Good Neighbors

by Joanne Serling

  Penny began immediately without greeting me. “I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I think Bob may have come back and stolen from me.”

  “Didn’t you change the locks?”

  “It’s not like I have a spare hundred dollars lying around,” Penny retorted.

  “I’m just saying…”

  “Listen, Nicole, that isn’t the point. The point is that the landlord may evict me!” Penny said, her voice suddenly rising.

  “I’m sure the landlord isn’t going to evict you because Bob came back and took your stuff!” I said, wishing desperately I hadn’t picked up the phone.

  “Would you please just let me finish!” she demanded. “There’s more to this story!”

  “Okay,” I said, returning to the fridge, getting out the ingredients for dinner—trying to focus on the steps I needed to make pork chops: the eggs and the flour and the bread crumbs all in their separate dishes—while following Penny’s long, complicated story about the neighbors’ cousin who was a not-so-secret drug dealer and a recent bout of vandalism to her garage.

  “Vandalism?” I asked, nervous and confused.

  “It wasn’t serious. But I did call 911,” she continued, telling me another long, complicated story, this one about the guy the landlord used to do simple handiwork, whom she suspected was involved.

  “I’m really sorry things have been hard,” I interjected when I thought she was through with her story and the pork chops were lined up neatly on my white cutting board, ready for the grill even though I’d forgotten to turn it on.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Penny said. “Please! I’m not calling to make you feel sorry for me! I’m calling to update you about my life. So that you know what’s going on with me. And also because I have some good news.”

  “Great!” I said, my voice too high and too artificially happy but the best I could manage as I went outside to stand in front of my grill, listening carefully.

  “Listen, I found out I can finish my bachelor’s degree in five months online. Then I can start substituting, maybe even as a music teacher, while I do my teacher preparation program. In eighteen months I can be a full music teacher with benefits. No more freelance. No more bitchy moms!”

  I cringed at her description. Didn’t she know she was going to have another pool of difficult parents to contend with? Not to mention difficult colleagues? But I tried to push this thought out of my mind as I considered this piece of good news. Certain that a college degree would be the thing that would help Penny regain some self esteem. Hopeful that once she felt better about herself, she’d stop using the drinking as a crutch. Stop being so negative about other people.

  “Tell me more,” I said, opening the grill cover and turning on the burners, the flames bursting to life in a way that always pleased me in their efficiency but startled me in their exuberance. The whoosh of the fire loud and sounding for all the world like a mini explosion. Penny talking in my ear about the fact that she needed someone to pay half her tuition.

  “Of course I’ll help,” I agreed, cringing as I said it. Knowing Jay would kill me for continuing to dole out money without talking to my sister about her drinking problem. My sister barely bothering to thank me. My sister telling me a story about her upstairs neighbors, then announcing that she was going to work the late shift as a waitress to pay for her other expenses. Something about an after-hours club.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t hang around that sort of element,” I cautioned, realizing as I spoke that the pork chops would soon be ready but that I didn’t have a plate for them. I turned and ran into the house and toward the kitchen, the distance not inconsequential. The distance reminding me for the hundredth time that we should have installed French doors and a deck off the kitchen to avoid this problem!

  “Nicole, let me stop you right there!” Penny was saying as I finally reached the kitchen and grabbed the platter. “Please don’t talk to me like I’m a child who needs advice. You have no idea what it’s like to be inside my head!”

  I nodded, afraid to imagine what it was like to be in her head, running back through the house to the backyard, trying to think what I could say to make Penny understand that I cared about her and hadn’t meant to be condescending. But before I could open my mouth and begin to explain myself, Penny said, “You are basically a spoiled housewife who spends thousands of dollars on her handbags and looks down on me because I’m not more successful. I’m done with this conversation!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, struggling to flip the pork chops. Because I was sorry. For anything I had done to inadvertently hurt her. Even though I was furious, too. Because I was the last person to spend a thousand dollars on a handbag! Even though I could afford to. Which somehow made her accusation true, or at least damning. For my having so much more than she did.

