Love Thy Neighbor

by Dellwood, Janna

  If only life came with guarantees, with such effortless destinies, she wouldn't be stuck in the rut she was in.

  Suddenly she found her thumb pushing eleven buttons on the phone. It was ringing seconds later...

  Click! “Hello?” A man's voice. David's. As overbearing and guttural as she remembered. “Hello, David. I don't know if you even remember me, but this is Janna Dellwood—“

  “Yes! I remember you well, Janna. Whatever happened to you? Where'd you go?”

  “Oh, I'm still in town. Same place, actually. How've you been?”

  He coughed. It didn't sound good. “I'm all right. Ben still thinks about you, I know. Says he misses you all the time. He says letting you go was the worst mistake he ever made. Not to bring back any bad memories on your part. Just saying. What's it been, nine, ten years?”

  “Nine. Hey, you wouldn't happen to have his number handy, would you?”

  “Sure. Gotta pen?”

  She found one in a kitchen drawer. Found a piece of paper on the table. “Okay.”

  He told it to her. “He lives on Pierson's Street, you know, the house down by the wharf?”

  “Thanks so much, David. I'll give him a call.”

  “My pleasure. Hope you guys can patch things up. Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  Turned on the phone.

  Dialed.

  What am I doing?!

  Waited while it rang.

  Janna didn't think anyone was going to answer, when:

  “Hello?” He sounded surprised, taken aback, his voice on the verge of frightful glee.

  “Ben?” There was no vitality in hers.

  “Is this who I think it is? Janna?”

  “It's me, believe it or not.”

  “Holy shit! I can't believe this. How the hell have you been? Why did you wait a decade to call me?”

  She half-smiled. “You have fingers too, y'know. Unless they're broken and can't dial,” she joked.

  “Things just ended so badly. I didn't want to upset you any worse. I know I was a jackass when we were together back then, and I apologize. I was an idiot.”

  “What are you doing these days, then? Girlfriend?”

  He paused. “No, not for a few months. Been working a lot at Cabella's. Full time. Night shifts. Lots of boxing and shipping. Makes me feel like a robot sometimes.” His laugh was not of the same cute caliber as Baron's, not anywhere close, but hearing it made her feel good.

  “What about you? You working anywhere now?”

  Now she paused. “No. Haven't had the guts to face the world. You knew how I was. My problems seemed to have gotten worse over time.”

  “That's a shame. I really thought you would have made something of yourself after school. All those drawings you did. Needless to say, you are the best artist I know.”

  She blushed. She didn't want to tell him she'd quit taking art classes; then she'd just be trying to add company to her misery.

  “You still draw and paint?”

  Janna didn't respond. An eerie silence fell over the line.

  “Listen, Ben, the reason I called is because I miss you. I miss us being together. I've had a while to process things, and now that we're older, more mature, I think things could be a lot better than what they were.” Her half-smile turned into a slight frown.

  She could sense him smiling.

  “They really could be. I'm a very different person now, Janna. I don't do half the things I used to. Don't drink. Don't use. Don't fight. All I do anymore is work and just hang out with friends.” There was a slight wobble in his voice as he said these things, as if the line were being bugged by the police.

  Janna wanted him here, with her, in her empty house. “Can you come over?”

  “What, now? I have to do some things early in the morning, but I guess I can stop by for about an hour or two. Still live at the same place?”

  “Yep. Just walk in. I'll be here.”

  “Okay. Gimme ten minutes.”

  Then came the single, solid word of supreme desperation: “Hurry.”

  She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, the uncertainty hanging so heavily on her face it made her look manly. Had he really changed for the better? Had he really matured? Was what I just did a good idea?

  Whether he had or not, she would have some company soon. Whether she enjoyed the company was another story. But company was company—it beat being alone.

  But the person she really wanted to come over wasn't Ben.

  It was Baron.

