The Neighbors Are Watching

by Debra Ginsberg

  In the kitchen, while she took extra time locating the precise tea she was looking for (the one with valerian root for relaxation) and preparing it, Allison wondered when Sam had had time to get to know Yvonne well enough to ask after her now that she was gone. Joe had waited too long to tell her that she was here at all, but Yvonne hadn’t been in San Diego that long before Allison came home—not really all that much time to get to know the neighbors with any level of intimacy. And Yvonne, like her daughter, wasn’t the easiest person in the world to talk to or get to know—even allowing for the odd and uncomfortable circumstances of their meeting.

  Allison had expected all kinds of emotions upon meeting Yvonne—the woman whom Joe had loved, the woman who’d had his child—most of which had been roiling around in her brain since Diana had arrived. She expected to be angry at Yvonne, however irrational that was, for shredding her life by foisting Diana on them without any warning. Allison had spent many nights silently condemning Yvonne for sending her pregnant teenager to live with a father she didn’t know, and thought that these feelings too would surface when she saw Yvonne. And she expected to feel some kind of rivalry with this woman from Joe’s past. But beyond all of that, and perhaps what frightened Allison the most, was that she expected to feel jealousy—corrosive, soul-destroying jealousy.

  Bits and pieces of all these feelings surfaced throughout the time they spent together, but none of them were present when she met Yvonne for the first time. What struck Allison at that moment and what lingered still was how fundamentally different they were. Allison was stunned to think that they could ever have coexisted in the same man’s universe.

  There were the obvious physical differences, of course, striking in and of themselves. Allison was blond and petite, a classic WASP with a conservative, good-quality wardrobe and a nice figure, but there was nothing overtly sensual about her body. She looked younger than she was. She was pretty. At the right angle and with good makeup, she was very pretty.

  Yvonne was tall with lush curves, high cheekbones, and large liquid eyes that reflected a gorgeously tragic expression. Her skin, darker and richer than Diana’s, was smooth and completely unlined. She moved as if she were walking through water, languorous and weightless. She could have been arrestingly beautiful had she not been doing her best to hide it. The only makeup she wore was an orange lipstick completely unsuited to her coloring, and she kept her hair pulled back and fastened in a severe knot at the back of her head. Her clothes were cheap and designed for women much older and heavier than she was. It was as if she was embarrassed about her own looks, as if she were purposely aging herself. Allison didn’t understand it.

  From the moment Joe had introduced the two of them—his own expression a tangle of apprehension and pleading—Allison felt as if just standing next to Yvonne diminished her, made her seem two-dimensional. When they began talking, planning, organizing the mundane details of their days and then discussing Diana and slowly exchanging more personal information, Allison began to feel less like a cardboard cutout around Yvonne. But she never shook the sense that Yvonne was as unlike her as another woman could be. They weren’t even opposites because opposites would have implied a yin and yang, something complementary, something in common. It was beyond Allison’s ken how Joe could have chosen both of them to love, no matter how many years had passed between his leaving Yvonne and meeting her. It didn’t make sense to Allison. But they were polite to each other. Once or twice they even came close to having a real conversation. That was as much as Allison could ask for—and more, it seemed, than Joe had expected.

  “I appreciate it,” he’d told her one night, apropos of nothing and quickly as if he might live to regret his words.

  “Appreciate?”

  “You—with Yvonne. I appreciate it. You, I mean. I know this isn’t easy.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “She doesn’t show it, but this is hell for her.” He looked at Allison, saw that he was overselling his point. “So, thanks,” he finished. Allison didn’t ask him what it was he thought she was doing for Yvonne or if he thought that they were becoming friends. If he even wanted them to become friends.

  Now Allison wondered if Yvonne had managed to forge some kind of connection with Sam, something deeper than she might ever expect to have with Allison. But where would she have found the time?

  When she reentered the living room with her tea, Allison saw that Dorothy had arrived with Kevin. Dick was conspicuously absent. There was a hum in the room now, several people talking at once, and it seemed crowded. Joe was at the table cutting a Bundt cake and putting the slices on paper plates. Dorothy had brought a cake. Of course she had.

