A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  The party is always a hit. Nearly everyone from our grade is invited; the unfortunate souls left out beg for a box-of-horror invite, sometimes breaking into tears, other times escalating to bribes and threats.

  A box-of-horror invite consists of a simple cardboard box covered in thick black felt paper with wisps of stretched cotton to simulate cobwebs. Inside is also black with a single battery-powered light bulb that turns on when opened. The eerie glow from the dim bulb illuminates a plain card that provides directions to Mike’s house, time, and stipulations. The stipulations either depict what costume to wear, what secret password to use for admittance, or what noise to make whenever a key word or sound is heard.

  This year’s invite is tucked away in my desk drawer. The stipulation I received was to kiss Mike every time I hear a howl. Of course I wouldn’t have played along. I never do. But I am sure there are many more howling snippets planted in the music this year.

  My house is a deep contrast to the Halloween shindig going on across the street. The dark halls and rooms are cold and silent. Every groan and creak from the walls and floorboards is genuine and not made for a cheap thrill. Loneliness is embraced.

  Walking down the stairs, I cross a litter of shoes, dolls, and crayons to get to the kitchen where I proceed to pop a bag of buttered popcorn in bliss. Not bothering to turn on any lights, I watch in the darkness as the faint glow from the microwave illuminates my face. I smile, but I know sadness lurks in my eyes. I never feel completely happy.

  Like a hawk, I watch the bag inflate with air-popped kernels slathered in butter, and stop the microwave twenty seconds short. A few unpopped kernels are better than a bag half-charred black. When the popping ceases, I sprinkle salt and garlic powder into the bag, give it a hefty shake, and pour the popcorn into a large mixing bowl. The pungent aroma spreads fast throughout the halls and clings to the furnishings with a fury that will inevitably last days instead of hours.

  Settling into my bed with a large bowl of popcorn and my favorite scary movie loaded in the DVD player, I enjoy the rest of my sentence, alone in the dark, getting scared shitless by Stephen King’s It. As Mike would have mentioned if he were here, “an oldie but a goodie.” Definitely a goodie.

  Just as the red balloon on-screen rises ominously into the light blue sky, I hear a scratching sound and freeze. Worried, I try telling myself I am imagining the sound. But when I hear the scratching sound again, I lower the volume. This time the sound rises in a clunky duet with my rapidly beating heart.

  Drawing in a few quick breaths, I slowly turn toward the window, forcing myself to face whatever it is I fear. Gripping the remote I lean toward the window as far as I can without getting out of bed, almost certain I will see a grizzly clown grinning from behind the thin window pane, corners of his lips dripping laughably in blood. What I see instead is a loose branch blowing in the wind that taps every few seconds against the fragile glass.

  It is just a branch.

  As I settle back under the warmth of the covers a thump thump shocks my system; a meaty hand slaps the glass pane, twice.

  I jump and scream.

  In a flash I am out of bed and crouched on the floor, trembling with fear.

  A crop of sandy brown hair, bloodied by a protruding meat cleaver pops into view. Shaking, I push open the window and a gust of wind blows through my damp hair. Anger brews like fire in my belly. I am pissed.

  “Mike? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I pull Mike over the windowsill by his shirt collar and watch him fall in a large clumsy heap onto the champagne carpet below.

  Exasperated from the climb, it takes a few moments for Mike to catch his breath. He is dressed as a kid who got killed by a meat cleaver. His face is painted white. Black makeup encircles his bright blue eyes. Red paint is splotched all over his clothes, dribbled down the left side of his face, and caked in his hair.

  He grins like an idiot. “I came to see you. I wanted to make sure you weren’t sitting alone in a dark room brooding about not being able to attend the best party of the year.”

  I poke a finger at his chest, but what I really want to do is smother him. “You better watch out. If that chest puffs out any further, you’ll be on the bench for the rest of the season for sure.”

  “Naw,” Mike pounds his chest with his fists, “this chest is made of steel.”

  “You wish.”

  He pauses and fumbles with the zipper on his jacket. I forget how sensitive he is.

  Biting back a curse, I curtail the need to place my arms around Mike’s shoulders and protect him from the dark realities of the world we live in. Mike’s unfailing innocence produces a desire to slap and hug him at the same time.

