The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “We still have time to go to the police,” I say.

  “No police or I’m out,” Clarissa says.

  “Jesus, Clarissa, whatever you’re hiding can’t be that bad,” I say.

  “I told you, my life will be ruined if my past is revealed. No police or I walk.”

  “We all have secrets,” Mycah says. “You shouldn’t be ashamed to admit yours.”

  “It’s the reason we should be working together,” I say, “as a team.”

  “Working to get rid of that lowlife so he doesn’t hurt any other women,” Mycah says.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We have to be honest with one another if we’re going to solve this problem,” Mycah says.

  “What do you say, Clarissa?” I ask.

  Clarissa sits back on the sofa and crosses her arms, and the three of us sit quietly for the next few minutes. It feels strange to be here with these women—wife and mistress. Victim facing victim. All three of us have something to confess. For me it’s been a long time coming.

  “What about you, Mycah? Do you have anything to get off your chest?” Clarissa says.

  Mycah puts her cigarette in the ashtray and stares down at it.

  “Go on, we’re here for you.”

  She turns to Clarissa. “As I’ve already told your friend, I’m not really from a wealthy family. I grew up in the ghetto, and my mom turned tricks to pay the bills. It’s humiliating, you know, to have that as your life story when you’re going to a prestigious school like Chadwick. Who wants to admit growing up dirt poor in one of the worst projects in Queens? So I lied and said my daddy owned a big company in Manhattan, and right away everyone started looking at me different. I finally felt like I was someone important. As long as I was out there walking the walk and pushing for social justice, no one seemed to question my past.”

  “At least your experience growing up is authentically black,” Clarissa says.

  “Call it what you will, it was a hard life,” Mycah says.

  “See, Clarissa, your secret can’t be anywhere near as bad as Mycah’s,” I say.

  A long pause ensues.

  Mycah gestures with her soda. “You going to trust us with your secret or not? I’m not going to beg.”

  “Okay.” Clarissa sits quietly for another few seconds before saying, “The truth is, I’m not really black.”

  “Excuse me?” Mycah spits out her cola. “What the hell did you just say?”

  “She means to say that she’s lost her identity as a black woman living in this small Maine town,” I say, staring at Clarissa. “Right?”

  “No, I’m saying that I grew up in a white family just outside Boston. We lived in a predominately blue-collar, Italian-American neighborhood. All my friends in school were black, so I began to identify as black. After a while, I began to wonder, why can’t I be black too?”

  “Because you’re not actually black,” Mycah practically shouts.

  “What does being black mean, anyway? Look at my skin color.” She holds up her arm. “I’m darker than most black and brown people out there.”

  “That really offends me,” Mycah says.

  “I’m sorry if you feel that way, but who are you to judge, especially after misrepresenting your own past?”

  “It’s not just a person’s skin color that defines them. Blackness encompasses the entire experience of our being, our history of oppression, and for you to steal that is wrong on so many different levels.”

  “I believe that race is an issue of identity and that being black is as much a state of mind as it is a skin color. Somewhere back in time my Sicilian ancestors were oppressed, and I have no doubt they intermingled with black folks at some point in history.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. That’s the most messed-up, insulting thing I’ve ever heard,” Mycah says, lighting a cigarette. “You can’t simply become black. You either are or you’re not. That’s why they have boxes on job applications.”

  “Even as a young girl, I related to the black experience. I was totally into black music and black culture. I went to a public high school in Boston where all my friends were black kids from Roxbury and Dorchester. I feel it on such a deeply personal level that it’s now an integral part of my being.”

  “That may be the case, but it’s based on a false premise,” Mycah says.

  “But your hair and skin color.” I’m stunned by this admission.

  “I was always dark-skinned as a kid, being of Sicilian heritage. I first began transitioning after college. I colored and treated my hair, and later in life had a minor surgical procedure on my nose. It was very easy to convince people that I was black, especially after I moved out of state.”

  “And to think I’ve been accused of not being black enough,” Mycah says bitterly. “Your own husband even questioned whether I was dark enough for his liking.”

  “It’s obvious you passed the test.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “How did Russell find out about you?” I ask Clarissa.

  “It was only after we married that he suspected I wasn’t black. He paid an investigator to look into my past.”

  “Just like you delved into mine.”

  “Where do you think I got the idea?” she says. “Once Russell confirmed that I wasn’t black, he set about to use it against me.”

  “Were you surprised?” Mycah asks.

  “To say the least, but what was I going to do? In some ways it was my fault. I kept an important part of myself from him. Worse, I took a job as an equal opportunity specialist in the Department of Education.”

  “Let me guess,” Mycah says. “You checked the box?”

  “What do you mean she checked the box?” I say.

  “She’s right. I checked the box on my application listing myself as African-American.”

  “You stole food out of my people’s mouths,” Mycah says.

  “This is what he’s been holding over your head?” I squeeze her hand supportively.

  “It’s why I put up with his abuse for so long. If he informed the authorities about my past, I could go to jail for providing false information. I most certainly would lose my job at Chadwick.”

