A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  Although I am simply minding my own business—walking at a steady pace—paranoid women pass me by quickly, defensively turning their bodies away from mine, moving to the other side of the road, or picking up their speed until I am out of arm’s reach. The women purposely avoid eye contact as though their lives depend on it.

  Do I look like a killer? A bad guy? A rapist? Never before when I walked the loop with my wife did I receive such hostility and criticism. Before, I was the adoring husband who held his wife’s hand while taking a relaxing stroll around the block with their adorable pooch. Now, I seem to be pegged as the dangerous man with shifty eyes and bad intentions. Yet, all I am doing is walking for the sake of exercise and soaking in the surrounding views of the neighborhood. I’m a taxpayer, dammit, just like they are. Don’t I also have the right to enjoy a little neighborly stroll around the block?

  I continue my walk, shaking my head slightly at the thought. The idea humors me so much I stop mid-stride and break into a chuckle. I am now the village creeper.

  Tuxedo Park lies ahead. A teenage boy dressed in high school physical education garb (Patriot green-and-gold) runs with ear buds jammed into his ears, the deafening noise damaging a couple more brain cells. The boy cuts through the park, passing a group of middle-aged women on the way. Women greet him just fine. They smile and wave, delighted to see a youthful spirit enjoying the fresh outdoors in an era where most are trapped indoors with glazed eyes while microwaving their brains with electronics. Nevermind the kid’s indirect investment in the hearing aid business. He probably does drugs, to boot!

  The same group of middle-aged women is now heading toward me. I watch in awe as they draw together, forming a solid unit, and silently whisk past me without anything more than a wary glance while clutching their purses tightly to their breasts. What the hell!

  Then comes an older man, walking hunchbacked. White puffs of hair stick out haphazardly under a sun-bleached fisherman’s hat. He pauses, leaning on a wooden cane while his Yorkie sniffs at a post. A group of newbie housewives stroll past. The women, dressed in yoga pants and fitted shirts, are yapping with flare about one thing or another while their children play in the sandbox a few feet away. The women never give the old man a second glance, except to coo and smile at the tiny Yorkie. They don’t even flinch at his cane, which could—if the situation necessitated—be a dangerous weapon. Again, what the hell!

  That about settles it. Tomorrow I am going to drag Mr. Dimples out on the walk if I have to carry him out. The idea that a man is less dangerous with a pooch than without one is preposterous. Won’t I be more dangerous? Dogs have teeth and they might be trained to use them.

  Deeply perplexed, I keep my eyes trained forward, and walk past the group of mothers. I immediately feel their eyes dart quickly from me to their children—who are (luckily) all accounted for and at a safe distance away from the creepy man walking alone—and back to me again. Yes ladies, don’t you worry, just minding my own business. Please carry on.

  Following the bend in the road, I stop and hesitate. Stiffening, my stomach churns and reflexively my tongue lines with a thick film of saliva. Without warning, I lurch forward and vomit the PB&J snack I inhaled prior to the walk. A cold sweat prickles my forehead as I lean against the trunk of a mature oak tree and close my eyes.

  Letting the cool breeze wash over me in soft soothing breaths, violent flashbacks of last Halloween fizzle in and out of my head. The horror that befell my world on that ghastly night grips me. I will be forever chained to the grief and tormented in solitude. There is no one else that I can burden with my misery, no one to nurse my ailing heart. I am left to grieve my loss alone. Completely alone.

  Regaining control over my trembling limbs, I push off the tree and stand. For the moment, the rolling in my stomach has abated. Brushing off the dirt and leaves that cling to my moistened hands and sweat-drenched clothes, I train my misting eyes forward.

  That is when I see her.

  At first, just a brief silhouette. A dim outline against the upstairs window of the corner white house with blue shingles.

  My heart races, eyes clear, and my sallow complexion seems to brighten. Undeniably it is her. In my heart I know. No one captivated each beat of my heart like she did. Excitement overwhelms me as I stand transfixed, in awe. I am no longer alone. I am whole.

