The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “Close one eye and imagine that Russell’s coming at you.”

  I do as instructed.

  “No one would ever blame you, Leah, especially if he broke into your house and tried to kill you.”

  “You’ll back me up?”

  “Of course I will. We’re best friends now.” She lowers the gun and places it back inside my pocket. Then she heads upstairs as if angry with me.

  What do I do now? I’m sitting in her living room, all alone, and with a gun in my pocket. Do I leave or wait for her to come back downstairs? Now that we’re best friends, I suppose I should wait.

  LEAH

  Friday, October 23, 11:55 a.m.

  I CALL CLAY AND TELL HIM TO PICK THE KIDS UP FROM SCHOOL THIS afternoon.

  “You picked the worst day to ask me. I’m brewing a beer as we speak.”

  “I’m not asking, Clay.”

  “I just can’t pick up and leave whenever you want me to.”

  “I don’t ask for very much, do I?”

  “Can’t you get a sitter to pick the kids up this once?”

  I feel my blood pressure rising. “After all I’ve sacrificed for you and your stupid brewery, you can’t even do this one favor for me?”

  “Leah?”

  “Go to hell.”

  I hang up, confident that he’ll call back. My phone rings a few seconds later. It’s him, but I refuse to answer. He sends me text after text, apologizing profusely for his rude behavior and promising to pick up the kids.

  Clarissa walks back downstairs, fully dressed and with a bag slung over her shoulder. She guides me over to the back door. Where are we going? I follow her onto the deck. The autumn sun peeks through the ocean of clouds. She gently closes the sliding glass door behind her, and I follow her downstairs and onto their perfectly manicured lawn. Mr. Shady barks madly at me.

  We leave the yard and walk along the adjacent field and along the border of the unfinished homes. I have no idea where we are going, but I follow anyway. The gun feels weighty in my pocket, its lethal presence heightening my awareness of everything around me, which is not necessarily a bad thing.

  Clarissa stops behind one of the unfinished homes and stares at it as if she’s a prospective buyer. I pull up next to her and study it. The contractor had finished the exterior, but the inside is all studs and two-by-fours, kinetic space waiting for a family to complete it.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I ask.

  “Take the gun out of your pocket, Leah. I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”

  I laugh. “Oh no, you’re not.”

  “Oh yes, I am.”

  “But we’ll get in trouble.”

  “No one will ever hear us out here. The nearest home is a mile down the road.”

  Reluctantly, I reach inside my pocket and take out the gun. Clarissa loads it before instructing me to point it toward the empty house.

  “Now, close one eye and choose something as your target.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Pick something.”

  I close my left eye and aim at one of the windows on the first floor. Clarissa moves behind me and reinforces my grip in her hands. Her head is next to mine, and I can feel her hot breath waxing against my cheek.

  “Good.” She readjusts my finger on the trigger. “So why did you kill her?”

  “Kill who?”

  “Okay, I can see that you’re aiming for the kitchen window. You need to raise your aim just a tad.”

  I zoom in on the pane, my concentration never more focused. Fear and excitement zip through my veins as she helps me nudge the gun up a smidgen.

  “There you go. When you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

  I bite my lower lip and hesitate for a few seconds before doing as instructed. My hands fly back as the gunshot explodes in my ear. The powerful kickback surprises me, and I fall back into Clarissa’s awaiting body. Upon looking up, I notice that the window is still intact. How in the world did I miss?

  “That’s okay, hon. You need to aim a little higher next time. Now, grip the gun and try again.”

  “Okay.” I feel as if I’ve let her down.

  “So why did you kill her?” she asks.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your sister. You killed her, right?”

  I clench my teeth in an attempt to stop my hands from shaking. I want to pull the trigger and fire nonstop, but in the condition I’m in, I’d miss an elephant two feet in front of me. I’m Annie Oakley suffering from Parkinson’s. Calamity Jane with a bad case of the DTs.

  “You pushed her into the pool when no one was looking.”

  “You’re making me extremely nervous, Clarissa.”

  “No worries. Just aim a little higher this time.” She taps the gun upward ever so slightly. “Now, close your eye and concentrate on the window. Put everything out of mind.”

  I close my eye, which is now bubbling with a tear.

  “When you’re ready, I want you to pull the trigger.”

  I focus on the pane of glass before pulling the trigger. The window shatters in a burst of crystal fragments. I did it. Happy, I jump up and down as if I’ve just won a teddy bear at the town fair. Clarissa grabs my hands and joins me in celebration, and I momentarily forget about the terrible words she just uttered. Despite my lifelong aversion to firearms, the rush that fills me is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. Who knew playing with guns could be this thrilling? I don’t want to stop. I want to keep shooting. I want to blanket that home in bullets until it looks like a house made of Swiss cheese.

  “Can I do it again?”

  “You can shoot as many rounds as you like. I have plenty of ammo,” she says. “There’s no one here who’ll hear us.”

