Good Neighbors

by Joanne Serling

  THE WINDOW

  BY FEBRUARY, PEOPLE HAD started to disappear. Not eager to be on their lawns, to greet each other and to pretend that everything was fine. Lorraine suddenly busy with a trainer she met at some fundraising dinner. The trainer meeting her three nights a week at her country club and teaching her the art of paddle tennis, a game I assumed Lorraine already knew, but that she claimed her trainer was teaching her better. As if paddle tennis needed such attention! Drew busy trying to expand his baseball card business, adding framed jerseys, signed game balls, cheap tin signs that kids could hang above their beds. Drew insisting that he couldn’t keep up with business. Which seemed promising, if also unlikely. I’d never seen anyone in the store, personally. Nela telling me bluntly, “I can’t solve the world’s problems.” Hinting that her parents were being taken advantage of by a home health aide. That it was causing her to lose sleep, to gain weight.

  I knew what she meant. I hated what she meant. That you had to take care of yourself first. Had to be sane and stable and able to weather the storms that got hurled at you frequently. Josh suddenly fighting with one particular boy in his second grade class. Josh appearing with a black eye, which he claimed he got from falling off the jungle gym. Teachers were called. Statements taken. The whole thing roiling me to the point that I couldn’t bear to think about Winnie.

  Except that I did. Alone at night I tried to picture her. Her pale face. Her Disney smile. Desperate to believe she was still in school. Still safe and watched over. Even though none of us had seen her since the glass door incident. Winnie never seen getting on or off a school bus. Never once witnessed in the yard with Cameron. The curtains in Paige’s house always closed. The shades drawn upstairs and down.

  * * *

  And then, six weeks after Winnie’s disturbing collision, six weeks after we’d stopped talking or seeing or confiding in each other, Lorraine stopped by after work to tell me that Gene was going on a buying trip to Italy.

  “Can you believe this? He says his family’s in danger and he’s going on a buying trip to Italy!”

  I was on my front porch pulling up old plants from my stone planters, my hands covered in mud since I’d forgotten to wear gloves.

  “If you even believe him,” I said, looking up at her and raising my eyebrows before returning to my pulling.

  “Well, why would you say such a thing and not mean it?” Lorraine asked, dumbfounded.

  “Some people are really manipulative,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think Gene would lie about something like that!” Lorraine said. Clearly angry. Clearly doubting me.

  “Some people don’t even remember half the stuff they say after they say it!” I said. Mad at her, for doubting me. For not sensing how much more insightful I was than her!

  “Gene’s a really nice guy,” Lorraine insisted.

  I stopped pulling plants and stared at her, incredulous.

  Lorraine swallowed. “I know. He’s not acting right. But I like Gene. He’s a lot of fun. Or he was before. Now he looks like an old man.”

  I murmured something that could have been support or total disagreement, taking my pile of plant carcasses and dumping them in a Hefty bag.

  “I don’t think he’s a bad guy, but I do think he’s a little reckless. I mean, if he’s that worried about their home life, why’s he going away?”

  “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” I said, not interested in analyzing Gene’s motivations. Just glad that he was going. Aware that there was now one less person to worry about when I wanted to try to sneak into their house. My plan not really a plan, just a desire that I hoped I could execute when the opportunity presented itself. And here it was. Gene going away. Paige more likely to go out if she was alone in the house at night.

  I finished pulling the dead plants out of the second planter, threw the remains in my Hefty bag, and then rubbed my hands vigorously over the opening, hoping to rid myself of the dirt that still stuck to me.

  “So now what?” I asked when my hands were as clean as I could make them.

  “Gene tells me he always buys Paige this special hand soap in Sicily and asks me if I want some. Like we were friends again! Like none of the other stuff happened.”

  I sighed deeply, tied up the Hefty bag, and motioned for Lorraine to follow me to the garbage cans. When I was through fiddling with the lids, I turned to Lorraine and said, “Please do me a favor.”

