A Good Neighborhood

by Therese Anne Fowler

  When Mark was gone, Brad went back to his office and put his feet on his desk in a rare display of ease. Getting Mark’s latest assessment of the business confirmed what he’d thought was true, and now Mark’s advice—which had always been solid and had in part led to these great results—was worth thinking about.

  Should he stop here, with eight Whitman HVAC locations running smoothly, just about minting money now that the expansion costs were behind him? Was he content with the little kingdom he’d built, no need or desire to expand further? Growth always had to be managed closely, which took time, and time was one commodity he wasn’t going to be able to buy himself more of. Twenty years of hustle, and a lot to show for it, sure, but now he was itching for fresh challenges and new experiences. He’d never meant for HVAC to be his life.

  He’d started the company with less than nothing: four thousand dollars of debt, which he’d accumulated by taking a bunch of college courses he had little use for. Philosophy. Psychology. Sociology. English. Very basic science and math. What was he meant to do with the stuff they were teaching in these classes? Sure, some of it was interesting, but he was there for a degree in electrical engineering, and yet his entire first year’s schedule was made up of these so-called core classes.

  In the middle of his second semester he’d walked out of an excruciatingly dull composition class, went to the registration office, and dropped out. Then he’d enrolled in a HVAC certification course that would let him get straight to work in a field that, in this state, was almost as essential as undertaking. Smartest thing he ever did—that’s what he told everyone anytime the subject came up. “I was too smart for college” was the other thing he always said. He’d said it to Juniper last night, in fact.

  “I was too smart for college, and honestly, honey, I think you’re too smart, too. There’s no reason for you to go off to Washington or wherever. Nothing you learn there is going to be practical for your future.”

  They’d been in the bonus room while Julia was in reading to Lily before bed. Brad was channel surfing. Juniper had her laptop out and was looking up college programs she thought might suit her. She said, “That depends on what my future is, doesn’t it?”

  “It does, it does. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a great life with a man who loves and takes care of you so you don’t need to work at all. You can go to Seattle on vacation.”

  “I guess.”

  “Work is … well, it’s work. One of the great pleasures of my life is being able to take care of you girls so that you have it easier. Who wouldn’t want that, if they could get it? Your mom sure did.”

  Juniper said, “I want to get a job. I mean, right now I do. I need something for summer so I don’t die of boredom.”

  “Well, I can understand that for sure,” he said, and then he had an idea. “Come to work for me. We’re just getting ready to hire someone to help with dispatch at the Hub.”

  “Work for you?” Juniper said. “I don’t know if … I mean, maybe. I think I’m going to apply to some places first, though, and see what happens.”

  “I’ll need someone to take the reins one day,” he said, the idea blooming just ahead of his words as they emerged. “I could train you from the ground up.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I thought you were with Reverend Matthews on the ‘women should aspire to be wives and mothers’ thing. Like you just said.”

  “Well, sure, but if you want to work, I can’t think of a better opportunity for you. Keep it all in the family. Nothing not to like about making Whitman HVAC a family thing.”

  Juniper tilted her head, seeming to consider it. “I never thought you’d go for something like that. I mean, not that I necessarily even want to work there. No offense.”

  “I’m capable of surprises,” he said. “You just have to give old Brad a chance.”

  She glanced at him, then back at her screen. “You’re not so old.”

  “Forty-seven next month—so yeah, not so old. Not too old.” He sure wasn’t going to let his age or anything else keep him from pursuing what he wanted. Never had, never would. He said, “You think about it, all right? That’s all I’m saying. Think about it. I’ll pay you ten percent over the best offer you might get.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  For his part, he could hardly imagine a better scenario than having her come on board with him. Later, after their conversation, he’d lain in bed considering how he might go about setting it up, grooming her to take on a management role, work with him side by side. Then she wouldn’t go off to college at all. Then she would be right there where he could see her every day. Julia would like that, too.

