The Good Neighbor

by Amy Sue Nathan

  I turned around. Mrs. Feldman had never before expressed an ounce of serious discontent. “What did you want to do that you didn’t get to do?”

  “I would have liked to have gone to college, but my parents said there was no reason for a girl to go. I lived at home with them until I married Sol.”

  “How old were you when you got married?”

  “Twenty-three. My parents thought I was going to be a spinster.”

  I laughed, but Mrs. Feldman wasn’t laughing. Then she shook away her staid demeanor and smiled. “I knew Sol from shul. He was older than me and he led the junior congregation services when I was growing up. Then he went away to war, like all the boys did. We met him again years later. I’d always thought he was handsome and had wanted to sit in the front row and just stare at him as he davened. Who knew praying could be so sexy?” She blushed. “But it was. My parents said he was a nice boy. A boy! He was twenty-eight. I think deep down we both thought it was our last chance. So we got married.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “And since we were both already living in the neighborhood, it was easy to move next door. No stress of going somewhere new.”

  “I knew you grew up around here, but Mr. Feldman did, too?”

  “Yes, right over on Beecham Street.”

  “Do you wish you’d just gotten married and moved away?”

  “Where would we go? Plus, I couldn’t think of living anywhere else but Good Street.”

  “Why not?”

  “My parents moved to Good Street when I was fifteen.”

  “You lived on Good Street when you were growing up?”

  “Yes. In this house.”

  “This house?” How did I not know this? Why had she never told me?

  “Yes.” Mrs. Feldman leaned back in her chair and against the wall, as if settling in for story time. “My parents sold this house to your parents. But when Sol and I got married years before that, we moved in right next door. My parents wanted me close. I wanted to be close, I didn’t know any different. It’s what families did back then. Two of my aunts moved around the corner, so my cousins were here, too. Which was easier when I started a new high school when I was sixteen.”

  “You lived in my house!”

  “No, you grew up in my house!”

  We laughed and the invisible thread between us tugged. Our lives had been sewn together long before I sat in Mrs. Feldman’s kitchen after school, long before she was my teenage confidant, my surrogate mother-grandmother-friend. We were not connected by blood but by bricks. Sturdy, impenetrable, permanent bricks.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? This is something I could have known since I was little.”

  “It didn’t seem important. I’d moved on. Different house, different life.”

  “Not important?”

  “I was fifteen when we moved here. And believe me, I was fully grown.”

  “Do you want to walk around? Go into the bedrooms? The basement…” She hadn’t been in this house for seven months. Or was it seven years? I had few memories of Mrs. Feldman in my house. Ever.

  “No. But I know what I do want to do.”

  “What? Anything.”

  “I want to make good on that promise of dessert for Noah.”

  I’d eaten two cupcakes before I had the nerve to mention Mrs. Feldman’s brunch with Ray and Meredith. “Was it a special occasion?”

  “No, but it was too fancy.”

  I couldn’t very well ask about Ray’s motives for taking his mother to a five-star brunch. “I bet it was nice to spend time with them.”

  “It would have been if the other boys hadn’t called on Ray’s cell phone while we were there. They ambushed me.”

  Manny, Moe, and Jack, my father had called them, as if he couldn’t remember their names. For short he just referred to them as the Pep Boys. And that’s how I thought of them, standing solid atop their store on the Boulevard, but without any pep.

  “Why would they do that to you?”

  Mrs. Feldman flinched, surprised by my push. Usually I allowed her words to float between us without consequence.

  “They wanted to talk to me about financial matters. My will. My bank accounts. My bookkeeping. Wanted to know how all my paperwork is organized. Which of course it is. You know I’m still the treasurer of the synagogue Sisterhood. And every penny is accounted for.”

  I did know.

  “I promised them it’s all divided equally when I’m gone. But that’s not enough, they want to see it all for themselves. I’m almost eighty-six, but that doesn’t automatically mean I’m losing my marbles.”

