The Good Neighbor

by Amy Sue Nathan

  “I’m a divorce lawyer, remember?”

  “Oh, right.” Andrew Mann, attorney-at-law, was a divorce monger. Apparently, he was also a nice guy. Good thing, too, because at the moment I didn’t want to face Bruce alone.

  “You wouldn’t mind walking in with me?”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.”

  I believed him. “Do you have a sitter or someone you need to call?”

  “Nope, I’ve got everything under control. And don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

  I believed him then, too.

  * * *

  I held my breath as tightly as I held my key.

  “It’s your house,” Andrew whispered from behind me. His warm breath and encouraging words ruffled my hair and I shivered.

  I unlocked my front door with one turn of the key, but pushed it open in slow motion. The door cooperated by not making a sound. I stepped out of the foyer and saw Bruce upright and asleep on the sofa. Noah’s head, covered by my Phillies cap, rested on Bruce’s lap.

  “Do you want me to wake him up?” Andrew asked in a full, deep voice. I suspected it was his lawyer voice.

  Bruce opened his eyes. He grinned at me as if he’d forgotten the babies, the marriage, and the divorce. He looked as if he were lounging on his bachelor-pad sofa, rising from a nap, still years from the cusp of an unimagined life. He dragged his hands down his face, and with the final swipe, drool lifted away from his mouth. His eyes circled as though he were laughing at himself, then he looked at Noah, back at me and Andrew, then at the drool on his sleeve, and frowned.

  Embarrassed Bruce. I glanced back at Andrew and smiled. He’d removed his coat and draped it over the banister. I placed my hands on my hips and swiveled toward my ex, a calisthenics stance primed for a confrontation. But Bruce looked at Noah, then at me, and our unflappable parenting bond took hold. I wrapped my arms around myself and nodded. Bruce lifted Noah into his arms and stood. Noah rearranged himself without waking. He sank into Bruce as if he were a baby. Then, as if hopping on stones to cross a creek, Bruce took three, maybe four, steps at a time and disappeared upstairs. I offered no apologies for the laundry in the hall or the unmade beds.

  “Way to take a stand there, Elizabeth,” Andrew said.

  “Noah was asleep, what was I supposed to do? And my name’s Izzy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  * * *

  Bruce bopped down the steps and into the living room. I noticed his bright white socks and looked around the room to find his sneakers. He’d tucked them under the coffee table, heel to heel and toe to toe. How could someone have made such a mess of his life but always be certain to line up his shoes with precision?

  I sat on the sofa, unsure of my next move, or word. Andrew flanked the dining and living rooms, taking up more man space than I’d have thought possible.

  “Andrew Mann.” He thrust his arm forward and walked toward Bruce.

  They shook and nodded as if it were a business meeting and not an awkward quasi-personal moment.

  “You look familiar.” Bruce stepped back. He eyed Andrew straight on, then sideways. Bruce stood a head taller than Andrew, but from my perspective the disparity seemed negligible.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What am I doing here? I told you I might be coming back. The question is, where the hell were you?” Bruce whisper-yelled and his nostrils flared as he glanced back at Andrew.

  “Watch your mouth,” Andrew said.

  “Oh, I know who you are.” Bruce pointed and wagged his finger. “You’re that lawyer with the billboards. I can’t believe he’s your Valentine, Iz! Or is he your lawyer? Maybe he’s both!”

  “What he is, Bruce, is none of your business.”

  “Well, while you were out with none-of-my-business, your dear Mrs. Feldman vouched for me or that girl wouldn’t have let me in to see my son.”

  “Had I known you were coming back, I’d have let you see Noah. You know that.”

  I knew Bruce well enough to know he was boiling inside. Bruce looked at Andrew and turned his head back and forth again as if he were counting. “What happened to that Mac guy?”

  My body went cold and then hot and then cold again. I couldn’t move, didn’t know what to say. Right there, in my parents’—my—living room, I was going to dissolve into the floor and become one with the Berber.

  “Mac is out of the picture,” Andrew said.

  I fought to remain calm, my leg bounced harder and higher, and Bruce just stared at me and cocked his head, as if waiting for an apology.