  It used to be that when Brad sat here at his desk and looked out into the lobby, he saw Julia at the reception desk. Usually she was on the telephone managing one thing or another, but sometimes a customer would come in with a question or, rarely, a complaint. Julia was good with people, and good with him. He hadn’t minded a bit those times when, after they’d gotten engaged, she had come into his office and closed the shades, given him a little workday release. She knew how much he appreciated her talents.

  He’d appreciated everything about his wife, that was a fact. They’d met at a time when he’d grown bored with the dating scene and the sorts of women he met in the clubs and bars. They all seemed to be trying too hard. He was in favor of appealing presentations, sure he was—the artfully dyed and styled hair, the long, painted nails, the short dresses and high heels, a touch of makeup and false eyelashes, too, why not? And he had taken his share of the offerings. For him, however, these women lacked something, though until he met Julia he couldn’t have said what that something was. Then he understood. Underneath Julia’s appealing exterior (admittedly not as refined as some back then, given her meager funds) was a kind of grittiness and fortitude, and something else: genuine need.

  What was also a fact, though, was that their sex life nowadays was barely a notch above perfunctory. She had so much going on with the girls—piano, track, dance, soccer, plus school stuff with Lily’s class especially, since she was the grade mom. Her daughters were her life. She might seem mild-mannered, but where the girls were concerned, she could be fierce. The whole thing with his joining New Hope—that had been her deal, 100 percent. He’d gone along, since it didn’t hurt his public image to warm a pew every Sunday morning, and he agreed that Juniper was already benefiting from “belonging to a community of faith and love” as she approached puberty. Julia had been grateful to God and Brad in equal measures back then. Juniper had outright worshiped him.

  He could trace his sex-life energy drain to the later part of Julia’s pregnancy with Lily. He’d understood how she might not feel sexy when her belly was swollen and round as a basketball. He’d understood how in the months after Lily’s birth she’d felt like her body was still colonized, only now by a nursing infant instead of a growing fetus. Fact was, most of that turned him off, too.

  From there, though, she hadn’t returned to the level of interest and attention she’d paid him before. She never said anything and she never turned him down, but he could tell the difference. He felt the slight remoteness when they were in the act, the diminished enthusiasm. And frankly, it had the effect of making him less interested in her. A man liked to feel desired, liked to feel as if his woman wanted it as much as he did—or was at least eager when the chance arose. Julia was not eager.

  If he thought about it too much, he could persuade himself that maybe she hadn’t ever been all that eager, that maybe she had put on an act in order to get what she did want. He didn’t like thinking this way; not only did it diminish Julia, but it made him out to be less desirable than he believed he was. It made him look as if he could be fooled.

  He needed to feel vibrant. To feel wanted. He needed—as we all do—to feel secure.

  A lot of men in Brad’s shoes didn’t think twice about finding alternative outlets for their needs. Titty bars, gentlemen’s clubs, a coworker, the hot young ch
ildless wife down the block—if a man wanted to step out, it was simple enough to do. Most such men would settle for an easy lay, no strings attached. None of that was Brad Whitman’s style. He didn’t want a whore or a dalliance, he wanted total devotion, same as he was willing to give. He wasn’t like most men—never had been, never would be.

  Brad Whitman was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. In this way, he and Xavier Alston-Holt were alike.

  10

  A striking and, to some, controversial photograph—a portrait—sat on the Whitmans’ new credenza alongside other family photos. In the photo, Brad Whitman is dressed in a navy blue tuxedo. He stands behind Juniper, who wears a long white gown. Though the gown is an off-the-shoulder design, it’s simple in its style. Silk organdy, no ruffles or lace or trim. Modest. Brad’s hands rest on Juniper’s waist. His eyes are closed, as are hers. Behind them is a high mantel decorated with white flowers and white ribbons.

