The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  I need to remind myself to stay strong. My time will come. One day I’ll be free from him and become the person I’m meant to be. I won’t have to fake orgasms or allow him to hurt me. Or allow him to continually berate me over minor matters. Until that time comes, I need to be nice, remain calm, and watch whom I speak to. His control over me is complete and I never know what I’m going to say after a few glasses of wine. I don’t trust my neighbor just yet, as nice as she seems to be.

  I drop the diary on my lap. Russell was having an affair with Mycah Jones and impregnated her? If true, it means that it was not a hate crime. The disappearance of Mycah Jones has more to do with lust and ambition than racial animosity.

  I stuff the diary back into the drawer along with the key. A girl is missing and the town is abuzz, and I’m one of the few people on earth who know the truth.

  I stand by the window and make sure the coast is clear. Certain that no one is around, I slip outside until I hit the stone path. To my surprise, I see a man jogging on the sidewalk. For a brief moment I panic. Who is he? Where did he come from?

  “Hey there,” he says, waving amiably as he approaches.

  I wave back, frozen in place as he jogs up to me. A red sweatband wraps around his shiny bald dome. He’s plump and jovial and looks like he’s lost his way.

  “Great morning, isn’t it?”

  “I was just . . . I was . . .” I point aimlessly toward the Gaineses’ house.

  “When are they ever gonna finish this dump?” he asks, glancing around while still jogging in place. Sweat pours down his puffy cheeks.

  I shrug.

  “I run through this neighborhood a couple of times a month, if you want to call this running. You’re the first person I’ve ever seen here.”

  I breathe easy. He has no idea that I came out of the Gaineses’ house.

  “Where do you live?”

  I nod toward my house.

  “I live a few miles up the road. You should have moved into our neighborhood. Bustling with kids, although a lot of them are royal pains in the ass. Trample over my lawn and rose bushes.”

  “Sorry, but I really have to go,” I say, turning back toward my house.

  “Take care, lady.”

  He jogs toward the main road before disappearing around the corner. That was a close call. I need to be more careful from now on.

  Mr. Shady barks furiously as soon as I walk through the door. He’s still mad at me for leaving him alone. After he stops barking, he moves to the corner of the room and sits with his back toward me. I collapse on the sofa, exhausted, not wanting to deal with his drama this morning. After a minute of self-isolation, he plunks down at my feet and stares up at me.

  What Russell is doing to Clarissa is reprehensible, but I have no evidence to prove anything. All I have are the words in her diary, which would never stand up in court. I’ll need more. Maybe even follow Russell around and see what he’s up to. If the girl is still alive, it’s entirely possible he may be visiting her. If she’s dead, he may lead me to the body.

  I pull out my notebook and jot down everything I can recall from her diary. It’s exhilarating to have a concrete plan in place. I’m so excited by what I’ve discovered that I can barely control myself. The monotony of being a mother and wife falls away like an old winter’s jacket on a spring day.

  Dinner tonight will consist of two cans of SpaghettiOs slow-cooked in the Crock-Pot along with some sliced hot dogs. The laundry and dishes will have to wait.

  CLAY

  Thursday, October 15, 1:59 p.m.

  I LOVE WALKING AROUND THE BREWERY AND TAKING IN ALL THE STAINLESS steel equipment, as well as the endless coils of rubber and copper tubing that regulate temperature and transfer the wort to its next phase. I love the cold concrete floors that make it easy to spray down with a hose, as well as the ten-barrel conical beer fermenters that resemble inverse rockets. Damn. I love it all. Sometimes I never want to leave this place.

  It’s not even two o’clock and already there’s a few bearded hipsters sitting in the tasting room and drinking. I want to wander in there and quaff some brews with them, talk shop, ask if they like my new selection of beers. See what’s good and what needs improving on. But I have too much to do today. I look at the whiteboard and see that my calendar is full. There’s a beer conference in Portland in a few weeks, and I need to find a few more bars willing to give me a tap. Business is good and getting better. I’m still in the red, but at this rate I should be making a small profit by spring. Growth needs to happen if I’m to make a go of this venture, and that means buying more equipment, canning product, and expanding the plant.

  My IPA, the Information, is what customers are lining up to buy. I’m getting some interest from Portland bars and even some establishments down in Massachusetts. I rotate my beers regularly, yet customers keep asking for it, demanding more each time they come in. When I run out, they complain mightily and ask when the next batch will be ready. People come from all over with growlers and looking to buy six-packs, but I don’t have the capital yet to can my product. That’s the next step, assuming I can find the right investor who understands my vision and is willing to let me run the show.

  Earlier in the year, thanks to Mycah, I had an exciting investment opportunity offered to me. The offer seemed too good to be true; because it was. What the hell was I thinking?

