A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  “Do I smell?”

  “No. You smell fine.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Uncomfortable silence pierced the air. Finally, as the basketball game was ending—Lakers besting the Clippers 101 to 88—Brett rose. “Sorry Loral, but I, uh, almost forgot…I need to make an important call. Can we continue this conversation later? Great. Thanks.” Two claps on my back like a good ‘ol chum and he was off.

  Angry tears welled in my eyes as I heard the door slam upstairs. Who would he be calling? He was estranged from his parents, had no ex-wife or kids to speak of, and he was at the moment unemployed.

  Later that week, I tried confiding in Tess, but she was in a hurry—always running late in the morning—and told me to try a little harder and cut him some slack. It’s not like it could be easy for him to marry a woman with a tween daughter. Plus, she loved him.

  I wasn’t sure if she actually loved Brett or if he was a casualty from her last affair, a rebound that would be tossed aside once a better man approached. Maybe Brett questioned that himself and that was why he was acting so weird. That, I could understand and deal with. But as the years passed and it became clear that Brett was planning to stay for the long haul, I couldn’t shake the feeling of bitter resentment.

  I didn’t realize how much I needed to feel loved, to have a father that protects, and to be a part of a complete unit. When Brett and the girls came along, they disrupted the team-of-two bond, although dysfunctional, that I had with my mother. Tess never grounded me, set boundaries, or said the words “I love you.” I learned to clean up after us both at an early age; I packed my own lunch, picked out my own clothes for school, and taught myself that eating too much chocolate right before bed wasn’t a good idea.

  I never contested Tess’s love because I was still here. She could have tossed me out of the house like the many guys that she took in, but she kept me, which had to mean that I was important, right?

  By the time I place the sandwich fixings back in their respective compartments, I am fuming. It unnerves me that Brett’s nonsensical demeanor again rattled me and I am equally annoyed by the fact that I long to have him hold me in his arms the way he holds Tory and Bella—like a real daughter.

  A few more months and I’ll be out of their hair, maybe attending a school up north or in another country. With my poor grades I’ll be lucky if I get accepted to San Diego State. Is college even for me? Maybe I should just bail early and run away. Maybe get a job, become a waitress in a small town. Start fresh, become a part of a real family in another place.

  Pouring the crackers into a plastic bowl, I hear faint cries calling me from a distance. Bella! The time on the stove reads two forty. It has been twenty minutes. My stomach flips and a large knot lodges in my throat. Panic sets in.

  I was gone too long. I am going to be in for it now.

  IN THE SAME NEIGHBORHOOD, a few streets down from where Loral was running to check on her sisters, Neil Wilcox was inserting his home key—one of the many copies made during the fifteen years he and his wife, Elizabeth, lived there—into the brass keyhole and entered the dark two bedroom, one bath condo.

  Immediately he was greeted with the barks and whimpers of an excited Mr. Dimples, the pug. Home from work, Neil headed for the kitchen, gave the pug a friendly pat and a couple dog biscuits to chew on while he perused the cupboards and fridge for a hearty snack of his own. Settling on a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a tall glass of almond milk, he set the materials on the limestone countertop and turned on the under-cabinet lights. By the time he finished making his snack, Mr. Dimples was snoozing in his plush bed by the glass slider.

  Opening the sliding door that separated the kitchen from the tiny backyard, he let the sun flood into the room, streaking the maple floors and stainless steel appliances with its warmth.

  Chewing on his sandwich, he stood in a daze, admiring his well-kept garden, as the drumming headache eased away along with some of the stress-lines marking his careworn face.

  Neil Wilcox:

  2:43 P.M.

  Work was more stressful than normal. Every day seems worse than the previous and the dreaded pace isn’t slowing down anytime in the near future. Answering service calls regarding lawn chairs isn’t my idea of a-cure-for-cancer kind of job, but being immersed in the daily humdrum of the office with its frantic meetings and irate callers sure makes it seem like it.