  “I was at a meeting, Bruce. Because I had to take a second job to make up for the money you stopped contributing to this household even though you’re legally bound to do so.”

  “Don’t start with that again, Izzy.”

  “You need to call before you come here. You can’t just stop by. This is not your house, and I’m not at your beck and call. And neither is Noah.”

  “I figured you’d be here. I wanted to see Noah. Which I can do whenever I want.”

  I stood to defend myself, my space, my sanity. “No, you can’t. Check our parenting agreement. You can see him every other weekend and Wednesday nights until Thursday before school. Would you like to see the custody agreement you signed? Maybe I’ll underline the parts about child support. Do you have a highlighter handy? Or did you leave it in California?”

  Bruce held up his hands, powerless to deflect the truth. “Look, I’m just saying that it’s a bad idea to leave Noah with a stranger. I have no idea who that girl is. What if she’s a lunatic?” Bruce sat on the sofa and jammed his feet into his sneakers.

  “Are you kidding me? Was I never supposed to hire a sitter and leave the house? You’ve been away for six weeks.”

  “That was business.”

  “Tonight was business too. And Darby, that ‘lunatic’ babysitter you don’t know, is a college graduate, and she works for Jade. She’s not a stranger to me or to Noah.” How does it feel not to know the all the people your child knows? That’s what I wanted to ask him. Because I knew the answer. It felt as if you were standing outside the circle of your child’s life, without the secret password or a ticket to get inside. And horrible as it may have been, I was glad Bruce was now feeling it too.

  “So, what’s this ‘job’ that keeps you out at night?” Bruce succumbed to using air quotes and glanced at Andrew.

  “None of your business,” I said.

  And then I felt it. The burn in my throat, the pressure in my ears, the band of uncertainty around my heart. I hadn’t cried in front of Bruce since the morning he woke up and said he was leaving. I wasn’t going to start now. Plus, Andrew was here. I gulped and swallowed and turned away. I blew out enough air to fill a giant balloon, then turned back. My eyes filled but didn’t betray me.

  “I know you didn’t want him, but you really shouldn’t do things that make Noah feel that way.”

  “Knock it off!” Bruce spit the words through gritted teeth.

  “What is he supposed to think, Bruce? You leave, you call—sometimes—and then you show up out of nowhere and want him for the weekend. What happens to Noah when you leave again?” And what happens to me?

  Andrew turned and walked into the kitchen. I heard water running, a cabinet open and close. Then the refrigerator. The water stayed on.

  “I don’t want to hurt Noah. You know that. And I love that kid. You know that. Stop throwing it in my face that six years ago I didn’t think I wanted to be a dad. Just because I didn’t want us doesn’t mean I don’t want Noah.”

  Don’t scream. Don’t cry. For God’s sake, don’t throw up.

  Bruce’s voice softened and he slipped his hands in his jeans pockets. “My lease is up and I’m putting my stuff in storage. I’m staying with my sister while I’m here. I’d like to pick up Noah in the morning and keep him through the weekend. I don’t want to fight, Izzers. I just want to be the best dad I can be, and I’m trying. I know you don’t belie
ve this, but I don’t want to fight with you either.”

  Tightness in my throat constricted my speech. If I opened my mouth, I’d squeak. Or bellow. Or rage.

  I picked up Bruce’s coat from the chair and handed it to him with resolve. “Fine. Come at noon.” I slathered on the guilt. “He needs you to do more than swoop in and out like a superhero.”

  * * *

  I shut the door behind Bruce, and Andrew emerged from the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  “I’m sorry you’re in this predicament. You know you can take him to court and get child support, right?”

  “I know. But we’re okay.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, just in case…” Andrew took a card out of his wallet, flipped it over, and scribbled on the back. He handed it to me and I slipped it into my pocket without making eye contact.

  “Thanks for being here.” And for running the water. And for not bolting. “And—thanks for not correcting Bruce when he assumed we were dating.”

  “No problem. What’s a white lie between friends?”

  * * *

  The next day, I sat in Mrs. Feldman’s living room, half-price Valentine’s Day candy in one hand and Andrew’s business card in the other.