  On the other end of the line the phone clicked dead, and I went back to the kitchen confused and guilty and furious. Lucas waiting for me by the granite island, wanting to know if he could go to Target.

  “Maybe,” I said distractedly.

  “I want to get a LEGO set. With my own money,” he said. His dark, curly hair nearly covering his forehead.

  “Okay, maybe Saturday,” I said, trying to scrape the burnt crust off the pork chops and wondering if with enough applesauce they would taste all right. Jay stuck eating cold food at eight p.m. anyway, which meant maybe it didn’t matter?

  “I want to go now!” Lucas whined. I looked at him and wanted to tell him to please shut it, but I refrained. Instead, I said, “I can’t now,” opening the cupboards, searching for the applesauce.

  “Why? Give me one good reason,” Lucas demanded, ready to negotiate a settlement with me.

  “Because I’m cooking dinner,” I said. Furious that Lucas didn’t understand that no meant no. That Jay had taught him to never take no for an answer! Training Lucas for a career in business was how Jay had explained it.

  “We can eat later with Daddy,” Lucas persisted.

  “No!” I said, raising my voice in an attempt to intimidate him.

  “You never do anything for me!” he said, starting to shout.

  “Lucas, you are not the most important person in the world. Do you fucking understand that?” I asked, furious that he wasn’t being the docile child I wished him to be. Slamming the cutting board down on the counter to make my point, which only served to make Lucas scream louder, high-pitched keening followed by crying and garbled words about the fact that I didn’t love him.

  “Stop it right now!” I said, grabbing him hard by the shoulders and forcing him to look at me, which merely had the effect of causing him to scream in my face. I wanted to hit him. I wanted him to understand that he simply could not act this way. Out of control! Yelling at me. Exactly like my sister! And then, in a moment of fury, I did hit him. A slap across the cheek. Convinced this would teach him a lesson. Even though I sensed I was merely being vindictive.

  For a brief second, it worked. Lucas staring at me wide-eyed in disbelief, holding his palm to his cheek before his face crumpled with fear and he started to scream, “You hit me!” Lucas now curled up into a ball on my kitchen floor, crying inconsolably, saying over and over again, “You hit me.” His voice tinged with disbelief and hurt. My heart breaking at his inconsolable fear and sadness. Unable to believe that I had caused this terrible state. Desperate to hug Lucas and say I was sorry. Lucas pushing me away as I came close, then running, screaming, to his room, repeating over and over again, “You hit me!” at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying up the spiral staircase and through the cavernous rooms of the house. Shutting my eyes, ashamed and remorseful, grateful that at least Josh was at the Weinbergers.

  After a good long while I went upstairs and knocked lightly at his door before letting myself in. Lucas was curled up under the comforter on his bed, his face buried beneath the blanket.

  “Can I come in?” I asked from the doorway, knowing I had no right to assume he wanted to see me.

  No
answer from Lucas.

  “I’m going to come closer unless you tell me not to,” I said, inching my way carefully toward his bed.

  When I was next to him I peeled off the comforter and said, “I was wrong,” which only caused Lucas to turn away from me and start crying again.

  “I’m afraid of you!” he screamed, then buried his face in his hands again. My heart clenching up as if it were a fist, squeezing the air out of me, making me remember all the times I’d cried on my own bed as a child.

  “I was totally wrong,” I said again, wishing I could make this all go away. Wishing I could punish myself and make myself disappear. Give Lucas a better mother. Someone he deserved, who knew how to handle him.

  More whimpering from Lucas.

  “I can’t take it back,” I said. “But I can promise never to do it again,” I said, praying this was true.

  “How can you promise?” Lucas asked, his voice muffled beneath the covers.