  I saddened at the thought, but eighty-five was eighty-five. Would this be one of those stories where a modest, kindly old woman dies and leaves millions to her cat? No cat. And from what I could tell, no millions either. It seemed reasonable that her sons wanted to see her will. They wanted to take care of her, make sure her affairs were in order. But what could they be after? Her Lladró collection, kitschy keepsakes, a few pieces of real jewelry?

  I’d just want one of her napkins, already folded.

  I walked to the living room to check on Noah and to change the course of my thoughts. Mrs. Feldman had always been next door. Even when I wasn’t. I couldn’t think of her living anywhere else, let alone anything worse.

  Chapter 8

  Miss Mary Mack

  MY BEST IDEAS CAME when least expected—somewhat like colds and old boyfriends—so I postponed writing my next blog post. I logged on to Facebook instead, knowing that I’d lose myself in the grown-up faces of my childhood friends and the doppelgängers they showcased as their offspring. I answered a few quizzes that quantified my life. My accent was from Philadelphia. I most resembled the literary heroine Jane Eyre. I should live in Paris. I was 90 percent a foodie. I stopped before finding out who I’d been in a previous life. One life was enough for now, thank you very much.

  I had nothing on my own Facebook page except a profile picture from an excellent hair day and a bevy of last year’s birthday wishes. The last comment on Rachel’s page had been entered three minutes before.

  I tried not to notice the photo that flanked Rachel’s name at the top of her page. Head tilted, eyes looking up, hair full and pushed to one side. Like a glamour shot without the painted lips or feather boa. I cast down my gaze, embarrassed on Rachel’s behalf. Who was this Real Housewife of Rydal, and what had she done with my herb-growing, ballet-loving cousin?

  I looked through Rachel’s photos. Arielle and Miriam dressed as Queen Esthers for Purim. Levi and Jacob lighting Hanukkah candles with Noah, all with yarmulkes askew. Photos of Thanksgiving at her mother’s house. Photos of Rachel and her friends, Rachel and the kids, the kids on their own. I recognized the back of my head by my long-lost ponytail. But where was Seth? I found one family photo, posed, in front of a white background, taken at Fun Time Photo at the mall, everyone dressed in jeans and white shirts, no shoes or socks. A classic that somehow felt outdated.

  I looked away from the screen, disoriented, a little like Mr. Magoo in “Rip Van Winkle,” which I had watched with my brothers. I glanced at the corner of the monitor. Nine thirty. I’d been bouncing around online for an hour and a half in search of inspiration. All I had now was the bad feeling that accompanies procrastination and the knowledge that time spent online traveled fast. I may not have gotten any work done, but at least I knew what all my high school friends had for breakfast.

  I wondered what Mac might eat for breakfast. I didn’t have to wonder. I just decided. Steel-cut oats. Mac was a healthy eater. That was a start.

  I sat and typed, cup of tea by my side, Felix at my feet. This shouldn’t be so hard. But it was. I’d been blogging for months and I had always enjoyed it. I was never at a loss as to what to write. But now that Jade was counting on me to help her—finally it was my turn to help her—I was all stopped up, as my mother would say.

  I clicked to the front page of Pop Philly,
the one I’d been avoiding because once I saw it, I knew it would be real. And there I was. On display and incognito. My Phillies cap stared at me as if it had eyes—other than the ones hidden beneath it. I loved that cap. I loved that newlywed mom-to-be and the hope that came with every kernel of popcorn and every sip of Coke. That Izzy Lane was the avatar for the eternal optimist. That Izzy Lane had not deleted her dreams. Her sense of adventure was real and true.

  I needed that Izzy Lane right now.

  I needed that cap.

  * * *

  Unfinished and cold, my basement was a constant reminder of the way my parents had spent my childhood. The owners of a hardware store that sold tools, paint, lumber, and even rolls of linoleum flooring did not have a finished basement.

  I flipped on the light and left the door open, still convinced something untoward lived beneath the stairs.