  I smile, wiping the tears out of the corners of my eyes. I look at her, my spirits soaring. For some reason I think I’m happy. A paralyzing, infatuating sense of joy has overwhelmed me.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “It was easy. I just closed my eyes, aimed like you said, and pulled the trigger.”

  “I mean about what happened to your sister. How you drowned her.”

  I shrug and stare at her as if to ask why.

  “The truth will liberate you, Leah. You’ll become a better person because of it.”

  “How did you ever . . . ?” Then I remember her friend in law enforcement. “Why would you even . . . ?”

  “You and I are just alike. We’re victims of the past. In order to be free, we need to be true to ourselves.”

  “I will not let Russell hurt you anymore.” I hold up the gun.

  “Now that you know how to do it, the second time should be easier.”

  “You don’t know the whole story about my sister and me.”

  “Then tell me, Leah. Let me help you unpack.”

  “I’m not the monster you’re making me out to be.”

  “Did I ever say you were a monster? I’m sure there was a good reason why you did it.”

  “There’s always a reason for the things we do.” I spin around, brimming with confidence, and point the gun at an upstairs window.

  The window appears as if it’s right in front of me, and I close my weak eye and fire. The glass explodes in a burst of shards. Yes. I swivel like a pro and pull the trigger. The next pane explodes as well, and I feel like I’m getting the hang of it. The vibration of the weapon shoots up my arms and into the nether regions of my cerebral cortex. I feel invigorated and strong. Maybe I’ve been mistaken about owning a firearm. It’s empowering and visceral and a totally thrilling experience. It gives me a newfound confidence in myself.

  “You’re a regular Stagecoach Mary,” Clarissa says, high-fiving me.

  “Do you really think?”

  “I know it.”

  “We’re going to be best of friends, Clarissa.”

  “Of course we are. It’s about time we get real with each other.”

  “I couldn’t agree mo
re. Where should we begin?”

  “We begin with you telling me about your sister. Then I’ll tell you my secret.” She places her hand over mine, the one holding the gun, and squeezes it affectionately.

  “I’m so happy I met you, Clarissa.”

  “Likewise, girl. It’s about time to break free of these chains holding us down.”

  CLAY

  Friday, October 23, 1:27 p.m.

  THREE POLICE CARS PULL UP ALONGSIDE THE BREWERY AS BEN AND I transfer one of our beers to the fermenting kettle. It doesn’t surprise me. Actually, I’d been expecting the day to come. Armstrong enters first, followed by four uniformed officers. I nod to Ben; he knows what to do from here. I see his startled expression and wonder what he’s thinking. Did I rob a bank? Commit murder? Drink a domestic beer? (We constantly joke that drinking Budweiser’s a crime.)

  “Everything okay, boss?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Bit of a misunderstanding.” I slap him on the back. “You can handle it from here, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Make sure to clean the tank out good. I should be back later today.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  I walk toward Armstrong with hands raised, smiling. They have nothing on me yet, but I must play their game. This game is all that’s separating me from my fall from grace.

  “We’re taking you downtown for questioning, Clay.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I want to call my lawyer,” I say. The only lawyer I know in town is the goofy real estate attorney who helped us purchase our home. Hopefully, he can recommend a good criminal attorney, but I don’t expect to find many crackerjacks in this area.

  “You can call him once you’re down at the station.”

  “I’d rather call him now.”

  “Let’s go down to the station and you can call him. Trust me, this is in your best interest.”

  I laugh. “Since when have you had my best interest at heart?”

  “Either that or we can question you at home.”

  “Let’s go down to the station.”

  They seat me in the back of one of the police vehicles and we ride into town. I’m led into the interrogation room, which looks a lot like the grubby rooms seen on all those crime shows. Armstrong asks if I want a coffee and I take him up on his offer, although what I’d really like is a cold beer.

  Despite my apprehensiveness, I feel relieved knowing that my lies are coming to an end. I’m prepared to unburden myself if necessary and tell him everything that has happened. Whether he believes me or not is another matter entirely. I sip the coffee and wait for him to ask the first question. I fiddle with the Rustic Barn coaster I brought with me to keep my hands busy. He asks about wanting to call my lawyer and I tell him I’ve decided to hold off on that for now. I have nothing to hide—or at least I manage to bluff a good game.

  “You haven’t been telling us everything, Clay,” Armstrong says.

  “What else is there to tell?”

  “Tell me more about the calls she made to your cell phone.”

  I’m screwed. He’s done his homework. I have no answer for this.

  “Or the fact that we have witnesses who saw you dining with her one night.”

  “Either they’re lying or you are.”

  “I’m not playing a game of beer pong with you.” He passes me the phone records. “A mixed couple dining in these parts is something people tend to remember.”

  “Racist assholes,” I mumble under my breath.

  “It’s an observation, not an act of racism.”

  I pass him back the phone records. I don’t need to look at it to know I’m in trouble. My whole life feels like it’s crashing down on me. So why do I feel so calm? So relieved? Almost happy to be unburdened of this secret.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Thatta boy.”

