“Hello there. Dick Werner.”
“Hi. Sam.”
“Sam? Like Samantha?”
Was it his tone, Sam wondered now, brimming with condescension and sexism (yes, the sexism was there, even in those five syllables) that kept her from telling him that her full name was Samara? Or was it just a desire to protect even this small part of herself from being exposed?
“No,” she told him, “not like Samantha.”
In itself, her answer might not have been enough to make an enemy out of a man who actually called himself Dick, but what happened next surely had. Gloria came downstairs and over to the open door where Sam was standing with the Werners. She was wearing tight spandex bike shorts that showed every lush curve and a cropped T-shirt that advertised her flat tan belly. Her hair was still long then—before she had it hacked off into that short brutal cut she wore now—and flowing around her head and shoulders like a rush of gold. Gloria was glorious, even on moving day, without makeup or any artificial enhancements, and in need of a shower. Sam could see the instant leer in Dick’s eyes and the jealousy in Dorothy’s. Sam had seen this combination so many times; lust and envy greeted Gloria wherever she went, and she could tell the Werners were trying to assess the situation in their own minds. What, their faces asked, was the story with these two women—one of them an absolute stunner—without wedding rings or visible husbands but with two overexcited little boys who clearly belonged to them? If it had just stayed there, with introductions and pie, they might both have come to the same conclusion, that they were recently divorced women who were moving in together to save money. But then Gloria did something that Sam still didn’t understand—something that slightly but permanently altered everything. Gloria leaned forward to shake Dick’s hand and at the same time, looped her free arm around Sam’s shoulders. It wasn’t as overt as a hug, nor was there anything sexual in it, but the gesture was proprietary and had an unmistakable intimacy. Even Dick and Dorothy—surprise, disgust, and prurient interest flitting across their American Gothic faces in quick succession—could see that very clearly.
Sam wondered now why she’d never said anything about it to Gloria afterward, why they hadn’t even exchanged a knowing look or admission of what she’d done. It was too easy to believe that it hadn’t meant anything, that it wasn’t a calculated move on Gloria’s part, and that the whole exchange was simply a vaguely uncomfortable welcome-to-the-neighborhood interlude. Perhaps that had been the beginning of Gloria’s need to push the envelope, to keep driving forward until she got a reaction. Well, she’d gotten one all right. How long had it taken for Gloria’s sadistic ex, Frank, to erupt and for their children to become merely visitors in their home? The length of a whisper, Sam thought, and they were gone.
And now Sam was stuck with all the heavy lifting. They were meant to be each other’s support, she thought. Gloria wasn’t the only one who missed her child—Sam was having just as hard a time of it. But Gloria … There was something breaking inside her and Sam didn’t know how to fix it.
Sam put her hands to her temples and pressed as if that alone could rid her of the tension and pain created by their ex-husbands. Sam knew the hurt she’d caused Noah by leaving him for Gloria went far beyond just the insult to his masculinity, and she was deeply sorry for that. She still cared for him—he was Connor’s father, after all, and a good one—and had tried to make things as easy and nonconfrontational as possible. She didn’t understand how he could have allowed himself to get so influenced by Frank and join forces with him to take their boys away from their mothers. Sam remembered Shakespeare’s line about killing all the lawyers and sighed. Both Noah and Frank were attorneys. What were the chances? And that was the only reason they’d been able to pull off what they had with the boys. Frank’s cruel treatment of Gloria since then—well, that was just an added bonus. At least Noah wasn’t attempting to poison Connor against his mother the way Frank was with Justin.
Sam put the kettle on for tea and cleaned up the remainder of the carrot juice mess as she waited for the water to boil. They couldn’t have hidden their relationship—not really—but they could have been more discreet about it. And by discreet, Sam only meant not rubbing Frank’s nose in it, which was what Gloria seemed to want to do.
“I don’t want us to sneak around,” Gloria said. “That’s not who I am. I’m not ashamed of anything.”
