The Neighbors Are Watching

by Debra Ginsberg

  Sam measured out some olive oil for the sauté pan. She hadn’t said anything to Gloria about the long, unlikely conversation she’d had with Dorothy or what had been exposed, but Gloria obviously knew they’d been talking. She thought about Dorothy—about the huge well of pain that woman had revealed to her—and she felt a gathering tension and ache at the back of her head. She hadn’t left Gloria out of that particular loop because she was worried that Gloria would judge her for befriending a woman who’d previously shown both of them, at best, a sort of passive-aggressive hostility or because she thought Gloria wouldn’t get it. When she thought about it carefully, Sam realized the reason she was holding back—or, really, holding out—was that she actually felt protective of Dorothy. Sam didn’t understand where this feeling had come from or why she felt the need to protect Dorothy from Gloria of all people. It didn’t make sense. And yet when she remembered that afternoon at the Werners’—so peculiar it had taken on a tinge of unreality—she sensed again the depth of Dorothy’s anguish and how much it seemed to cost her to speak at all. It was as if some force had pulled the words from her despite her efforts to keep them inside. It was possible, Sam thought, that she just didn’t trust Gloria with what Dorothy had told her. And maybe the same was true of her new friendship with Yvonne as well. The shock of that realization hit Sam like a rush of cold water. It was wrong to feel this way about Gloria, the person she loved and was completely committed to. Maybe it was her fault that they’d become so distant from each other. Maybe Sam just didn’t know how to share.

  “Don’t you think, Sam?”

  “Think what?”

  “That Dorothy Werner is a freak of nature.”

  “That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? Well, you should know. You’re pretty hot and heavy with all the neighbors lately, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just trying to help out,” Sam said quickly. “With the baby and everything. That poor little thing.”

  “You’re missing her, aren’t you? She got you all babied up.”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess I am,” she said.

  “It’s funny; I never would have expected that you’d go all Earth Mother, Sam. What happened to that snappy sarcastic mama I used to know? Now you’re all about solving the world’s problems and shit.”

  “Not exactly the world,” Sam mumbled. She put a big pot of water up to boil and started cutting up the cucumber.

  “What’s going on with the investigation?” Gloria asked, suddenly serious. “Have they found anything at all?”

  “Not that I know of,” Sam said. “Unless something’s come up recently that Joe hasn’t told me. It’s like she just vanished. They haven’t found anything—not her cell phone, no credit card records, and Joe says they don’t even have any halfway credible leads from the usual crazies who call in on these kinds of cases. If she’s hiding out somewhere she’s doing a hell of a job.” Sam closed her eyes for a second, sending up a silent prayer for Diana. She thought about what Dorothy had told her—about how, if you really needed to, you could just start all over. It was possible, Sam thought, that Diana had just slipped away and was, at this very moment, reinventing herself somewhere, but even Sam’s most optimistic self saw that possibility as highly unrealistic. She didn’t want to give in to the cold dread she felt pressing into her consciousness, but it was getting very difficult to stop it from taking over.

  “Of course, the longer she’s out there …” Sam started and faltered, searching for the right words. “The longer she’s gone, the harder it is to find her. That’s just the way it is with these … things. We’ve had the posters up for a while now. They did a news spot on it too—you didn’t see that, but I did, it was just a quick thing. I’m hoping they can do a longer story. I asked Joe about it, but he hasn’t—we haven’t talked about it. He’s kind of got his hands full right now. I should just call myself, tell them the full story.…”

  “Why, do you know something Joe doesn’t?”

  “No, I just meant, you know, the human interest side of the story. She isn’t just a teenager, she’s a new mom, a teenage mom.”

  “Maybe,” Gloria said pointedly, “but Diana doesn’t really fit the profile of this neighborhood, does she? That might make a difference in how much coverage you could get.”

  Sam gave Gloria a long look, trying to decide whether or not she wanted to know what she really meant by that last comment. “We don’t fit the profile either, Gloria. As far as that goes.”