  “Oh, I love the Whitman’s Sampler. My father used to buy them for us.” Mrs. Feldman bit into a dark-chocolate raspberry cream. “Mmm! Now, what’s in your other hand?”

  The side with Andrew’s chicken-scratched cell number was plain and matte. The other side was shiny and smooth, yet straightforward and classic.

  ANDREW MANN

  ATTORNEY AT LAW

  MEDIATION—DIVORCE—ADOPTION

  I handed Mrs. Feldman the card. “Maybe you could talk to him about Elizabeth.”

  “No!” Mrs. Feldman pushed the card toward me and I sat on my hands. She placed the card on the coffee table. “I don’t want anyone to know. I thought I made myself clear.”

  “He could help you. Look, it says ‘adoption.’ Andrew might be able to find Elizabeth. Your Elizabeth.”

  “Your Andrew? The one who helped with Bruce?”

  My cheeks grew warm. “When I read the card last night, it hit me. He might be able find some answers.…”

  “Please, no. I gave you the box and I told you because I knew you would keep my secret. I haven’t told anyone what you’ve been doing. Please. Do the same for me.”

  “But maybe that’s not the best thing. For either of us.” I said the last part under my breath. This was about Mrs. Feldman, not me. “Maybe it’s better to take the risk and tell the truth. What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Mrs. Feldman crossed her arms and her fingers fluttered on her elbows. “Really? What’s the worst thing?”

  “We could find Elizabeth and she could hate me. She’s seventy, for goodness’ sake.”

  “We don’t even know if we can find her, so let’s not worry about that yet. One step at a time.”

  “The boys could stop talking to me if they find out.”

  We rolled our eyes simultaneously.

  “I can just tell Andrew this is for ‘a friend.’ No names. He has never met you. He won’t be able to figure anything out. And if he can’t help, he won’t know anything more. But if he can help…”

  “Fine. Ask him. But after this, Elizabeth, it’s your turn.”

  I already knew that.

  Chapter 22

  Hide-and-Seek

  MRS. FELDMAN REACHED INTO her purse and removed a dollar. “This seems silly.” She smoothed the bill between her hands as if heating it up, before handing it to Andrew.

  “No,” he said. “Since you’ve paid me, I’m legally bound to keep everything said here today confidential. Would you like Ms. Lane to leave before we talk?”

  “Hey!” I opened my mouth wide in shock and mild protest. I didn’t expect to be offended, but I was. Many things were happening that I didn’t expect. Such as Andrew calling me Ms. Lane.

  “No, dear, Elizabeth can stay. She knows the whole story.”

  “Fine.”

  Andrew looked around the crowded dining-room table at his audience of figurines. Muted, pale, and refined—clowns holding balloons, ladies walking dogs, children playing games. I pulled out a chair and put Andrew’s briefcase on it. He flipped the latch with his thumb, opened the case, and retrieved a yellow legal pad, seeming somewhat cliché.

  Andrew didn’t look at me, but leaned the pad on his arm. He faced Mrs. Feldman. “Start at the beginning.”

  Andrew nodded in time to her story. He scribbled on the paper, but from my spot at the end of the table, I couldn’t make out what he was writing. For me, Mrs. Feldman had uttered no surprises. I continued placing Lladró into their appropriate boxes, comforted that the fragile nature of my wards was the only thing I’d been charged with protecting at the moment. I hoped she would choose her favorites to display in her apartment at Shady Forest, but maybe she wanted to leave it all behind, like her pirate box. I turned my back to offer the illusion of privacy.

  “Elizabeth?” Andrew said.

  I swiveled around without admonishing him for calling me Elizabeth. With him and Mrs. Feldman together, I’d be outvoted on my own name.

  “Would you mind getting Mrs. Feldman’s box? I’d like to catalog the contents, take some photos, just so I have a record of it.”

  “You can’t open it,” Mrs. Feldman said.

  Andrew moved his case to the floor and pulled the chair closer to her. He sat and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. Andrew appeared relaxed, yet in control. This posture had been well practiced.

