he’s the one who wanted to have three kids, and then he’s never around to help me deal with them.”
I point at her hand. “What are those?”
“Oh, just something to help me sleep. They’re Trey’s, but he never keeps track of how many he has in the bottle.”
Her confession sparks something in my brain. Even though I don’t take sleep aids, I have plenty of patients who do. “Are you sure you should be taking those? You know, most sleeping pills aren’t safe to take during pregnancy.”
“It’s fine.” Her tone is clipped.
“Okay, I just—”
“I’m not sleeping at all otherwise. That can’t be good for the baby either.”
Therapist rule number one: don’t judge. “You have your hands full.”
She rests her back against the counter. “I know Trey works really hard, but I’m stuck here with the kids all day and...” She breaks off, dropping her gaze. Then she smacks her hand against her mouth, makes the pills disappear, and guzzles the remaining swallow of wine from one of the bottles. “It’s a terrible cliché, but...” She looks up at me. “I should’ve been the one to go to work and make him stay home with the kids.”
I force a smile. “We don’t all have those choices.”
Gen’s face relaxes into an expression of pity as she pats my hand. “You’ll find someone else.”
I laugh a little. “Do I need someone else?”
“You do.” She nods slowly, her eyes level on mine. “Don’t kid yourself. Let’s face it, if Trey died or divorced me, I’d be out there looking. Trying to make it on my own with three kids?” She swipes her hand through the air and vibrates her lips. “Please. We all need someone.”
“You know, Gen, when I was a pre-teen, my father went off the rails, and my parents decided to have”—I make air quotes with my fingers—“an ‘open’ marriage. Up until that point, my life had been okay. After that, it was nothing but confusion. My parents said it was for the best, but then my mother was either going off with men she didn’t like very much to keep up with my father, or she was in her bedroom crying while he was off with someone else. When my father finally died, and my mother was alone, everything calmed down and seemed right again.” I grab the wine bottle and head into the hall for my coat. “At the end of her life, even though she was suffering from lupus, I truly believe she was happier alone.”
Gen’s eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open. “You never told me that story.”
“I don’t tell a lot of people that story. Gunnar used to tell me not to—he thought it was embarrassing.” I lift a shoulder and let it fall again. “It was just a part of my life. Now, I don’t mind telling it because I no longer care what he thinks.”
It’s cold when I leave Gen’s, and I half-jog across the street, holding the bottle of wine high in one hand while clutching the book under my arm. I throw a glance toward the new neighbor’s place. There’s one light on upstairs. What did Dawn say his name was?
Inside my house, my two oldest daughters sit on the couch. Annalen’s neck is bent, her face aglow as she stares down at her phone. The television plays a rerun of Gilmore Girls. My younger two are already in bed.
“How was it?” Annalen looks up from her phone long enough to catch my eyes.
I set the book and wine bottle on the table by the door and plop down in a chair. “It was fine. As usual, there was more drinking than discussion about the book.”
“Are you drunk, Mom?” Twelve-year-old Gretchen asks me accusingly.
“No, of course not. You know I don’t get drunk.”
“Dad says you do.”
“Well, your dad thinks that if anyone has a sip of wine, they’re drunk. I can promise you your father has never seen me drunk.”
Gretchen, my little morality officer, continues to eye me with a wrinkled brow. “Dad says you never drank at all when you were with him.”
“I gave up alcohol when your dad and I got married. He disapproved of drinking, and so did his parents, so I didn’t do it.”
“Why are you doing it now?”
I sigh. “Gretchen, not that I have to defend myself to you, but I enjoy the taste of wine. When your father left, I decided I would have some now and again.”
Her brow remains creased, but she turns back to the television. Gretchen is my most serious child, most like her father.
I stand. “Okay, girls. Bedtime. TV off. Phones off. Let’s go.”
“Annalen’s the only one with a phone,” Gretchen reminds me.
With only the smallest sound of protest, the girls dutifully drag themselves off the sofa and trudge upstairs. I carry the bottle and the book into the kitchen, listening to their footsteps and conversation overhead as they vie for the bathroom sink.