  “I’m so sorry, but Dick couldn’t be here,” Dorothy was saying as Allison walked in. “He wanted to, but he’s totally tied up with work right now. He did say he would come by later if he was able.” Her hands were clasped in front of her as if she were about to pray and her expression begged for forgiveness. The words no need to apologize were on the tip of Allison’s tongue but never managed to fall off. She was thinking about the day of the fires, how she’d opened her door and saw Dick standing in the middle of the road staring right at her, and she felt the same tingling in her spine as she had that day. Why the hell wasn’t he here? The drunken Allison might have asked Dorothy that question. But this fearful sober Allison was careful not to violate any social boundaries like, for example, asking why Kevin had shown up and his father hadn’t.

  The last time she’d seen Kevin here was when he’d made the ridiculous announcement that he was going to marry Diana and adopt Zoë, causing the tension between Dick and Joe to boil over into that ugly scene. That had been his big stand—his attempt to assert his manhood—and it had come crashing down on him. Kevin was one of those kids who would always be stuck in the cracks that others fell through. He had privilege and access and wanted for nothing materially. He came from an unbroken home and had the attention of his parents, if not always the right kind of attention or the best quality of parent. But there was something missing in the love he got—or maybe the love itself was missing. Combined with a central weakness in his character, this lack just set him on a course for failure. Allison had seen it before—seen it coming with the kids she taught. They weren’t gifted, weren’t easy, weren’t … likable. Kids like that—like Kevin—needed more, needed extra, but they didn’t know how to ask for it and they never seemed to get it. Then they got into trouble or slid into depression and self-destructiveness or just ended up making other people’s lives miserable.

  Joe had told Allison about what had happened to Kevin—the overdose and hospitalization. Judging from what she’d seen, Allison thought that having his stomach pumped (or whatever it was that they did for him) was probably no worse than the punishment he got from Dick afterward. She wouldn’t put it past the man to hit his own kid because she’d seen how close to the edge he was with Joe. When she’d seen him that day that she’d left and found him so menacing, she thought she was overreacting, but now she wasn’t so sure, even though physically, Kevin didn’t look any worse for the wear. He was slightly taller and slightly thinner, but still slouchy, black-clad, and ungainly; he was the same disaffected youth he’d been before. But there was a sadness about him now that was much more adult than he was. It was deep and desolate and enveloped him like a cloak. Allison wondered if he was still taking the drugs that almost killed him. His eyes seemed fairly clear and he didn’t seem stoned, but you never knew anymore. It was true; she’d never liked Kevin even though she understood he was one of those kids who only became less likable the more he was disliked. But as she looked at him now, hovering near his mother, torment darkening his light blue eyes, Allison felt a pang of genuine sympathy for him. He was suffering—that much was plain—and Allison could relate.

  “Hi, Kevin,” she said, “glad you could come.”

  “Hey.” He cast his eyes down to the floor as if he wanted to fall through it into another reality.

&nb
sp; “Thanks for the cake, Dorothy. That was very thoughtful of you.”

  “It’s an orange Bundt,” Dorothy said in a high, thin voice, “with just a light glaze. I’ve used that recipe for years. It never fails, you know. Always good. And very easy.”

  Yes, Allison thought, it was always easy when it came from a prepackaged mix or directly from the store. But she shouldn’t complain—she wouldn’t. “Great,” Allison said. “I think Joe’s cutting it up right now.”