  In a voice that isn’t really mine, I croak, “My Betsy…”

  Chapter Five:

  Tuesday, February 14, 2012

  7:00 A.M.

  Neil Wilcox:

  Valentine’s Day is a time when the colors red, pink, and white dominate and hold meaning. Shopping windows are filled with bountiful signs of hugs and kisses, engagements and love, hearts and chocolate. Teddy bears stick together with magnetic kisses. It’s a time when diamond and jewelry commercials are in abundance and when proposals are on the tip of a man’s tongue. Candy manufacturers, jewelry stores, florists, and restaurants hit the public hard with their suggestive ads and glittery promises for a memorable night. It’s a holiday with no job benefits (school and work are still in session), with the added pressure to spend an exorbitant amount of money on the significant other.

  Overall, it’s a ridiculous holiday.

  For Elizabeth and me, the day was never given a second thought. Why spend one day showering the person you love with your heart when you should be doing that every single day? Why pick one day for that romantic getaway and battle competitively amorous couples when you could pick a few random days throughout the year? Why do you need to purchase a gift when you already have everything you’ve ever wanted?

  The day astounded us and we usually rebelled and stayed indoors until the marketing frenzy passed. But today, with Elizabeth no longer here to scoff the day with me, I start to reminisce; and there is one Valentine’s Day worth remembering.

  At the time, the only thing that was missing in our life was a child to call our own. A legacy of our undying love for each other. A treasure to nurture, raise, and love.

  Nearing thirty, we were trying for a child. Elizabeth finished her schooling and got a job as a dental hygienist at Mighty Molar Dentistry downtown. I continued to work at the Wicker Lawn Chair Co. on Miramar Road, getting promoted from moving product down in the warehouse to working in a tiny customer service cubicle up in the main office.

  With dual steady incomes that included benefits, we were able to move out of our dilapidated apartment in Clairemont and purchase a tiny two bedroom condo in San Carlos. The town was known for its quiet, well-tended streets and family-oriented charm. It was like we were enveloped in a bubble that protected us from crime and danger; perfect for a budding, happy family.

  The Valentine’s Day after our first miscarriage, I decided to forgo our silent strike against the country’s marketing hysteria and submit to purchasing a box of heart-shaped chocolates and a bouquet of red roses—if I was going to submit, I might as well follow the cliché—at Keil’s grocery. The undented, unblemished boxes had been picked over by the anal-retentive overachievers that probably destroyed a box or three before finding the “perfect one.”

  While picking through the leftover choices, I overheard a young man calling out to his girlfriend. The guy called her Babe. Suddenly I recognized a flood of pet names in my ear from the surrounding couples. There was Babe, Baby, Love, Angel, Dear, Honey, and Doll. Then there were the personalized nicknames: Bobby, Kris, Jess, Tim, Rich, and Lizzy. The last caught my breath short and I flinched. Unbeknownst to me, I had crushed the box of candy I held in my hand. Sheepishly, I tucked it behind another box on the display case and picked up a different brand. I probably wasn’t the first to implement that trick. There were too many messed up boxes in the case to feel guilty.

  Before that day, the thought never occurred to me to call Elizabeth anything other than her given name. I felt weird calling her Babe or Baby. After all, she wasn’t a baby and babe sounded more like a name for a pig. Wasn’t it a name for a pig? But perhaps a nickname that only I w
ould call her would make the name more intimate, special. I would have to stray away from Liz or Lizzy, the name haunted us both. Trapped in my car, I recited a list of possible nicknames. By the time I got home, I settled on one that suited her best.

  On the tiny card that came with the box of chocolates, I wrote in my best hand:

  To my darling Betsy.

  With Love, Neil.

  Loral Holmes:

  9:00 P.M.

  Classes went by today as normal—oh yeah, except for the insanity that surrounds “love” day. Valentine’s Day is built up with intense hysteria and expectation. Guys freak out trying to figure out what gift to purchase or outlandish gesture to perform for the girl they have or the girl they want. Girls bite their nails in anticipation of being wanted and of outshining others at being wanted.

