Julia: That seems kind of authoritarian.
Helen: The idea is that one house can bring down the property values for the entire community. And since dues can be as high as a thousand dollars a year, all the residents are invested in making sure everyone follows the rules.
Julia: Okay, even creepier. Like your neighbors are now informants. [whispering] I’d like to report an untrimmed tree.
Helen: But you have to figure the people who move there like it that way. Of course, it doesn’t mean that nothing bad ever happens. I was going over police reports for the neighborhood we’re considering, and there’s the usual tame suburban stuff. Traffic violations and petty theft. The neighborhood actually has its own designated deputy from the sheriff’s office. Here’s a fun fact: he gave faux tickets to anyone with valuables on their front seats or with their car doors unlocked.
Julia: So he’d try car doors to see if any of them were unlocked. Creepy.
Helen: Or really earnest.
Julia: It’s a little too “Big Brother.”
Helen: But there’s also some darker stuff. A meth lab within two miles of an elementary school rated in the ninety-fifth percentile. A home invasion. Car theft. So what happens in a case like the one we’re describing, when a perfectly nice, HOA-run neighborhood suddenly finds itself the site of a murder house?
Julia: You’re jumping ahead. First we have to meet our murderer.
CHAPTER
4
AFTER RAHMIA’S HUSBAND, a handsome man with heavy brows, picked her up, I paced around the empty house, looking for tasks that required little thought—retaping the box with memories of Aimee so Michael wouldn’t worry, wiping down the counters, moving books from one place to another.
In Jersey, I’d never felt alone like this. Our apartment was surrounded by other apartments, and I was never more than a thin wall away from another human being. And we’d had a doorman at the entrance, a person always there to keep me safe.
Now I checked and rechecked the alarm system until Michael got home. He was tired, I could see it in the heavy way he set down his bag, but as I told my story, the life came back into him.
“She just barged in?” He looked around, as though evaluating the safety of our home.
“She was scared. And I know her.” By sight, anyway.
“You need to be careful about opening the door to strangers.” Did he think I couldn’t be trusted home alone? It wasn’t like I’d just open the door to anyone.
“I know her. She’s not a stranger.” I wrapped my arms around my middle for reinforcement. Letting the wrong person in. That was something I’d done, to myself and to Michael too.
“Okay.” Maybe Michael regretted coming on so strong, because he said, “It’s still light outside. Let’s go see what happened.”
“I’m not sure where they live.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ve been sitting at a desk all day. It’ll feel good to stretch my legs.”
Even this late, the indigo sky glowed with lingering daylight. If we had been in our Jersey neighborhood, the streets would have been crowded with people coming home from work or heading out to night jobs, on their way to meet friends or lovers, running to the bodega, walking a dog, in motion, always in motion, in throngs. In this neighborhood, there was so much space. Back in Jersey, my parents also lived in the suburbs, but in an older neighborhood without these broad sidewalks and blank, cookie-cutter houses.
A car passed us with only a single person inside, a woman driving, her face set in a tight mask of concentration. And it was almost a full minute before another car came along, this one with a man driving and a child alone in the back seat. And then another moment before a third went by, an SUV with tinted windows. Out on the highway, these vehicles packed together like people on a city sidewalk, but as they peeled off down their exit ramps, each went its separate way to soccer practice or Scouts or home for a sit-down dinner.
Now we had space to walk holding hands, swinging them a little without worrying we’d be knocked apart by a Segway or cursed by a commuter. Ahead of us, a car pulled up to our street’s block of freestanding mailboxes, and a woman leaned out to unlock her box and withdraw a handful of envelopes. Then she drove a few houses down, pulled into her driveway, and got out, juggling the mail and a briefcase and her keys. A man jogged past on the opposite sidewalk, and in the distance I saw a teenager walking a shaggy dog. Michael and I weren’t alone, but nobody jostled us or drove us together. Everyone was an island.
Michael and I crossed over Windswept Court and walked only a little ways before we saw it, a brick house like any other. The only sign of trauma was the garage, bowed in just as Rahmia had described it. Streaks of red paint marred the pale metal of the garage door, and bits of broken plastic glittered on the driveway.
Other than that, her house was indistinguishable from a house we’d passed on the previous block. The same builder had designed them all, the same landscaper had planted crape myrtles and boxwood, and the same homeowners’ association had mandated the colors of the front doors and the height of the lawns.
Michael tugged my hand. “Look.” He nodded to the street, and I saw black rubber streaks where the car must have skidded out of control.
“How fast do you think they were going?”
He paused, considering. “Not too fast. The door’s banged up, but if they’d been going full tilt, a car could have smashed right through.” Calculations must have been flashing through his mind like one of those mathematical word problems I could never solve.
Then one of the curtains in the front windows twitched, and I was suddenly self-conscious. Even when I saw it was Bibi, popping up and down in the window under the edge of the curtain as she leapt, I tugged Michael’s hand. Rahmia had felt like a potential friend. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of stalker, checking up on her story.
As the daylight ebbed away, the lighted windows seemed to brighten, each a pinhole theater, inviting our gaze. In one, a vermilion wall displayed an oversized poster of Marilyn Monroe. In another, a man watered plants, the circular front window framing him like a piece of performance art.