  After sixteen years in the business, being micromanaged by an idiot boss who just graduated from college and doesn’t know the first thing about lawn chairs or customer service is tough. Add in the fact that the company downsized last summer—leaving me to handle the workload and customer service calls of three outdoor furnishing specialists while also cutting my benefits—and the job went from unfulfilling to excruciating. “You’re lucky to even have a job in this economy,” is becoming the new catch-phrase and anthem for the United States. I sure don’t feel that lucky.

  The final heat of summer beats against the single glass pane door as I enjoy the last bite of my satisfying fat-enriched snack. Peanut butter is a staple in our kitchen cabinet. I tend to consume the gooey goodness by the heaping spoonful and never get tired of it. And not the sugar-and-chemical crap, either. Only the natural stuff, the good stuff. I’m sort of a peanut butter snob, if there is such a thing for brown goop that has an allowable quota of insects and rodent hair.

  Mr. Dimples finally stirs in his bed when I open the slider and step out onto the patio. Figuring I have at least thirty minutes before my wife arrives, I decide to make myself useful and clear the dead leaves that have fallen askew from the neighbor’s overgrown trees.

  Tuning out the annoying yaps from the tiny dog that lives across the way, the constant clanging of the wind chimes that hang tauntingly in the condo behind us, and the phlegm-laden hacking that comes from the smoker with the overgrown banana trees next door, I clear cobwebs from the metal pergola, water the thirsty plants, and regain order in my small haven. The smell of roses wafts in the wind and calla lilies dance in the breeze as I bend to sweep up the final bits of dust and leaves with my trusty dust pan.

  Working in the backyard provides me with a sense of accomplishment and enjoyment. It’s my chosen escape from the daily humdrum of life. Everyone needs an escape from the real world. Stress seems to stand still as I work with my hands among nature’s beauty. It’s as if I can reset my mood with just an hour in the garden. It’s even better when my wife joins me. She’ll tend to her miniscule flower box or sit in a comfy lawn chair and read to me while I’m sweating up a storm with the pruning shears.

  The fountain kicks on. I have it on a time clock, along with the drip system and pergola lights. Listening to the slow gurgling stream, I breathe in the semi-fresh air. Life seems almost bearable when you have a sanctuary and a family to come home to.

  Elizabeth is the love of my life. She is all I need in this world to get me out of bed each morning. And she can still rattle my heart whenever she looks my way. At fifty, she holds a soft and demure presence, with her silky brown hair, pale ivory skin that illuminates her lake blue eyes, and slight frame. Wrinkles now fan across her face in elegant creases.

  It is a small wonder that years ago that delicate face was tarnished by dark shadows and a crippling fear that pales even the scariest horror story. I painstakingly and lovingly cleared her of those nightmares. Nightmares that prickled her flesh and haunted her soul. It’s a miracle what love can withstand and produce.

  She no longer trembles at my touch and can be at peace with the skim of my lips against the hollow of her throat. And finally, after a few years of marriage and patience, we are able to love each other completely and without restraint.

  Hallelujah.

  The day I was able to make love to my wife without having to hold back, I cried. Her frail body used to tense under my pressing weight, and I went slack instantly. Do you know what that can do to a man? The go and stop, go and stop build up was not to be desired, but I managed�
�we both did—and slowly, in time, her screams and cold sweats diminished while trust and love took root. Patience and unfaltering love cured Elizabeth of her fears and haunting memories.

  And the day I managed to both save and lose Elizabeth was the day I got my wake up call. I started to devise a plan to save us both.

  During the day I’d attend my mandatory classes, while every free moment in between, I’d take up odd jobs around the neighborhood and save my crumpled bills in a tin cookie box wedged under my growing pile of dirty socks and underwear. At first I tried hiding my hard earned money under the mattress but my drugged out, good-for-nothing mother found the stash and spent it all on her happy pills. I chalked the loss up to a mistake and got smart. I thought, “Where would Cherie never go?” Not once in my life did I remember Cherie doing the laundry.

  Although Cherie was not going to win any mother of the year awards, she still had some use. No matter how hard things got, she always returned home and stayed with me, and for that I was grateful. If she hadn’t, who knows where I’d be, or who I’d be, or if Elizabeth would be there with me. Most likely, I would have been scooped up by Child Protective Services and thrown into foster care or worse. Somehow, Cherie always found her way back home, picked up by my junkie father (when he was home) or shuffling down the street screaming my name after rousing from a bender.

