The Neighbors Are Watching

by Debra Ginsberg

  Dorothy had been embarrassed for Hank. It was a feeling he must have shared because he never mentioned it to Dorothy again. Nor would she have given it a second thought, but then Jessalyn showed up in all her glory, moved in, and took over. Not that Dorothy wanted to have anything to do with her, but in all the time Jessalyn had been living there, she hadn’t been over to say hello even once. Dorothy could only imagine what the house looked like inside now—or what had happened to Hank’s cherished garden. But of course, she didn’t have to imagine, she’d soon be finding out firsthand. The Neighborhood Watch list needed to be updated, a task that Dick had volunteered for but that Dorothy had been saddled with, and now Dorothy needed to go to each house on the street and get cell phone numbers, license plates, and names of immediate family members.

  If she was being honest with herself, Dorothy had to admit that she didn’t mind organizing the Neighborhood Watch list as much as she let on. She complained to Dick about it, but there was no real bite in her words. The truth was it made Dorothy feel more secure to know these details about her neighbors. And even though everyone participating got a copy of the list, it was Dorothy who knocked on the doors, who looked inside the houses, and who got to make the final judgment about what she saw there. Mindlessly, Dorothy walked over to the hutch in the breakfast nook just off her kitchen, opened the drawer where they kept all the Neighborhood Watch information, and pulled out the Fuller Court master chart.

  Laying it on the table, Dorothy unfolded the chart and smoothed it flat, admiring the clean, color-coded lines she’d drawn to designate the different houses and property boundaries, tracing her finger along the thick upside-down U of the street. There they were, the Werners, anchoring Fuller Court, all their information and contacts completed in neat type. Directly across from them were the Suns, a perpetual thorn in Dorothy’s side. They were consistently difficult to pin down and get information from. In fact, Dorothy knew almost nothing at all about them and it appeared that they liked it that way.

  Mr. Sun left his house, briefcase in hand, every morning at 7:00 AM (Dorothy knew this because her dining room, where she sat with her morning coffee, faced the street and had a direct view of the Suns’ driveway) and didn’t usually return until 6:00 or 7:00 PM. Their son, who was Kevin’s age and who attended Kevin’s school but who Kevin didn’t hang out with, sometimes came outside in the late afternoon and shot baskets into a hoop installed above their garage. Other than that, Dorothy never saw him and didn’t even know his first name (“I don’t know,” Kevin had told her when she’d asked, “everyone just calls him Sun.”). She could, however, hear him practicing piano through open windows on an almost daily basis.

  As far as Mrs. Sun went, there were only rare glimpses. Dorothy had caught sight of her only once, when the woman was coming home on foot from a trip to the supermarket, but by the time she had thought of a reasonable excuse to run outside and accidentally-on-purpose run into Mrs. Sun, she’d disappeared inside her house and the opportunity had been missed. Of course, Dorothy had tried just knocking on the door, her Neighborhood Watch list in hand, but had gotten a response only once, when the Sun boy had answered, told Dorothy he’d pass the message along to his mother, and dismissed her. The Suns had been living in that house for over a year, but they might as well have been ghosts for all anyone saw of them. Dorothy understood the need for privacy, but thought that these kinds of extremes indicated that they had something to hide. And if that were the case, the Suns were rank amateurs. The best way to hide things, as Dorothy well knew, was to act as if you had nothing to hide.

  Dorothy moved her finger around the bend in her chart, grazing through the Martin house, drifting through the Montanas’, and coming to rest at Sam and Gloria’s house, which was right next door to hers. Sam and Gloria had two cell phone numbers but only one car listed, Sam’s Camry. Gloria’s white pickup truck, on which she had plastered a rainbow bumper sticker, was not accounted for. Of all the houses on the street, Sam’s was the one Dorothy had the least interest in. Or maybe it wasn’t a lack of interest exactly—more like a certain level of repulsion. No, repulsion was too strong a word. She was … repelled, that was it. Dorothy knew it was well into a new century and she was just as tolerant as the next person. People had a right to live the way they wanted to, et cetera, et cetera. But there was just something wrong about those two. Maybe it was the fact that they both had kids, because Dorothy didn’t care how many times you read Heather Has Two Mommies or Daddy’s Roommate, it had to be confusing for a child and that just wasn’t fair. And obviously someone agreed with that notion because Sam’s and Gloria’s kids didn’t live with them, and why wouldn’t two small children live with their mothers unless something was very wrong with those mothers? Not that Sam and Gloria ever acted like a couple. No, they pretended to be just friends. Dorothy didn’t get it. Neither Sam nor Gloria was anything to look at, really. Well, maybe Gloria in a big athletic kind of way, but Sam was so skinny and …