Everyday activities by everyday people, surrealistically ordinary.
We’d been walking in silent harmony, I thought, like we often did as a kind of transition, a space between our workday and our time together at home. But then Michael asked, “Did you get a recommendation from Dr. Johnson?” and my whole body tensed.
I’d forgotten. My head was still so slow, and I’d opened the box from Aimee, and then Rahmia came by, and—all the excuses spiraled through me, fueled by shame.
“I didn’t.” I could hear the edge in my voice as clearly as Michael surely could. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. But, goddammit, I was doing the best I could.
He didn’t say anything, and that felt like a reproof.
On our walk home, we passed more ordinary, happy people with easy, uncomplicated lives, or at least that’s the way they seemed—a jogger with a red baseball cap, a lady with a baby in a front pack and a collie on a leash, and a couple about our age, taking a walk like we were. They were on the other side of the street, so we gave each other half waves and swift smiles.
The man raised his chin, and I thought he’d probably say Hey instead of Hi. The woman had wildly curly red hair, and she smiled at me like we were in on a secret.
I couldn’t smile back.
There were secrets, I thought, as Michael unlocked our front door. Secrets inside every house. Not the kind you could see through a window.
* * *
The next morning I woke to the movement of the bed, the disruption of the covers, and drowsed through the sounds of Michael showering. I could stay in bed all day. No one would miss me or pity me or say, “Have you seen Kacy?” But yesterday, I’d started to succumb to that siren song.
I’d gotten back under the covers and lost half a day, and it had only made things worse.
<
br /> Once Michael’s off to work, you’ll have nine hours to huddle under your blanket fort. There’s no reason to get up. There’s nothing out there for you.
But I recognized that whisper, and I flung back the bedsheets. Aimee was an external saboteur, but just like in a horror movie, this call was coming from inside the house. Or, more precisely, my head. I couldn’t be my own worst enemy anymore.
Michael came out of the bathroom, already dressed in a neatly pressed shirt and trousers, his hair still damp and his neck flushed. He grinned, and I knew my own hair must be a tangled mess, but he liked it. He asked, “What’s your plan for today?”
My days used to be so full, packed with meetings and tasks for work and list after list of activities that might fill any free time. I missed being overscheduled.
“I’ll find a doctor.” I stood and started smoothing the bedclothes. Michael knew what kind of doctor I meant.
He took the other side of the coverlet and helped me pull it up neatly. “How about the SSS group? When do they get together next?”
Michael’s new company was great about supporting spouses. The Spousal Support System had sent a thick packet of information home with him, just for me. Book clubs, organized outings, conversation groups in a dizzying array of languages. Gregarious women who had traveled the world and were conquering Sugar Land with confidence.
Not a chance I could handle that.
My overwhelm must have shown in my face, because Michael said, “Or something lower-key like that neighborhood group Elizabeth mentioned? Don’t they have a meeting or something today?”
Right. The Bluebonnet women’s group. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Are you done in the bathroom?”
“You could call her and get the details.”
“We’ll see.” Now there was a slight edge to my voice, and Michael let it drop. He didn’t need to organize a playdate for me. If I decided to go to this meeting, I was capable of finding out where it was.
After all, I’d gotten out of bed.
But I didn’t want to send him off to work with distance between us. And Rahmia had made me feel a little bolder. It had been easy, talking with her. Or at least, listening while she talked. A group might even be less intimidating, because all the attention wouldn’t be on me.
“I’ll probably go.”
He grinned. “I might be home late. Have a good time.”
After my shower and coffee, I found the information. Actually, a child could have found the information. The group had a website, and their meetings were open to anyone. Usually their monthly meetings were held at the neighborhood’s clubhouse, kind of a cross between a park pavilion and a community center funded by our HOA. But this meeting was the “Fall Kickoff” at the Sugar Land Country Club.
For a second I thought about forgetting the whole thing, telling Michael I couldn’t find it, anything. But honestly, why should it make any difference whether I was braving a crowd of strangers in a casual or an upscale setting?
Opening that box, thinking about Aimee, had just brought it all closer to the surface. The entire story of my crappy past year filled me to the brim. It was all I could think about, all the time. And if I wasn’t careful, if I relaxed for even a second, I would vomit it all out. A group setting seemed safe.
I just wanted my existence to be less effort. A conversation that I didn’t have to edit, an evening where I wasn’t trying to prove anything. When Michael and I met, I’d just said whatever I wanted, and he did the same. Now he was so worried about me, and I was so desperate to appear okay, that we were performing our relationship instead of participating in it. I couldn’t keep pretending to be okay; my poker face sucked. I had to get better for real.
Fortunately, there was time before the meeting to scroll through the list of mental health care providers covered by our new insurance. Screw trying to get a recommendation. I was going to make the very first appointment I could get.
* * *
I am friendly. I am brave. As I stood in front of the country club, my affirmations didn’t change the truth. I would rather have faced death by firing squad a thousand times than attend even one women’s club meeting.