  Then one night she didn’t return. At that time it was just me and her left in the house. Johnny split awhile back and my dad had left in his truck to be with his then five-month-pregnant girlfriend.

  Using my brain, I figured I’d have a few months before people started nosing around, becoming curious and calling the authorities. In my old neighborhood no one looked too closely or got involved. All I had to do was make sure the bills were paid on time and everything was gravy. The first thing I did was call my mother’s current employer and tell him that Cherie was ill and wouldn’t be able to waitress at the bar anymore. The manager wasn’t shocked. I think he was relieved because now he wouldn’t have to fire her. In a way I was also relieved.

  By the time I turned eighteen, I no longer had to hide out and keep a low profile. I found a full time job down at the port, moving boxes of “made in China” lawn chairs from shipping containers to loading bays. With only a high school education, I was offered the position of a workhand—grunt work near the back of the warehouse. Diligently I worked eight hours a day and when asked, worked an extra four. I didn’t complain, steal, or come to work smelling like stale beer. Mostly I kept to myself and iced my shoulders and bandaged my gashes at night.

  With my first paycheck in hand—which, after taking into account Social Security, federal, and state taxes, came to a lot sum of $550.00—I ran all the way to the bank to open up my first savings account. While most kids my age spent their extra time partying and blowing their money on girls, alcohol, clothes, and video games, I worked and saved all my hard earned cash in the bank. Once the amount in my account steadily rose from $550.00 to $5,000.00, I filled a suitcase with my things and moved out. To this day, I have no idea what has become of that house on Cable Street.

  One of the guys at the warehouse was looking for a roommate. The guy’s name was Henry Williams, who coincidentally hated country music and made a deliberate point of informing those meeting him for the first time that he DOES NOT go by the name Hank, and the country legend’s real name was Hiram, not Henry. He was a high-strung, big man with leathery skin and tiny eyes that tended to shift uneasily from side to side, especially when a new shipment rolled in. The cramped apartment wasn’t much, but for $200.00 a month, I wasn’t expecting the Taj Mahal.

  The two-bedroom shack in Logan Heights was more like roach haven with its blue tarp roof. Every corner and crevice was covered in cobwebs. The walls were stained with mildew and nicotine and the wall facing the kitchen was charred from a recent fire. Roaches crawled around the dingy carpet caked with cat hair and piss, and the couch I slept on crunched from the thick plastic covering that encased it.

  Squeaky pipes dribbled and rumbled behind poorly constructed walls. Every door—including the bedroom and bathroom—came supplied with its very own padlock and chain, while steel bars caged every window. And just as I began to tolerate the horrendous living quarters, I discovered Henry’s raging meth addiction. So, it wasn’t a surprise that I stayed with good-ole’ Hank for only three weeks before moving into my own place out in Clairemont.

  Similar cramped space and rundown appliances housed the tiny apartment, but at least I had an actual bed to sleep on, privacy, and no opera music blasting in my ear throughout the night while a big black man crawled around the carpet searching for God-knows-what with a five-cent comb.

  I quickly bought a used Ford (that seemed to break down every third day) so that I could drive back and forth to Home Depot. For five months I scraped off layers of old wallpaper, patched holes, plastered the walls, changed the carpet, fixed the leaky pipes, and scrubbed, bleached, and hammered until the place was remotely acceptable. The faster Elizabeth’s face faded from my mind, the faster I worked.

  When I arrived on the front steps of Angie Darling’s cabin in Big Bear to take Elizabeth home I was prepared to grovel, plea, and beg for approval, but what I got instead was no reception at all.

  I knocked on the heavy wooden door, rang the bell, and circled the property. All the red-checkered drapes were closed, not even a chink to look through, and the windows and doors were locked. If a neighbor hadn’t been conveniently passing by at the time, I would have gotten back into my beat-up Ford and driven around for hours searching for her. All I knew was I wasn’t leaving Big Bear without Elizabeth.

  “Hey kid. Who you lookin’ for?”