  “Dorothy!”

  Dorothy jumped at the sound of Dick’s call, instinctively clutching her Neighborhood Watch list, almost crumpling it. Why was he shouting for her? She folded the list and placed it back in its drawer.

  “What is it?” she called out, knowing he couldn’t hear her over the sound of the television.

  “Dorothy!”

  Dorothy walked—faster than she wanted to—into the living room. Dick sat in his preferred spot on the couch, eyes on the game, with the remote control in hand and a bowl of chips and can of beer at the ready on the coffee table.

  “What is it, Dick?”

  He didn’t answer her right away—kept his gaze trained on the television as if she wasn’t standing there, until a point or a goal or whatever was scored, then shouted, “Yes!” and finally turned to her and said, “Is that girl here again?”

  “Yes,” Dorothy answered, the simplest response being the easiest in this case.

  “What the hell?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know, Dick.” Dorothy wondered—not for the first time—why Dick seemed to have such a needle to Diana. It went beyond her being a knocked-up teenager because his attitude wasn’t one of paternal disapproval. It was more like he was personally challenged by her—as if she’d done something specifically to anger him, although as far as Dorothy knew, he’d never exchanged more than five words with her.

  “What are they doing up there, Dorothy?”

  “I don’t know. Hanging out. What do kids do?”

  Dick raised his eyebrows—slowly, so she’d be sure not to miss his implication.

  “You’re his mother, Dot. Don’t you think you should know?”

  “Do you want me to go barging in there and check up on him like he’s a baby?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “I was just about to make … you know, for the party … you’ve got the burgers, right? Anyway, I need to get ready for … why don’t you go up there, Dick?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “That girl is there. I can’t do it. Come on, Dot.” He sighed and with reluctance lifted himself from the couch. “Goddamn Joe and his goddamned mess,” he muttered. “Is the grill ready?”

  “I thought you were going to—”

  “Yes, yes, fine, I’m going to.” He swept past her, leaving the scent of beer-soaked corn chips in his wake. “Go see what your son is doing, Dorothy.”

  My son, Dorothy thought. Not our son. Not Kevin. Dorothy hated when Dick got into this I’m-disappointed-in-everything mood because it made him particularly irritable and difficult to please. Her head had started a slow throb and she could tell it was only the beginning of what would become a major headache. It was going to be chicken salad after all, she thought. Too bad, but she no longer had the time or energy to get creative. Maybe she’d put pickles in it to spice it up. Or some of those olives from Barron’s.

  She thought about the olives—the red color of the label, the difficulty she always had openin
g the jar—as she headed up the stairs to Kevin’s room. When did children reach the point when they no longer needed to be watched over, she wondered. She stood in the upstairs hallway, at Kevin’s closed door, listening. She heard giggling and then a muffled, “Kevin, stop,” and then more laughing. Dorothy’s head pounded with every beat of her heart. She knocked and waited. Heard whispering, more laughing, the sound of being ignored. She knocked again.

  “Kevin?”

  This was ridiculous. She turned the door handle and found it locked. When had Kevin managed to put a lock on his bedroom door?

  “Kevin!” Dorothy heard the slight note of hysteria in her voice and cleared her throat. The headache raged in full force. She was going to have to attend to it. “Open the door, Kevin.”

  The door opened suddenly, sucking the air out of the hallway, and Dorothy found herself facing a smiling Diana.

  “What’s up, Mrs. Werner? Sorry we didn’t hear you.”

