Good Neighbors

by Joanne Serling

  * * *

  Later, in our stateroom, the kids asleep in theirs, Jay brought it up first.

  “She’s not a nice mother,” he said, not bothering to define whom we were talking about. Who else could we be talking about?

  I agreed. I said it was awful. I said it was worse than awful. It was disgusting and deeply disturbing.

  “She should never have adopted,” Jay said, lying back on the bed in his T-shirt and boxers, his long, lean legs making him look like the fencer he’d once been.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, hopeful he knew something I didn’t. Hopeful that together we could see this thing more clearly. Jay’s insights usually surprisingly accurate, even if I thought they were harsh sometimes. Jay lifting his hands in a shrug, reaching for the remote.

  “Tell me,” I insisted, a whine creeping into my voice. More shrugging. Jay unwilling or merely unable to articulate this thing that he felt. Which made it seem more true, not less.

  “Paige isn’t always nasty!” I said, suddenly desperate to make Paige less bad and therefore not an obstacle we’d be forced to contend with later, when we wanted to go on vacation again or celebrate Leftovers Day. Jay not bothering to answer me, his face closed, no longer listening to my interpretation. Which only made me speak louder.

  “I’ve lost my temper with the kids. That doesn’t make me a terrible mother, does it?” I asked, my voice rising in a way that I knew Jay hated.

  “Sometimes you’re a little mental,” Jay said matter-of-factly.

  “What, now you think I’m like Paige Edwards?” I demanded.

  “You just said she’s not that bad!” Jay reminded me, beginning to flip through the channels on the tiny, old-fashioned television set.

  I wanted to kill him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to hug me back and say I was nothing like Paige Edwards. Even though I sensed we were more alike than I cared to acknowledge. Both of us vulnerable. Both of us eager to cover up the things we didn’t want known about us. I sat down next to Jay on the bed and asked more gently, “Did you like the fireworks?”

  Jay shrugged. “They were all right.”

  “The kids loved them,” I continued, my voice rising with manufactured enthusiasm. “Not just the fireworks, but everything. The beach. Running around the ship with all their friends. You have to admit, this was a great trip!”

  More shrugging from Jay, who seemed unwilling to commit to the topic of our shared happiness. Surfing through the limited TV channels for another minute before turning to me and saying, “Let’s just say I’m not eager to go on vacation with everyone again. Paige is crazy.”

  I stared at him, stunned, then got up and locked myself in the bathroom with a paperback. Furious. Frustrated. Flipping through the pages of my novel without really reading them. My head roaring with confusion and irritation.

  * * *

  On the way home from the port, Jay was unaccountably cheerful, mainly, I knew, because he’d gotten his way and we were practically the first ones off the ship, the highways clear as we drove west out of the city. It was going to be an easy ride home. Which made me happy even if it made me sad. Happy that Jay wouldn’t complain about traffic, but sad that he was desperate to get away. Already he was whistling. Already he was asking the boys if they’d like to stop for pancakes, which they screamed yes to. Jay laughing and full of plans for next summer as we got back in the car after breakfast. About how we’d go with the neighbors to the Cape or Ogunquit like normal people did. About how we’d never let Drew be in charge of reservations ever again.

  I agreed! Someplace classier, but also fun. Happy that Jay wanted to vacation with everyone again. Thrilled that the trip had meant something to him. Paige’s bad behavior something we could overlook. Which meant it wasn’t really that bad. Not something we had to make a big deal about. Which I appreciated about Jay. The way he could understand nuance after all. Even if I wasn’t entirely sure I understood it myself. The difference between imperfect and totally unacceptable.

