The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  “Let me put on some clothes. We’ll ask around. Someone must have seen something.”

  “It’s dark. It’s so late.” Tears poured out of my eyes and another sob filled my chest.

  “We’ll find her.”

  I stared at her, studying the confident smile. A person who always thought the best about the world. A person who had never really suffered. I kept those thoughts inside and nodded.

  3

  Luke

  The street was empty. It had settled into that quiet that makes you think of the dead. The mood that settles over a neighborhood when it’s past midnight and all the suburbanites are tucked into their beds. Snoring. Dreaming. Done with fucking for the night, if they even bother on weeknights. Finished with their nightly outrage at traffic, the politics at the office, the state of the country, the world. Done dealing with micromanaging their kids’ lives.

  I put the joint to my lips and sucked in some fine sativa smoke.

  The slow turning of my mind was interrupted when the courtyard door of the house across the cul-de-sac flew open. At the same time, the garage door began to ease its way up, and before it even cleared the top of the frame, the Bimmer sedan was backing out.

  I didn’t know where to look as the car sped backwards, circled around, and raced out of the cul-de-sac while the woman who had burst out of the front door ran across the lawn, skidded on damp grass, and hit the sidewalk. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her tits put on quite a show until she turned onto the walkway leading to the Stanwick house.

  She stood in front of their courtyard door, stabbing her finger at the doorbell for like five minutes, as if the people inside didn’t hear the first fifteen rings. A moment later, the door opened. The new lady and Taylor Stanwick stood there talking. It sounded like the new lady was crying. Her voice was loud and shrill, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  I was sitting in the gazebo that fits into the corner of the fence surrounding our courtyard. The lattice below the roof is lined with hanging plants that my mom waters and talks to every few days like they’re little kids. When I sit in the gazebo, no one can see me. I guess they smell the smoke, but I can sit there after my joint or cigarette is finished and no one knows I’m there.

  Even though everyone on our street is middle-aged, it’s a trip to watch them coming and going. Their lives seem pretty boring, but they managed to do crazy shit that keeps me from getting too bored when I’ve had enough with video games or whatever.

  A few minutes later, Taylor and the new lady walked down the front path. Taylor turned her head in my direction, but she didn’t come over. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think she sniffed the air, trying to figure out whether I was in my usual spot.

  Taylor is a nice enough person. She’s not as old as my mom, but they’re buds. She can be nosy, always asking how I’m doing, what’s new. I think she sometimes irritates the other people on our street. She hangs out in her front yard, and when someone comes home from work, she walks over there before they’re even out of the car. That would annoy me if I busted my ass all day and just wanted to get into the house, kick off my shoes, grab something to eat, launch a video game or whatever. They all smile and talk to her, but you can see them inching away from her, their grins starting to resemble the Joker’s painted freakshow smile when she goes on too long.

  I took another hit and held the smoke in for a few seconds longer than usual. Their shrieky voices were killing the buzz. I let the smoke out. The two of them went to the house on the opposite side of the Stanwicks’. The doorbell stabbing repeated itself, and when Carlos Aguilar opened his door, talking too loud, asking what the hell was wrong, they both started talking at once. Taylor was waving her arms around to emphasize her point.

  Next, they went to the Hayeses’ and Bryants’ houses before they started up the walkway toward my house.

  As they turned up the front path, Taylor grabbed the new lady’s arm. Brittany’s mom. I guess that’s better than calling her the new lady, but I think of her as the new lady because I hardly ever see her. I don’t even know her name.

  Taylor looked in my direction. “Are you in there, Luke?”

  I didn’t say anything. I wanted to see what she’d do.

  “I smell weed. It smells fresh, so I think you’re lurking in there. I know you can hear me.”

  I exhaled. “Sure. What’s up?”

  Taylor cut across the lawn. Brittany’s mom followed. Taylor came right into the gazebo and sat across from me on the circular bench. “I’m glad you’re out here. You’ll be able to help.”

  Brittany’s mom came up closer. Her face was a mess—wet with tears, her nose running. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and her bottom lip was wobbling.

  “Help with what?”

  “This is Moira Cushing,” Taylor said.

  I nodded.

  “Her daughter, you’ve seen her, right? Brittany?”

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  “She’s not in her house. Someone took her. Right out of her bed.”

  I wanted another hit, I raised the joint to my mouth, but Taylor glared at me. I lowered my hand.

  “Did you see anyone? Any strange cars? A man walking around? Someone going into their yard?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Brittany’s mom moved closer to the opening of the gazebo. “I told you, I think he came into our yard from the open space preserve. When I woke up, I felt like there was someone out there watching me.”

  “How can you feel that?” I asked.

  She pinched her lips together, stopping the wobbly bottom one. “You just know. It’s instinct.”