  Dorothy gave her a small, not-quite-smile, which Allison returned. She looked pretty stressed-out too, Allison thought. There was gray hair coming in at her roots, something she’d never seen on Dorothy before. Her skin looked dry and tired, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot. And she didn’t seem to have nearly as superior an attitude as she usually did. Although she had never said anything about it, Allison sensed that Dorothy felt betrayed by her during those months that Diana had been living with them. Allison never would have considered them to be friends—those power walks to church hardly counted, but Dorothy seemed to think they’d bonded. When Allison lost herself inside her own house during those long hot months, Dorothy seemed to take it personally. She could feel Dorothy’s disapproval snaking down the street and seeping through the walls at first, but by the time Zoë was born, Allison had stopped caring about anything, least of all what Dorothy thought of her. Somewhere in there Dorothy had changed too. There was an edgy nervousness about her now and an air of anxiety. Allison supposed having your child overdose on drugs could do that to you.

  “Is Zoë here?” Kevin asked suddenly. Allison and Dorothy both turned to him, questioning. “I mean, not in the house, but down here?” He gestured toward Diana’s room. For the first time it occurred to Allison that he might have spent quite a bit of time in that room when nobody was looking.

  “She’s upstairs,” Allison said. “She’s asleep.”

  “Can I see her?” he asked. There was something desperate in his voice. “Please?”

  “Okay,” Allison said. “I’ll take you up there.” Kevin nodded, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Surely he didn’t expect her to send him upstairs by himself? “We’ll be right back then,” she told Dorothy, who looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands or where to direct her gaze.

  “Have to be quiet,” Allison murmured as they climbed the stairs. “Don’t want to wake her up.” Kevin followed, treading more softly than she would have expected. They entered the darkened bedroom without a sound and Allison led him over to the crib. Zoë hadn’t moved, still lying on her back wrapped up in her pink and white cotton blankets, breathing easily. Kevin lifted his hand, and for a moment Allison thought he was going to reach in and touch her, but he didn’t, he just rested it lightly on the top of the crib and stared in. She was close enough to him that she could sense him trembling just a little.

  “She’s so little,” he whispered.

  Allison didn’t know what to say. It felt strange to have this boy in her bedroom staring so intently at this baby who wasn’t his. Who wasn’t hers. Kevin drew in a torn breath and Allison realized he was fighting back tears. Allison didn’t want him to start crying. She was afraid of the enormity of his emotion and what it might set off in her.

  “Kevin?” she whispered.

  He turned to her and even in the half dark she could see the tears shining in his eyes and all the pain behind it. He swallowed hard. “I miss her so much,” he whispered.

  It took Allison a second to realize that he was talking about Diana. “I know it must …” she began and lowered her voice. “It must be very hard, Kevin.”

  He nodded, wiped his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand, and took his hand from the crib.

  “Kevin,” Allison whispered, “do you know where Diana is?”

  He backed up a little and looked away from her. “No,” he said after a moment.

  “I’m not …” Allison ran a hand through her hair. He knew something, she could sense it, and she searched for the right words to offer him. She didn’t want to scare or threaten him. “Listen, Kevin, I’m not out to get you. I don’t care if—” She caught herself, forced the desperate edge from her voice. “If you know where she might have gone, please tell me.” His head was still turned away from her. “If you know anything—even if you don’t think it’s important. Even if it’s just a feeling, Kevin.” He looked like he might bolt. “It can stay between me and you,” Allison said. “I can promise you that.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Kevin said. “I wish I did.”

  She waited a second, then two, to see if he would change his mind. He wiped his eyes again, harder this time, as if he wanted to rub them out of their sockets. “Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry, Kevin. I didn’t mean—”

  “I think she might have got into trouble,” Kevin said.

  Allison held her breath, let it out slowly. “How?”

  “She might have …” Even without the benefit of full light, Allison could see the muscles working in his jaw. “I think she might have gone looking for something, you know, to …” He cleared his throat and then stayed silent for so long she thought he was finished, that he’d said everything he was going to. “I never told her where to go to get it,” he whispered. “But she knew.”

  “Get what, Kevin?” She waited a beat, then two. She could hear the sound of the doorbell coming from downstairs. “I promise you,” she said, “you’re safe with me. This conversation never happened.”

  Allison could see that he was struggling. He looked at her pleadingly. Don’t make me. Allison turned to the crib, reached over, and gently stroked the sleeping baby.