  DRESSES

  THE LEAVES TWIRLED DOWN and the weather turned cooler. Sweatshirts were stuffed into backpacks along with homework and lunches. Oh, how I hated the homework. The lunch packing. The daily routine of it. It was so much worse to be the parent than the kid. To supervise all of it! Not that I could tell my kids that. They hated school. Complained about their teachers. The difficulty of so much writing and arithmetic! But at least they did it. Nela admitting that Sebastian was struggling with simple directions. Lorraine claiming that Gabe refused to write anything. Apparently he’d folded his arms during language arts, not even picking up a pencil. Which was brave, when you thought about it. Lorraine had been forced to think about it! She’d already had a conference with his first-grade teacher, and it was barely October. She called me constantly. About tutors. About books on tape. About whether I knew anyone who would read to Gabe nightly. I understood her. I consoled her. I told her under no circumstances to hire a part-time reader! But I didn’t want to talk to her daily. Especially now that I was finally working again. I had started freelancing for my old company. Which was like running into an old boyfriend. The rush of it. To be admired still. Even if I knew what was coming. The rejection all over again. By me, who had quit to begin with. By my boss when she discovered I was no longer the person she hoped I was. Someone wholly focused on work. Someone without a personal life.

  I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I could do it. I was doing it. Every week another writing project. Every week another feeling of accomplishment. This despite the constant interruptions from Lorraine, who didn’t get the fact that I was working.

  It was Tuesday. I was finally into the rhythm of my latest assignment—updating the bank’s educational web page about personal credit. And now Lorraine was calling. She’d called twice in the morning. Which I had ignored. But if I didn’t pick up, she’d call me after dinner with that hurt voice, the voice that sounded accusatory and slightly injured. Like I wasn’t being a good friend.

  I picked up. I tried to sound like I was trying not to sound aggrieved. Lorraine didn’t notice. Or else she noticed but didn’t care.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said, as if that could explain her hounding me.

  “Okay,” I said, standing up from my cluttered desk to look out my side window, hoping for some relief. Disappointed by what greeted me there. My deer-eaten hedge. My droopy forsythia bush that needed to be staked or replanted. And of course the empty flower beds I’d been talking about filling for more than four summers!

  “We went to Paige’s for dinner last night,” Lorraine said, pausing dramatically. As if this were news in and of itself. Which it was. Sort of. The air around Paige’s house charged since we’d returned from our trip. The particles clanging together with anger, or at least upset, whenever Paige lost her temper with Winnie, which was frequently and over nothing. For not saying please and thank you. For not asking permission to leave the stoop and play in the yard, even if Cameron was already playing there.

  “She had Yazmin waiting on us like it was the queen’s dinner,” Lorraine continued.

  I said, “Paige always does that,” not really caring about how tense the dinner was or how badly Paige had acted. Wondering instead if I should cut down my hedge or spray it with deer repellent and see if it could flourish. Which I always thought about, every single time I looked at the property line from above.

  “No, I mean it was embarrassing,” said Lorraine. “She was shouting orders to Yazmin like, ‘Hurry up and don’t forget!’ I had my head bowed! I couldn’t look at Paige. I mean, it was just the two of us and four kids eating chicken nuggets. Why did she have to shout at Yazmin to clear the plates?”

  “Because that’s what Paige does,” I said, relieved that this was all Lorraine was telling me, turning away from the window.

  “Wait, there’s more,” Lorraine continued, her voice growing slightly scratchy, as if she’d choked on a cracker. Getting up, no doubt, to close her o
ffice door.

  “Go on,” I said, returning to my own desk with its clutter of birthday party invitations and school notices.

  “Well, you know the big third-floor bonus room Paige has?”

  I knew it. I’d been amazed by how large it was the first time I’d seen it. Paige and Gene bragging that they’d designed it with their architect. Half of the elaborate space devoted to Paige’s wrapping projects: a giant Parsons table on one side, surrounded by bins of expensive ribbons and exotic silk flowers. The other half lined with closets for off-season clothing and a wooden rod for gowns and formal wear. Not to mention the built-in bookshelves with rows of holiday decorations. Easter baskets and miniature ceramic bunnies. Halloween skeletons and Fourth of July banners. And, of course, Christmas wreaths and baskets of handmade ornaments. I told Lorraine I definitely knew it.