  “This must be from Juniper’s Purity Ball,” said Sheila Jamison, wife of Jimmy, the friend who’d built a house one street over from the Whitmans in Oak Knoll. This conversation took place at the Whitmans’ housewarming party as the Jamisons were admiring both the credenza, a handcrafted piece done in light and dark maple woods, and the photo.

  Sheila told Brad, “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

  “Julia had it on our dresser at the old house.”

  “Interesting portrait,” said Jimmy.

  “It was an interesting night,” Brad said.

  Those of us who were also at the housewarming and within earshot—for the Whitmans had invited everyone on the block—noted the hesitation in Brad’s remark, his emphasis on interesting.

  “What,” said Jimmy, elbowing him, “you aren’t a true believer?”

  “It’s a good program, no question. I’ll probably do it again with Lily when she’s a teen.” Brad leaned toward the pair and lowered his voice. “I needed a couple of drinks that night, though, to get through the ceremony straight-faced—it goes a little bit further than might be necessary, seems to me. That picture was taken when I was sufficiently greased.”

  Jimmy said, “So those New Hope folks aren’t against liquor, then.”

  “Officially? It’s discouraged. The good reverend and I got to be pals, though, so he managed to turn a blind eye to my flask. And I was discreet, of course.”

  Belinda, our cackling friend, had been standing near enough to catch all of this. She eased herself over to the three of them and said, “I thought I overheard something about a Purity Ball?”

  “I was admiring this photograph,” said Sheila. “It’s from the ball.”

  Belinda studied the photo. “So it’s a father-daughter thing?”

  Brad said, “That’s right.”

  Belinda lived catty-corner from the Whitmans and had developed a fascination with Brad. She wanted to hear him, watch him speak, get up close to those too-blue eyes. “Fill me in,” she said.

  “Sure,” Brad replied. “Well, the ball culminates a ceremony wherein the dads promise to protect and support the girls, and the girls promise to stay virgins until after the dads hand them off at their wedding.”

  “How old is she, there?” Belinda said, pointing at the portrait.

  “I guess she was fourteen?” said Brad. He paused, thinking, then said, “Yep, three years ago.”

  Jimmy said, “Lily’s, what, seven now? Still a ways off for her, then. Though maybe starting early is the way to go.”

  “At birth, if you can,” Belinda said, nodding. “I raised a wild child myself. Turned out all right, though. She’s a dental hygienist in Atlanta.”

  Brad said, “Julia’s thinking Lily won’t need the program. Different influences, you know.”

  “We really admire you, Brad,” cooed Sheila. “Raising a teenage girl these days is no easy feat.”

  “Right?” said Jimmy. “That’s why we had boys.”

  “And you took it on voluntarily,” Sheila added, laying her hand on Brad’s arm. “You really made all the difference in Julia’s life—and Juniper’s.”

  Brad smiled. “I joke with Julia that she’s a rescue wife. Things were pretty rough for her before we got together.”

  “Well, you have a beautiful family now,” Sheila said.

  Jimmy patted Brad’s back. “You could still have a son. Get the full range of experiences.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Brad said, though he sounded as if he was not at all interested in having a son. “To your point about raising girls: it is a challenge for sure. And I do like challenges, as you know. In this area, though, Julia and I felt the purity thing was a smart approach to making adolescence easier on her—and us.”

  Juniper wasn’t in the room during this conversation, but when Belinda related the exchange to a few of us in the next room afterward, we wondered whether Juniper thought pledging her virginity to her stepfather in a ritualistic ceremony did in fact make things easier on her.

  None of us knew she was harassed about it in school; certainly that was a disadvantage. Were there benefits, though, that we weren’t seeing? Was it somehow easier to handle your sexual maturation by effectively denying it until marriage, whenever that might take place?

  Some of us wondered what Juniper might think about there being no equivalent pledge or ceremony or standard for young men.