  It sounded to me like maybe she had experience getting high. People notice someone watching them and imagine they felt it before they saw them. You can’t fucking feel someone watching you. Eyesight doesn’t make a sound or change the air temperature. People who think that way are deranged. I said nothing about this. I wanted them to leave so I could finish my joint. I needed to unwind after all the bullshit I’d gotten from my mom. I guess they’d figured out I knew a lot more about this neighborhood than they’d ever imagined. I see a lot. You have to watch carefully to see the cold shoulders and the quick gestures. Other people are real busy not paying attention to anything except what’s right in front of their faces.

  “You didn’t see anything?” Taylor leaned toward me, locking her eyes onto mine like she thought I was lying, and staring me down would make me fess up.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What about earlier?”

  “Earlier, when?”

  “Any time. You’re out here a lot. Did you see any strange cars or people the past few days? Anyone lurking?”

  I laughed. “Lurking?”

  “A little girl is missing,” Brittany’s mom said. She hissed the words like some kind of snake.

  “You should call the cops.”

  “We did. They’re on their way.”

  “Then let them take care of it.”

  “We can’t waste any time,” Taylor said.

  “Well, I didn’t see any cars or anyone lurking. The street’s been deserted all night.”

  “And during the day?” Taylor was not going to let go.

  “Don’t scratch that itch too hard,” I said. “It might bleed.”

  Brittany’s mom recoiled as if I’d said something offensive. “What?”

  “Are you planning to do the cops’ job for them?”

  “I’m just trying to save them time. We have to do everything we can before something happens to her.” Taylor glanced at Brittany’s mom and looked away fast, not liking what she saw there, I guess. “If you do see anything, be sure to let Moira know. Okay? Moira or me.”

  “For sure. If I see anything.”

  Brittany’s mom started crying harder. Taylor put her arm around her. “We’ll find her.” After a pause, she said it again. “We’ll find her.” They left, walking as fast as anyone can walk in bare feet acros
s the street to Moira’s front yard. A few minutes later, the Bimmer pulled back into the cul-de-sac. They guy left it parked in the driveway, and all three of them went into Brittany’s house.

  I put out the joint, took the ashtray to the side of the house, and emptied it into the yard waste container. If the cops were coming, I needed to get inside my own house. ASAP.

  4

  Moira

  I didn’t like it that the female officer was the one in charge. An evil creep, a dangerous man, the kind of man who would take a little girl right out of her bedroom, needed a man’s mind to outwit him. A man would understand how to track down where this monster might have taken my baby. It was backwards and old-fashioned and last century that I was having these thoughts, but it was instinctive. Visceral.

  The second officer was a Korean man named Rick Mae, who obviously worked out with weights. After he was introduced, Officer Mae sat silently in the armchair facing the couch. He looked around the room as if he were forming an opinion of us based on our decor.

  The female cop, Morgan Carter, also looked like she worked out religiously. She was slim with well-developed arms displayed in her white cotton shirt. She had black hair cut to her chin, and wide light brown eyes. She was taking notes, although not many. Just a pen scratch here and there.

  “What time did you notice your daughter was missing?”

  “One sixteen.”

  “That’s very precise.”

  “When I woke, my phone said one eleven. So it stuck in my mind. I had a glass of water and then went to check on Brittany.”

  “You had your phone with you?”

  I sighed. What did any of this matter? “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I must have looked at Brittany’s clock.”

  “Can we move on?” Alan asked. “You guys need to get out there looking for her, not debating the numbers on a clock.”

  “We will,” Officer Carter said.

  “Like right now.” Alan stood and walked to the sliding glass door, looking out at the backyard. “Have you checked the pedophiles registered in the area?”

  I heard a sound come out of my mouth, as if I were sitting somewhere else and the sound had developed independently of me. A sob or a sharp cry, as if I’d cut my finger. At first I didn’t even realize it was me. That word hurt so deeply I could hardly breathe. It seemed like hours since I’d put my hand on Brittany’s cold pillow. Inside, I felt a tremendous scream that hadn’t stopped since that moment I turned on the light and saw her empty bed. My whole body was crying, my blood vessels keening, my muscles and bones howling into the abyss that this was too awful to think about. I couldn’t think. I didn’t want to think. The doxepin that normally helped me get a good night’s sleep had dissolved in my body, flushed out by tears.

  I did not want to sit there as if we were sharing a bottle of wine, chitchatting about my daughter’s life, acting as if she wasn’t being brutalized that very minute. I started crying.

  Officer Carter looked at Alan. “Will you get some tissues for your wife?”

  Alan came to me and kissed the top of my head. He left the room and returned with a large box of tissues, placing it on my lap. This made me cry harder. The simple presence of a cardboard box resting on my thighs carried me back to all the times I’d felt my baby’s weight and warmth on my legs, her body pressed against my chest.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Cushing,” Officer Carter said. “We know this is difficult, but—”

  “Difficult?” Alan’s voice was too loud for the room. “That’s a ludicrous understatement.”

  Officer Carter didn’t flinch. “Let us finish asking our questions. The more quickly we can get through the routine, the faster we can get focused on finding your daughter.”

  Alan leaned against the glass door. His face looked gray; his hair, graying at his sideburns and temples, seemed to blend with his skin. His slender body had been sapped of the strength that usually emanated from him, that look of purpose and confidence, all of it gone.