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Okay, but here’s the thing. We’re still going to file charges against you.”

  “I said I didn’t kill her,” I snap.

  “Obstruction of justice, perjury. You’ve lied your ass off to me the entire time.”

  “Not under oath. I know my rights.”

  “It’s your choice, Clay. We can file murder charges later if we need to,” Armstrong says, standing to leave. “We both know she called your cell phone the night she went missing. We also know you left the place shortly before she disappeared.”

  “And shortly before her boyfriend was assaulted.”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “I may have slept with the girl, Detective, but I didn’t hurt her.” Not intentionally, anyway.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I fell in love with Mycah. Sure, it was stupid, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I finally wised up and broke it off with her, but she kept calling and begging to see me. I was weak. I was a lonely, dumb ass who just couldn’t resist a sexy girl, especially when I’d been drinking. My wife and I . . . well, we weren’t doing so well.” I stop myself.

  “You were having an affair and she broke it off with you, and you became angry and lashed out at her?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He looks like he doesn’t believe me. “She wouldn’t leave me the hell alone.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe what you want.” I slouch down in the chair. “I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

  “But you left the brewery that night to go meet her, right?”

  “I’d never been unfaithful to my wife until I met Mycah. Yes, I left the brewery to meet her one last time.”

  “Because she told you she was pregnant with your child?”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same? Convince her to terminate it.”

  “I’ve never cheated on my wife, so I wouldn’t know.”

  “I never cheated on my wife either until I met this bitch.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  I bang my fist on the table, pissed that he doesn’t believe me. “I’d like to see how strong you‘d be if some hot twenty-something-year-old made a pass at you while you were drunk.”

  “Some guys have all the luck.”

  “I don’t need your sarcasm. I need a lawyer.”

  “So she called to talk to you that night about the baby and you agreed to meet her. You got angry when she told you about it, so you assaulted her boyfriend and then killed Mycah in a fit of rage. You panicked after realizing what you’d done and then hid the body somewhere.”

  “No,” I shout. “That’s not at all what happened.”

  “Then you better start telling your version once your lawyer arrives,” he says, holding out his cell phone.

  “I hate lawyers.”

  “You’re waiving your rights to an attorney?”

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Duly noted,” Armstrong says. “The floor is all yours.”

  I sip my coffee and think about that fateful night. I explain that she called me just before eleven that evening. She badly needed help. She was hysterical and threatened to expose me as the father of her unborn child if I didn’t meet her along the wooded trail that led to campus. She said her boyfriend had found out about the affair and was furious. She said he was drunk—they both were, which I thought very irresponsible for a woman with child—my child. But then I figured she’d already decided to abort the fetus, which meant that any drinking she did would only harm herself. Cordell had struck her, she told me over the phone, and was taking a piss in the woods. She wanted me to protect her so that he wouldn’t hurt her again. She claimed she loved me, but I could tell that she was drunk. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought she still loved me.

  I’d been drinking pretty heavily that night too. I had a very nice buzz that evening when she called, and was eager to help, especially knowing that she was pregnant with my kid—a kid who would never see the li
ght of day. Chivalry rules, especially when it’s a hot college girl who makes love like a porn star. I rationalized my decision to leave the brewery and meet her. I would show up as a white knight in shining armor—no pun intended—to save her from her abusive black boyfriend. In return she would abort the fetus. Who knows what women find attractive these days?

  People saw me leave the brewery. Despite it being closed, there were still a few hardcore beer geeks in the tasting room. I jogged through downtown just as some of the bars were letting out. The wooded path leading to Chadwick College was only a quarter mile from downtown and I knew many students took the shortcut back to campus, mainly to smoke pot and drink. Sometimes for other purposes.

  The woods were quiet that night. I remember it being very dark, and my footing unstable thanks to the combination of alcohol and the gnarled roots flaring up out of the path. The only light came from the moon’s reflection. She told me to meet her by the painted rock: a famous landmark on Chadwick’s hallowed grounds. Much of the forested path was owned by the university, and it took me about ten minutes before I reached it. I stopped twenty yards from the path when I saw someone leaning against that infamous rock, his back to me. Despite the darkness, my eyes adjusted and I saw a white guy with long blond hair and a lean muscular build. He looked to be a college student. Sitting on the dirt at his feet was a red and black bag: Chadwick’s school colors. Leaning against the giant boulder was an oversized lacrosse stick that players on defense used to protect the net. Over his hunched shoulders, I saw a faint glow emanating from his palms.

  Was he waiting for someone? Texting? I approached him, but he didn’t look up from his phone until I was almost on top of him. He was a few inches taller than me, athletically built, and with a surfer’s good looks. He glanced up tentatively, caution in his eyes. I could tell from his demeanor that he’d been drinking. I pictured him as an asshole stockbroker in his next life, thanks to his connection to Chadwick College and the lacrosse team.

  “Can I help you?” he said.