  “Because I’m the adult. And I can make those promises and keep them,” I said, nervous that I couldn’t but also certain that by saying it I could at least try. Which would have to be good enough, not just for Lucas but for both of us. Which terrified me almost as much as hitting him had. How uncertain the future was; how I might not be good enough.

  * * *

  “No kid wants to see his mother out of control,” Jay said that evening when I told him about the slap and my horrible remorse about it.

  “I know. I know! I feel sick about it,” I said, getting out of bed to get socks, my toes suddenly numb.

  “You have to be the adult,” Jay continued, his slender shoulders and thick curly hair just visible above the top of the sheets.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I retorted, putting on my socks and then sitting on the chaise longue. Jay a good and loving father, but shockingly absent when it came to anything difficult. Jay an expert at setting up complicated Hot Wheels tracks, or teaching the kids to ride a bike without skinning their knees, but quickly excusing himself if the boys started bickering or needed discipline. Jay’s own father equally passive and not even present for the fun stuff. Saul Westerhof working long hours as a scientist at the local glass company, his free time spent sequestered in his basement workshop.

  “Can we please go to sleep now?” Jay called from the bed into the dressing room, refusing to engage with my parry. Which only made me madder.

  “I want to talk about this!” I insisted. Which wasn’t at all what I meant. I wanted him to excuse me and also compliment my parenting. I wanted him to reassure me that I was nothing like my own mother, who had or hadn’t mistreated me.

  Sighing from Jay. Then, “Look, just move on and try not to get so angry.”

  I let out a groan. This was Jay’s answer for anything. Not to feel things. His own mother a mean and difficult woman who held grudges against him from the time he was seven. For forgetting to turn off the television set. For not holding her hand at a mini mart.

  I hugged my knees tighter, furious that Jay couldn’t give me the love and reassurance I so desperately needed. Even though I knew he was merely afraid. Possibly more afraid than even I was. Of the things he couldn’t name. Of the forces he claimed had no effect on him.

  SLEEPING

  I CAUGHT PAIGE IN public and in a good mood. Paige scrubbing her yoga mat when she looked up and our eyes caught. Paige in brightly colored tights, a white tank top spotted with sweat. The studio heated to ninety degrees in contrast to the cold October air.

  “You told me about this place!” Paige said, sensing my confusion as I stared at her slicked-back hair and hollowed-out face.

  I had?

  “I love it here!” she continued cheerily, standing up with me to return our mats, walking blithely past the shrine with the Buddha and candles and carefully coiled prayer beads.

  “How are the kids?” I asked, not wanting to call attention to the strangeness of running into each other in a place like this. The strangeness of running into her, period. I never ran into Paige!

  “Great,” Paige said. “Did I tell you Cameron’s in a play?”

  She hadn’t told me. When would she have told me? I hadn’t seen her socially in nearly five months. She never came out of her house except to wave and hurry away again. Although obviously she did.

  “Cinderella,” she continued. “He’s the prince! They actually wanted him to play two parts, but some of the other mothers protested.”

  I listened. I murmured surprise and then support, catching a glimpse of my face in the studio mirror, disturbed by how odd my expressions looked with my hair pulled back. My dark roots glaring beneath the blond. My nose too big for my face.

  When Paige had finished, I said, “You must be driving a million carpools!”

  “Too many,” she agreed. Even though I doubted she drove any carpools at all. Was convinced Yazmin did everything for her except attend yoga class.

  “Well, if there’s an afternoon when Winnie’s just sitting at home and Cameron’s at play practice, I’d be happy to take her,” I said as we walked into the vestibule. Very carefully. So as not to make it sound like I liked Winnie too much. Adding, “I’ll take Cameron, too, if he’s home.”

  “Winnie would love that,” Paige gushed.

  “I’ll text you,” I said, eager to leave before it became awkward. Eager to leave before I was compelled to ask what she was doing with herself. Not eager to hear her half-truthful answers. Not eager to pretend I believed them.

