A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  No matter how much I idolized the girl, there were still moments when she annoyed me; the girl seemed to have it all. Like when she’d throw tantrums when her mom didn’t pay attention or when she didn’t get the doll she wanted. When she would alter her voice like she was a baby, thinking she was cute. Or when she would never let me pick what game to play or movie to watch. I was filled with insecurities as I spent my childhood comparing myself to the shadow of my best friend.

  “I guess you’re not there. Um, this is Leila…Leila Grimwald…Ficks? We used to be best friends…but, I guess that was a while ago and…well, I don’t expect you to…anyways, your number was listed so I called.” Another long pause. “The thing is, I want to hire you. I know you’re not in the private sector or anything, but I thought you might do this for me…for old times’ sake. Please Ky…call me back. My number is 821-2552. Please…it’s Brett.”

  Click.

  Chapter Eight:

  Monday, April 2, 2012

  4:40 P.M.

  Neil Wilcox:

  The bare trees have started to form leaves. Sap-filled buds burst into spurts of green, protruding along the spindly branches, awakening from months of dormancy. Patches of sweet peas, impatiens, and snapdragons scatter in fresh colorful clumps along the borders of lawns, walkways, flower beds, pots and windowsills. The brisk air is filled with chatter and pollen. The sky is clear and clouds hang in distant wisps.

  Front lawns and windows bear signs of vacancy, foreclosure, and rent. Moving trucks occupy parking spaces, idling loudly, spurting plumes of black exhaust into the air as families, couples, and singles alike fill and empty their hallowed space of furniture, valuables, and junk. Spring is the time for new beginnings and growth.

  Even a fresh start on a vapid existence feels good.

  Walking helps alleviate the stress and chaos of the day—clearing the nonessential riffraff that conspires to plug up the mind. Inhaling the crisp cool air helps, while movement loosens stiff muscles and sparks life back into the broken treadmill of nerve endings.

  Months passed and now coworkers and neighbors no longer address me with wary eyes and trite smiles. The backup of paperwork on my desk has been tamed and filed after a few straight weeks of overtime. Service calls for lawn chairs increased exponentially in the last month, with people getting a head start on their grandiose visions of summer picnics, barbeques, and pool parties to come.

  One lady called complaining in a loud, hacking voice that the lawn chairs she bought were “disfunctioned” and she wanted a refund.

  “Please explain the problem Miss, so I can best assist you.”

  “The chair, it’s dis-FUNC-tioned.”

  “Yes, I understand. But I need more information before I can go about giving you a refund or a replacement. Please explain exactly what is wrong with the chairs. Do you have any pictures? I also need the serial numbers.”

  “Mister. What part of the chairs being disfunctioned do you not get? Do you need your ears checked?”

  “Miss. Please, I’m just doing my job. I understand you’re frustration, but I just need an explanation and serial numbers to better understand the problem.”

  There was an exaggerated huffing sound from the other end. The lady was getting exasperated by the probing questions.

  “Fine. I’ll send a picture.”

  The picture the lady sent was of four lawn chairs that weren’t even ones my company manufactures and were each broken at the seat into hundreds of frayed edges. The lawn chairs didn’t look “disfunctioned” as the lady put it, but plain worn out from years of abuse from one overly obese lady. Someone in that household was probably over four hundred pounds. Sometimes I wonder if people really are as stupid as they sound or if it’s just the stress talking.

  Politely I apologized for her troubles and told her in clear layman’s terms: since the product wasn’t manufactured from our company there was nothing I could do.

  Strangely, the woman was not satisfied with this clear logic. She actually took the liberty of jotting down my name during that sordid conversation and made sure to let everyone—all the way up to the Regional VP—know about how poor “the schmuck’s” service was. No one asked for my take on the situation; the CEO just called me to his office and told me, behind closed doors, to “…do better next time or there might not be a next time.”

  All in a desperate, boot-licking day’s work.

  The moral of this story: people suck; customer service jobs suck worse.

