The Family Across the Street

by Trope, Nicole

  ‘I bet all those tattoos hurt more than this anyway,’ she said and he nodded. He couldn’t explain then that there was pleasure in the pain of a tattoo, in the repeated sting of the needle, in being able to bear the ache that changed his skin, changed him. They were his pain and his anger detailed over his body, scars that could be seen.

  He had never expected to see Debbie again. But in the months leading up to his guilty plea and being sent to prison, he’d thought about her. In prison he held on to her words. He needed to make sure that the day he was caught high and violent – the first time he had actually hurt someone who didn’t deserve it – was the worst day of his life. He was a model prisoner, recommended for parole after three years. He worked out, took classes and wrote his final exams to complete his schooling. Most importantly, he stayed out of trouble. He was big enough to be left alone, quiet enough not to bother anyone, and on the day he got out, he took the biggest chance he’d ever taken in his life.

  He went back to the hospital and asked for her, knowing that they probably wouldn’t be able to identify her with just a name and a description, knowing that even if they could, he would probably get in trouble for behaving like a stalker. But the need to tell her that her words had meant something would not let go.

  ‘I’m looking for a nurse,’ he explained to the woman sitting at the front desk of the hospital, and then he stood quietly, trying not to let his six-foot-four, tattoo-covered frame look threatening. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, meek and mild. Nothing to worry about here. ‘Her name is Debbie and she treated me a few years ago. She has blonde hair and hazel eyes and a mole just here,’ he explained as the woman’s lips thinned into a disapproving line.

  ‘I don’t know if she still works here,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘but I just wanted to thank her for being kind to me. I’ll sit down over there.’ He indicated some fake leather sofas. ‘I’ll wait for a few minutes and if you want me to leave, I’ll just go.’ He moved away from the desk, the woman’s eyes watching every step, and he sat down. He was being an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to do anything else. He knew that he had to see her and thank her and then he could go out into the world and try to start rebuilding his life.

  He watched as the woman lifted the telephone to her ear. He waited for the security guards to come over to him, waited for the police to walk through the front door. He stared down at his new phone, scrolled through news websites as his heart raced, noticing that his fingers were trembling a little. He took a deep breath, catching the smell of antiseptic in his throat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he heard and he looked up and there she was. She looked exactly the same, except her hair was in a low ponytail and he could see that when it was loose, it would hang down her back. The floral scent was there as well, bringing the night they’d met back to him in a heady rush. He stood up, towering over her, then quickly sat down again when she took a step back.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but you treated me three years ago and you said… You were so… I just wanted to…’

  She smiled, a dimple appearing on one cheek, her teeth an even white line. ‘Of course I remember you. It’s hard to forget a six-foot-four, heavily tattooed man who cries. I was only on emergency duty that night because we were short-staffed. I usually take care of much smaller people, ones that cry all the time.’

  ‘Can I take you for dinner? Or coffee? Or lunch? Or anything? You helped, you really helped, and I just wanted to thank you…’ It took all his self-control not to reach out and touch her. He had not intended to ask her out, just to thank her – but that dimple, that smile. He prepared himself for a no. He couldn’t remember half the women he had slept with before going to prison but he knew he had never cared if he saw them again or not. He knew she was going to say no.

  ‘I get off at five and I’m very hungry because I missed lunch. How about then?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, is that too soon?’

  ‘No… it’s… I’ll be here. Thank you, Debbie – can I call you Debbie?’

  ‘You can and I can call you… I’m afraid I have forgotten your name.’

  ‘Logan.’

  ‘I’ll see you at five, Logan.’

  She wasn’t afraid of him, even though she must have known he was someone to be afraid of.

  After they had been together for months, she told him, ‘I saw something that night, the night I treated you. I figured you had gone to prison. I saw the boy you must have been once, and I knew you were mostly a threat to yourself. I mean, I wasn’t stupid. I was shocked to see you again, but the way you held yourself told me something, and I was interested in who you were. I was a little scared, and I told about five people where we were going, and I didn’t let you take me home. But I was just being safe. I knew you were a good bloke.’

  And he has tried to be that ‘good bloke’ since he got out of prison. It hasn’t been easy. Getting a job as an ex-convict is near impossible, which is why so many people end up back in prison. He has experienced moments of desperation since his release and when he thinks about the risk he almost took – a risk he prefers not to think about – he is grateful that he caught himself in time, that he didn’t go through with it. He can only hope that nothing is ever going to come back on him.

  His phone pings but he doesn’t look at it as he pulls up outside the next delivery. He knows who it’s from and he’s not going to respond. Not today.

  He looks at the clock on his dashboard. It’s nearly ten and he could use a coffee and something to eat.

  He thinks about the woman in the house again as he slides open his van door and grabs the right box. When he was breaking and entering, he developed a keen sense of danger. He would feel his heart rate speed up and his skin tingle, even when the house was silent, and he knew to be extra careful because it meant that something was off, that there was something he was missing, something that was a threat to him. That’s what he felt speaking to that woman this morning, he now realises. He felt danger.