  “You should go to jail for stealing a people’s cultural identity,” Mycah says. “Black people get pulled over and imprisoned for a lot less than that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clarissa says.

  “That job should have gone to a brother or sister instead of you.”

  “But don’t you understand? In my mind I’ve always believed I’m a black woman,” Clarissa says. “I know it may be hard for you to fathom, Mycah, but that’s how strongly I identify. Being black resonates in my soul more than anything else. It’s literally who I am.”

  “Let’s put aside the racial divide and skin color for the moment,” I say. “We’re all women here. The question we need to be asking ourselves is what are we going to do about Russell?”

  “We should do to him what he did to Cordell,” Clarissa says, her face coiling into a mask of pent-up fury. “But we have to be smart about it.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Mycah asks.

  “Precisely,” Clarissa says. “We’re defending ourselves, our children, and potentially other women from his violent behavior.”

  “Are we talking about . . . murder?” I say.

  “No, it’s clearly a case of self-defense,” Clarissa responds.

  “I don’t know about this,” I say, not quite believing my ears.

  “Think of your family, Leah. Do you want to be living in fear for the next few years, knowing that a cold-blooded murderer lives next door to you and your kids?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Then this is our only option.”

  “This is insane. How would we even do it? Or get away with such a thing?”

  “I’ll call Russell Monday at work and tell him that you’re sorry for filming us having sex. I’ll tell him that watching it turned
you on and that you’ve had a change of heart about sleeping with him. Russell will take the bait when he hears this.”

  “You filmed your neighbors having sex?” Mycah says, turning to me in disgust.

  “Clarissa asked me to do it. She hoped to get proof of his bad behavior,” I say.

  “I’ll tell Russell that you’re ready and willing and that you can only do it while your husband is at work. I’ll say that you plan on leaving the front door open so that he can slip inside. Once he enters, you wait for him to undress, then you shoot the bastard. Make damn sure he’s dead, call the police, and tell them you shot him in self-defense.”

  “That’s brilliant in the most devious way,” Mycah says. “A black man illegally entering a white woman’s house. No jury would ever convict her. It reinforces the stereotype of the promiscuous black man desiring a white woman.”

  “Precisely why it will work,” Clarissa says. “Are you game, Leah?”

  “I’m not so sure. All this talk of killing someone is frightening me.”

  The prospect of actually murdering another human being is antithetical to how I’ve lived my life post-Annie. And yet I know that killing is sometimes justified in life. It says so in the Bible. It doesn’t make me less scared to do it. Just thinking about pulling the trigger terrifies me. It makes me want to run out of this room and never return. But the sad fact is that I know it needs to be done. How many times have I read about some chronically battered woman who was murdered by her husband, and then wish someone had killed him before it got to that point? Too many times to count. Because of this, I know I can kill him. My friendship with Clarissa means everything to me and I’d be devastated to lose something so precious.

  “We need to act quickly, before someone else gets killed, Leah, and you’re the only one who can do it.”

  “I’m so tired of everything,” Mycah says, lowering her head on the couch.

  “Don’t you want to hear Leah’s secret?” Clarissa asks.

  “It can’t be any worse than yours.”

  “Trust me, it is.”

  “Really?” Her eyes bug open and she sits up. “What could be worse than impersonating a black woman?”

  “How about killing your twin sister.”

  “For real? How?”

  “She pushed her into a pool.”

  “Her sister couldn’t swim?”

  “She was confined to a wheelchair.”

  “Damn, girl, that’s cold.”

  “I told you it was bad.”

  “It’s bad, all right. Still, it’s not worse than passing yourself off as a sister.”

  CLAY

  Friday, October 23, 3:49 p.m.

  I’M WELL INTO MY THIRD BEER WHEN MY CELL PHONE RINGS. IT’S DEEP into the afternoon and I’m in no mood to take calls from angry vendors requiring payment for this service or that product. My mind floats above the fray, and for good reason. I’ve fallen way behind on the bills, having squandered the money on one thing or another. There’s money in the bank but not much. I owe, I owe, off to drink I go. At least there’s free beer here and plenty of it. And while the brewery’s doing far better than I ever anticipated, it’s still operating in the red.

  I whip out my phone and pray it’s not Leah. She can always tell when I’ve been drinking—unless she too has been drinking. Little does she know that drinking helps me deal with her wild mood swings and obsessive worrying. She’s high maintenance in many ways. She wears me down with her compulsions and frequent demands.

  I look at the number on the text. Restricted. It’s probably junk mail. I open the message and begin to read.

  Are you that fucking stupid, Clay? Did you really think that bitch you call your wife didn’t know about our affair? She loves you so much that she was willing to kill for your sins. After she jumped out of the woods and hit Cordell over the head with a baseball bat, she turned on me. She’s much stronger than she looks. There hath no fury like that of a woman scorned—or something like that.