  ***

  Those ten minutes came and went. In that time there was no vrooming sound of a car pulling up outside; no glimmer of headlights cutting in through the picture window. Janna checked her watch. Five to eleven.

  Ten more minutes came and went. In that time there was no creak of the front door opening and no thud! of the front door closing. Nothing to indicate his arrival. Janna checked her watch again and sighed. Five after eleven. What's taking him? Should I call?

  A damned hour and ten minutes came and went, all too slowly.

  Still, no Ben.

  He ain't coming.

  Feeling sorry for herself—but too tired to really care anymore—she started to doze off on the living room couch while watching The Golden Girls. Her favorite episode was on: Blanche's Little Girl—the one where Rebecca, Blanche's daughter, a former model, becomes engaged to a verbally abusive man who belittles her now that she's gained a lot of weight. Janna got through fifteen minutes of the program before her eyelids became as heavy as ball bearings.

  Darkness approached.

  Comfort came.

  The realities of tragic life stopped its assault on her.

  Then:

  “Honey, I'm hoooooome!”

  Ben's voice.

  Ben's slurred voice. Too loud, too obnoxious.

  She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and looked. Oh boy.

  Ben came stumbling in through the front door like an intoxicated bull with no concern for himself or his surroundings. He broke the screen door during his entry. He put a dent in the wall with the knob of the larger door when he flung it inward. Just accidents, according to the inebriated. Stupidity, according to the sober.

  “Hey, Janna. How you doin'?”

  She wished she had never called him, never invited him, and never entertained the thought of him barging back into her life. “I thought you said you quit drinking? You're drunk.”

  He stood in the doorway, a terse little man in dark clothes, trying to process her question. His eyes were noticeably bloodshot, even from six feet away.

  “Drunk? Tshh! I'm ain't drunk. Where you get a crazy idea like that?” He belched loudly and deeply. She could smell the pungent odor of alcohol as it wafted her way. Not beer; hard liquor.

  The buffoon laughed, amused by his monstrous burp. She wasn't amused, not at all.

  “I think you better leave, Ben.”

  “What? Leave? I just got here, man. You're the one who called me to come over. I did you a favor.”

  For as hammered as he was, he had a valid point. This was her monster, the creation she'd foolishly called upon.

  Now she had to find a way to get rid of him. Of it.

  “Seriously, I think you'd better go.”

  “Go where? Upstairs?” He stumbled over to her and collapsed next to her on the couch. Put an arm around her. Breathed his repulsive bourbon breath on her. Then he started groping her and kissing her.

  Despite how much she wanted a man, she didn't want this.

  She wriggled away, stood up, disgusted. “You lied to me! You said you were different. This is bullshit.”

  His head wobbled. His eyes looked far from coherent. “What? I haven't drunk anything in three years, baby. What's a couple of Millers? I'm cool.”

  “No, you're not cool. You pulled this shit nine years ago. You said you'd change, promised me you'd change, and you kept screwing up. The endless story, Ben. You never got on the wagon—you just said that to please me.
To keep me.”

  “Hey, I didn't call you and beg you to get back with me, did I? Who said, 'Can you come over'? Who said, 'Just walk in'? Who said, 'Hurry'? Tell me who spoken those words, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't me.”

  She pouted, pursed her lips. He's right.

  “Okay, I made a mistake.”

  He nodded exaggeratedly. “Exactly! Mistake. You complain about my drinking, as if you never made a mistake. You're not perfect, woman.”

  “Neither of us are perfect. But I don't want to be with a drunk Ben!”

  He went to look at her, missed, and searched again. Found. Rage, fed by alcohol, sparked his gears into motion. The man stood up and crowded her, backed her into a corner.

  “Not fun to be with? You perfect sober assholes are the ones not fun to be with. You look down on everything, everyone. Have you dranken yet in those nine years? Have you? How do you treat wuss the way you do without backing up your.... your...” He couldn't find the word. Instead, he smacked her, vocalizing his words by physical action. Easier this way.