  “Well, she went up there to show me this old sweater of her grandmother’s—don’t ask me why; it’s a long story—and while I’m standing in the entrance I see a row of like twenty girls’ dresses in plastic dry-cleaning bags along the wall. I’m like, ‘That’s a lot of dresses, Paige,’ and she laughs a little and tells me they’re designer dresses from Gene’s sister. She handed them down to Winnie. Apparently Paige can’t give them to Winnie because she doesn’t take care of her things. I mean, Winnie’s five and a half. How’s she supposed to take care of her things?”

  “Well it’s not like she’s poorly dressed,” I said, remembering Winnie’s colorful leggings and quilted fall jacket. Her pretty bathing suit at the beach in Bermuda.

  “I know, it’s true. So I was prepared to let it drop, but then Paige just stands there looking tired and annoyed and she says, ‘You have no idea how destructive Winnie is.’”

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear this. Even though I knew that I should.

  “She says she can’t let Winnie play in the basement anymore because she’s breaking all of Cameron’s toys. According to Paige, and this is a quote, ‘the playroom reminds Winnie of the orphanage in Russia’!”

  We were both silent. Speechless. Unsure how to proceed. Or at least I was. Should we believe this? And what was Winnie supposed to do while Cameron played down there? Wouldn’t she feel excluded, or worse, like a second-class citizen?

  “Well?” Lorraine pressed, her voice nearly jolly, as if she was keeping herself from laughing. Which I understood. The impulse to pretend this was kooky and not disturbing. The sudden release it was offering us if we both just gave in to it.

  “That’s craaaazy!” I said, my voice dramatic and full of playful emphasis. Leaning back in my office chair to fully embrace the mood of it.

  “I mean, how does she justify it?” Lorraine persisted, chuckling a little, relieved, I could see, that this was the direction we were heading in. The entertainment value of Paige’s strange parenting.

  Suddenly I was eager to hear the whole story again from the beginning with greater detail and more questions answered. What did the dresses look like? Why did Gene’s sister dry-clean them? Did Paige plan to give them away or keep them forever, a shrine to Winnie’s misbehavior? And, of course, one last sweep through Lorraine’s memory to justify the basement comment. Couldn’t the babysitter just supervise the kids in the playroom?

  When every dress and basement toy had been mentally picked over and examined by us, the truth of the story obscured and no longer relevant, I asked, “What about Gene?” wondering if Lorraine thought he loved Winnie, as I thought he did.

  “Gene!” Lorraine said, and I could imagine her flinging her hands up in tired acceptance.

  “No, seriously. Doesn’t he seem to love Winnie? Or at least spend time with her and seem proud of her when Paige isn’t around?”

  “But it’s just dresses. And toys. He’s not going to get involved at that level.”

  I wondered if Lorraine believed this excuse, or if this was just another example of her insistence on denying anything difficult. It was true that Gene was traditional, certainly not the kind of father to get involved in day-to-day parenting. And yet. He had to know these decisions weren’t normal. Certainly not kind or generous. Which made Gene seem suddenly worse to me. Fully aware and passive. Willing to just let things happen.

  When we finally hung up, I went back to my assignment: writing about credit reports and credit scores. Which was so boring! But also fascinating. The nuance of the thing. The way that everyone in America was rated and scored based on their purchases and loan history. But your score was constantly changing, so you could go from being a good risk to a bad one by making very simple mistakes. Or by making no mistakes at all, just failing to understand the system. Of course, the formulas were all secret. And each credit organization rated you differently. Which made the whole process more maddening, more confusing, and impossible to understand. But I didn’t need to understand it. Not fully. I just needed to explain it, which was different.

  In a little while I no longer remembered Winnie and the dresses. Thrilled instead with my progress. With my output and accomplishment.