  “I’m just saying,” Gloria added, “that she’s not exactly all sweetness and purity, is she? And then there’s the whole drug thing.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam said.

  “Kevin. He OD’d, didn’t he? They were together all the time.”

  “Yes,” Sam said, “but he said she never took any drugs with him. That’s what he told the police.”

  “When did he tell the police that? And how do you know?”

  Sam thought again about Dorothy and how now would be the time to tell Gloria about what they’d talked about—how Dorothy had literally broken down and cried in her own kitchen while Sam sat there helplessly, rocking Zoë back and forth, and how days later, Dorothy had come back looking for Sam, calling over the fence for Sam to come help her, please, please help her—but the story was so complicated and intricate and involved so much emotion. And there was Gloria standing there waiting for an answer, and Sam just couldn’t do it. Later, she told herself. There will be plenty of time for it later.

  “I was over there the other day,” Sam said, “and the detectives were there talking to Kevin.”

  Gloria’s eyes widened slightly. Sam could almost see the questions flitting across her face like so many clouds. “And so what did he say?” she said after a beat.

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious that he was using drugs himself,” Sam said, “so he didn’t bother trying to deny that, but he swore up and down that Diana never did any and that he never gave her any.”

  “Did they believe him?” Gloria studied Sam for a moment. “Did you?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said, remembering Kevin’s pale tortured face and the look of hopelessness in his eyes. Sam had never found Kevin particularly appealing, but her heart had ached for him then. He flushed, he stammered, he got angry, but he stuck to his story that he didn’t know where Diana was or even where she might have gone, and he was insistent that she loved her baby and didn’t do any drugs because that would hurt Zoë. There was no doubting the depth of his emotion, Sam thought, but it was impossible to tell whether or not he was telling the truth.

  “It’s so much worse now than when we—when I was in school,” Gloria was saying. “So many more drugs and they’re all prescription. Everyone thinks these are such nice kids. I think some of them probably even trade their own prescriptions with their parents. The moms are all buzzed on Ritalin and the kids are fucked up on painkillers. Although I’ll bet the only thing Kevin found in Dick’s medicine cabinet was a whole lot of Viagra. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said again. She thought about Dorothy. Heroin, Dorothy had told her. That was her addiction. She hadn’t even started off slow—hadn’t progressed from something like pot or pills. She had a boyfriend and he had a habit and then so did she.

  “Did they ask him where he got the drugs?” Gloria said. “Surely they wanted to know.”

  “He was pretty hazy on that,” Sam said. “Told them about friends of friends, didn’t know their names, that kind of thing. They have to understand that, though. Nobody wants to narc anyone out. It’s the first rule, isn’t it?”

  “They ought to look at that Asian kid across the street,” Gloria said, turning the heat on under the sauté pan. There were three burners going now and the kitchen was starting to warm considerably.

  Sam opened the can of tomatoes, put them in a pot, and then on the stove to heat. “The piano kid? What do you mean they should look at him?”

  Gloria shrugged, pushi
ng the browning garlic around in the pan. “That kid’s the hook-up around here. I don’t know where he gets it or how he does it, but he’s got it.” She reached for the chopped onion and scraped it into the pan. It hit with a hiss and sizzle, sending tiny droplets of hot oil spraying out. Gloria lowered the flame on the burner.

  “How do you know that, Gloria?”

  “You know,” Gloria said, “you hear things. You see things.”

  “But what—”

  “You just don’t pay that much attention, Sam. You think you do, but you don’t.”

  “What does that mean?” Something about the air in the room had changed—it was staticky and electrified as if the molecules were vibrating. Sam could feel herself being drawn into the undertow of an argument; she dug her heels in, unwilling to get washed away. She stood up straighter, feeling off center and somehow crooked. “Are you saying that I haven’t been paying attention to you, Gloria? Because if that’s how you feel, just tell me.” But Gloria remained silent, moving her wooden spoon in the pan until the onions became glassy and then, abruptly, turning off the heat. “Gloria? Is it Zoë? Are you upset that I’ve been spending so much time with the baby?”