  ***

  One story higher, in the brownstone across the street, Baron lay in the darkness of his cool, comfortable bed, his head propped up on a thick, fluffy pillow, reading the statuses of his Facebook on his Ipad. It pained him to read about Rachel, his ex. They'd been broken up for two months, and she'd bounced back from the breakup like nothing had happened. Some people, he supposed, could move on faster than others. He didn't think he could, not like that. Not that fast. To make matters worse, the guy she'd moved in with was George Wattson, his childhood friend. So, not only did he lose Rachel; he'd lost his best pal. Now that those two were together, they'd left him behind. All he really was, was a third wheel.

  Tears stung his eyes when he read the next post: “Rachel and George: News! News! We're engaged! Yes, my baby George popped the question. We're getting married in spring! Can't wait!”

  Baron had proposed to her less than three months ago. Her response: I need more time. I'm not ready for that kind of commitment yet.

  He and Rachel had been together for three years, mind you, not one month, like George and Rachel.

  Baron wanted to be happy for them, but what he really felt was resentment and bitterness. They had all but forgotten him.

  He turned off his Ipad, tossed it aside, and wiped the tears away, tired but too depressed to sleep.

  He couldn't have fallen asleep anyway, not with the bickering voices. A couple. Fighting.

  He opened his eyes. Listened.

  “What do you have to say now, bitch?”

  “More than you. You're so drunk, you can barely talk!”

  Silence...

  “Just leeeeeave!”

  “Nooooo! Not until I'm good and ready.”

  “I hate you, Ben. I wish I'd never met you.”

  “Oh, well that's dandy. The feeling's mutual, woman.”

  “Do I have a sign on me that says that? 'Cause I'm not your woman. I'd have to have rocks in my head to get back with you!”

  “Uh, hello? This is what you wanted. You forget? I'll ask you again—the tenth time! Who called who, Miss lonely and desperate?”

  She cried. Baron recognized her voice just then. His neighbor's. The one who'd asked him over for a non-alcoholic drink.

  Her distressing cries brought more tears to his eyes, put more pain into his well of agony. There was nothing he hated more than a man who mistreated women—

  But if she'd asked him out, then who was arguing with her now?

  Her husband?

  Mistress?

  Boyfriend?

  Some guy she'd picked up at a bar?

  The girl doesn't drink, genius!

  Unless she picked him up elsewhere.

  Whoever he was, it didn't seem to add up in Baron's mind.

  He tried to block out the fight and get some rest. He grew comfy within a matter of moments, when....

  The loud SMACK! took that coziness away. The woman cried much louder now. And he, whoever the asshole was, shouted at higher decibels.

  Fury engulfed Baron, woke him up. He was not a confrontational person—hell, he'd never been in a fight in his whole life. Bullies had had their way with him in school, his boss had fired him for not being assertive enough when he'd worked for AIG, and, he wondered, maybe that was the reason Rachel had left him, too. If that was the case, maybe he needed to swallow his doubts, his inhibitions, and act instead of standing still.

  The world would go on either way.

  ***

  Janna lay bawling on the floor in her living room, her face red, bloody and bruised. Ben stood over her, giving it to her good. He hadn't hit a woman in three years—his last girlfriend; found that he missed it.

  “Now you see what us guys have to go through! What I'm doing to you is easy compared to what you women do to us. You whores beat us up from the inside. Hey... ever taste the rawhide of a belt?”

  He quickly undid his belt. Yanked it from its many loops.

  “Please, Ben, you can stay. I'm sorry. Okay?”

  “No, no. You're not getting out of this that easy. You know why? 'Cause you'll get what you want. Then what? You'll attack ME again!”

  Ben brought back the belt, causing her to turn away and hold up her arms. The pain would ensue any second.

  Any second.

  Any second...

  ?