  Valentine’s Day is a sporting event and high school is the arena. Guys compete for the girl with gifts, while the girl sits on the sideline hoping to win the envy of the crowd. Flowers are cliché, while A Walk To Remember gestures are desired.

  Once that movie came out, guys had to step up their game, and unfortunately for me, Mike was one of them. I would have preferred to observe from the shadows and snicker in amusement, but no, Mike had to enter the ring and compete, expressing his love for all to see.

  He later told me that he didn’t want me to feel left out or unwanted. He said he thought I expected something great from him. I don’t know where he got that ridiculous notion. Doesn’t he know me at all?

  It was near the end of homeroom when I got my first gift, a single long-stemmed red rose with one of those stupid teddy-bear school grams they sell for a dollar. I was actually relived at this point. I knew Mike was going to do something—he is just that kind of guy—so I was glad it was something generic and simple. Something that wouldn’t cause unwanted attention. I can’t believe how wrong I was.

  Near the end of first period I got a bouquet of wildflowers with a note that read, “Because you’re you.” At first I was confused. I thought he was telling me that I’m a wild child. Then I was offended, because I thought he was insinuating that I was wild like Tess. Then I realized he probably was thinking about Lake Murray. I go sometimes to run or sit on a bench and look out onto the water and think or write. Mike always says I look most relaxed there. He once said something cheesy to me like the natural environment suited my natural beauty, or something like that.

  With the end of each period came another small token of his affection, each another cliché. There was a red velvet cupcake for second period and a picnic basket filled with turkey sandwiches, chocolate dipped strawberries, and sodas for third.

  Lunchtime was more embarrassing than the surprise deliveries because everyone in school could witness Mike’s grandiose gesture. He had a small area picked out by the school garden. A large blanket covered the itchy grass and a couple large rocks were placed at the corners to prevent the blanket from flying away. A bucket filled with water sat in the middle to hold the wildflowers he got me. I wanted to cringe away from the jealous stares and snickers that were tossed our way. I don’t know why I didn’t run. Mike didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. I ate in silence while he rambled on about his day and made sure I had enough to eat. He acted like everything was normal while I was clearly overwhelmed by the showering of attention.

  I was relieved when the lunch bell rang. I thought that would be the end of the onslaught of gifts, but I was wrong. Fourth period, an iPod prefilled with music I could run to; fifth period, a leather-bound notebook, the first page read: Loral Holmes’s first best-selling novel; and sixth period, a grinning Mike dressed in slacks and a white button-up shirt.

  Most of the guys in the class rushed out. Most of the girls stayed behind to watch. I stood still, one strap of my backpack hanging over my right shoulder threatening to fall. I just wanted to scream, “Stop!” at the top of my lungs and run out, but I couldn’t. Shock clearly tightens one’s vocal chords.

  Oblivious, Mike was grinning from ear to ear. “Ready for your next surprise?”

  I couldn’t suppress a groan, but luckily he didn’t hear. “There’s more?” I said in a weak whisper.

  “Come on. I want this to be a Valentine’s that you will remember forever.”

  I think Mike watches too much TV. It would account for what came next. To my horror, a limo was waiting out front in the school’s parking lot surrounded by gaping high-schoolers. On the seat was a large box wrapped in an obnoxiously large red bow. Inside the box was a simple deep blue dress with black heels; on closer inspection, I noticed they were Tess’s.

  “Your mom lent you those to wear tonight. She really helped me out in the outfit department. I thought I was screwed.”

  “Tess?” I couldn’t believe she took the time to help. Of course she did lend me her least expensive outfit, but I also wouldn’t have worn anything flashy or glitzy. “And where am I supposed to change into this?”

  Mike blushed. “I’ll wait outside, just open the door when you’re finished. The divider is up and the windows are tinted so no one can see inside. You’ll have complete privacy.” He noted my hesitation before he added, “You can also change in the girls’ bathroom if you’d like.”

  I peered over his shoulder to the growing crowd beyond and shook my head. “No, here’s fine.”