  * * *

  Mycah invited me to dinner soon after we exchanged our first kiss. I didn’t want to go, but she said she knew someone who might be able to help my fledgling brewery. I remained skeptical, yet I drove to her apartment building that night, which was located minutes from campus. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but then again I was desperate. I blamed alcohol. I blamed the effects of loneliness and the fact that Leah had begun to drift away from me after the kids were born. I blamed greed and my lack of experience in the business world. I blamed Leah for withholding sex from me for so long. But mostly I blamed myself. In one moment of weakness, I’d given in to temptation.

  But this meeting was to be different. I rationalized my behavior as operating in the best interests of the company. This was a business opportunity from a girl whose family had deep pockets. So why not take her money? It’s how capitalism works, right?

  I stopped at her building and debated whether or not to go up. The brewery would survive without this infusion of capital, its growth slow and steady. But why not at least hear what she had to say?

  I ventured inside the lobby and pressed the button to her apartment. In my hand was an expensive bottle of Malbec from Bordeaux that the shopkeeper suggested. I’d already convinced myself that there was nothing to worry about and that this meeting was merely an investment opportunity. My mind was a steel trap; I would not make the same mistake twice.

  She buzzed me in and I climbed the three flights of stairs. I knocked and a few minutes passed before the door opened. As soon as I saw her, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. She looked stunning, even more so than the last time we met. Her long black hair cascaded in waves over her shoulders, and dangling from her ears was a pair of triangular red earrings. She wore designer ripped jeans, a green leather jacket with the sleeves fashionably pulled up below her elbows, and a ribbed black T-shirt. A silver necklace hung just above her modest cleavage with the word “moi” studded in diamond lettering.

  I willed myself to stay strong as she invited me inside. Her apartment was clean and tastefully decorated, hardly that of a college student. She walked over and dimmed the lighting as John Legend crooned on a nearby speaker.

  “I’m so glad you could make it.” She took the wine from my hand. “No beer?”

  “Thought I’d change it up tonight. The guy who sold it to me said it’s a good one.”

  She looked at the bottle. “French Malbec. I’m impressed.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know anything about wine.”

  “The wine is nice, but I would have rather had more of your beer.”

  “There’l
l always be more beer.” I looked around her place. “This is a beautiful apartment.”

  “Beats living in the dorm. I shared a room with a psycho my freshman year.”

  “My first roommate barely spoke to me, and he hardly ever left the room.”

  “Chadwick requires that all students live in a dorm their freshman year. I think my first roommate was bulimic because she ate like a horse and then kept running out of the room. Her breath totally freaked me out.” She passed me the corkscrew.

  I twisted the cork out while she stirred something in a pan on the stove.

  “So you know someone who might be interested in investing in the brewery?” I asked.

  “Chill, homey. We have all night to talk business.” She sipped her wine and laughed. “This is really a good Malbec.”

  “Glad you like it. As far as wine goes, I couldn’t tell the difference between a ten-dollar bottle and a hundred-dollar bottle.”

  “Trust me, this is amazing shit,” she said. “So tell me more about yourself, Clay Daniels. What else do you like to do besides making beer?”

  “I’m a pretty boring guy. I don’t really have any other hobbies.”

  “What’s your wife like?”

  I felt horrible when she mentioned Leah, and I looked away in shame. It should have been the trigger for me to run out of that apartment and never look back, but instead I lifted my glass and gulped down the rest of my wine. At a loss for words, I gazed up at her. The sweetness of the grape assaulted my palate in a not so nice kind of way, and suddenly I wished I’d brought some beer. Why would she ask about my wife?

  “You know about my family?”

  “Please, I can spot a married man a mile away, even when he’s not wearing his ring.”

  “My wife and twins are living in Seattle. The kids will be starting sixth grade in September.”

  “Why are they living in Seattle?”

  “They’re finishing school. Then we’ll start looking for a house in Dearborn.”

  “Is your wife pretty?”

  I laughed.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet she’s hot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A good-looking guy like you wouldn’t marry anything less.” She laughed. “They say the pretty ones are high maintenance.”

  “Then you must be quite a handful,” I said, feeling the wine infiltrating my defense systems.

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  Despite my reservations, I took out my phone and showed her some photos of Leah and the kids. I held the phone out across the table and Mycah held my hand in her own. The sensation of her soft hands on mine titillated me. Her nails were long and done up beautifully in a French manicure. I didn’t want her to ever let go.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty in a wholesome sort of way. Cute kids.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All-American family.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re so privileged.”

  She let go of my hand and I returned the phone to my pocket. Mycah went over to the stove and prepared two plates of whatever she was cooking. She placed them down on the table: steak au poivre and mixed vegetables for me and mixed vegetables for her.

  “You don’t eat meat?”

  “Try not to.”

  “Animal rights activist?” I laughed.

  “Activist, but not for animal rights.” She sipped her wine. “The sight of meat grosses me out.”

  “Looks pretty damn good to me.”

  “Then hurry up and dig in, Clay Daniels. Hope you like it.”

  I carved off a strip and saw that it was medium rare on the inside, just the way I liked it. White pepper sauce oozed over the top of the meat and dripped onto the plate. I forked the chunk into my mouth and it tasted amazing, salty and unctuous. Leah had never cooked me a meal this delicious.

