A Good Neighborhood

by Therese Anne Fowler

  Then she’d met Xavier, and for the first time she understood what sexual desire felt like. How hard it was to control the urge to want to touch someone and be touched by someone. How that desire lit you up inside, created what felt like actual heat in your groin.

  And so she could excuse Brad somewhat, knowing that, as she’d been taught at New Hope, men had even more trouble controlling their desires than women did. By this standard, Brad was just being male. To him, a pretty girl asleep upstairs when he was otherwise alone in the house equaled an attractive nuisance. Put a couple of bikini-clad teenagers in front of him and he was no better than a horny classmate of theirs. Sure, it’d be great if a girl’s own stepdad never thought of her that way, but maybe that was asking too much.

  Still, it was gross.

  She’d chosen not to mention the erection thing, or any of it, to Pepper. Why derail their fun with that kind of distraction? It was easy enough to avoid Brad for the rest of the trip, with Uncle Jeff and the cousins there. Now she just had to avoid him a little longer—until December. She and Pepper had a plan.

  They’d figured everything out while they were at the beach. They’d petition Blakely for early graduation, and then in December move out of their homes and share an apartment they’d pay for out of the money they’d saved from birthdays and Christmas over the years and from their jobs. In the meantime, Juniper would apply to every college in or near San Francisco plus the others she’d been considering. Pepper planned to stay local, with an eye on running a new branch of her parents’ restaurant and maybe also diversifying into retail—a French grocery, maybe, with family-branded shirts and aprons and towels, etcetera, she’d design herself.

  Juniper’s current task was to get her parents’ consent to date Xavier. She planned to take Brad’s advice and simply ask for what she wanted. Or maybe the thing to do was to leave Brad out of the loop and tell her mother about Xavier in private. Work it through, get Julia’s consent first, and then let Julia deal with Brad on her own.

  Yes, okay. That seemed like the best way to go about it. Now, timing …

  As Juniper mused, the postal carrier arrived. Juniper saw her through a window that, like Brad’s, looked out onto the lobby.

  Brenda, the receptionist who’d been hired after Julia married the boss, handed over the day’s outgoing mail and then, in response to something the postal carrier said, stood up and went to Brad’s office door. “Registered mail,” Brenda said. “You have to sign.”

  Brad emerged and followed her into the lobby, where he signed for a fat envelope. He went back into his office and closed the door.

  Juniper was on the telephone with a woman whose air-conditioning fan wouldn’t run when she heard Brad say, “Valerie Alston … What? You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Then, a minute later, once he’d had time to read the details, “Unfuckingbelievable. It’s a goddamn tree!”

  29

  Xavier sat in his car in the shade of a towering magnolia tree, waiting for Juniper. It was 12:25; they had been supposed to meet at this city park at noon.

  Communicating outside of work had been a challenge. Except for when she’d been at the beach and they’d used Pepper’s phone, there could be no phone calls or texts. No social media. They swapped notes by placing them under his windshield wiper—not exactly efficient. Even so, Xavier liked the novelty of it, and the simplicity. He liked the romance. He liked that he had these little pieces of paper with her handwriting on them. She wrote with precision, small birdlike marks made with a fine-point pen, messages that were always warm and sometimes funny. Xavier was in the habit now of keeping the latest one folded into a little square he stowed on his wrist beneath his watch face.

  Mid-June meant heat and humidity and a regular chance of pop-up thunderstorms. Xavier sat with his windows rolled down. He could smell mimosa blooms, those fairylike feathery pink bursts of gossamer that grew among delicate leaves—pinnae, they’re called—that closed with the sunset.

  Thunder rumbled well off in the distance. When he was a boy, maybe three years old or so, he’d said the thunder grumbled, his imagination conjuring a giant named Thunder who stomped around somewhere in the forest outside of town. Thunder the giant was grumpy that the sky was cloudy, that rain threatened or was falling already; Thunder liked to be able to play outside.

  Here in the park’s open field, five young Latinx children chased and kicked a soccer ball while their mothers stayed close by, music playing from a portable device. The women sat on a blanket. Plastic containers of food were outspread around them. Xavier eyed the food with envy. He was hungry. Juniper was supposed to be bringing lunch—her idea; she’d said a food truck that came every day to the industrial park had unbelievable empanadas that she wanted him to try.

  Farther across the park were two rows of canopied carts: a pop-up art show in progress. Maybe he’d wander over after their date, find a little something to buy for Juniper.

  If she showed up in the first place.

  .

  .

  Two thirty-five.

  “Where is she?” Xavier said aloud.

  “Maybe she changed her mind,” he answered himself.

  “Doubtful. Why would she?”

  He continued the conversation silently:

  If she did, you’re gonna wonder why you ignored your own good sense.

  Maybe it’s because I like empanadas, he thought, a joke to ease his anxiety. Plus, we have amazing chemistry.

  Chemistry, bro? Does anybody say that anymore?

  Retro is in, he thought.

  Chemistry. A universal thing. Timeless. If you have it with someone, nothing feels better. If you don’t, well, forget it, because that’s going nowhere.