  Gloria sighed and looked up, her eyes searching Sam’s face. For what, Sam didn’t know. “No, Sam. I’m not jealous of Zoë.”

  “Because you’re right about my getting attached to her. These last couple of weeks …” Tears pushed at the backs of her eyes. She turned her head so that Gloria couldn’t see. The last thing she wanted now was to descend into weepiness because she wasn’t sure that if the waterworks started there would be any turning them off. Still, she was tired—bone weary—of having to explain, of being the strong one in this relationship, of shouldering all the guilt for everything that had happened with Noah and Frank, and of being cast as the villain in this movie. She wanted to be petulant, to throw a fit, to throw something, and just be able to get away with it. She felt a sharp tang of longing for Zoë, that soft baby smell and sleepy warmth. Then it was gone, leaving a dark streak of resentment in its place.

  “It’s almost Thanksgiving,” Sam said, her voice sounding ragged and harsh. “What are we going to do?”

  “I need to spend Thanksgiving with Justin,” Gloria said sharply. Her tone was off, Sam thought. It was almost as if she’d been expecting this question and had the answer all prepared and ready to go.

  “Noah’s taking Connor to Hawaii,” Sam said.

  “You told me that.”

  “Did I? Sorry, I forgot.”

  “I thought you were going to try to talk him out of it.”

  “What, and risk having Connor hate me for ruining his vacation? Noah’s promised him snorkeling and surfing and who knows what else. Probably money. He’s probably promised him a fucking offshore bank account.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Sam, I really am. It’s a prick move.”

  Sam’s eyes filled again, but this time she just let the tears fall. The pasta water was about to boil. She tipped the warmed, spiced tomatoes into the saucepan and mixed them with the garlic and onion, turned the heat on low. “Is Frank going to let Justin be with you on Thanksgiving?” Sam said. “You haven’t told me anything about what’s going on with the holidays. I’m dreading Christmas. I don’t even know what that’s going to be like.” She wiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand. “I was thinking I could do something really special and different. It’s been such a crap year; it would be great to just blow it out with something spectacular.”

  “You mean cook here? At this house?”

  “Well, where else, Gloria?”

  “I have to be with Justin, Sam. I’m his mother.”

  “I know. So is Justin coming here or what?”

  “Frank …” Gloria put her hand to her head—that nervous habit again, smoothing hair that wasn’t there. “I’m going to Frank’s for Thanksgiving. It’s the only way I can see Justin.”

  “Jesus, Gloria.”

  “Don’t, Sam. Just don’t.”

  “You’re going to leave me—on Thanksgiving—and go eat dinner at Frank’s house?”

  “It’s not about you; it’s about Justin.”

  “It isn’t about Justin. It’s about Frank.” Sam emptied the boxes of pasta into the boiling water and stirred. The sauce smelled delicious. In eight minutes it would be perfect. But Sam had completely lost her appetite. “It’s about Frank and what Frank wants and about how bad he can make you feel. That’s what it’s about.”

  “Let’s not do this now, okay, Sam? Let’s just call it off at least until after dinner. Okay?”

  Sam said nothing—she let the silence speak for her. A minute ticked by. Sam felt the craving for a cigarette—something she’d only thought about intermittently since she’d given them up weeks ago—descend on her like a falling anvil.

  “We need Parmesan,” Gloria said after a moment.

  “I don’t know what to tell you about that,” Sam said. “We don’t have any.”

  Gloria hovered for a moment, fidgeting, and then came to some sort of decision. “I’m just going to run out and pick some up,” she said and moved toward the hallway where they kept their keys on a giant hook.

  “But dinner’s ready, Gloria.”

  “I’ll be back in five minutes. Seven, tops. You can time me. I need cheese, Sam. I can’t have puttanesca without it. You want to come with me? We can do a drive-by. I’ll keep the engine running, and you can dash in and out.”

  “Can’t leave it like this, it’ll get ruined,” Sam said. “Okay, go. But please hurry, Gloria, I don’t want to eat it cold.” Or at all now, she thought.