  I don’t care about the trivial bullshit of work. But, in the privacy of my condo, where the memories of my wife linger, I weep lonely and excruciating tears. Trust me, the tears aren’t for my fucking job. It is because Elizabeth is no longer here to complain to and bring me comfort.

  She used to make the day worth it. She made the job bearable. She’d hold me and tell me I was better than that and complain with me. Always my cheerleader.

  Elizabeth always smelled like peppermint; she loved the scent. I thought if I bought votive candles and sprays with the scent and placed them around the house, the peppermint would invigorate my aura and transform my state of mind when I returned from work. I thought the scents would stimulate the same comforts she brought me. Instead, I am thrust deeper into despair. The scent is all wrong. I already forgot which brand of peppermint body spray she used, which makes me even more depressed; maddened, almost. I feel a sudden surge of anger, which probably isn’t the most healthy of all feelings given the circumstances, but no way in hell am I going to pay someone to talk about it.

  The following week I throw them all away.

  Walking helps, which I continually have to remind myself to do. Being outside among the humdrum of life, surrounded by neighbors who are virtually strangers, I begin to feel content. At least the burning feeling of anger and hatred lessens.

  My cheeks collapse inward, descending to purplish-yellow depths surrounding my haggard eyes. My appetite is nonexistent. My sleep is listless and shallow. My mood flails wildly and erratically, pulling me along through a marinade of stress hormones. Pain radiates throughout my limbs but I continue to shake it off as emotional not physical. There are days I’m not able to distinguish between the two. I guess those signs should cause me worry, but why? What is the point anymore now that Elizabeth is gone?

  Not much has changed since last Halloween, except EVERYTHING changed.

  Every day I walk along the same route—down our street—I guess, now it’s my street—over to Mission Gorge, which crosses over to Golfcrest, then curves into Tuxedo, past the park, cutting over to Jackson and back to Bell Bluff—and every time I near the corner white house with its blue-shingled roof, my extremities tingle and pulse. Like a light that glows from within, I feel rejuvenated. The completeness I felt when Elizabeth was beside me returns for a brief moment, drawing me in like a drug. Who knew a feeling could be so addicting?

  With my adrenaline kicking into high gear, a thin bead of sweat drips from my scruffy chin as I wait between the shadows and the light of the simmering sun. Worried that even a slight movement could alter the single ray of hope brought from the heavens above, I keep still and wait anxiously.

  Mr. Dimples faithfully follows beside me during these long afternoon walks—each lasting an hour or two—examining every chunk of grass, stone, fire hydrant, stump, person, and animal that falls in his line of sight. He is my side-kick, my ally, the Robin to my Batman. With Mr. Dimples by my side, I no longer frighten lone women who cross my path. I am no longer a weirdo, a vagrant, a threat. Now I am just another nondescript man from the quiet neighborhood out walking his dog.

  I have become obsessed with the need to blend in. For my walks, I choose to wear loose fitting clothes bearing no logo, emblem, or design and ranging in the colors between white, gray, and navy blue. I don’t want to be noticed. This is my special time, not a neighborhood picnic.

  While Mr. Dimples sniffs out a place to perform his business in solitude, I stand beneath the rich canopy of an old
oak tree and watch.

  To outsiders, I probably look like any other middle-aged man, catching his breath, or waiting for his dog to finish his business so he may return to the path back home. No one looks long enough to see the cords along my neck tighten in anticipation, to watch my fingers fidget nervously with the frayed leash, to notice my eyes roam a little too long at the corner white house with its blue-shingled roof. No one regards me at all.

  On most days I only catch a simple silhouette, a mere shadow, brief but enough to tease my senses. Then on those rare and special days my Betsy appears; she might be going for a run, riding her bike, or sitting perched on the blue-shingled roof looking dreamily out toward the pastel horizon, possibly dreaming about me…no, I know she’s dreaming about me.

  Today, she is perched on the blue-shingled roof with a notebook splayed open on her lap, scribbling ferociously. I worry that she will press her pen through the marked and unmarked pages and hurt her hand in the process. She keeps her brown hair loose so when she bends over the pre-lined pages, it falls in front of her face like a curtain wafting in the wind.