  * * *

  I was writing an e-mail when the appointed day came. A note to my old boss asking for freelance work. Even though I knew that she judged me for leaving my job. For having children to begin with! My old boss going so far as to ask why I was having two of them.

  I wrote one more sentence about my volunteer work. Deleted it. Wrote it again. Finally closing my computer and walking over to Paige’s house. Thrilled when Winnie saw me and reached her arms straight up to hug me. Hugging her back and forgetting all my misgivings. Paige reaching down to smooth Winnie’s hair, to remind her to be good. Paige telling me not to be surprised if she couldn’t follow directions. Which annoyed me even as I accepted it. Aware that I probably sounded the same way when I sent my boys off with someone else. Eager to control things from a distance, to avoid being embarrassed.

  In the car, Winnie was quiet, looking out the window, saying nothing. Tiny in my booster seat, barely filling it up. I tried to make conversation with her, looking into the rearview mirror to see if she could understand me, but without the eye contact it was harder than I had anticipated.

  “Do you like stuffed animals?” I asked, unsure where to start.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  “Are you comfortable, or is there too much air blowing on you?” I asked.

  “Yes, please,” she answered. Which made me sad. Which made me worried. Was this what Paige demanded of her—constant agreement? Or was this all she was capable of—limited conversation? How much had I really talked with her in the ten months I’d known her?

  When we got to the Build-A-Bear store, the clerk told us what to do. Where to pick the furry skins, how to stuff them, what special things we could bury inside to make them feel more real, or at least personalized. Winnie silently nodding, her hands behind her back.

  “Did you understand?” I asked, bending down toward her.

  Winnie nodded some more, but I wasn’t certain. I took her hand and together we walked to the wall where stuffed animals were perched on shelves, bins below them with the plush fur to make one. We walked slowly down the row, eyeing the white floppy bunnies, the beige bears with big, puffy noses, dark spotted monkeys, purple dinosaurs, black-and-white cows. Winnie walking slowly, examining each piece with her eyes, careful, never touching anything without asking. When she wanted to see a particular animal more closely, she pointed and turned to me, saying, “Please?”

  I lifted each one up—the frog, the rainbow bear, the monkey—all of which Winnie would co
nsider for a moment before turning to me with her impish smile and saying, “Not that one!” And I would put the stuffed animal back, amazed by her determination, her discrimination, and her patience.

  Finally, after what seemed a long time, Winnie picked out a white dog with floppy brown ears, the dog larger than most of the other stuffed animals, somehow cuter and more lifelike. “I like it!” I said, pulling the stuffed animal off its perch and hugging it to show her I meant it. Winnie reaching out her arms to take the animal from me, then hugging it close to her chest as well, rocking forward and back with pleasure before settling back down on the soles of her shoes and saying, “I make it.”

  “Yes, you make it,” I said, putting the dog back where it belonged and reaching into the bin to pull out a fluffy skin. Winnie eyeing the fur skeptically, taking a step back, uncertain what she was supposed to do with it.

  “It’s like magic,” I said, smiling broadly, amazed myself the first time I’d come here with Josh and discovered that the stuffed animals really did come out as well as the ones you bought premade in a store. Even if they looked so sad and empty when you saw how they had begun. The lifeless patch of fabric. The depressing “stuffing” station.

  Winnie seeming to accept my promise, or at least my enthusiasm. Taking the limp material from me and skipping toward the corner where another clerk was working the loud fluffing machine. Winnie greeting the girl with a smile and a hello, carefully standing on the pedal like the girl showed her to, turning to me and saying, “I like that!” when the machine began to churn and the dog became more believable. In another moment, the girl handed Winnie a red gingham heart and told her to put it through the open hole in the back of the dog.

  “Why?” Winnie asked, smiling toward me, her fists beneath her chin, tilting her head to one side so that she almost looked like she was posing. I imagined it was the look she’d used in the orphanage. To get what she needed. To convince people to like her. Which didn’t make it ineffective. Even if there was the hint of artifice.