  “I only gave her a little weed,” he whispered. “That’s all.…”

  “Kevin—”

  “But she knew … She knew where to get …”

  “Kevin, please tell me—”

  Kevin leaned toward Allison, his movement so sudden she twitched with the urge to back away. “I can’t,” he said, his voice choking in on itself. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” Then, as if regretting saying even that much, he turned and walked out of the room.

  As Allison followed him down the stairs, she wondered if she should touch him, pat him on the shoulder, offer some comforting words, but none of it felt right. She didn’t know what he wanted to hear or what she could tell him that would make him feel any better. He loved her, she thought. And look where love had led him. She thought she should tell him that he could come and see Zoë again if he wanted, and although she wasn’t sure that was a wise thing to do, she was going to say it anyway, but by then they were on the landing. Allison caught sight of Joe ushering Jessalyn Martin into the living room and anything she wanted to say flew right out of her head.

  Since she certainly hadn’t invited the woman here this evening, Allison’s first thought was that Jessalyn was crashing what she must have thought was a party, although that didn’t explain why she was dressed in a too-tight, too-small business suit. No, not really a business suit, Allison thought, more like a costume, something a B actress playing the part of a naughty secretary might wear. Words formed in Allison’s head, something to the effect of Why are you here? but then, almost too late to stop them from tumbling out of her mouth, she realized that she had given over the task of rounding up the neighbors to Dorothy. It was Dorothy who had asked Jessalyn to come, not Allison.

  “Allison,” Jessalyn said by way of greeting, “how are you doing?”

  Allison mumbled a greeting that she hoped sounded appropriate, but she could barely hear her own voice for all the loud thoughts echoing in her head. She’d never exchanged any but the most basic civilities with Jessalyn, so why was her tone so familiar and so gratingly solicitous?

  “How’s the baby?” Jessalyn added. “Must be a lot for you—for both of you to handle.”

  “She’s fine,” Allison said, sure that she could now hear a subtle note of accusation in Jessalyn’s voice. The smell of Jessalyn’s perfume, heavy and cloyi
ng, hung in the air.

  “Well, that’s good,” Jessalyn said and gave Allison one of the least sincere smiles she’d ever seen.

  Joe, who seemed to be trying to get Jessalyn away from the foyer and into the living room, looked as if he’d swallowed something sharp that was puncturing his insides. Allison had the sudden feeling that she’d interrupted a private conversation between the two of them, which she knew was impossible since she’d seen Jessalyn come in only seconds before and there had been no time for them to have exchanged any words at all. Allison felt a cold knot form in her stomach. It was possible, she thought, that she would never again desire a drink with such intensity as she did at that moment.

  “Do you want to get that, Allie?”

  Allison stared at Joe, completely lost, her head buzzing. “The door,” he said, his eyes pleading with her, “Can you get it?” and then Allison realized that, again, the doorbell was ringing. She moved across the foyer like a sleepwalker. The door stuck, swollen with unseasonable heat, and Allison had to pull hard to get it open. The Sun kid and his mother stood in the entrance, both looking as if they’d rather be somewhere else. Allison was momentarily stunned. She couldn’t remember ever seeing the woman outside the doorway of her own home and the kid only in passing as he shot baskets in his driveway. Mrs. Sun was smaller and older than she’d thought, and her son was taller. They were both dressed nicely, as if they were each going to a job interview—she in a dress and low-heeled pumps and he in a dress shirt and pressed pants. Allison was so mystified as to why they were standing there looking at her that she remained mute, one hand on the doorjamb, waiting for a clue.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Sun said, carefully enunciating the two syllables.

  “My mother doesn’t speak English very well,” Sun said. “I came with her … to help.”

  Allison got nothing from his expression. He seemed uncomfortable, maybe even annoyed with his task. Allison could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d had to interpret and translate for his mother, and was on the verge of asking him what it was she could do for them when it finally dawned on her that Dorothy had asked them to come as well as all the other people who were sitting in her living room. Including Jessalyn.