  “Anything. You know that,” she said, her eyes bright, her smile eager. Lorraine never so alive as when she thought she was going to help a friend in need, especially if the “help” consisted of something trivial but thoughtful, like driving a carpool or recommending a cleaning lady.

  I stopped and drew my breath in sharply. “Please don’t ever come here again and tell me what a good guy Gene is. You’re better than that.”

  Lorraine started to open her mouth in protest, but no words came out. For once, I didn’t care if I had hurt her feelings. For once, I didn’t care if she liked me. I wanted her to hear the hard truth, to hear it plainly and without adornment. To make her go to the uncomfortable place where she had, for a lifetime, refused to travel. Where I myself was an infrequent visitor.

  We both stood for a moment in the dying twilight of the day, staring at each other, waiting for something to happen. When after a moment neither of us spoke, I turned and walked away from her.

  * * *

  At eight p.m., the dinner cleared and the children in front of the television set, I told Jay I was going out for a walk. The evening cold and not suited for walking, but Jay was oblivious to anything that wasn’t on his computer screen. Not thinking to question me.

  I walked quickly toward the end of the circle, stopped next to the Edwardses’ driveway, and peered around the house to see if a car was parked there. Paige’s white Lexus visible when I craned my neck. I continued walking around the cul-de-sac, searching the cloudy sky for a pattern of stars, disturbed when I couldn’t find even the Big Dipper hidden somewhere in the firmament.

  The next night, I excused myself again and again I found Paige’s car exactly where I’d last seen it, the bad angle making me think she hadn’t moved it all day. The bad angle making me think she was a shut-in. Nobody could park that badly twice in a row. And so I left, trying to feel the beauty of the late winter evening as I walked slowly down our street.

  On the third and fourth nights, I arrived at the Edwardses’ driveway and found exactly what I expected. Paige’s car where she had left it. The house silent and in some sort of perpetual lockdown.

  On the fifth night, I considered abandoning my plan altogether. The weather had turned sharp. The wind blowing my hair up as I poked my head outside my kitchen storm door. But how lazy to give up. How selfish and also unhelpful. I grabbed a hat and warmer gloves, then set out toward the Edwardses’. Surprised and pleased when I discovered the Lexus was gone. Which was exactly what I was looking for.

  I crossed Paige’s front lawn, broken branches cracking beneath my boots, and rang the doorbell, rehearsing my story. If Lydia answered, I’d tell her the truth and hope for the best. Even though I doubted it would be Lydia. I hadn’t seen her since before the glass door incident. If it were another sitter, a college kid or someone gullible, I’d say I had a present for the kids and could I give it to them? I’d been carrying light-up tops in my pocket for days, ready for just such an occasion.

  I rang the bell and heard the gonging somewhere inside. No footsteps. I rang again. Knocked with the knocker. Waited some more. I was about to give up dejectedly when I saw Nela come out her front door and stare at me accusingly. Or at least I felt accused. For being on the Edwardses’ property. For the appearance that I was still friends with them. Not that I could see anything but the dimmest outline of Nela’s body in the darkness. Her front light just barely illuminating her silhouette. I walked to the edge of the Edwardses’ vast lawn, said, “Hey,” then quietly crossed the grass to Nela’s stoop.

  “What are yo
u doing?” she asked when I reached her, more curious than accusatory.

  “The truth or the story?” I asked, still holding the plastic tops in my coat pocket.

  Nela laughed a little. “I guess I’ll take the truth for two hundred dollars,” she joked, motioning for me to sit beside her on the step. But I didn’t want to sit. I didn’t want to linger. I wanted to move forward with my plan before I lost my courage.

  “I’m trying to find Winnie,” I said, even though it didn’t make sense. That I’d be looking for Winnie in an empty house. But Nela didn’t seem to question my faulty logic. She merely nodded and waited for me to go on.

  “I know Paige is out. Gene’s in Italy. I thought I could quiz the babysitter. Or pretend I was dropping off a present,” I said, holding up the cheap plastic gifts.