  Some of us thought, Why should having sex be regarded as an act of impurity? What did impure even mean? What was pure, and why was it so desirable for a girl to be that, while boys could be however they liked? And where was Juniper just then, as Brad went on to describe how proud of her he was for always being well behaved, for never drinking alcohol, for being willing to put off dating until after graduating high school? We’d noticed her earlier, nicely turned out in a modest green dress and shoes with low heels—not those stilettos we’d been seeing on some people’s teens in prom pictures on Facebook, where the girls often resembled lounge singers or worse. Juniper looked just as attractive as any of those girls, and also age-appropriate. Whatever we might think of purity promises, we could see the sense of discouraging overt sexuality and injurious “fuck me” footwear.

  Just then, Juniper was outside in the far corner of the backyard—away from the glow of the light strings that crisscrossed above the patio; away from the pool lights, the security camera; away from the fawning remarks by her parents’ friends over how absolutely perfect and gorgeous this new house was, what an accomplishment, what a pleasure it must be to live so well. Those gorgeous countertops! That luscious rug! Away from her inquisitive little sister, who had a half-dozen other kids around to play with; they had all of Lily’s Barbies out and were enacting the dance scene from Beauty and the Beast. There were a couple of teens inside as well: the Jamisons’ oldest son was Juniper’s age, and he had a brother who was fourteen. She’d managed to set them up in the bonus room with the Xbox and then gave them the slip.

  Juniper was grateful for the party, and would return to it before she could be missed. Because now she was sitting on a cushion on the mulch, talking quietly with Xavier Alston-Holt.

  She was holding his hand.

  In a few minutes she would be kissing him for the first but not (she hoped) the last time.

  11

  See Xavier, though, in the aftermath:

  “I’m not doing that again,” he told Dashawn from where he was lying on his bedroom floor, having just related what had happened with Juniper at the party a few nights earlier. “Complete mistake.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” Dashawn said.

  He was at Xavier’s desk, doodling. As good a drummer as he was, art was his passion. He’d been admitted to the graphic arts program at the state university and had big plans for doing a wall mural downtown for his senior project, even though that was years away. Like Xavier, he was ambitious. These two were young men with goals. But they were also simply young men.

  He told Xavier, “It’s almost summer break, dude, have some fun. You kissed h
er. It’s not like you two have to get married.”

  Xavier’s bedroom still featured much of its original décor. The walls were the same pale aqua Valerie and Tom had painted it, their first task after moving in a week ahead of Valerie’s due date. The lamp on his bedside table had a ceramic lamb as its base—a gift for newborn Xavier from Valerie’s father, who’d been a sweetheart with Xavier if not with Valerie, at least until Alzheimer’s claimed him; now he was in a special home in Lansing and didn’t recognize any of the family anymore. The rug upon which Xavier lay was the same braided rug Valerie and Tom had hauled home from a local craft fair on a day when Tom had carried the infant Xavier in a sling against his chest while he and Valerie held hands, drawing hostile stares from some of the folks they passed and approving smiles from others. Xavier didn’t remember this day, but he remembered the story of it—him in the sling, his mom seeing the rug, the Cambodian refugee craftswoman who’d made it declaring, upon seeing Xavier, that he would grow up to matter. He was taking the rug with him to SFCM for his dorm room. On his bookshelf he had several books that had been Tom’s, volumes by James Baldwin, W.E.B. Du Bois, James Weldon Johnson, Angela Y. Davis, among others—books Tom had relied on to help him understand what it was to be black in America. Valerie had saved these especially for Xavier. He’d read bits of most of them, not so much to learn black history as to help him understand what it was to be Tom.

  Gazing up at the equally old songbirds mobile that hung in front of his window, he said to Dashawn, “If I don’t see Juniper again, she’ll think I’m a player.”

  “So see her.”

  Xavier stood up. “I just told you, it was a mistake. And anyway, she’s not supposed to date. Her parents made her do one of those creepy purity-promise things.”

  “So don’t see her,” Dashawn said. “See someone else. I know like five girls who’d hang with you if you say the word.”

  “I don’t want to hang with any girls. I mean, I do, but right now what’s the point?”