  Next I bet you’re going to write an essay about it.

  For composition class this fall, why not?

  You are a nerd.

  Takes one to know one.

  * * *

  Xavier’s rumination on chemistry merits some examination here (if not an actual essay), particularly where it applied to Juniper and him.

  Two people are in each other’s company and feel the pull of attraction: We call that pull chemistry, but what is its actual substance? What’s the biology of sexual attraction, and is that biology the same as romantic love, and did this pair of teenagers have it, whatever it is? Or were the feelings they were experiencing when they were in each other’s company (and even more acutely sometimes when they were apart) what many would call puppy love?

  When you’re as old as some of us are, it can be easy to dismiss young people’s feelings (intense as they may be) as nothing but raging hormones. We remember how it feels to be young. We are as familiar with lust as we are with hunger. Look at this hookup thing Xavier got himself involved with for a time: lust, leading to sex. That’s what hooking up is all about. But look, too, at how Xavier responded to his experiences: He didn’t want to pursue those two young women. He didn’t wish they’d keep texting him with new offers to have sex. Had one of them left him a sweet note beneath his windshield wiper, he would not have shaped it into a square small enough to fit underneath his watch face, where he could keep it against his skin as if the sentiment behind the words inside might leach in, making him that much more intimate with the note’s author.

  Why not?

  Chemistry. That’s the difference. Therefore, we assert that chemistry does not equal lust—though we acknowledge that lust arises naturally from it.

  We talk about how, when two people are especially attracted to each other, there are sparks between them. Not visible sparks, and yet we perceive them as such. So, then, is the chemistry of love a kind of electricity?

  Electrochemical change is a reaction that involves electrons moving between electrodes and an electrolyte. This in essence is physics, and without former Oak Knoll resident Jack Martindale, who took a job with NASA, none of us knows very much about physics. What we do know is this: Some force that for all practical purposes is as real as those that can b
e observed and measured by science draws people together even when they rationally understand that this kind of together is not in their apparent best interests. They are helpless before it. Oh, sure, they can resist acting on it, but they can’t prevent themselves from feeling what’s true.

  Dostoyevsky said, What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love. Unable, meaning being denied, being thwarted. Those of us who’ve had love denied—real love, not a passing lusty whim, not a false infatuation based on some imagined connection that in most cases is unrequited—we fellow travelers through hell know Dostoyevsky told it true.

  * * *

  The noise of tires on gravel interrupted Xavier—there she was. Juniper, in her glossy white Land Rover. He got out of his car and walked over to her door, smiling wide until he saw the expression on her face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked when she opened her door. “What’s going on?”

  She handed him a heavy paper bag of food that smelled heavenly. “I’m okay. But Brad? Not so much.”

  Xavier frowned. “Doesn’t sound like you mean he’s sick or injured.”

  Juniper got out and shut the door. “Did you know your mom was suing him?”

  “Oh,” he said. “That.”

  “So you did know.”

  He nodded. “I told her I thought it was stupid.”

  Juniper said nothing.

  He said, “I should’ve warned you, I know. It’s just … I was afraid that if I did, you’d be pissed at me—well, not me personally, but my mom and therefore me by association. Which maybe now you are.”

  She was silent for what was the longest minute of his life so far, during which she leaned down to pick up an old magnolia pod and began to pull it apart. “I’m … It’s not your fault,” she said. “And I guess if it was the other way around, I might have been afraid to tell you. So…”

  Xavier breathed easier. “What did Brad say about it?”

  “That your mom is—I don’t even want to repeat it.”

  “Crazy?” he said, hoping that was the worst of it.

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “‘An opportunistic bitch’ was one thing.”

  Xavier bristled. “Well, that’s harsh.” He pointed toward a bench where they could sit and eat. They walked in that direction as thunder sounded again in the distance—farther away now, so that was good at least. He said, “What else did Brad say?”

  “He said this kind of thing was ‘typical of her type,’ and then … I don’t even want to say this…” She paused.

  “I want to know.”

  “So he started talking about how she probably slept around with white guys hoping to get ahead and got dumped by your dad when she tried to entrap him. He said he doesn’t believe your dad is dead.”

  “That is some real bullshit right there,” Xavier said, taking it in. “Jesus. Not dead? Anybody can look it up.”

  “He is an ass. I mean, even if that was true, his own wife slept around—probably hoping to get ahead. Maybe I shouldn’t say that about my mom, but that’s basically what she told me. And then she did get ahead, by marrying him.”

  Xavier was surprised by the revelation and her vehemence, both.

  He said, “I know he’s pissed off, but this—”

  “There’s no excuse,” she said. Xavier sat down on the bench and she continued, “While he was ranting, I was thinking about how in English class this past semester we studied Shakespeare and Homer and Euripides, you know. All these characters who only showed their true natures when things got intense—which can be good or bad, depending on what ‘true’ happens to be.” She sat down next to Xavier. “I’m really … sad. I used to think Brad was wonderful.”

  “Seems like he’s good at making everyone think so.”

  “Yeah,” she said, then began, “And this isn’t the first time…” but didn’t finish.