  “Here,” Mike unveils a large candied apple protected by clear cellophane, decorated with tiny orange pumpkins that he’d been unsuccessfully trying to hide in his jacket pocket. The caramel is already melting from his body heat and clings to the cellophane in a sticky mess. “I thought you might want a sweet treat to nibble on.”

  “Thanks Mike, but you really shouldn’t have come. Everyone’s probably wondering where you disappeared to.”

  He shrugs. “I have some time before they send out the troops.” He eyes the red balloon distorted on the frozen screen and then glances wistfully at my bed. “I can stay and finish the rest of the movie with you if you’d like.” His bright blue eyes enlarge, hopeful, briefly reminding me of Bella whenever she tries to coax me into something I don’t want to do.

  “Actually, I’m kinda tired and was about to turn off the movie right before you came and scared the shit out of me.” I watch his shoulders droop in disappointment. “You should really head back to the party. I’m sure you’ve outdone yourself this year.”

  His smile returns. “I sure did.”

  “I thought so…well, you should head back. Good night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Unwilling to move, he hesitates. “Loral?”

  Aggravated, I am unable to hold back a sigh. “What?”

  “I love you.” Quickly he leans in to kiss my cheek before hoisting himself up and over the windowsill. I am too shocked to utter a witty comeback. He might be my so-called boyfriend, but we’ve never kissed before nor said the forbidden three words.

  I stand by my window in sadness, watching Mike run back to his party, hiking up his oversized jeans in the process.

  Why can’t I love him back? If I were any other girl, someone smart, wealthy, and shiny like a new copper penny, I know I’d have no problem getting lost in his hopeful eyes and gentle yet awkward caress. But I feel damaged, cold, and marred by life and its unfair hand. The truth is I am just not good enough for him.

  His puppy love might be able to overcome all obstacles within the protective bubble of San Carlos, but once he steps out into the real world, he’ll snap out of it and realize I am not enough. He can and will do better. Why can’t Mike see that? Everyone else seems to.

  Just last week when I was invited over for dinner, his mother had clearly insinuated that I wasn’t good enough for her little boy.

  Vivien Cobb is one of those snooty housewives with salon-teased hair and dry clean only dresses. A string of pearls hangs religiously around her thick neck, and she never goes out of the house without sporting her gaudy diamonds. She is the type of mother who values family and money and doesn’t condone people or actions that hinder or come between the two. Mrs. Cobb holds the purse strings while Mr. Cobb fills the purse.

  The cherry wood table with its intricately carved pedestal and side leaf extensions gleamed under the chandelier lights. An itchy wool rug tickled my toes as we sat against high-backed chairs with French upholstered padding (the French seem to prize opulence over comfort). Polished silverware was placed beside porcelain plates and dainty teacups. On the table were stainless steel chafing dishes filled with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and overcooked Brussels sprouts.

  The overelaborate dinnerware was Vivien’s clever and subtle way of showing me that I didn’t
belong. The point was clearly made.

  Almost immediately, Vivien took the first jab. “Oh honey,” she chuckled, “not that fork. That’s for salad, use this fork.” Vivien picked up the fork nearest her plate and smiled, smug.

  Mumbling a few choice words under my breath, I picked up the dinner fork and imagined Brussels sprouts sticking out between Vivien’s professionally-whitened teeth. “I’m not sure why salad forks are on the table in the first place if they’re not meant to be used.”

  Pretending she didn’t hear, Vivien placed her fork down and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin. “Loral, I was curious. Where do you see yourself going to college?” Without pausing, she continued, “You are going to college aren’t you? Because my Michael is set on attending the prestigious UCLA to study law. He’s going to be a great prosecutor, just like his father.” She smiled, almost accusatorily.

  It was one of those half-smiles, directed more to intimidate rather than to convey warmth. If the comment and smile were intended to provoke me or make me crumble to the ground, Vivien wasted her breath. I already knew Mike was going to accomplish so much more without me than with me. I didn’t need his mother reminding me of that.