  Baron clutched hold of the buckle part of the belt, preventing the alcoholic monster from whipping the innocent victim. “My mother told me to never hit a woman or a man. But you know what? I think she'd change her mind under the circumstances.”

  Pow!

  Baron popped Ben in the face with a quick jab. It didn't have the effect he was hoping for. He thought the man would tumble over the couch like they did in the movies, unconscious and bloody.

  A line of blood did run from one nostril, but the blow only made Ben angry.

  Ben cocked his arm back and swung with full power, aiming for this man's head. His punch got lost—or that's what he thought—and the next thing he knew, he got tackled and went to the floor, his head bouncing off the hard metal vent under the window. Everything in sight went blurry, came back, and then faded to darkness. Ben was out.

  Baron looked down at this pitiful man lying between his legs, bleeding, snoring, drooling on himself. He'd never hit anybody before. He'd been raised to be a pacifist. The thought of attacking someone, human or otherwise, just never seemed right. But now, it felt right. It felt good. He'd stood up in somebody's behalf. For a moment he felt like a hero.

  “You okay?” Baron asked Janna. She continued crying, balled up in the corner with her arms wrapped around her legs.

  “Janna?” He raised his voice. It soothed her. It brought her out of her crying spell. She looked up at him without expression. He went to her and went to hug her.

  “It's okay, he won't hurt you—“

  She snapped.

  She shoved him and smacked him, in frustration. “You get away from me, you assholes! Why? Whhhy? Why do you do it? Why do all you men treat us women like crap? What did we do to deserve this? Why are you all jerks?!”

  She fought, but he came forward anyway, gently grabbing her thrashing limbs, lulling her with kind words and slow, easy movements.

  “You let go of me! You let go! Why are you here?! You don't want me. You don't want me. All Ben wants is to hurt me. Is that why you're here, too? Why doesn't anybody want meeee?!”

  “Shh. It's all right, Janna, I'm sorry.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, embraced her, squeezed her, and cried with her. They cried together. They comforted each other. Without doing anything sexual, they became as one.

  Chapter 5

  The cops were called, they came, and they escorted a dizzy, drunk Ben to a patrol car outside. They took a quick statement from all three parties. This kind of thing actually happened fairly often in Denburg. Some cops considered it a very routine part of the job. It was. Alcohol and stupid people don't mix
, Sheriff Leonard often told his deputies.

  After the Calvary left, Janna and Baron sat on her living room couch—in silence, for a while. The TV was still on—another episode of The Golden Girls began—but had been muted.

  “Who was that creep?”

  She dabbed her tears with a tissue. “My ex-boyfriend. Why I called him, I don't know. Spare- of-the-moment type of thing. Big mistake.”

  “On behalf of all men, I am sorry.”

  She managed a smile. “Thanks. I guess all the good men are either taken or gay.”

  “Well, my gay friend in Williamstown once said: 'All the good men are either married or straight.'”

  She laughed. Her nerves eased.

  “We're not all taken or gay, Janna. I've just come off from a bad relationship. She left me for my friend of twenty-some years.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. They disowned me, in a way. Some puzzle pieces just don't fit together.”

  She stared at him; he stared at the floor. His lips looked so kissable.

  “And some puzzle pieces don't fit in any puzzle,” Janna said. “They are meant to be tossed in the garbage.”

  “That's not true. Everyone deserves to be loved and cared for. The only pieces who don't fit are that idiot that put his hands on you.”

  She wiped away some snot. “What was her name?”

  He looked at her. “Who? Oh. Rachel. I'd never been more sure of anything in my life. I could see myself growing old with her, being with her through all of life's twists and turns. I imagined what our kids would look like, what we'd name them—not one detail went unthought. High-school sweethearts we were. I don't know what happened, what went wrong. I always ask myself what I did for her to leave me. Could I have done something different to have made her stay? Did she fall out of love with me?”

  Janna understood this too well. “You ask yourself a thousand questions and come up, not only with no answers, but only with more questions.”