  “The first time what?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Never mind. Want to eat?”

  “Yes! I’m starving.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t leave while he was going on about everything.”

  Xavier unpacked the food: beef, chicken, and chicken-cheese empanadas, along with a bottle of orange soda for each of them. For a time, neither of them spoke while they ate, except for when Xavier said, “I can see why you like these empanadas better than other ones.”

  “Right?”

  When Juniper finished hers, she wadded up the wrapper and said, “So … I was pretty much ready to talk to my mom about getting permission to date. Now, though—”

  “Not even gonna happen,” he said.

  “No way. Sneaking around, though, feels kind of … I just want to say, well, I’ll understand if you don’t want to stick with it … or me.”

  Xavier stopped chewing, then quickly swallowed what was in his mouth and said, “No. I do want to. Screw all of them. Their issues’ve got nothing to do with us.”

  Juniper looked relieved. “Good. That’s what I think, too.”

  They watched the children playing soccer. Xavier reached for Juniper’s hand and clasped it. Even this little bit of skin-to-skin contact felt reassuring.

  She said, “I really envy you getting to leave for school. I wish I could disappear from my house and not come back, ever. Well, except I’d miss my sister. But still.”

  Xavier wanted nothing less at this moment than to go anyplace where she wouldn’t be.

  He said, “My mom said she thinks once Brad sees the merit of the lawsuit, he’ll basically want to settle and pay up without complaint—having learned his lesson or something. Do we believe it could be that easy?”

  “Ha. No. He couldn’t care less about that tree, or any tree.”

  “Whereas my mom couldn’t care more.”

  “He really thinks she’s just trying to rip him off. I heard him on the phone with a lawyer, I think, saying how he’ll fight dirty if he needs to, and she’ll be sorry. He said ‘start digging for dirt on her,’ in case she won’t back down.”

  “They can dig; they won’t find anything.”

  “I figured,” Juniper said. “So, enough about all of that, okay? I want to know what San Francisco’s like.”

  Reluctant as he was to think about the time when he’d be separated from her, Xavier was glad to talk about something else. He said, “It’s … well, it’s a lot of things. There’s so much going on. So many different kinds of people from all over the world. It’s expensive there. But inspirational—like, this neighborhood called the Castro used to be one of the only places in the country where it was safe to be openly gay. Also, the place has insane hills. And weed is legal—you can smell it everywhere. And there’s the bay on one side and the ocean on the other, so you can get to water basically anytime. I had Chinese food that’s nothing like it’s made here.”

  “You sound like you love it already.”

  “It was great. But truthfully I haven’t been thinking as much about it lately. I like how things are right here right now.” He scooted closer to her on the bench so that their legs touched from hip to knee.

  Juniper said, “We have to face reality eventually, though.”

  “Buzzkill,” he said, and nudged her with his elbow. “Where’s the pause button for reality?”

  “I want fast-forward,” she said, her face clouding again. “I’m not going to tell Brad, but I’m on your mom’s side. That tree is amazing. It seriously breaks my heart that it’s dying just because our house got built. I don’t want to live there anymore. I never did in the first place.”

  “The good thing, though, is that we met.”

  “True.”

  “Because, those empanadas…”

  She smiled. “I know! Two Argentinian guys run the truck.”

  “I might forget college and see if they’ll hire me.”

  “I like to cook. We could get a food truck of our own.”

  “What would our specialty be? I make an awesome grilled cheese.”
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  “Yeah? I think the grilled cheese food truck market’s already covered, though.”

  “Creative nachos? I’m pretty good there, too.”

  “I like that idea. Lots of variety. Savory. Sweet.”

  “Sweet nachos?”

  “Made from tortillas. Cinnamon, sugar—you top them with ice cream.”

  He said, “We could drive all across the country.”

  “Even to Mexico.”

  “South America.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Machu Picchu,” she said.

  “Our parents can fight it out for years and we won’t care. We’ll be sitting on top of our truck, enjoying the views, eating poutine—”

  “Poutine nachos?”

  “Poutine, period. French fries and cheese and gravy. Lots of gravy.”

  “And you can serenade me—and our customers, too.”

  He said, “Probably you should finish school first, though.”

  “Before I try poutine?”

  Xavier laughed.

  She said, “I’m actually planning to graduate early, assuming I can get Blakely to work with me on it.”

  He looked at her. “Yeah? Then what?”

  “Then … I might see what San Francisco’s all about.”

  “What about our food truck?” he said with mock seriousness. That she might come to San Francisco was a hope almost too sharp to indulge.

  “No, really. I’ve been thinking about it. There are great schools out there. I could apply, see who’ll take me. My SATs were really good.”

  What a pretty scene Juniper was spinning, this turning of words into a golden future in which the two of them could have a normal relationship—not that Xavier thought what was going on with the two of them was or ever would qualify for such a meager tag as normal. No, this was stellar. This was his being unable to stop thinking about her, his lying awake in his bed knowing she was two hundred feet away lying in her bed thinking about him. He knew he never should have allowed himself to get into this.

  He was incredibly happy he had allowed himself to get into this.