  He stands at the front gate of this house for a moment, his skin tingling as he understands that this is what happened this morning. Old instincts returned, telling him to pay attention.

  ‘Is that for me?’ asks an old man who is standing in the front garden with a spade in his hand. Logan hadn’t even noticed him. ‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ he says.

  The man laughs. ‘This kind of heat can make you lose your mind.’ He opens the gate and takes the parcel from Logan.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and Logan nods and walks back to his van. His instincts are never wrong except for the one time when he was out of his mind on ice. Instinct kept him safe in dangerous situations for years.

  And he knows it now, for sure. The woman is in danger.

  6

  Gladys

  Gladys loads the dishwasher before going into the living room to check on Lou. He’s fallen asleep again, something that happens more and more often these days. Just being awake seems to tire him out.

  The children have still not walked past the house. She and Lou ate breakfast and watched carefully. She would like to sit and read, but she feels a little jumpy for no particular reason. She goes into the spare room again and looks at the house next door. The blinds are still down, the windows closed. Maybe Katherine is just taking the advice given on the news to keep windows and blinds closed, to keep the heat out. But this is not the first heatwave this year and she knows that Katherine has never before kept the blinds and windows closed during the day.

  Gladys is aware that she is known as the neighbourhood busybody, and perhaps that’s what she is, but when she was growing up, everyone knew everyone in their neighbourhood. Her mother regaled them all with tales of everyone’s lives over dinner each night. It was not considered nosy to ask questions about your neighbours and to be involved in their lives. It seems that people now are open and honest about their lives all over the internet and then coy about exactly the same things in person. Perhaps because it’s
difficult to tell the truth about yourself when you’re looking directly at someone.

  When she and Lou first bought this house, the neighbourhood was filled with people who became their friends. Where Katherine lives now is where Roberta and Geoff lived with their three children. Gladys watched those children grow from babies to adults. Roberta would pop over for tea during the school holidays when Gladys was home and Lou still working. She had known when Roberta and Geoff had had an argument, when the children were sick and finally, she was one of the first to know when Roberta got her cancer diagnosis. Geoff sold the house after she died and then another family moved in – less friendly but still, Mira did like a chat over the fence every now and again. When she and her family moved to Melbourne, they sold the house to Katherine and her husband John. Even though Gladys welcomed them with a cake and tried popping over for tea once or twice, she got the feeling that Katherine needed her space. It’s the same with Margo over the road, who always seems to be looking at her watch when they see each other, keen to keep her baby, Joseph, in a routine. She never seems to have time to talk.

  She thinks about the first time she met Katherine. She and John were both so happy, a couple at the beginning of the big adventure of becoming a family. Even from a distance, they seem… less happy now. It’s the stress of raising twins and of being the parents of young children, Gladys is sure. It isn’t that she hears them argue, but then of course she wouldn’t. She is sure that they are responsible enough to keep any arguments quiet. It’s more that there is something odd between them when she’s seen them together lately.

  Last Sunday the whole family were in the front garden. John is a keen gardener and he was weeding, and Katherine was holding the hose so that the children could run in and out of the water, even though they have a pool at the back. Gladys had left Lou to have a stroll around the block, just to stretch her legs. It wasn’t an overly warm day so it was pleasant to walk and admire the gardens filled with their summer flowers and magnificent colours.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, stopping at their front gate.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Katherine.

  ‘Look what we’re doing,’ shouted George, running under the arc of water from the hose.

  ‘I see,’ said Gladys, ‘it looks like fun.’

  ‘Not so much for the one who has to hold the hose,’ Katherine said.

  ‘Then don’t do it,’ muttered John.

  ‘I’m doing it for George and Sophie, not for you.’

  ‘I never claimed you were doing anything for me.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t want to be here gardening; perhaps you’d rather be somewhere else,’ Katherine said, her voice tight with anger.

  Gladys had the feeling she had stumbled into a conversation that had been going on for some time.

  John stood up from the garden bed and walked towards Katherine, grabbing the hose out of her hands and using it to wash the dirt off his own.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Sophie.

  ‘Quiet,’ he barked and then he stormed off away from them, back into the house.

  ‘Bad morning?’ Gladys asked in what she hoped was a jovial tone.

  ‘Lots of bad mornings,’ Katherine said, holding the hose over the children again.

  It seemed to Gladys that Katherine’s words were said more to herself than to Gladys. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, unable to think of any other reply, and Katherine gave herself a little shake. ‘Sorry, Gladys… don’t mind John. He’s grumpy because he’s tired. He’s been working late a lot.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ murmured Gladys and then she waved and went on her way.

  It wasn’t the silly argument that had bothered her but rather the tension between the two of them. It filled the summer air and darkened John’s features.

  He isn’t a big man, only a little taller than Katherine, and Gladys doesn’t think he’s the type to become violent. He is an accountant in a large firm. Accountants are not a violent bunch – not usually at least. But in that moment, just then, it seemed as if he could have been, from the way he wrenched the hose out of Katherine’s hand.

