The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “Clarissa. What . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

  “No.” I glance around our empty neighborhood. Everything seems hazy and my head throbs from the effects of the wine. The house is a complete mess. Unfolded laundry litters the living room. Leftover breakfast plates and cereal remain on the kitchen table.

  “Are you okay, Leah?”

  “I don’t feel so good.” I stiffen up, unable to imagine how dreadful I must look. “I thought a nap might help me feel better.”

  “It must be nice to take a nap whenever you like.” Her condescension irks me. “I hope you feel better.”

  “Have you heard the news? Someone murdered Mycah’s boyfriend.”

  “I heard about it. Cordell was such a wonderful young man with lots of potential.” She glances over my shoulder and takes in my messy home. “What a terrible tragedy.”

  “I wonder who killed him.”

  “This town is not as open-minded and welcoming to black people as you might think. There’s still a lot of hidden racism out there.”

  “Not in this house. We teach our children to value people of all races and sexual preferences.”

  “The reason I came over here is to invite you and your husband over for dinner tonight. It’s about time we got acquainted with one another, especially considering the terrible things happening in this town.”

  I feel like reaching out and hugging her. Then I remember Russell. Violent and controlling Russell.

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m inviting you, aren’t I?”

  “Of course. It’s a yes then.”

  “Fantastic.” She smiles and touches my arm. “I know it’s on short notice, but I’m really hoping that you and your husband can make it.”

  “I’m almost certain we can. I need to call Clay and let him know.”

  “Can we expect you around seven?”

  “Seven sounds great.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  I close the door and curse at my bad manners. Why didn’t I invite her inside for some coffee or wine? Then I look around at the pigpen and am glad I didn’t. I teeter over to the couch, open the blinds, and watch as Clarissa walks up her stairs. She’s so elegant and refined that it’s hard to believe she’s a victim of domestic abuse. I see her as a strong and determined woman willing to fight for her dignity. She should take her kids and get the hell out of that house before he does something tragic.

  There’s so much to do before the dinner party tonight. I run happily into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Crap. It’s no wonder she asked about my health; I look like I’ve contracted Ebola or dysentery. My hair is frizzy like cotton candy. The right side of my face is red and splotchy from sleeping on the couch, and beneath my eyes sit two used tea bags. My lips appear pale and indistinguishable from my chin. I need to sober up before the children come home. There’ll be lots more wine tonight, I’m sure of it. I call Clay and tell him the good news—that we’ve finally been invited to the Gaineses’ house for dinner. Instead of being happy, I hear him groan on the other end of the line. It’s so like him to put a damper on my good mood.

  CLAY

  Wednesday, October 21, 11:36 a.m.

  WELL, THAT’S JUST GREAT. LEAH WENT AHEAD AND MADE DINNER plans without me. And with the Gaineses no less. It’s bad enough that I’m way behind schedule, but to spend half the night with people I barely know is something I’m not exactly wild about. If it’s awkward, I’ll be forced to sit there and act all happy and gracious. Then I’ll see them in the neighborhood on a daily basis and have to pretend to be nice.

  Thank God for alcohol.

  Here’s something no one knows about me. I suffer from social anxiety. Middle and high school were the worst, but because of my size, I never suffered the indignities that many other kids did.

  College proved to be much better for me because of the constant presence of alcohol. Alcohol helped me in most social situations and put me at ease with others. Drinking raised my social status and gave me the confidence I needed to interact. By my sophomore year, I’d begun brewing beer in my frat house and providing the boys with plenty of suds for their weekend bashes. It provided me with an interesting hobby that eventually became my passion. Whenever I kegged a beer, our house became the place to party, and I the reluctant hero.

  The delivery truck pulls up at the back of the facility and drops off bags of malt. I cut the guy a check, chat for a minute, and then watch as he pulls away. I dry hop the IPA that will eventually be conditioned in some old oak casks. There’s too much work to do here, and I‘d rather not attend a stupid dinner party with my neighbors. My head feels clear and lucid, and I vow not to have another beer until later this evening.

  The Gaineses won’t intimidate me. I don’t give a shit if they have PhDs, higher-paying jobs, or a bigger house. Despite the precariousness of our finances, I’m the one pursuing his life passion. I’m the one who dropped out of the corporate jungle to chase his dream.

  I’ll bring two growlers of beer as a gift. Hopefully, they’re not wine drinkers, although something tells me they are, despite Russell’s frequent staff visits to the brewery. In my experience, wine people are far snobbier than beer drinkers. “Pretentious” is a better word. Maybe I’m wrong about this, but I don’t think I am.

  * * *

  Mycah called four days after our tryst in the back office of the brewery. She hadn’t received definitive word yet from her father. I tried to keep myself focused on getting the brewery ready for opening night and controlling all the unexpected construction costs that would inevitably arise. Despite the fact that we were on a tight schedule, all sorts of problems seemed to be popping up at the last minute. Zoning permits got delayed and contractors failed to show up. My mind raced with priorities, deadlines, recipes, and of course, keeping in touch with my family.