All well and good, Sam thought, until the phone call from Frank’s partner at the firm. God, he’d marshaled half the damned county. Too much money. Too much ego. Sharp tears stung Sam’s eyes again when she thought of how horrible it had been to tell the boys that they had to pack up and go back to live with their fathers. Gloria had handled it so well—smiling, joking, making them all Mickey Mouse waffles with whipped cream for dinner with to-hell-with-it abandon. But later, when the kids had gone to bed and after she’d gone upstairs and closed herself in the bathroom, Gloria lost it completely, sobbing like a lost child, as unhappy as Sam had ever seen another human being.
The kettle whistled. Sam put boiling water and a peppermint tea bag into a large clear mug and carried it upstairs.
“Gloria?” she called again. “You okay?”
But of course she wasn’t.
Gloria was lying on their bed, the familiar damp washcloth over her eyes and blue foam earplugs in her ears. Well, that explained the lack of response at least. She didn’t stir until Sam sat down next to her, making the bed shift.
“Hey.”
Gloria removed the earplugs and washcloth. “Headache,” she said. Her eyes were red and watery.
“I made you some tea.”
“Thanks,” Gloria said but made no move to take the mug. Sam set the tea down on the end table and took Gloria’s hand, clammy and cool, in hers.
“I was thinking,” Sam said, “that maybe we could take the train downtown and go to Extraordinary Desserts? What do you think? It’s a beautiful day and it would be a nice ride. Something different. I’ll treat.”
Sam gave Gloria credit for at least trying to force a smile and didn’t take any away when it failed to materialize. Gloria gave her hand a little squeeze.
“I don’t think so, Sam. Don’t think I’m up for it. Maybe a drink later. Or something.”
Suddenly exhausted, Sam lay down on the bed next to Gloria who rolled into her, wrapping her in a full body embrace. They lay like that for a minute, then two. Sam’s breathing slowed and her eyes started to close. Then Gloria started crying, softly at first, then increasingly hard until her whole body was shaking.
“Honey,” Sam said and stroked Gloria’s back with long sweeping passes of her hand.
“It’s too hard,” Gloria said, her words muffled with tears. “It’s not supposed to be this hard.”
“I know,” Sam said.
september 2007
chapter 5
Dorothy stared at the picked-over remains of a roast chicken that she’d just pulled out of the fridge. Two days ago, it had seemed like a good idea to make chicken salad for the block party, but now she couldn’t figure out how she’d even come to that conclusion. Didn’t matter if it was the best chicken salad in the world—it would still just be chicken salad. How boring and uninspired could you get? And Dorothy had arranged this block party herself. As the organizer, shouldn’t she bring something exciting—something that at least had a little flair? Of course. It was Labor Day and certain kinds of food were expected: burgers, hot dogs, that kind of thing. But Dick was taking care of the burgers and she should really make something special of her own. Something that might even become a signature dish in years to come. It was important that she make something memorable. She wanted to be complimented. She wanted people to go home after the party and say, “Wasn’t Dorothy’s—fill in the blank—amazing?” Whatever Dorothy made should be good enough for her neighbors to ask her for the recipe. And then, of course, Dorothy would laugh and tell them that there was no recipe, that this—fill in the blank—was something she just thr
ew together.
Yes, that was it. That was it exactly.
Dorothy shoved the chicken back in the fridge and opened the deep drawer beneath the silverware where she kept the stash of cookbooks she used most frequently. There was a larger, more expensive cache of cookbooks in the garage, buried under boxes of Christmas ornaments and Kevin’s old baby clothes, but she consulted those only when there was something really big coming up: holiday cakes, for example, or multicourse French dinners for parties. People expected you to use cookbooks for those kinds of things. But for the smaller occasions, when it was important that the dishes she cooked appeared to be made from her own imagination, Dorothy went to the secret drawer. It probably wasn’t necessary to actually hide these cookbooks, but hiding things had long been second nature to Dorothy, as much a part of her as the diamond-shaped mole in the crook of her left arm.