  Gladys stares at the house, where the closed blinds look strangely ominous and secretive.

  ‘Well, you need to just stop being ridiculous,’ she says aloud. ‘Just march over there and check on them.’

  She nods her head and catches sight of herself in the guest bedroom mirror, makes a clicking sound with her tongue at her appearance. She hasn’t put on any make-up this morning but she supposes there’s no point. It will simply slide off her face in this terrible heat, and hardly anyone’s going to see her anyway. She finds herself dressing up less and less these days, a feeling of defeat overtaking her as she applies base to cover wrinkles and age spots. It’s not healthy, and she is trying to encourage herself not to think that way. She pushes her hair behind her ears and lifts her neck. She’s not doing badly for seventy, and at least her body is still trim and fit. She likes the pants she’s wearing today. The lovely flower-patterned design feels like she’s wearing a garden around her legs. Clothes should be bright and cheerful, she’s always thought.

  As a young girl Gladys was conscious of her skinny arms and legs and her slightly hooked nose. She had nice eyes, wide and blue, but she knew that she didn’t fit the description of pretty. Her brown hair is still cut in a short bob and she keeps the colour with regular visits to the hairdresser. She tried, throughout her teenage years, to make peace with the fact that she was not likely to find a husband. ‘What nonsense,’ her mother told her, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder and you’re a beautiful young woman,’ and she was right.

  She bumped into Lou at a pub on a night out with some of the teachers from the school where she was working at the time.

  ‘We’ll all move up a little – sit down,’ said someone, Gladys can’t remember who. And then she moved to create a space, assuming that the person sitting next to her would shuffle up as well, but Lou said, ‘I’ll take that seat, right next to the pretty one.’ He sat down beside her and offered her his hand. ‘I’m Lou and I sell cars. I’ll get you the best deal on a new car if you let me buy you your next drink.’ He had thick brown hair and grey-blue eyes. Gladys allows herself a small smile now as she remembers how she had flushed, heat rising up from her toes.

  She leaves the guest bedroom and looks in on her husband downstairs. He is still asleep. She contemplates leaving him a note but then doesn’t. She’ll be back almost immediately, she’s sure.

  Outside the heat is starting to take hold, cicadas ramping up their song. She looks across the road and sees the dog who belongs to the Patel family lying in the front garden under a tree, panting. He’s a golden retriever and even though he’s had his summer cut, he looks very unhappy in the heat.

  She ducks across the road quickly and looks down the side of the house where she knows they leave his water and food. She can see not just one bowl of water but three. She nods her head, satisfied, and crosses back over to her side of the street.

  Pushing open the metal gate at the front of Katherine’s house, Gladys walks purposefully up the front path.

  Once she’s rung the bell she waits, knowing that she will soon hear Katherine shout, ‘George, do not answer the door until I’m there.’ The little boy likes to answer the door. He is curious about everything and everyone and speaks to her as though they are the same age. Sometimes he calls her ‘Glad’, which sounds strange coming from the mouth of a five-year-old, but he is completely charming. Sophie is less interested in other people and more of a chatterbox, filled with information and ideas. ‘Did you know that a worker bee lives for forty-two days,’ she said to Gladys when they met in the street last week, as though handing over classified information, and Gladys nodded, making sure to register this fact with the gravitas it needed.

  But the house is silent. There are no sounds of running children or Katherine shouting.

  Gladys wonders if perhaps the family have left for an early holiday. School finishes up for the
year on Friday. But then she remembers that John left for work this morning, with screeching tyres, according to Lou. And when they do go away, Katherine always comes over to tell Gladys so that she can keep an eye on the house.

  She pushes the doorbell once more and waits. She could have just called Katherine because she has her mobile number. But phone calls are easily ignored and then Gladys would have been left still wondering if everything was all right. No, it’s better to tackle this in person.

  She hears the metal square that holds the peephole open and she smiles.

  ‘Hey Gladys,’ says Katherine through the door. ‘Now isn’t really a good time.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Gladys, a little flustered. Even in the early days, when she had rung the bell to find Katherine in the middle of changing a nappy, the door was always opened for her. Only Katherine’s tight politeness would give Gladys any sense that she was not in the mood for coffee and a chat.

  ‘Oh right,’ she says, ‘I just… well, I didn’t see the children go to school and the blinds in their room are closed, and I just wondered if everything was okay, or if you needed anything, if the children are sick or something…’

  She stops speaking, aware that she does sound like a very nosy person. She pats at her hair, making sure the clip is still holding in place.

  ‘It’s not a good time,’ Katherine repeats. ‘But thanks. It’s just not a good time.’ The peephole is closed.

  Gladys folds her arms and feels the sun burning through the thin blue blouse she is wearing.

  She thinks about ringing the doorbell again but decides against it. Katherine obviously wants to be left alone.

  She sounded stressed, the poor woman. Perhaps the children are both ill with colds or something – but then why not just say that? Katherine knows that Gladys would sympathise and even offer to help.