  I turned to find an old man dressed in a faded flannel shirt, winter coat, workman’s jeans, and rugged boots. His body was lean with hints of muscle roped beneath the layers. His face was leathery from being out in the wind and sun for hours on end and the set scowl made me believe there was a spare deer rifle resting on the back seat of the man’s pickup. “Elizabeth Hayes.”

  The old man stood for a moment, scowling and scratching his burnt head. “Oh, you mean Lizzy? Angie’s niece?”

  I cringed. Elizabeth hated being called Lizzy. It was her father’s favorite pet name for her. And he wasn’t anyone’s favorite person. “Yes sir, that’d be her.”

  “Who’s a askin’?”

  “Her fiancé.”

  “Never saw a ring on her finger before.”

  I reached into my pocket and brought out a thin gold band that glinted in the sun. “That’s what this is for.”

  “My almighty if that ain’t there a weddin’ ring. Humph. You know, that there Lizzy, well she’s a mighty special. I’ve seen other town boys sniffing around her but ain’t never seen you.” He spat after the last word.

  If the comment was meant to rile me up, I remained unfazed. I already knew that Elizabeth was a beautiful and bright girl who could attract any man. I would be stupid if I thought I was the only one thinking of her, but I also knew her secret. A part of her was damaged, hurt, and that part would be less inclined to speak or knowingly flirt with anyone. She would be more scared and timid than interested. I was there to protect and save her.

  As far as I knew, I was the only man she had allowed past her invisible barrier, the only man who understood and loved her without prejudice or conditions or judgment. In my entire being, I knew she was waiting for me, just like I was waiting for her.

  By the expression on the man’s face, I judged him to be skeptical. About me, the ring, and my intentions for seeking out a girl I never once visited during all these years. But I had my reasons and I was sure, in this small town, he knew them as well. Gossip spreads like wildfire in a place like this, and Elizabeth’s story was headline material.

  After that momentous, life-altering night with her father, Elizabeth was sent to live with her Aunt in Big Bear. Angie Darling was a hard woman with piercing dark eyes and a meaty chin. One look at me and sh
e pegged me as a good-for-nothing kid that was going to get her niece into more trouble than she was worth. I knew I’d have to prove myself worthy before I’d gain Aunt Darling’s approval and get close to Elizabeth again, so I got moving. I worked hard, made money, got a place, and now I was back to get the girl.

  “We grew up together.”

  The old man squinted and leaned forward. “You ain’t that kid who…” Recognition formed in his wrinkled brow and the man inadvertently took a step back. Reassessing me, the kid with the gangly arms and legs and mop of brown hair, he stuck by his first assessment that I was virtually harmless and scoffed. He probably figured Angie was blabbering her mouth again, casting more imaginations than truths when she told the story. “I think ya’ll find her at the sports bar down them streets. Angie’s guy owns the place. Got Lizzy a job waitressin’. You can always find her there. She’s either a workin’ out front or a studyin’ for that exam of hers in the back.”

  “Exam?”

  “Ain’t you least been writin’ the girl?”

  I shook my head, sheepishly.

  “Ya, reckon I can understand why not.” The man rubbed at his thick stubble. “You sure the girl wants to see you?”

  “A man can only try his damndist.”

  At that the old man chuckled, agreeing. “I suppose. That girl of yours is a studyin’ to be a dental hygienist. Tryin’ to make somethin’ of herself. Now don’t go a messin’ things up for her. She’s bright that one, and if I hear anythin’ about anythin’, you best watch out.”

  I thought again of the deer rifle. “Yes sir. Thank you.”

  The old man shook his head and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. I could feel his eyes follow me as I jumped into my beat-up truck and sputtered loudly toward the only sports bar in town.

  The Tavern was a local establishment in the center of town, flanked between the local market and the gas station. Boisterous laughter and old-timey music seeped into the brisk mountain air. Smells of fried fish, hamburgers, and French fries billowed out from the vents and pipes lining the old red brick building. The parking lot was crowded, this being the main lunch hub for the locals. Most of the locals also returned for happy hour, dinner, and for a smooth nightcap after their shift at work ended.