There were neatly folded wads of one-, five-, and ten-dollar bills all over the house, for example. Dorothy knew every individual location, if not the exact amounts. There was one in a rolled pair of socks wedged between two never-used blankets, one in a storage box containing Kevin’s old school projects, one behind some plastic San Diego Chargers tumblers on a kitchen shelf, one stuffed inside the hollow metal toilet paper roller. And that wasn’t even all of them.
Dorothy also hid documents. She had a secret safety deposit box, the paperwork for which she hid in the box itself, and the key for which she hid in another safety deposit box at a different bank. Because you couldn’t be too careful and you just never knew. Which was why Dorothy had also hidden a pack of cigarettes in the kitchen, in an old round tin that had once held caramel-covered popcorn. Dorothy could see it in her mind’s eye, the faded red and white image of Santa Claus still visible on its surface. Dorothy didn’t smoke (well, hadn’t smoked for a while anyway), but, again, you never knew when you might really, really need a cigarette and wouldn’t have time to go to a store to get one. Of course she would never smoke unless she was sure that nobody was watching.
Just as she was finishing that thought—at the moment, in fact, when the concept of being watched entered into her brain—Dorothy felt the chill of a stare at her back and whirled around, her hands clenching at her sides.
That pregnant girl—Diana—was standing in the kitchen doorway, quiet as you please.
“Hi, Mrs. Werner.”
Dorothy inhaled slowly. There was nothing to feel guilty about.
“Hello, Diana. Have you come to see Kevin? He’s upstairs.”
Dorothy didn’t know why she felt the need to tell Diana that Kevin was home—or upstairs for that matter. Diana knew where Kevin was all the time; that was why she was here in the first place. Nor had Diana ever once entered the house through the front door, greeted Dorothy before she saw Kevin, or announced her presence in any other way before she sneaked into Kevin’s room and the two of them did whatever it was they did for hours on end. But Dorothy felt compelled to adhere to the social ritual just as she had in the past every time one of Kevin’s friends had come over to play.
“I was wondering if I could get a glass of water,” Diana said. “Would that be okay?”
“Sure,” Dorothy said. “Of course.”
But neither one of them moved. Diana stood tilted backward slightly to balance her uneven weight with her hands resting on her belly. She was wearing cheap dusty flip-flops and a gauzy sundress that didn’t quite hide the outlines of her body underneath it. Her long hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail and there were tiny dots of perspiration above her upper lip. She smelled of sweat and white flowers. Dorothy thought that Diana looked particularly young today, but despite that, not at all vulnerable. This confused Dorothy, as did Diana’s total lack of shame and her willingness to let—almost force, really—everyone see the state she was in. Dorothy had already been married for years when she became pregnant with Kevin, and even though there was nothing to hide, she’d still been discreet about it. That was the core of it, Dorothy supposed. She just couldn’t understand why this girl felt she had nothing to hide. And why was she just standing there, Dorothy wondered. What was she waiting for?
Diana cleared her throat. The vaguest hint of discomfort shadowed her face. “So can I get …? Do you mind if I get that glass of water?”
“Oh,” Dorothy said. She realized then that she was standing in the entryway to the kitchen and that in order for Diana to get herself the glass of water she wanted, she’d have to push Dorothy out of the way. Dorothy hadn’t even noticed that she’d been hovering like some kind of mountain lioness guarding her territory, but that must surely be the way it looked to Diana.
“I’ll get it for you,” Dorothy said and opened the cabinet where she kept the glassware. Diana looked relieved. Dorothy filled a glass with water from the faucet and handed it to the girl. “Would you like something to eat? I have some cookies or … chicken.”
Diana smiled—suddenly and dazzlingly. “Cookies or chicken?” she asked. “Sounds tempting, but no thanks. Do you have any other water, though? This water smells so bleachy. I’m sorry, I just … I’m just not used to San Diego water, I guess.” She held the glass out to Dorothy, her smile fading but not disappearing entirely, as if they were both in on the same joke. Dorothy wasn’t amused. There was something in the gesture that struck Dorothy as not rude, exactly, but presumptuous. As if she were owed something just for being here.