  A DISAGREEMENT

  THE BOYS WANTED NEW Halloween costumes. A karate suit for Josh. Some sort of ghoul mask for Lucas. I said maybe. I said, “I doubt it.” I said we had plenty of old costumes already to choose from! The entire mess of hand-me-downs and gently worn purchases piled in my front hall vestibule as I looked for something suitable. Aware I was being overly practical. What kid didn’t want a new Halloween costume? Remembering the time Penny and I had dressed up as Charlie’s Angels when we were both in high school. Me as Farrah Fawcett and she as Kate Jackson. Both of us buying wigs, high boots, ugly polyester blouses. Which had seemed funny to us then. Which seemed funny to me now. Deciding on impulse to call Penny. The apartment phone ringing and ringing with no answer. The cell phone temporarily out of service. Which wasn’t entirely unusual. My sister sometimes late on bills. Penny’s absence from the apartment easily explained by the fact that she often went to the library on weekends to finish the teaching certificate. Which I was thrilled about. Even as I worried that things weren’t exactly as she reported them. What if she was passed out somewhere from binge drinking?

  I dialed again, which I knew was obsessive, going back downstairs to stare at myself in the hallway mirror. My green eyes staring back at me. Wishing I had some sort of answer. Aware I couldn’t go on staring and dialing. Returning to my costume pile when the phone suddenly rang. My mother on the other end asking me if I’d talked to Penelope lately.

  “I have,” I lied impulsively, not eager to create a crisis if there wasn’t one.

  “I can’t get a hold of her. We’re supposed to go to a jewelry-making class tonight,” my mother said. “At the new bead design store.”

  They were?

  “I told her no drinking when she was with me. That’s my ironclad rule!” my mother said, her voice rising.

  “I’m sure they don’t want alcohol in the store,” I joked, hoping to appease her before she got started. My mother ignoring me. My mother saying, “If she stands me up, I’ll be furious.”

  “Why would she stand you up?” I asked, beginning to get worried that my mother knew something that I didn’t.

  “Well, as long as you talked to her, I feel better,” she said. “I’ve called her every day to confirm the workshop and she hasn’t called back. It’s not cheap, you know.”

  “Someone’s at my door,” I lied. Eager to get off the phone with her. To stare out the window and contemplate whether something was actually wrong with Penny, if both my mother and I had had the same hunch. Aware this was nonsensical, even though it also made sense. To have sudden inexplicable feelings that were more often right than they were wrong. The ones you loved tied to you forever by some invisible cord of electrified knowledge. Staring out the window at the Edwardses’ yard, at the ghost dangling from their maple tree. Wondering how they hoisted it so high. Imagining Gene leaning out the third-floor dormer, walking gingerly across the roofline.

  * * *

/>   My sister called me the next day to tell me she was in Wheeling, West Virginia.

  “West Virginia?” I asked, astounded that she had traveled three hours from home without telling our mother.

  “I came with another substitute teacher,” she said, her voice booming with enthusiasm. Or was she covering up something?

  “Does Phyllis know where you are?” I asked, settling back down into our hall vestibule. Avoiding the mirror, even though I couldn’t help but glimpse the ugly downturn of my mouth. The look of disapproval. Even if I wasn’t disapproving. It was just what my mouth looked like!

  “Do you tell Phyllis everyplace you go?” my sister asked me.

  “She thought you were going to a jewelry-making class with her!” I exploded.

  “I didn’t say yes. That was her interpretation of events. You know our mother. The world according to Phyllis!”

  “We were worried!” I said, wishing I had some corner of the house to clean, aware that my housekeeper was doing it right then. That I couldn’t jump up and do it, too.

  “Because I wasn’t in my house? I do have a life, Nicole. Or did you forget that?”

  I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath.

  “Is this trip for any special occasion?” I finally asked, trying to sound supportive, even though I worried there was something she was hiding. That Bob was involved somehow.

  “It’s a meditation retreat. They had a sliding scale and my sponsor paid the fee. I just had to pay transportation.”

  Sponsor? Was that AA speak? Was there more to this weekend away? I was afraid to ask. Aware I wasn’t supposed to bring up drinking with someone who drank. The other tidbit I’d gotten from my single visit to Al-Anon.

  “So anyway, I’m in the countryside. It’s gorgeous. I feel so much better about myself. About everything. I’m not with Bob, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Okay,” I said. Wishing to believe it.