I started at the welcome table, draped in bright blue and adorned with brochures, forms, pens, and several vases of faux bluebonnets. Two women sat behind it, one dressed in turquoise, the other in fuchsia, colors that would have made them stand out like tropical birds against the black-and-white palette of New York. I hesitated, wondering if I’d made another mistake, but then one saw me and smiled. “Come on over! If you’re looking for the Bluebonnets, you’re in the right place.”
Haltingly, I approached, and the bright smiles and brighter colors seemed to intensify. The woman in fuchsia had dark hair pulled back into a fat ponytail, tied with a silken scarf. “You’re new?” she asked.
When I nodded, she lit up like I’d made her day. “We are so glad you found us! If you’ll go ahead and fill out a membership form and a name tag, Christy’ll take your dues and give you a welcome bag.” She pushed a little package across the table, and then her gaze shifted past me and she shrieked, “Ginny? Oh my God, it’s been ages!”
I took my papers and moved down the table to an empty space. Was this the way I’d make connections? Maybe in a year, I’d be the one catching up with an old friend, although I couldn’t imagine myself shrieking about it. Quickly, I filled out the forms and handed them to Christy, who also swiped my credit card.
“Don’t forget your name tag,” she reminded me as she pulled a blue-and-white-striped gift bag from under the table. “And here’s your welcome bag. We’ll be meeting in the big assembly room off to that side. Help yourself to coffee and something sweet before you go in.”
The gift bag dangled awkwardly from my hand, the stiff paper too big to be jammed into my purse. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the coffee station. I exchanged a quick smile with the woman filling her cup from a shining coffee chafer urn, but she left to rejoin a cluster of friends.
As I started filling my own cup, someone behind me asked, “Kacy?”
The coffee sloshed, staining the white tablecloth.
I turned to see Elizabeth, wearing the same kind of flowy trousers and dressy T-shirt she’d worn the night of our disastrous dinner. Her pleasant expression looked deliberate. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had flickered when she’d first recognized me, or if she’d thought about avoiding me.
She was standing next to another woman, easily twice my age, whose silky halter top and oversized hoop earrings were what my mother would have deemed “not age appropriate,” a phrase leveled equally against women her own age and my younger sister.
Elizabeth motioned me closer. “It’s good to see you. This is Sandra. Sandy, Kacy and her husband just moved here.”
Sandra didn’t make a move to shake my hand, but she gave me a little nod. “Just moved here from where?”
Before I could answer, a woman shouted, “Five minutes, everyone. Get your coffee and grab a seat.”
Perfect timing. Now it was natural for me to trail Elizabeth and Sandra into the big assembly room. A dozen tables for six were set up, and I slid into a seat next to Sandra. On my other side were two women in the middle of an animated conversation. Instead of a centerpiece, glossy origami paper was fanned out on the heavy white tablecloth. I reached out to touch the square closest to me, sleek with blue and purple waves of color.
The president—a sensible-looking woman in a crisp button-down shirt—welcomed everyone. After a few opening statements and a quick reference to this meeting’s “fancy digs” that drew knowing chuckles, she introduced the speaker.
The lights dimmed, and as slides filled the screen, I was acutely conscious of the women around me. On one side, I kept catching a hiss or giggle from the never-ending whispered conversation. On the other, Sandra and Elizabeth kept their gaze on the speaker.
In this roomful of strangers, I was so lonely for a real friend.
Finally the speaker fini
shed. As the lights came back up, the president took her place. “Don’t go anywhere, ladies. You may have been wondering about the paper in the middle of the table. We’re making origami stars to support literacy awareness. After you ladies transform these little squares into gorgeous works of art, I’ll collect them, our volunteers will give them a shiny coating and some hanging loops, and we’ll have them up for sale around the holidays. All proceeds go straight to building literacy here in Sugar Land. Directions are up here on the screen. And this whole month we’re collecting books. I’m putting a big ole bin on my porch, so you can drop them off anytime. Thank you so much for all you do!”
She stepped down, and the noise level in the room swelled to fill her absence. I reached for a sheet of paper, finally confident that this was an activity I could do well. One of our museum events had been origami based, and I’d loved the way following the directions transformed a two-dimensional sheet into a mini sculpture. A glance at the instructions confirmed that this star wasn’t terribly complicated. I had just made my first fold when Sandra said, “Liz, I can’t figure this out. Can you get me started?”
Maybe Elizabeth winced when Sandy used her nickname, but she still said, “Sure. Why don’t I make the first three folds, and then you can pop it out into the star shape?”
Elizabeth pulled a few pieces of paper closer and began to fold them. The two women to my left hadn’t touched the origami. They had turned their chairs away from us to better talk with people from the other table. I popped my first star into shape and felt the same warmth I’d felt yesterday when I’d helped Rahmia. This was what I needed, to be proactive, to participate, and not just in this literacy project.
I steeled myself, glanced up at Sandy, and asked, “So, how long have you lived here?”
A slight arch to her eyebrow indicated that my question was a little too abrupt, but she said, “About seven years. There have been so many changes to the neighborhood. You wouldn’t even have recognized it back then. Where did you buy?”
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