“Sorry,” Dorothy said. “All we have is tap.” She thought about the gallon of Sparkletts on the top shelf of the fridge and wondered if Diana sensed she was lying. But Diana just stood there impassive, one eyebrow half-raised, and slowly lifted the tumbler to her lips to drink.
“Thanks, Mrs. Werner.”
Diana turned, water in hand, and headed back up the stairs to Kevin’s bedroom. Dorothy bristled. There was something in Diana’s tone that scraped against her nerves. It was uncharitable to feel so hostile toward this girl who clearly had plenty of troubles to deal with, but Dorothy couldn’t help herself. There was something about Diana that just made her uneasy. It felt to Dorothy as if Diana had brought an air of bad luck into the neighborhood. And no, Dorothy told herself, that wasn’t because Diana was black (well, half black, really), or that she was a pregnant teenager, or that she was almost certainly wrecking Joe and Allison’s marriage.
That last part was Joe’s fault primarily, though Dorothy believed that Diana probably made things much more difficult for Allison than they had to be because, truly, Diana was just not a very endearing person. Really, Allison was the victim in all of this, and you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Allison was not dealing with it well at all. Allison had only allowed Dorothy in once since Diana had arrived (last month, when Dorothy had taken over one of her famous chocolate cheesecakes in the hope that Allison would unburden herself of what must be a very trying situation—because Dorothy was there to listen and to help), but she could tell that Allison was a mess, all bloodshot and disheveled and unwilling to even grunt out a thank-you before she sent Dorothy back to her own house. She’d been drinking too, pretty heavily by the looks of it, and it was only the middle of the day. Way, way before anything like happy hour. Maybe Allison should have been made of tougher stuff—worse things had happened to people after all—but Dorothy felt bad for her and wished there was a way she could help Allison open up.
The funny thing was that Dorothy had felt she and Allison were really starting to form a bond over the last few months before Diana showed up. Allison had started coming to church, and even though they didn’t really talk that much about anything in particular, they’d begun walking to St. William’s together on Sundays—it was such an easy, pleasant walk from their street and good exercise to boot—and Dorothy felt they’d developed a sort of camaraderie that went beyond being neighbors. Allison was what in the old days you’d call “a good girl.” She had a high moral standard—you could tell just from the way she dressed—conservatively, never showing too much cleavage or leg. Th
is was important for a teacher, even though nobody seemed to pay attention to that fact. Look at all those women having sex with their students who were as young as thirteen. Dorothy shuddered just to think about it. Allison was the kind of woman who probably couldn’t even wrap her mind around such a concept. Unlike some of their other neighbors. Jessalyn Martin in particular.
Dorothy’s thoughts turned dark and silty as her mind formed a picture of Jessalyn’s tight skirts, bleached hair, and oversized breasts. Everything about that girl was cheap and nothing about her was real. Which made it even more ironic that Jessalyn’s big claim to fame was that she’d been on a reality show. Dorothy couldn’t even remember the name of it now, but she did remember Jessalyn’s appearance because she had seen every one of the three episodes that Jessalyn had been in. This was not by choice, but because Hank Martin had been so insistent. That was before Jessalyn had moved in, taken over, and packed her father off to Beach Gardens, an assisted-living facility for seniors, even though Hank was in less need of assisted living than his daughter was. He’d been doing fine and loved nothing better than to putter around with dirt and flowers, and had given Dorothy many a gardening tip over the years, like how to get rid of those horrible white flies on her tomato plants with a spray of water and dish soap. Four years ago or so, Hank told Dorothy that his daughter was going to be on television. It was just one of those shows where they put a bunch of people together to see who could argue the loudest and win the money. That was how he put it. You should watch, though, Hank told her. She’s very pretty. And smart too. Sure to win.
The show turned out to be an insult to the intelligence of everyone who watched it, including Dorothy, which was why it had barely lasted one season before being canceled. As Dorothy recalled, Jessalyn hadn’t actually failed any of the challenges, but had been voted off the show because none of the other contestants could stand her.
The Neighbors Are Watching Page 5