  “You like?”

  “Ridiculous. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “What’s your boyfriend like?”

  She laughed. “Does it really matter if I have a boyfriend?”

  “Just trying to make polite conversation.”

  “Would it make you jealous if I did?”

  “Of course not. I’m a happily married man.” I sawed off another slice of beef and forked it into my mouth.

  “You didn’t seem happily married the last time we met.”

  “That was a mistake. I had a little too much to drink that night.”

  “Have some more wine.” She refilled my glass. “And yet here you sit, having dinner with me.”

  “I came here to talk business, remember?”

  “Oh yes, I forgot that you’re all business tonight.” She sipped the wine as if put off by me. “You’re a regular wheeler and dealer. A player, in the truest business sense.”

  “I can talk to your investor directly and give him all the brewery’s financial information.”

  “Wow. That’s really sexist of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “What makes you think it’s a man who wants to invest in your brewery? It could be a woman for all you know.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry for assuming.”

  “The potential investor happens to be my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “I told him about your brewery and how good your beer is. He’s always looking out for a good investment opportunity,” she said, forking a zucchini stick into her mouth. “How much capital do you think you’ll need?”

  “Figure about a hundred grand so I can expand the brewery and start canning my product.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You asked.”

  “My father’s very particular about the details. I’ll mention your offer to him and see what he has to say.”

  “Tell him that we’re going to be the next Sam Adams.”

  Mycah laughed. “Okay.”

  She smiled as she nibbled on a carrot slice. I took another bite of steak. It had been a long time since I’d had a home-cooked meal as good as this. Leah overcooked steaks, burnt chops, and dried out roasts. Since moving to Maine, I’d been eating takeout every night. Only when I flew back to Seattle and spent the weekend with the family did I get a home-cooked meal—and not a very good one at that. Usually, it would be something Leah bought pre-prepared from the supermarket and then tried to pass off as an old family recipe. Her culinary lies were all too transparent, but I never complained, seeing as how it was better than anything she tried to make herself.

  Mycah walked around the table and, to my surprise, sat on my lap. She smelled heavenly and I tried not to stare into her cleavage. Her skin had the hue of toasted cumin. Feeling emboldened, I put my arm around her waist until it rested on the small of her back. I could feel her delicate spine and tailbone. The makeup and pink lipstick she wore made her look older, sexier. To my embarrassment, I could feel myself becoming aroused. It was humiliating and completely unavoidable, and try as I might, I could not hide it. I had no doubt she could feel it pressing against her bottom.

  “Is that a forty-ounce stuffed in your Fruit of the Looms?” She laughed.

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re free to walk out that door anytime you like.”

  “If I walk out that door, you might call off the deal.”

  “Business is business, G. That’s the chance you’ll have to take.”

  I knew she was right, but I also knew that I couldn’t just walk away from this stunning creature. It had been so long since I’d made love to a woman. The sensation of her on my lap intoxicated me. Her fragrance alone made me delirious with lust. I wanted to run out of her apartment so badly, but I couldn’t convince the motor part of my brain to let go.

  “I really should leave.”

  She stood. “You might regret it
. And in more ways than one.”

  “If I stay, I most certainly will regret it.”

  She laughed. “I’m not asking you to leave your wife and kids.” She reached down, running her fingers over my crotch.

  “Please don’t,” I said, not so convincingly.

  “Relax, Clay Daniels.” She knelt down by my side and stared up at me. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  * * *

  Leah calls me at the brewery around six and asks if I’ll pick up some groceries on my way home. Twenty people are huddled around the oak bar and hoisting tulip glasses of beer. They’re calling my name and asking me to join the fray. I most definitely don’t want to go home. I want to stay here all night with my brood and discuss everything pertinent to beer. Drink beer. Luxuriate in all things related to the craft of brewing.

  But I have to go.

  It pains me to leave. I consider all the sacrifices Leah’s made and suddenly I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of guilt. There’s something about facing my family that frightens me. Raising kids is a difficult task, especially with a son like Zack. He makes me uncomfortable. He seems to know things, secret things, yet he refuses to divulge what he’s concealing. I love my son with all my heart, and Zadie too, but it scares me to think about their futures. Is that why I spend so much time at the brewery? So I don’t have to face the harsh realities of fatherhood?

  “Are you coming home, Clay?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Please hurry. I need some time to myself.”

  “I’m leaving right now.”

  “I love you so much, Clay.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up and immediately pour myself an IPA. Then I join up with some bearded geeks engaged in a heated discussion about the merits of sour beers. This is my clan, the tribe I feel most comfortable around. Burly giants with thick beards, foam-studded mustaches, and wearing plaid shirts more suited for butch lesbians than urban professionals. Many are home brewers in their spare time. Others are merely beer connoisseurs. Time escapes me. After quaffing one more pint of my potent double IPA, I wobble out the garage door, climb into my pickup truck, and drive the four miles home in a state of numb resignation.