  Before I could swallow my piece of extra-dried chicken and provide a smart-alecky answer, Mike spoke in my defense—he always spoke for me when he knew the question was tough, awkward, or a below-the-belt insult—and said, “She’s going to be a novelist. Loral’s a wonderful writer and she’s very creative.”

  Cringing, I felt angered by Mike’s innocent defense and gallant praise, as well as embarrassed. Writing was a hobby. I never considered making a career out of my meaningless scribbles, and how dare he announce that to his parents. Besides, who would want to buy anything I’ve written?

  No, I wasn’t going to be a writer. Instead, I was going to be a waitress in a cute remote city where people didn’t look down at me with their pointy noses, make rash judgments, and criticize me. I’d be accepted as one of their own, without so much as an Internet search or background check. I didn’t belong here, but maybe I would someplace else.

  From the window I spot Bella skipping ahead of the family, dressed as a black cat and towing a puffed bag filled with cavity-causing candy. Scrambling, I quickly turn off the lights and movie and snuggle under the covers. I am not in the mood to play the guess-how-much-candy-I-got game. Recently, I haven’t been in much of a mood for anything except writing in my notebook.

  A FULL MOON GLOWED IN THE DARKENING SKY, casting white light on the town below. Graying clouds hovered threateningly over the swaying sycamore and oak trees that lined the streets. The pitter-patter of excited children dressed as witches, vampires, princesses, ghosts, and pumpkins echoed in the dark. Tired parents trailed sluggishly behind as their glow-stick laden children scattered ahead and attached themselves to groups of other rambunctious children. The doors stayed open longer, the heat escaping, while the cold night air swooshed past the anxious children with painted faces and masks made of gleaming cheap plastic.

  There was something wonderful about the smell of the crisp fall air, especially the night of Halloween when sparks of joy, spooks, and fun glittered the darkened sky. Tonight, the clouds drew in closer, whispering hints of rain. Wary parents peered up with dread, hurrying their children along to grab their candy and scoot.

  Fathers hoped they’d be home in time to catch the last few minutes of the basketball game and mothers hoped to have their kids in bed by nine at the latest. Most wouldn’t get their wish tonight. Most would barely have a chance to pull risky items from their kids’ stash before their children taunted and screamed, running on a sugar-high that wouldn’t crash until ten. If they were lucky.

  Neil Wilcox:

  8:52 P.M.

  Looking to my left, I catch a glimpse of my beautiful wife’s rosy cheeks and puffed breath. We’ve been walking hand in hand down the familiar wide, paved sidewalks of San Carlos with our designated child, Mr. Dimples, the black snot-faced pug we adopted from the pound.

  Spending three years trying to conceive a child through in vitro and other expensive, high-tech methods—each trial, test, and surgery inevitably leading us down the rabbit hole from one sleepless night to another—left us with the regrettable decision to stop trying and just get a dog.

  To me, it was a no-brainer, the right thing to do. It wasn’t in the cards for us and I couldn’t handle seeing Elizabeth go through countless rollercoaster days of hope and then more of despair. But Elizabeth didn’t want to give up; she wanted the chance to be a part of a miracle even if it meant losing our house, savings, and souls in the process. She was lost in the muck of it and couldn’t see clearly. I had to open her eyes.

  Now we have Mr. Dimples.

  For the most part he’s like any other child. He craves attention, loves cuddles, and snores when he sleeps. Elizabeth suggested we try adopting a child but I begged her not to. I drew the line, pushed my opposing case on her and won. It was the first time I raised my voice and although her trembling face broke my heart, I didn’t waver. I couldn’t.

  There are far less hoops to jump through and papers to sign when adopting a dog versus a child. I feared what the stress of strangers digging up our past would do to Elizabeth’s fragile mental state. I couldn’t take the chance, so I pushed dog adoption until she agreed. We never spoke of having kids again; the idea sloughed from our active memories and festered like a latent sore.

  Owning a dog still meant a life change. Waking up half an hour earlier than usual, rushing home during my lunch break, and going for an after dinner walk in the evening. All of this I knew and was prepared for. What I didn’t realize was the idea I’d grow to love the change.

  The puppy teased a new glow in my wife’s face and the daily walks became a therapy session—a time when we could wind-down from our stressful day and reconnect by holding hands and breathing in the fresh open air.