  “Five minutes,” Gloria said, her voice disappearing into the garage. Sam heard the garage door creak open and Gloria peel out in her truck. She waited for the sound of the door sliding shut but didn’t hear it. Gloria had left it open to save time for when she came back in. It was true; if the check-out lines were moving, it wouldn’t take her more than a few minutes to get to the grocery store and back. Its proximity to the shopping center was one of the reasons they’d chosen this neighborhood. Sam stirred the pasta again. The penne needed longer in the water than the shells so as a result neither would be perfectly cooked. The penne would be too under-cooked if the shells were just right. So it was going to be slightly mushy shells and perfect penne, Sam decided.

  The house was suddenly quiet without Gloria in it, which struck Sam as odd because they hadn’t exactly been filling it with noise lately. It was her presence, Sam thought. Gloria’s mere presence had a sound of its own. Sam stirred the sauce again and then the pasta. She banged the spoon against the pot and wondered if she had a secret stash of cigarettes she’d forgotten about somewhere in the house. In her mind she traveled through the hallway and into the linen closet, through her shoe boxes and into coat pockets and empty purses. Rainy day cigarettes—every ex-smoker had some, but in her imagining Sam came up blank. She hadn’t saved any cigarettes because she hadn’t cared enough to worry about wanting one. She’d finished her last pack and thrown it out. End of story. Until this minute quitting had seemed very easy.

  Sam glanced at the clock above the oven. Five minutes and Gloria wasn’t back yet. Well, five minutes was probably unrealistic anyway. But if she wasn’t back in ten, Sam was going to be pissed. She took out silverware, plates, and napkins and put them on the table. Should have told her to get something to drink, Sam thought, and wondered whether or not to call Gloria and tell her to pick something up. But she was probably out of the check-out line already and on the way home. So it was going to be water for her and probably that nasty beer for Gloria. She spooned out a shell and a piece of penne from the boiling water, blew on them, and popped first one, then the other into her mouth, burning her tongue despite the precaution. The shells were done. One more minute on the penne.

  The stinging on Sam’s tongue was a physical manifestation of her regret. She wished she could reel in the last ten minutes of her conversation with Gloria and take back all tho
se burning words. It was the right time to talk, but not about babies and not about Frank. Better to have a nice, relaxed dinner and just talk about nothing until they both warmed up. It wasn’t a tough thing to figure out, but neither one of them had been very good about communicating. It was too easy to fall into resentment and silence and avoid doing the work that was required in any relationship, especially this relationship. They were both guilty of it. What they needed was more sensitivity for each other. It wasn’t easy for anyone. Once more, Sam saw the image in her mind’s eye of Dorothy weeping over her store-bought crumb cake.

  She’d never told anyone, so many years now—more than thirty, though it hardly seemed possible—about that other life she’d had. She was a girl, just a girl, fallen in with a bad crowd and a bad boy to go with it. He had a motorcycle, Dorothy said. Have you ever been with a boy on a motorcycle? It’s not something you forget. Do you remember what it was like back then? Dorothy asked Sam. In the seventies we all wanted to be Charlie’s Angels. That hair, those bikinis. Everybody beautiful and having fun. We had a pool—a swimming pool—because it was so hot in the summer. The adults hung around with drinks. You know, you had cocktails at the pool in those days.…

  Although she didn’t know where Dorothy was going with any of it, Sam let her ramble on without interrupting. Dorothy’s eyes were turned inward to her long-buried memories, watching a scene she hadn’t allowed herself to see for three decades and relating what she found there in a breathless rush. She hadn’t known any better, Dorothy went on, and she hadn’t given it any thought. She was bad, of a weak character. It was so quick from that first little taste. Almost no time at all before she couldn’t live without it. They say it’s a gene, that addiction runs in families. Well, her parents had been huge drinkers and maybe that was it right there. But she had never been interested in alcohol, no. Even now, even now …

  “I had to run away,” Dorothy whispered. “I had to.”

  “But Dorothy,” Sam had said then, “you were just a kid and it happens all the time. You weren’t hurting anyone but yourself. You could have gotten help.”