  Dorothy could feel Dick’s hostility to this girl creeping into her own skin. What must it be like for Allison to have to live with her every day? No wonder she was drinking.

  “Don’t you need to go home?” Dorothy asked. “I mean, isn’t there—”

  “Jesus, Mom!” Kevin’s voice boomed from behind the door. It was a man’s voice—deeper than Dick’s. When had that happened? Kevin yanked the door open all the way and sidled up next to Diana. His face was flushed and angry.

  “That’s so fucking rude,” he growled.

  “Kevin!”

  “What? God, Mom, forget it! I can’t even believe you just said that to her!”

  “It’s okay, I can go,” Diana said, unmoving, every bit of body language implying she was staying right where she was.

  “No, you don’t need to go anywhere,” Kevin said. “You need to go.” He stabbed his finger in Dorothy’s direction and then slammed the door shut. Dorothy heard the click of the new lock, which, of course, she was going to have to remove as soon as Kevin left his room. She thought about knocking again, about apologizing, about threatening, even, for a second, about getting Dick and making a huge scene that they’d all live to regret. But in the end Dorothy did none of these things. She opted instead to go to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her, and then to the bathroom with that door shut and locked too, and then to the linen closet inside the bathroom, to the very back, behind the hand towels and never-used washcloths, to a box of tampons, inside the box, between the supers and the light days, to a bottle, and inside the bottle to some pills. Dorothy opened the bottle, took a pill, swallowed it, and chased it with water from the bathroom sink. She breathed in and out exactly six times. And then she took another pill.

  It was, after all, a very bad headache.

  labor day, 2007

  At 3:00 PM, Fuller Court was drowsy. Two crows swooped, cawing halfheartedly, and a skinny gray cat slunk through the hedges looking for trouble. A sprinkler hissed then sputtered out. Faint cheers from a televised baseball game rose and fell from one open window, strident piano chords came through another. It was warm enough for the beach, but nobody on the block had gone. The beach was full of tourists having their last hurrah before they had to go home to their cold dark places. Let them have it, the locals thought. Come tomorrow, the coastline is ours again.

  At 4:30 PM, the neighborhood stirred to life bit by bit, a chick emerging from its shell. Dick Werner rolled his new state-of-the-art grill to the end of his driveway and busied himself with charcoal and butane. Dorothy was right behind him with a folding picnic table and its red-checked plastic covering. It took her another three trips to bring out the cooler, bags of ice, and twelve-packs of beer.

  “Let’s hope somebody else brings some this time,” Dick told her as she tucked the cans into the ice. “Last year we supplied the whole neighborhood. Nobody brought even a single can of their own beer. Remember that? You put it on the flyer, right?”

  “Sure did,” Dorothy said, crouching down to get better leverage. “BYOB, just like I did last year and the year before. We’ll see, I guess.”

  “Where’s Kevin?” Dick asked. “I could use some help with these patties.”

  “Let me just get the chicken salad and the buns,” Dorothy said, “and then I’ll come help you.”

  “Just get Kevin,” Dick said. “You’re doing more than enough. Hand me one of those beers, will you?”

  At 5:15 PM, the smell and smoke of grilled burgers was thick in the air and seeping through screens, as clear a signal as church bells. Garage doors opened and people drifted out onto the street carrying plastic containers.

  Dorothy had changed her clothes and was now wearing a pair of generously cut beige cropped pants and a fitted light blue button-down shirt. She’d put some lipstick on too, a neutral not-quite-pink shade that didn’t make her fair skin look washed out. She stacked paper plates and napkins on the table and loaded plastic forks into an oversized cup. She’d ladled the chicken salad on top of lettuce leaves to give it a bit of color and put it in a nice red bowl next to a loaf of white bread in case anyone wanted to make their own sandwiches.

  Dick attended to his burgers with great care. He’d made his own barbecue sauce this year—a combination of ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and mustard—and was basting each burger liberally. He’d donned his “Don’t Mess with the Chef” apron, but not before he managed to spatter his green polo shirt with grease.