  I was living two lives on two different planes and trying to juggle it all. The frightening reality that these two disparate planes might someday meet up kept me awake most nights. I knew that I’d end it with Mycah sooner rather than later. But I needed that infusion of cash. If I didn’t open on time, the brewery could be doomed before it even began.

  We agreed to meet for dinner at a restaurant ten miles out of town. I arrived first and sat at the bar. Mycah waltzed in thirty minutes later, wearing a white floral dress with black boots studded with silver buckles. She rushed over and kissed me on the lips. Although I’d steeled myself to be professional this evening, the kiss obliterated all my well-thought-out plans. Her lips tasted like fresh Bing cherries, and the kiss lingered long after she sat down. Even longer in my memory.

  She ordered an expensive chocolate martini. I never even stopped to consider that I’d been paying for everything since we met.

  “Have you heard from your father?” I asked.

  “Is that all you care about? Money?”

  “I thought we were going to talk business tonight.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.”

  I sipped my nine-dollar Belgian Trappist beer—brewed by celibate monks who’d taken lifelong vows of silence—and compared it to my own.

  “My father’s still mulling it over.”

  “Mulling it over? I thought he’d already agreed to invest in the brewery.”

  “I did too, but he says there are many details to consider before he fully commits.”

  “Okay.” I tried not to let this setback worry me.

  “He’s an unusual guy. I suppose you have to know how to get on his good side.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “You flatter him. Make him feel appreciated. He loves a good gift.”

  “How about I send him a nice bottle of single malt Scotch?”

  “For a hundred grand, you have to do better than that.”

  “Would it help if I went to New York and met with him face to face?”<
br />
  Mycah laughed at this.

  “What?”

  “No offense, Clay, but your brewery is chump change to a guy like him. My father’s used to high finance and brokering multimillion-dollar deals. That’s why I’m acting as a go-between.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “He loves going to Knicks games, but he’s way too cheap to buy tickets.”

  “Great. I’ll buy him a pair.”

  “He’d love that. Only problem is that he likes floor seats. Refuses to go to a game if he’s not on the floor.”

  “How much is that?”

  “Six.”

  “Hundred?”

  “Thousand.”

  I nearly shit my pants. “No way I can come up with that kind of money.”

  “Takes money to make money. And I’m getting those tickets at a discount price because I know someone in the box office.”

  “Jesus, Mycah. I can’t afford six grand.”

  “Okay, have it your way. It’s something my father always appreciates and then repays in full.” She sipped her martini. “You want to be a player, then you have to know how to handle important men like my father to get anywhere in life.”

  “You think he’ll put up the money if I do this?”

  “You put him on the floor in Madison Square Garden and he’ll practically adopt you.”

  “That will make it a bit uncomfortable between us.”

  “A little incest won’t harm anyone.” She laughed.

  “Okay then. I suppose I can come up with six thousand bucks if I make some cutbacks here and there.” I sighed, thinking about where to cut a few corners. The price seemed steep, but I’d come this far.

  “Enough business talk for now. I want to have some fun tonight.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Anything and everything you can think of.” She winked at me. “Let’s travel round the world and back.”

  “Is that really a good idea? We’re going to be business partners soon.”

  “No one’s ever going to know.” She placed her hand over mine. “I’m not looking to get married, Clay Daniels, just have a little fun. We’re two like-minded people blowing off some steam. At the end of the year it’ll all come to an end, and I’ll be off to law school. New Haven’s a long ways from here.”

  I considered walking out of the restaurant and leaving her, but I was too weak and desperate to cut and run. And I badly needed the money.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.

  “You don’t want dinner?”

  “What I’m hungry for is definitely not on the menu.”

  After I paid the drink tab, she grabbed my hand and led me out of the restaurant. We took my truck, with the words FRESH BEER painted on the side panel. Despite feeling guilty about what I was about to do, I could barely contain myself. I was unable to resist the lustful urge coming over me. How long had it been since a woman had come on to me in such an aggressive manner? For the first time in a while, a beautiful woman had found me desirable and wanted to have sex. I realized that this might never happen again.

  We went back to the hotel and wasted no time ripping each other’s clothes off. This time, however, she asked to try something different. She wanted me to treat her roughly. This was a new twist in our relationship. I had no idea what she wanted me to do or in what form this rough treatment would take. I’d never done crazy sex shit like that before. The few women I’d slept with before Leah, I’d treated gently and with respect. Occasionally, they would ask me to fuck them harder during the course of events, which I happily obliged, but that was the extent of my wild side.

  Leah never liked aggression and always asked that I go slow and steady. She preferred making love with the lights off, and we always did it in the missionary position, safe and boring. When we were first married, we did it three times a month. When trying to have kids, it happened maybe three times a week, sterile and mechanical. But in the last few years, it had developed into a twice-a-month pattern—if even that.