  At first I was worried that he was going to take me to some fancy place where the menus had no dollar amounts and you had to tip the lady handing you a towel to dry your hands in the bathroom. So I was relieved when we walked into a cute enoteca restaurant in Little Italy. The warmth of the décor and the friendly atmosphere put me at ease as we were taken to the back, where the restaurant opened up to an outdoor patio with cabana seating, fire-lit heaters, and fairy-lighted trees. Once the ricotta and honeycomb appetizers came out, I started to relax and actually enjoy myself.

  Maybe Mike knows me better than I thought.

  Chapter Six:

  Friday, March 16, 2012

  12:01 A.M.

  Neil Wilcox:

  It has become increasingly difficult for me to fall asleep. Elizabeth is gone and the void beside me too great for comfort. I got rid of our queen sized mattress and frame and unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor instead.

  Camping was never our activity of choice. Elizabeth’s strict dislike of bugs and dirt made it easy to nix this activity from our short list of things to do as a couple. I didn’t mind. I’d rather have done something both of us enjoyed together than apart.

  But I used to enjoy camping when I was a kid. Making a fire in the great outdoors, hearing the frogs and crickets chirp in the night, sleeping under the glittering stars, and pretending I was free to be myself, to live and explore.

  Johnny and I used to jump into the lake and splash around for hours in the scorching heat. We’d tell horror stories around the campfire while we drank hot cocoa and ate s’mores, and we’d end the night laying head to head in our sleeping bags, eyes to the stars, and dreaming for a better tomorrow. Johnny had a lot of dreams. I hope his came true like mine did.

  I dreamed for a purpose, for love, for a reason to live.

  Loral Holmes:

  10:50 P.M.

  …Unseen, gaping hole beneath…

  In our room, no one sleeps.

  Tension loomed heavy and placed a damper on dinner.

  The night started out great for once. Brett was in the kitchen actually cooking a decent meal. I found him digging in the fridge and was instantly intrigued. Our trash can was starting to look like the dumpster outside a greasy fast food joint.

  Brett found a half pound of ground turkey, a quarter onion, and some mushrooms that seemed borderline. “Jackpot,” I heard him say with some triumph. We were all getting tired of take-out cartons, over-greased and over-salted foods that were molded to resemble real food. Such food made burps smell grotesquely indiscernible from farts, and seemed to bubble from both sides to no end. We needed some home cooking, and fast.
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br />   He got the water boiling and started chopping the onion. He paused to check the time on the stove and then all of a sudden he cursed under his breath and started chopping with more force than the onion deserved.

  “You might want to consider easing up a bit before you go chopping one of your fingers off,” I said. I stood off to the side, casually leaning against the counter. I wasn’t thinking of the tension emanating between us; I wasn’t thinking at all except that the delicious aroma of olive oil and garlic was making my mouth water. His attack on the onion was so off-color that I was off my guard and actually relaxed for once. Well, almost.

  The knife hung in the air.

  Brett’s grip was white-knuckled. I thought he might have cut himself because he stood stunned and his eyes watered, but when I saw no blood, I realized his eyes stung from the juice of the onion’s invisible spray. He wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve and placed the knife back onto the cutting board; bits of onion flew off the board and onto the floor at his feet.

  Tension mounted and my guard came way up.

  He molded his hands into strained fists, his eyes panicked. He took another look at the time and cursed. I think he said Tess’s name, but I can’t be sure because the exhaust fan above the stove was on full blast.

  He continued cooking, but on overdrive. Quickly he finished chopping the onion and added it to the sizzling pot of olive oil and garlic. He stirred the aromatic mixture and when the onions caramelized, he opened a can of tomato puree and poured it in, setting the heat down to a low simmer. Then, as if on cue, the water pot came to a boil and he dumped in a package of noodles, adding a pinch of salt as he stirred the dried noodles down. He moved aside to set the timer for eleven minutes.

  My heart beat faster just watching him. What the hell was he so stressed about? I moved closer, ignoring the stiffness in his posture. It’s my kitchen too. I jutted my chin forward, careful to avoid contact and lifted both lids to peek into the boiling pans. Curiosity wasn’t a crime.