  “But no one answered,” I added, starting to shove the tops back into my coat pocket. Nela licked her lips. I thought I noticed a tremor in her right hand as she spoke.

  “I was out here because I noticed the light on in their third floor,” she said. “It creeped me out. It’s the room where Paige keeps her holiday decorations and all those dresses she never gave Winnie. I’m just stuck staring at the light, thinking, ‘What the fuck? And why is it on?’ and I came out to sit on the stoop and sort of stare at it like the moon.”

  I sat beside her then and stared at it, too. The tiny window was indeed golden like the moon, but not promising. Just present, like a panel that illuminated nothingness.

  “Maybe they went out to eat,” Nela said tentatively, even though we both knew that Paige never took the kids out past six p.m. That she believed in strict early bedtimes, even on weekends. We both sighed, defeated, lost in our thoughts. After a few minutes, Nela said, “I know how to get in there.”

  I turned and looked at her.

  “Wait here a sec,” she said, rising and disappearing into her house, leaving me alone in the cold of the February evening. After a minute, Nela returned and showed me a loose key, not even on a chain. Her hand trembling as she gave it to me.

  “Gene asked us to hang on to it when they went to Russia. ‘Just in case.’ We forgot to give it back,” she said. “It’s for the French doors.”

  “What if they come home?” I asked, already feeling the rush of adrenaline from knowing I would use it.

  “I’ll call your cell,” Nela said, holding up her cell phone.

  I nodded, starting to stand, starting to walk away from her before I could change my mind.

  “Make sure you check out the light,” she called from her stoop. “At the very least, turn it off. It’s driving me crazy!” No doubt wanting me to break in as much to turn off the light as to find out what was going on with Winnie. She was that single-minded. That focused. Even though I knew that wasn’t all of it. That she’d been anxiously staring at the light for the same reason I’d been ringing the doorbell. Because we cared. Because we were helpless not to.

  * * *

  I let myself in through the pool gate and willed myself to walk slowly across the patio and up the steps to the terrace and French doors. I fitted the key into the narrow lock and jiggled it back and forth until I felt it catch, then turned the handle to let myself in. Waiting to make sure I didn’t hear an alarm go off, even though I knew Paige never set hers.

  Inside, I felt my body begin to shake, my mouth suddenly dry. What if Paige were upstairs sleeping? I walked to the front hall and listened. The house quiet, settling. The house seemingly empty even though a piece of me doubted it. Even though a piece of me feared that Winnie was locked up somewhere inside of it.

  “Winnie?” I called up the stairs and into the stillness. I half expected to hear banging or pleading, but nothing answered me. I walked up the carpeted stairway, the green-and-white design plush and springy beneath my feet. I remembered when Paige had gotten the new runner, how much we’d all admired it. All of us wanting to replace our old runners with new ones now that she’d done it. Not that we liked her taste in particular.

  On the second floor, all the bedroom doors were shut, which was strange, and meant someone could be inside one of them. Who closed the bedroom doors when they went out for the evening?

  I knocked on Paige and Gene’s room first, turned the knob and swung the door open, worried I’d find Paige resting on her bed, afraid she might spring up and pounce on me. But I was merely greeted by a muslin headboard, white pillows propped up at attention, a discarded handbag and a pair of pumps turned over next to the closet. She’d switched outfits. Which made sense if she was going out and wanted to look stylish. Gene’s things put away. Or at least not visible. A feminine room.

  I closed the bedroom door softly and felt less afraid, Paige’s specter hidden behind the door. I tried to remember whose door was whose and moved quickly toward Cameron’s room, turning the doorknob and peering in at the deep blue and red walls, the monogrammed throw pillows tossed on the floor. A flat-screen TV built into a footboard that rose above his messy, unmade bed. He was so spoiled! I suddenly hated Cameron, backing out of the room, eager to get away from his presence. Turning left toward the final door, which had to be Winnie’s. I pushed at the door and was surprised when it opened, the latch not in its place, as if someone had recently been there.