  The first people out were Sam and Gloria, who walked close together—almost touching—toward Dorothy’s table. Dorothy smiled and waved, even though they were only a few feet away. Sam was wearing a festive skirt, long, full, and decorated with bright yellow and orange geometric patterns that contrasted nicely with the turquoise necklace and bracelet she’d designed and created. The skirt and jewelry were set off by a plain white T-shirt, which was simple but of good quality and which flattered Sam’s olive skin and slim figure.

  Gloria wasn’t as dressed up as Sam but had traded her usual yoga pants for a pair of painted-on jeans and a purple halter top. Her short gold hair was still damp from the shower. Sunlight bounced off the large silver hoops in her ears and her breasts swayed slightly against the thin fabric of her top. Dick turned his head as she passed him, his eyes quickly taking a full inventory of her hips and thighs.

  “That looks good,” Sam said, pointing at Dorothy’s chicken salad.

  “Please try some,” Dorothy said. “I made it with these special olives I got down at … you know, that store.… I’m totally drawing a blank right now! But help yourself.”

  “I made a fruit salad,” Sam said. “It’s kind of my take on ambrosia, but without all the things that are bad for you.”

  Dorothy tipped her head, smiling politely. “Oh?”

  Dick scraped the grill. Flames rose up and he slapped on another patty.

  “Don’t worry, Dick, we also brought beer,” Gloria said and put the two six-packs of Dos Equis she’d been carrying on the table. “Good beer,” she said.

  Dick turned to her, grinning.

  “Great,” he said. “Burgers are just about there. Time to grab some buns.” His eyes flickered quickly to her ass and then back up to his grill.

  Gloria rolled her eyes and Sam reached out with her hand, grabbed hold of Gloria’s arm, and squeezed lightly. Gloria understood and patted Sam on the back. Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.

  “Okay if I just leave it here for now?” Sam said, placing her fruit salad on the table.

  “Sure, of course,” Dorothy said, brightness lifting her words. “Oh, look, there’s Joe!” She smiled, quickly rubbing a finger across her teeth in case there was any smeared lipstick there.

  • • •

  At 6:00 PM, Kevin joined his father at the grill. He held a bag of corn chips and dipped into it frequently, chewing as he spoke.

  “Need help, Dad?”

  “I needed help an hour ago, Kevin. Not much to do now, is there?”

  Kevin shrugged and looked over at Diana who was standing
off to the side, giggling. Kevin smiled at her, sharing the joke.

  “What’s she laughing about?” Dick said. “What’s so funny?”

  “You know, Dad, whatever.”

  Dick looked at the girl, watched her laugh harder, her hands resting on top of her swollen belly. “Is she going to eat something?” Dick asked Kevin.

  Diana waved away a puff of grill smoke that had blown in her direction. “I don’t eat the flesh of animals,” she said, “but thanks anyway.” She started laughing afresh and Kevin joined in.

  “Oh, for god’s sake,” Dick said, turning away from both of them, his lips compressed into a thin line.

  Kevin offered his chips to Diana and she took the whole bag. “Now these …” she said. The two of them drifted away from the grill, across the street where Sun was bouncing a basketball in his driveway.

  “Hey,” Diana said by way of greeting.

  “Hey.” Sun checked her from the corner of his eye, his face flushing. He could see her legs and breasts through her thin dress. Her navel had popped out from the pressure of the baby, making a tiny bump in the fabric.

  “What’s up?” Kevin said.

  “Nothing.”

  Diana handed the chips back to Kevin and slapped the basketball from Sun’s hand. She bounced it on the driveway, awkwardly at first, but then easier, thunking it hard. “Can I have a try?”

  “You sure?” Sun laughed a little. She was standing right next to him now, smelling of sweat and weed and flowery perfume. Diana bounced the ball three times, then lifted it, pointed, and shot. It hit the rim and bounded back to them. Kevin caught it, leaning over and spilling corn chips on Sun’s driveway.

  “Let me try again,” she said. Perspiration shone on her upper lip.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Sun said.

  The door of Sun’s house opened and Mrs. Sun appeared in the doorway, shaking her head. She barked out a command to Sun in Chinese and he answered her in the same language, his tone deferential. She shut the door.