  Halloween night is the best time to walk a dog. Excitement is in the air and there are so many children to be distracted by, hands to lick, and other dogs to bark at.

  Elizabeth loves dressing Mr. Dimples up in tiny costumes. She’ll spend weeks dreaming up a design, picking out the fabric, and sewing under a dim light with a needle and thread.

  Sometimes a dark shadow flashes across her eyes when she sees the little children grab hold of their mother’s hand and stand on their tippy-toes to kiss their mother’s cheek. But as quickly as the shadow enters, it vanishes.

  It pains me to see my wife aching. I never want her to be without and I’m the type of guy who will move mountains just to crack a smile on my wife’s lips. But I will never risk the chance of losing Elizabeth again, even if that means she goes through life with one regret.

  Last year, Elizabeth dressed Mr. Dimples as a tiger. This year, since Mr. Dimples is the color black, except for the small white indent on his left cheek, she dressed him up like a cat—an oxymoron since Elizabeth hates cats. After all, Halloween is a time for tricks and scares, and cats scare the bejeezus out of her.

  “Puppy!” A girl in a black cat costume squeals in delight. Swinging an overfilled plastic bag a little too jubilantly, a couple Snickers and Tootsie Rolls carelessly spill over and get left behind for another kid to scoop up. “Hi puppy, I’m a cat too, except my tail isn’t real. See?” The girl twirls around so we can see the faux tail tied to her waist. “My name is Bella, what’s yours?” Kneeling down to accept the sloppy kisses, the girl’s round eyes peer up anxiously waiting for a response.

  “His name is Mr. Dimples,” I say.

  Giggling, Bella exclaims, “Mr. Dimples? That’s funny!” Her sun-kissed pigtails bounce up and down as she excitedly pets Mr. Dimples. Turning back, she motions for her sister, dressed as a pink princess, to come and join them.

  Down the street, a distinguished man and woman increase their stride to catch up. The man wears jeans and a green pullover sweater, while the woman is dressed in a tailored deep blue suit and designer heels. Faces
on both are strained and agitated by their daughter’s unexpected flight.

  “Mr. Dimples, this is my sister Tory. Tory, this is Mr. Dimples. Isn’t his name funny?”

  “Bella, it’s because he’s a boy and he has a white spot on the left cheek. Right? Am I right, mister?” Suddenly unsure, Tory looks up at me, questioningly.

  I wonder what the girls see when they look at us. I am dressed in a white powdered wig and puffy navy blue suit and Elizabeth wears a similar wig and full brown skirt. Our faces are both powdered a stark white and we both wear ruffled white blouses signifying an earlier era.

  “That’s right. My, aren’t you a smart girl,” Elizabeth says.

  Tory’s lips curve into a smug smile. Bella rolls her eyes.

  As the girls continue to pet Mr. Dimples and receive gracious hot licks, their parents finally catch up to them, haggard and out of breath.

  Elizabeth extends a hand and smiles. “You have two beautiful daughters.”

  The woman in the blue suit shakes Elizabeth’s hand daintily. “Yes, well, they’re quite a handful. You know how they can get. Children will be children, I suppose.”

  I wince and clear my throat, noticing the slight recoil in my wife’s shoulders. “Hi, I’m George, and this is my lovely wife, Martha, and of course, our child, Mr. Dimples.”

  “But he’s a dog,” Tory counters, her tiny brows knitting in concern.

  “Tory!” The woman in the blue suit shoots her daughter a look of disapproval.

  Tory flinches, mumbling, “But he is a dog.”

  Elizabeth hikes up her heavy skirt and kneels in front of the pink princess. In a soft voice she says, “You know, you’re right, Mr. Dimples is a dog. Actually he’s a pug. But I guess, since we don’t have any children of our own, we consider Mr. Dimples to be our child.”

  “Oh,” Tory mumbles, shooting her mom an I-told-you-so look.

  “Come on kids, time to go home.” The man in the green pullover eagerly rounds up his kids, obviously distracted, and turns toward their house. Before they are out of earshot, the man turns—remembering his manners—waves and yells, “Happy Halloween!”