  Inside, Winnie’s single bed was stripped of its sheets. A pillow lay without its case on the mattress and stuffed animals remained upright, abandoned against the wall. I opened the closet and saw row after row of empty wire hangers, then tugged at the dresser drawers, disturbed by how empty they were. Which meant what, exactly? That Winnie was gone with her clothing? Or maybe Paige had done something worse to her. Something from which she needed to escape? The thought making me dizzy and lightheaded as I stepped out of Winnie’s room, terrified about what to do next. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them, my breath turning ragged as I walked toward the third-floor staircase.

  “Winnie?” I called at the bottom, desperate to believe she was in the house with me. Possibly abused, locked up, but still breathing.

  Silence. Or did I hear a rattling?

  “Winnie?” I called again, louder.

  I felt it rather than heard it. A presence. Someone or something was definitely in the house with me.

  I pulled out my cell phone and clutched it in my palm as I carefully climbed the wooden stairs, no runner to cushion the sound of my steps, the creaking like something out of a bad horror movie.

  When I neared the third-floor landing, the presence was stronger, another being upstairs, aware of me, waiting. I prayed it wouldn’t be too terrible. To see Winnie emaciated. Maybe even tied up. My hands slick with sweat as I opened the door to the bonus room and stepped inside.

  After that I remember very little. The light blinding me, or maybe the stench merely felled me. The brown extension cord. Gene’s bloated face. The hand-me-down dresses like a gauntlet on either side of his body. And then, blankness. A certain confusion. My head and neck still tender from where I must have fallen. Or from the board the paramedics used when they carried me out of the house. My memory filled with clanging sounds and strange, disorienting perspectives. Gene’s body on a second board alongside mine. Or did I merely imagine that part? The heart and mind forever in battle. Against the things we mustn’t know. Against the things we desperately wish to anyway.

  * * *

  Gene’s mother came. His brother from Wellesley and a sister from northern Michigan. Their teenage kids. All of Gene’s colleagues from his company. Plus their wives. Paige’s large and contentious family. Her father standing in the far right corner of the funeral home, not far from Gene’s casket, talking to no one. Paige’s mother too fragile and shaken to stand; Lorraine sitting next to her for a while before the crush of visitors made it necessary for her to move on. All of this reported to me by Lorraine, who came over immediately following the funeral to tell me about it.

  “Paige’s mother told me that all Paige ever wanted was a large family,” Lorraine said, her voice catching. Both of u
s on my front porch, the door open, cold air blowing into my living room.

  I sighed. I’d heard that before. From Paige. It was one of the reasons why she wanted to adopt so badly in the first place. Because she felt like a failure with just one child.

  “I don’t think there’s anything we could have done differently,” Lorraine said, her face wobbly, her skin loose along her neckline. She’d aged suddenly. I imagined she’d say the same about me if she thought about it. Thick, silvery hairs shining at my root line. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, guilty and full of remorse about calling Family Services. Trying to focus on the facts, the specifics. Asking Lorraine if she’d gotten any more details.

  “Winnie was homeschooled for a few weeks. That’s why nobody saw her.”

  I nodded. I knew this. The police had told me this when I’d been investigated about my break-in.

  “Winnie’s with a new family now,” Lorraine added. Very softly. Because she knew, no doubt, how I would take it.

  I swallowed. Tears streaming down my face before I realized they were coming.

  “That’s where Paige was when you broke in. They did a private rehoming. It’s not the standard process, apparently, but they didn’t want her in the foster system.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they worked some back channels to find a good home for her. Paige’s mother said the family had been adoptive parents before and were familiar with special-needs children. They’re willing to go through the state to make the adoption final. Winnie’s with them ‘unofficially’ at the moment.”

  I sighed. So many complications. So many rules to protect the innocent. Even if it was impossible. For them, or for anyone, really. Hanging my head. Overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation.

  “Did Gene really go to Italy?” I asked.