  Your crazy wife pulled a gun on me that night, Clay, and threatened to shoot me in the head. I fell to my knees and literally begged her to spare my life. For a brief second, I really thought she would do it. I’d never felt so scared in my life. But I kept talking to her, appealing to her better nature, until I finally persuaded her not to kill a poor black girl from the ghetto. She had demands, though. Are you listening to me, Clay? I was supposed to leave town that night and never return. She said if she ever saw my face again, she’d kill me. Said she’d killed once before and could easily do it again, especially considering I slept with her husband. I believed the crazy bitch. That’s why I disappeared.

  So what a shock it was to read in the newspaper that someone murdered Cordell. I knew right away your wife did it. Did you know that she was out with him that very night? Dined at Applebee’s. Don’t you see, Clay? Your crazy wife went back and killed Cordell—and she did it all for you. To save your pathetic marriage. And if you don’t believe me, go ask the cops. They have video of the two of them eating together in Applebee’s. She killed him for you, Clay Daniels, because she plans on forgiving your sorry ass.

  I need money. Bad. Sorry to have lied to you about that phony loan. I was never rich, as you probably know by now. Hell, I grew up so poor that I thought every family ate at soup kitchens. Please don’t hate me. I really did like you. I’ll always remember the times we had together in bed and how manly you were with the whip. It’s making me wet just thinking about it.

  Here’s the deal. I need five thousand dollars and I’ll be out of your hair forever. Promise this time. I’m leaving town and I’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone. Then you and your crazy wife can get on with your lives as if nothing ever happened. Please don’t make me go to the police and tell them what she’s done. I really don’t want them to put her away.

  Text me back and I’ll tell you the time and place to meet.

  Mycah’s still alive? Is this a hoax? It’s laughable to believe that Leah was the one who assaulted the two of them that night. She’s not strong enough. She doesn’t possess the temperament or will to hurt another living creature. She’s delicate and fragile: a hundred and ten pounds after a long swim in the Puget Sound. Besides, Leah’s had a lifelong aversion to guns. She hates firearms and believes the Second Amendment should be abolished from the Constitution.

  I call Armstrong. “Is my wife a suspect?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect. Why do you ask?”

  “My wife doesn’t own a gun.”

  “You know as well as I do that it’s easy enough to get one in these parts.”

  “She wouldn’t even let our son have a toy gun.”

  “How well do you really know your wife?”

  “Is it true she met Cordell the night he was killed?”

  “I can’t comment on that, Clay.”

  I hang up and stare ahead in disbelief. She did meet with Cordell. It’s hard for me to believe that Leah knew about my affair and never let on. She couldn’t possibly hide her emotions for any length of time. It’s so unlike her. Then again, how well do I know this woman? I find it hard to believe that she’s taken matters into her own hands just to save this Hindenburg we’ve been calling a marriage.

  Something tells me not to go home. How will I face her, knowing what we both know? Do I dare confess my infidelities and get it all out in the open? Part of me still doesn’t believe that Leah committed these crimes. Or even knew about the affair.

  I pour myself another IPA, my second in less than thirty minutes. With no food in my stomach, it goes straight to my head. I rather like the way it eases the dull throb of existence and makes everything appear brighter.

  Ben comes in my office and asks what needs to be done. I tell him to pull up a chair, grab a mug, and have a beer with me, but he says he can’t. He has too much work to do. The kid knows when I’m feeling funky and when to stay clear of me. I don’t blame him. Drinking with me can only lead to bad things.

  I send a text back
to Mycah, asking her where she wants to meet. I tell her I don’t believe Leah killed Cordell and that I think she’s messing with my head. There had to be another reason she met Cordell that night. I wait anxiously for her reply. A few minutes later I receive this text:

  How well do you really know your wife? Do you have any idea what she did before she met you? If you only knew her history, Clay Daniels. She was a very bad girl.

  What is she talking about? Why have I never been told what Leah supposedly did before she met me? Really, how bad can it be? Did she steal some pencils in the fifth grade? Tattle on a friend? I laugh at the notion that Leah is somehow a dangerous criminal. But I need to know what happened if I’m to believe that my marriage has not been a sham all these years. If we are to have any future at all.

  LEAH

  Friday, October 23, 4:01 p.m.

  CLARISSA LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TO ME NOW. I CAN’T WRAP my head around the fact that she’s not really black or that she visits tanning parlors and has had plastic surgery to widen her nose. It completely changes my perception of her. Then again, who am I to judge? Maybe she really did identify as a black girl growing up. I imagine it’s like a young transgender girl trapped in a boy’s body. Yet in some ways it sets my mind at ease and explains why she’s been so standoffish to me all these months. It was never about me. We were a reminder of her past: a privileged white family living comfortably in the suburbs.

  The woods fly past us as I speed down the country road. The sky has turned gray and overcast. I’m scared about what Clarissa wants me to do tomorrow, but I know it needs to be done. I remind myself that it will save lives, primarily my own and that of my family.

  I turn on the windshield wipers, visualizing Russell entering my bedroom with lust in his eyes. He will remove his tie once he sees me reclined on the bed, but he won’t see the gun I’m holding beneath the pillow. The one I’ll have aimed at his chest. I see myself lifting the gun out and pulling the trigger. I hear the shot go off, watch as he collapses to the floor in agony, and then stops breathing.