  The cap was somewhere among the cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid totes (labeled and not) my parents had left behind. It was easy to identify the boxes that I’d packed up when Bruce and I had split, the ones with the marriage mementos I thought might one day be meaningful to Noah. I zeroed in on four boxes labeled CHESTNUT HILL. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. I tugged at meeny, not moe, something that always got me into trouble in games at school. I half expected to be greeted by Malibu Barbie or Mod Hair Ken, but I unfolded the top and on borrowed luck a red brim stuck out at me like a hand stretched out to help.

  With the Phillies cap on my head, I walked around the living room. I felt silly. What was this? Method blogging? Did I think I’d become the younger me who didn’t know about being left by a husband and leaving a dream house and encouraging her parents to leave their home so she could move in?

  I needed reinforcements.

  I texted Jade, afraid if we talked she would hear the fragility in my voice.

  The intro post was easy. What should I write for my next one?

  You haven’t written it yet? It goes live at 6 am.

  Don’t worry. Any ideas?

  Start with how you met Mac, how you juggle work and parenting and dating and add in some fun things to do on dates so there’s some real reader takeaway. It’s about you, but it’s about the reader.

  You’ve been thinking about this.

  That’s my job. No, it’s your job. Get busy, Pea. xo Pea?

  Yes?

  Start at the beginning.

  The beginning was the problem. I’d only been on a few dates in the past six months. Wrinkled-trench-coat guy who liked to hunt and fish and camp. Oh, deer! Dermatologist with acne scars who’d never love anyone but his first wife. Or his second. Handsome social worker who didn’t drive and never called again even though I bought a fiberglass bike helmet and cooked him quinoa for dinner. Philly over Forty was supposed to be hip and hot. I chuckled. I had not gotten the hip-and-hot memo, nor had any of my dates. Maybe if I had read Pop Philly I’d have known what was popular, elusive, on the cusp of elegant, awesome, and fun.

  Because fun for me? Saturday night in Target without Noah. Pushing the cart without someone riding on the end of it. Buying a one-gallon skim mocha latte and lamp-heated popcorn and skipping the red cart up and down every aisle with the abandon of a girl with a gift card.

  Something told me that wasn’t what Jade, the readers, or Andrew Mann wanted.

  I had to get organized. It was part of my real job to be organized, keeping files on the students, for the different teachers, for the district, for myself. This was just keeping make-believe files.

  One file for everything Mac and I had done and were planning to do. One file for how Mac looked and talked. Another for sweet things he said and my replies. Then I’d need another file to keep ideas for future dates, to make sure that if there was a repeat, it was because it was “ours.” The pages filled. Mac was reliable, trustworthy, funny, and fun. He was handsome and tall. Jewish. He wasn’t afraid of commitment. He was professional and dedicated to his work, but not a workaholic. He was a dentist; he rarely traveled for his job.

  Is that what these people want to know? What would I want if I were at home reading Philly over Forty, looking for the perfect date night, funny story, or bit of advice?

  God help me. I was them. I was the single mom who wanted to go out, do things, find someone, start over—even if my online persona said I’d already done it all. In real life I’d like a place to share my own stories—the crazy ones, the mundane ones, the ones no one wanted to listen to. The ones I didn’t want to tell, but needed to tell. Then I realized what I had at my fingertips. It was more than storytelling. It was a place for single parents to share their tales of woe. And whoa. I had a place where they could share ideas that perhaps their friends and family didn’t need or couldn’t relate to. I’d still have to come up with something. I’d still have to make it seem real. I’d write about Mac. But only to set the stage to feature the readers, not me.

  Where do you go when you’re on your own for a weekend?

  Best cheap restaurants for single parents and kids?

  What was your worst date ever?

  Tell us about your next first love.

  How did you tell your kids about your divorce?

  Do you go to restaurants by yourself? Which ones?

  The questions flowed onto three pages.

  I was going to get much more out of this gig than a paycheck.

  And then—I knew. I knew even more about Mac and me. I knew all about our weekend. I closed my eyes and saw sails from visiting tall ships waving against an indigo sky, all in the foreground of the Ben Franklin Bridge. The scent of a pretzel cart, with the tang of Gulden’s as the finish. Unlikely snapshots appropriate for fiction. Yet it seemed so real, as if I’d been there before or could be there again.