  But what Mycah asked me to do in that hotel room shocked me and marked a new milestone in our relationship. I remember her emerging from the bathroom dressed in a head wrap and a plain white dress that was ripped and soiled with grease. Her feet were bare and she carried a whip in one hand, which she handed to me. I was at a loss for words when she told me how she wanted me to do her. She leaned over the bed, exposing the caramel skin on her back. Then she ordered me to whip her.

  “No. I won’t do it.”

  “You need to, governor. Treat me like the mouthy slave you’ve always wanted to possess.”

  “No.”

  “Pretend that you’re Thomas Jefferson and I’m your humble servant Sally Hemings.” She turned toward me and took me in hand. “The founding father taking control of his nigger.”

  Her words excited me, and though I felt confused and ashamed, I gently struck the leather straps against her back.

  “C’mon, master. I know you can hit me harder than that.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Would you rather suck cock? You and your assistant jerking each other off in the back of the brewery?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  “Then hit me. And hit me hard.”

  Pissed, I struck her. Not hard enough to cause welts but hard enough to hurt.

  “Now rip off my dress and take me from behind.” She rested her elbows on the mattress.

  I pulled her dress off, in unfamiliar territory, and followed orders. I was too humiliated to turn back now.

  “Call me nasty stuff. Treat me like dirt. No, lower than dirt.”

  “Like what?”

  “Damnit, Clay, use your imagination.”

  “Whore.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “Slut.”

  “Put more emotion into it, for Christ’s sake. You’re Thomas Jefferson, racist president of the fucking United States. White privilege dictates you can have any slave on the plantation.”

  “Nigger.” The word felt horrible coming out of my mouth, and I instantly felt ashamed.

  “That’s better. Now slap my sorry ass around as if I tried to run away and gain my freedom.”

  I said it again, this time much more convincingly, and I brought the whip down hard over her back. I felt demeaned and dirty. She’d humiliated me to such a degree that I took control of my character and roughed her up good. She tried to resist, calling me every name in the book, but I managed to restrain her. We had no code word to stop in case she was really hurt, so I navigated those treacherous waters to the best of my ability.

  I experienced a deep sense of shame as I drove her back into town that evening to retrieve her car. We didn’t say much during the ride. Assuming the oppressive role of a slave owner had burdened me with tremendous guilt, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how the real slave owners did it. The humiliation of owning slaves hit home with me far more than reading any textbook ever had.

  I thought of Leah as I drove on, thinking how mortified she’d be if she knew what I’d done. Along with my cheating ways, I experienced remorse so deep that I wanted to find a bridge and jump from it.

  I dropped Mycah off at her car. We didn’t kiss good-bye or say any parting words. She got out of the truck and stared at me through the window. She seemed distant and disappointed, like I’d not lived up to my end of the bargain. Had I not pleased her the way she desired? I felt like a failure on so many different levels that it depressed me. I’d made the check out for the Knicks tickets, which was supposed to go toward the deposit on our new home. Then I watched as she drove off.

  But this was what she wanted. To be treated like shit. She was a liberated woman and educated at one of the finest liberal arts schools in New England. And her father was interested in investing in the brewery. Why would being degraded in such a humiliating manner turn her on? Or maybe the joke was on me, and I was the one with mud on my face. In some ways, I felt I’d let her down.
Was I not good enough in the sack? I’d never been the strong, dominant male in the bedroom. Nor in my life. Most women my age wanted a sensitive and compassionate lover. Not a pig that called them filthy names and treated them like dirt. I’d already established myself as a cheating pig. What would it matter now if I repeated my sin? The die had been cast, so I figured I might as well try again to please her.

  LEAH

  Wednesday, October 21, 7:12 p.m.

  I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW HANDSOME CLAY LOOKS TONIGHT. I REACH BENEATH the table and squeeze his callused hand. What a lucky girl I am to be his wife. There’s no one else I’d want by my side right now, despite his repugnant behavior the other night.

  I thought it would be weird sitting across from the Gaineses, knowing what I know about their relationship. But to my surprise they appear quite at ease with each other, and after a few glasses of wine, I begin to forget about the turmoil tearing their marriage apart. Maybe I misinterpreted Clarissa’s journal entries and read more into them than I should have. Russell seems quite the gentleman, kind and humorous, and full of hilarious anecdotes about teaching and the students he’d taught in class. It’s funny how a few glasses of wine and some good conversation can change one’s perception of another person. To my delight, I realize that I’m quite enjoying myself despite all I know.

  Our banter is lighthearted and filled with humorous stories about raising children. There’s one thing I’ve learned and that is that children are always a good icebreaker in conversation. Russell plays the polite host, continually filling our wineglasses. It seems almost hard to picture him as an abuser. Then again, I’ve read that many domestic abusers are charming leeches whose wives enable such rotten behavior. Maybe they’d gone to counseling or were in the process of working things out. I have to tell myself that every story has two sides. Surprisingly, Clay seems to be enjoying himself too. He discusses the progress of his brewery and is careful to point out the distinct flavor profiles of the beers he brought with him.