Once their voices
and stomping quiet, I pour myself another glass from the half-empty chardonnay, flip on the lights for the backyard, and carry my wine to the deck. The cold air sends a twinge through me, but I pull my sweater closer and sit in one of the Adirondack chairs that Gunnar bought the last summer before he left.
Only half of the backyard lights work after a bad storm sent a tree crashing through a section of our six-foot privacy fence, destroying my shed and the exterior lighting on that side of the yard. But the lights still glimmer around the little pond I put in after Gunnar left, its water trickling, changing colors between green and blue and red.
Stone statues line the back of the yard, all vaguely Roman or Greek in design—a lady carrying water, an angel—each of them rigged with spotlights, highlighting their curves and planes.
I stand and walk to the edge of the deck, surveying the gaping hole in the fence that allows me a straight glimpse into my mysterious neighbor’s yard. His property is dark. One window is lit on the side of his house. A shadow moves within.
I look away. Nothing worse than some old divorced woman staring into a single man’s house.
The sharp whang of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, and I gape into the darkness, the warmth of the wine flowing through me.
“Hello?” A low voice rumbles.
I can’t see him, but he obviously sees me, hears me, knows I’m standing here gawking.
“H-hi.” I manage to pull one of my hands away from the deck’s railing and give a little wave.
A few yards away, a light flares—the flame from a cigarette lighter—followed by a reddish flicker that glows and wanes. The man stands in the gap of the fence.
He breathes out a stream of smoke and motions to the fence and the decimated shed. “What happened here?”
“A tree. Fell in a storm a few months back. I know it’s an eyesore. I just haven’t had a chance to call anyone to clear it out yet.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “I can probably help you with that.”
He moves through the fence opening and stands a little closer to the deck, enough for one of the spotlights to irradiate his face. I glimpse his profile as he looks toward the crushed roof and flattened structure. A slightly prominent nose. Stubble covering the lower half of his face.
“I’m Steel, by the way.”
I notice the accent Dawn mentioned, but it’s muted—barely identifiable.
“Hi, I’m Claire.” I wait a second and then ramble on. “Sorry, I’m a terrible neighbor. You’ve lived here nearly two months now.”
“No problem. I’m not home a lot, and I pretty much keep to myself anyway.”
“The guy who lived here before was never home much either.” I glance up at the window of his house, where I thought someone was moving around a few minutes before. “Do you live there alone?”
“Yeah,” he says.
For all I know, he might have a guest over. “It’s a lot of house for one person.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot more than what I usually rent.” He takes a puff from his cigarette. “What about you? I’ve seen a bit of activity around your house.”
“Yeah, I’ve got four kids.”
He nods.
“They’re really good girls,” I assure him. “But let me know if they ever bother you or anything.”
“They won’t bother me. I love kids.” He blows smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Well, I’d best leave you alone. I just wanted to pop over and say hello, introduce myself. Be neighborly.” He points at the flattened shed. “And like I said, if you need help with clearing that out, let me know.”
“Thanks. I might just do that.”
7
I find some old jumper cables in the garage and carry them out to the driveway. AAA says it will be at least an hour and a half before they can get to me, but the service station is within walking distance. If I can get it over there early, I can replace the battery and go about my day.
Gen assures me that Trey will be over to help as soon as he’s up and somewhat functional. He’s called in sick to work, still nursing a headache after a night out with the guys.
I stare down at the cables in my hands. I hate dealing with anything electrical, and cars are even more elusive to me, but it’s been over twenty minutes since I spoke with Gen, and I’m still waiting for Trey to appear.
I pop the hood.
“Hey.”
I look over. Steel stands inches away.
“Hi.”
His gaze drops to the cables. “You need help with that?”
“Oh, my neighbor is coming over.”
He holds out his hands. “I’m right here.”
“Um, okay.” I offer him the cables.
He waves them away. “I got better ones.”
Steel disappears into his garage and returns with a set of red and black cables. Then he climbs into his truck and pulls it into my driveway beside my SUV. I watch as he opens my driver-side door, pops the hood, clamps the cables into place.
“When I tell you, start it up,” he directs me.
In less than two minutes, my engine is firing. He gives me a thumbs-up sign as I climb out of the car.
“Thank you so much.”