  Reel it in, Izzy Rowling.

  Then, a visceral memory—the pressure and warmth of holding a hand bigger than mine. It spread from my wrist to my fingertips, squeezing my hand closed, then my throat.

  I wiped it from both, and typed.

  Chapter 9

  Double Dutch

  MY EYES FLUTTERED OPEN as if I’d had enough sleep, but my head faced away from my clock. What a treat to wake up on my own with unintended time to spare. I stretched and groaned the way I couldn’t when I was busy slapping the top of the alarm clock to get nine more minutes.

  It must have been about five forty-five. I’d savor those fifteen minutes. I rolled my neck and glanced at the clock. Maybe I even had twenty.

  Damn.

  It was six-thirty. Six-thirty! How could it be six-thirty? I didn’t need to touch the clock to know. The clock didn’t fail me, I had failed myself. The alarm button was set to OFF. I had never forgotten to set the alarm after a weekend. Until today.

  Up and out of bed, I turned on the water for my shower, ran downstairs, plugged in the electric teakettle, and headed back upstairs. I’d lost a half hour. Up at six meant shower, Earl Grey, and the Inquirer (still the paper version), before I dressed and woke my boy at seven. Up at six meant time to myself to fill my lungs with the oxygen that would carry me through the day. Up at six meant I hadn’t been up until two-thirty writing a blog post about my imaginary boyfriend and reading a thousand welcome messages to the imaginary me.

  The same me who had to pack real lunches.

  I had stayed up too late writing about Mac, deleting, and then writing again. I had more ideas and kept going. I wrote about Date Outfits: Cover Up, Buttercup. I wrote the interminable Should a Woman Split the Check on Date Number One: No, Hon, the Time to Pay Is Not Today. I wrote about Meeting a Date’s Children Too Soon: I Kid You Not, Don’t Do It. Then there was the Three-Date Rule: Rules Are Meant to Be Broken (However You See Fit). My words knocked into each other like dominoes. I hadn’t stopped until I couldn’t see the screen.

  I’d woven intricate stories mixed with solid truths from my life that, in my mind, neutralized the lies. I was a divorced mom with a son in elementary school. I worked a full-time job. I had friends, a family, a few dates, a lot
of opinions. The details of my posts were vibrant, but their true meaning, muted.

  I drank my tea and read the paper as I blew dry my hair. It didn’t matter I’d slept through my post going live on Pop Philly, or that I might have more comments on my intro. I didn’t have the time to turn on my computer and investigate. I had a real day ahead of me with real students with real problems. And I had a real five-year-old who’d be awake in five minutes.

  I pulled clothes out of the closet and looked at my clock, that digital Benedict Arnold. Had anyone read my post yet? Recognized my photo? Was I being heckled? No, Jade would have called if it were a disaster. She called me whenever she wanted. Always had. I could just look, just for a minute. I could set an alarm so I woke up Noah in three minutes, and—no!

  Life was going to backfire if I couldn’t make all the pieces fit.

  I’d drop Noah off a little late. I’d be a little later. I hadn’t been late to work without a snowstorm to blame in over fifteen years.

  Downstairs, I laid my hand atop the cool and silent laptop, as if to bless it. I could have sworn it jeered.

  * * *

  I opened my door just wide enough to poke my head out. Students leaned again the walls and sat on the blue plastic chairs lined up in the counseling office. The mix of sweat and coffee and air freshener tickled my nose even after fifteen years.

  “Donna?”

  Our department secretary turned from her desk in the middle of the wide-open space; waist-high walls surrounded her cubicle, as if a playpen for her workday. I walked over to Donna’s station—much more than a secretary’s desk—and looked at the sign-up sheet for student appointments. I didn’t have an appointment until nine. I took a Flair pen from Donna’s cup and put an X through the next half hour. I looked to my left and then my right, only willing to involve my colleague if she was out of earshot. The district had laid off two of our four counselors in the past two years. The pair of us with seniority had to cover each other not just sometimes, but all times. “If one of my students comes in, ask him to wait or ask Helen to cover.” I’d make it up to her with a latte.