  “If you want my help, I need to know what’s in there. It might help me find your daughter, Mrs. Feldman.”

  She winced. “You, too, with the Mrs. Feldman? It took Elizabeth almost forty years to call me Geraldine, and she only said it once, when she thought I was losing my mind. I’m not sure I have that much time to wait for you to do it, Mr. Mann.”

  Andrew laughed and blushed. “Okay, Geraldine. Then you have to call me Andrew.”

  * * *

  Andrew snapped photos of the box from every angle. He measured it and jotted notes, numbers. He drew a diagram.

  “I haven’t opened that box since before my oldest was born,” Mrs. Feldman said.

  Andrew reached for her hand before I could. “You are the only one who knows what’s in there. I can take it with me, open it, make note of the contents, and then give it back to Elizabeth if that would be easier for you.”

  “No.” Mrs. Feldman shifted in the chair and tugged at her blouse. “It’s fine. I’m making a lot of changes, moving from this house, you know.” She motioned to the cardboard boxes and to me, still packing up Lladró. “Did Elizabeth tell you I was moving?”

  “No, she didn’t. But I assumed—”

  “Of course you did. What would an old woman like me be doing living alone, right?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, of course you didn’t. The fact is, young man, we’re not alone in this world unless we want to be. And living in this house, even with my tsuris, I’ve never been alone.” Mrs. Feldman glanced at me and smiled. I knew she meant me, but not just me. Good Street, in its day, had a way of being a self-contained world filled with friends and reimagined family. “You know what tsuris is, dear?”

  Andrew chuckled. “Ikh farshteyn.”

  “Ha! He understands a pitseleh Yiddish. A nice Jewish boy…” Mrs. Feldman looked right at me as she said it and her eyes opened wide. My cheeks grew so warm I thought I might be having my first hot flash. Great timing.

  “Do you want me to go?” I did not look at Andrew, but pointed toward the door, hoping I could escape the heat along with all its implications.

  “Heavens to Betsy, no! You’re the only one besides Mr. Mann—I mean Andrew—who knows what happened. My shame should have died a long time ago. My
hope should have gone with it, I know. But it didn’t.”

  We moved to the kitchen table. After one silent turn of the key, Andrew lifted the lid. It folded all the way back as if gasping for its first breath. With slow, deliberate movements, Andrew laid out the contents of the box. First, four black-and-white photos. Then, a yellowed envelope with writing on the front.

  Mrs. Feldman fiddled with her fingers in lieu of a napkin, turned back the edge of her cuff, then folded her hands. I wished Andrew would move just a little faster, without relaxing his care.

  Two short, thick Shabbat candles. A wax-paper square that appeared to be folded, with something between the two pieces.

  Mrs. Feldman pointed at the envelope. “Are you sure that’s the box I gave you, Elizabeth?” She looked at me, nary a glint in her eye nor a smile on her lips.

  I almost didn’t know how to respond. The box sat on the table. The box that had been locked for decades and had only recently found a home in my bread/hat/note drawer.

  “Of course it is.”

  “Well, I don’t remember putting any envelope in there, I’ll tell you that. The rest of it, yes. But the envelope? No. Although it was a long time ago.” She fanned out the photos but did not lift them from their places.

  “What’s in the wax paper?” I asked. Mrs. Feldman wouldn’t answer if she didn’t want me to know.

  “A piece of my hair.”

  “That’s very smart,” Andrew said. “We can use it for DNA testing. If there’s ever a reason, of course.”

  “I just did it so my daughter would have a piece of me. There was none of that DNA testing back then. I didn’t even know there was something called DNA.”

  “Well, it was good thinking.”

  “What about the envelope?” I prodded Andrew with a jut of my chin. He lifted the envelope and showed it to Mrs. Feldman. “It says Geri on the front.”

  “Sol is the only one who called me Geri.” Mrs. Feldman wrung her hands. “Open it.” Her words squeaked through the breath of a whisper.

  I laid my hand on her back, using pressure to steady her body. I leaned closer to steady her heart, and the imagined shield drifted away.

  June 10, 1954

  Dearest Geri,