Steel unclamps the cables from my battery. “It’s no trouble. I’m all about helping people.” He closes the hood. “You okay to get it to a service station?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m taking it there now. It’s just two minutes away.”
He smiles. “I’m on my way out now anyway. I’ll follow you over. Make sure you get there all right.”
“Thanks. That’s so nice of you.”
He climbs into his truck. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be tonight, but I’ll check in with you this afternoon, see if you need anything else.”
As I back out of the driveway, I spot Trey plodding out of his house, his hair sticking up in every direction. He stops in front of the mailbox and looks up, his face registering surprise as I pass by.
I give him a wave and drive on.
8
My cellphone sings out “Songbird” by Eva Cassidy. I keep meaning to change the ring. It was the song Gunnar and I danced to at our wedding. I look down at the screen. A call from Dawn. I silence it.
Standing in front of my mirror, I carefully draw red lips over my pale ones. My eyes are heavily made up with long strokes of black liquid eyeliner and gray shadow. My light red hair hangs in curls, courtesy of a now cooling curling iron. I slide black tights over my legs and slip heels onto my feet. Then I survey the damage. I hardly look like myself. Mission accomplished.
Leaning into the mirror, I wipe a tiny smudge of red away from my lower lip. While smacking my lips together, I tuck a tube of pepper spray into my purse.
A graduate school psych class video often comes to mind when I’m getting ready to go out. A taped interview featured April, a highly educated woman with a law degree who taught LSAT prep courses. Her other identity was Frederica, a kleptomaniac and dancer at a nightclub in DC. Learning about dissociative disorder gave me a reasonable explanation for what my father might have said was demonic possession. Psychological studies suggest that sometimes mental illness is mistakenly diagnosed as possession by the church. In this case, the young woman suffering from dissociative disorder didn’t know when her alter-ego took over. The next day, she would wake up with rolls of cash in her bra and men’s business cards in her panties. She was not possessed, but she was not in control either.
I’m always in control of my actions.
For a moment, I consider taking an Uber, but no, I’ll drive. The Destiny Room is just around the corner and probably the closest place to my neighborhood I’ve allowed myself for a nighttime excursion. It’s a dive, and heaven forbid I run into anyone I know. Then again, I doubt anyone I know would go there.
I head out of Amber Mills and pass a strip mall, several chain restaurants, a CVS, and a grocery store.
These outings are my secret, and I only do it once in a while—when I need a litt
le escape, a rush, and never when the kids are with me. Mind you, I’ve never gone home with a man from any of these places—sex is not part of the thrill. The rush comes from the near-miss, the escape from danger, the almost-got-myself-in-trouble-but-managed-to-avoid-it adrenaline kick. In college, I did this dozens of times. The important thing is, I always walk away.
The club is lit up with black, orange, and purple lights, and it’s teeming with people trickling in and out of the door. I park as close to the building as I can.
As soon as I step out of the car, Claire Vogel, divorcee, mom of four, and licensed clinical social worker, slips away. Here, I can be anyone.
The sign by the front door announces that tonight is a private party. Black balloons are tied to all four corners of the sandwich board. Even better. Now, I’m a party crasher.
Inside, the music pounds, vibrating my inner ear and thumping in my chest like a kick drum. Plunging into the dark entry and swimming along with the nameless, faceless bodies, my sense of surreal otherworldliness takes flight. A disc jockey sits in a corner dressed like a ghoul, and flashing lights illuminate his speakers.
It’s only a couple of weeks until Halloween, and many of the party-goers are dressed as witches or fairies or pop culture icons. Still, others are dressed in black garb, or even just jeans and a sweater. Several people are already on the dance floor, gyrating to the thumping music.
Not many are alone. At the back of the club, a bar draped in gray gauzy material meant to look like spider web is lined with bodies. I find a spot near the end of the bar and push in.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I yell to the bartender. It’s a drink I’ve never had before. That’s part of the game too. I never order the same drink twice.
The bartender slides a clear drink garnished with a lime wedge toward me.
“How much?”
He shakes his head. “Open bar.”
Crashing a party has some perks.
When I turn around, a man is looking down at me with a stare that says he’s hungry and hopes I’ll feed him. He’s not my type—they rarely are—but the goal is not to catch but to bait.
The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense Page 3