  “So you discovered Brittany missing at about one fifteen. What did you do after that?”

  “We searched the house,” Alan said.

  “And then?”

  “I called you. I took a drive around the neighborhood, and my wife woke our neighbors.”

  “Why did you take a drive?”

  Alan stared at her. I could see the sharp comment on his tongue, his desire to let her know he found her ridiculous, but he managed to keep it from coming out. He spoke with exaggerated patience. “I was looking for our daughter. Looking to see whether I saw anyone…unusual.”

  “Was your first thought that Brittany might have gone out on her own?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “She would not do that.”

  “You seem quite sure,” Morgan said. “Fourteen-year-old girls are usually—”

  “Brittany would never leave. She’s not one of those girls who’s growing up too fast. We homeschool her. She has age-appropriate feelings and interests. She doesn’t behave like a twenty-five-year-old, like so many girls her age.”

  Officer Carter nodded. “I’d like a list of her friends.”

  “We’re new here.” I smiled, trying to be helpful even though I wanted her to start looking for Brittany, not keep asking pointless questions. “We’ve only lived here two months. Her friends are from our homeschool organization, not in the neighborhood.”

  “I’d like their names and contact information.”

  “I can give you the group roster. But she hasn’t made a lot of friends yet. We’ve only had a few joint activities. Since it’s summer.”

  “Any names you can give me will help.”

  “She was grabbed right out of her bed. Her friends have nothing to do with it,” Alan said.

  “We have to look at everything. At everyone.”

  The room was silent for a few minutes. I felt their eyes on me, imagining what kind of mother I was, what our family was like.

  “It’s best for Brittany…considering all possibilities,” Morgan said. “Were there any arguments recently? With you”—she turned away from me slightly—“or your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you asking my wife about me?” Alan folded his arms across his chest. “I’m standing right here.”

  The officer didn’t respond.

  “We have a wonderful relationship with our daughter,” I said. “You make it sound as if—”

  “Most teenagers argue with their parents.”

  “Not Brittany,” Alan said. “She’s very intelligent. She doesn’t fight our rules because she understands their purpose.”

  Officer Carter’s mouth twisted as if she wanted to deliver a smart comeback. “Have there been any accidents you want to tell us about?”

  “What does that mean?” Alan asked.

  “Was Brittany injured in any way? Did you feel—”

  “I don’t like what you’re suggesting.”

  Officer Carter was unmoved. “What was her mood like yesterday?”

  “Normal.” Alan barked out the word like a gunshot.

  “Did you get any sense that she was afraid?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you ever sense she was keeping secrets? Hiding something from you?”

  “Of course not! We’re extremely close.”

  “Why…” Alan said, then fell silent.

  She continued asking inane questions about Brittany’s interests, about our family life, about relatives. More than once she asked about arguments, about difficulties in our family. My fear slipped slowly into anger as she plodded through her list. Finally, I couldn’t take it.

  “Brittany is getting farther and farther away from us while we’re sitting here not doing anything!”

  “We need to look through Brittany’s room.” Both officers stood as if they had a prearranged signal.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “We’re looking for any indication she left on her own. We’d like you to join us so you can note any
missing items.”

  “Nothing’s missing!” I thrust myself up to my feet, swaying slightly. “She was taken right out of her bed!”

  “Please show us her room. It’s routine procedure.”

  Alan led them down the hallway. I flopped back in the chair, tears running down my face. I heard them opening drawers, her closet, moving things about. I didn’t have to go in there to know how intrusive and distrustful it all was.

  A moment later, I realized I had to see what they were doing to her things.

  In her room, I sat on her bed and watched, even as they slid their arms between the mattress and box spring. They’d finished with her desk and dresser drawers and were looking in the pockets of her jeans and shorts. They checked the back of her mirror and looked through her bookshelves.

  It was ridiculous. Their suspicion showed how many young girls are not raised right, allowed to grow up too fast. That’s why we’d decided to homeschool her. People don’t give their children enough care and guidance. They allow far too much freedom before they’re ready, and it destroys their innocence.

  When the officers were finished digging through her room, touching all of her possessions with rubber-glove-sheathed hands, I had a splitting headache. I felt like a hole had been ripped in my heart, and the pain of torn flesh made it almost impossible to stand upright. I couldn’t speak or offer polite smiles.

  Back in the living room, Alan sat on the arm of my chair, resting his hand on the back of my neck. His skin was cool, and the press of his fingers felt insubstantial, drained of their usual strength.

  Officer Carter stood near the opening to the foyer. “One final thing,” she said. “I need a photograph of Brittany.” She handed me a card. “Please write her weight, height, hair, and eye color on this. Along with any distinguishing features.”

  Alan crossed the room and took the card. He pulled a pen out of his pocket, as if this were a normal transaction, as if he’d been expecting it and was prepared with a pen, ready to fill out a form at two o’clock in the morning. He scribbled on the card while I tried to think about which photograph I should give them.