  Closing my tired eyes, I inhale deeply, hoping to catch a lingering scent. Is it only my imagination or is it the soft spice of peppermint I smell?

  “Be careful my love. Be safe,” I whisper as I pick up Mr. Dimples and sulk down the stretched, shadowy path leading back to my tiny condo on Bell Bluff. “I’ll be with you soon, my darling Betsy…soon.”

  Chapter Nine:

  Flashback to:

  Wednesday, August 20, 1975

  1:35 P.M.

  Young Neil Wilcox:

  It was nearing the end of summer when I first met Elizabeth. The August sun scorched Ocean Beach in a bright glare. All the kids ran onto the sand, each with their goggles strapped to their head, beach towel hoisted under one arm, wearing a baggy old shirt over a colorful swimsuit. Those who ran barefoot ran faster than the others, jumping into the waves to relieve their sun-scorched feet. A group of mothers wearing light summer dresses sipped iced tea under oversized umbrellas and chatted nonstop about their children, the other mothers, and their husbands. There was always a lot of town gossip to keep the women gabbing for hours. No one was watching the children, but back in the seventies, safety meant being obedient and making sure you weren’t on the wrong side of the belt. No one worried about pedophiles or child-snatchers out in broad daylight.

  I was the scrawny kid wearing my older brother’s hand-me-down swim trunks. The hem was torn but I patched it up using my mother’s needle and thread. I didn’t care that the trunks were two sizes too big or that the thread was pink when the swim trunks were navy blue. All I cared about was that it once belonged to my brother. Johnny wasn’t at the beach that hot summer day, splashing water and hitting on all the pretty girls squeamish about getting wet. Johnny was somewhere far away.

  Johnny was five years older, my parent’s first mistake (me being the second). Johnny ran away last summer. He was eighteen so everyone assumed he enlisted and was doing something right for a change. The cops couldn’t do anything or chose not to, and my parents sure weren’t going to try to bring him back. They were more relieved than anything else; one less mouth to feed. All they hoped was that Johnny didn’t make trouble and have the cops dragging him home in cuffs.

  “Think he could do better? Let him. Maybe the Army could do something with a kid like that,” my dad, Bobby Wilcox said the following morning when they found Johnny’s bed empty. I didn’t cry that day or the following, but I did pray that Johnny would come back and take me away with him. I was too afraid to go out alone.

  Our dad, Bobby, was a truck driver who was gone for months at a time. He smelled like beer, cigarettes, cheap cologne, and cheaper perfume. Our mom, Cherie, was a waitress at a nearby diner in the mornings and in the evenings she took on other odd jobs that left us alone and deserted.

  Bobby tended to smack us boys around whenever he returned home from a trip. He always stopped by a bar on the way home, his breath was hot and sour and his drunken hand was as deadly as a caged animal once released.

  Cherie generally wasn’t around to witness the abuse; often she was gone in the head. Although on her good days, she’d tend to my bumps and bruises. The days when she’d return home late from work, she’d act surprised each time she saw my reddened neck, scraped knees, or bloodied face. She would shake her head while dabbing Mercurochrome onto my forehead or holding ice against my ribs, making that tsk sound. She had this faraway look on her face while telling me not to play so rough with my friends next time. She spoke to me in a haunted whisper, soft enough so Bobby couldn’t hear, just in case he was still conscious. I think she thought doing so would absolve her of the same fate. I know my mom feared Bobby too.

  When Johnny was around, the beatings were bearable. Johnny always tried his best to bear most of the attacks—the first few were always the worst—and I did my best to make my brother proud by quenching my screams. Johnny never cried out, so I tried really hard to make him proud by not acting like a sissy too. But when Johnny left, Bobby’s anger escalated and I became my dad’s personal punching bag. I never thought to take a self-defense class or learn how to fight back—not then, anyway.

  Luckily we lived in a one story so I could jump out the bedroom window when I heard Bobby slam the front door; the few scrapes I got from the prickly bush and rocky landing were a hell of a lot better than what I would end up with if I stayed.

  After all these years, Johnny never came to get me. No call, no letter, no visit. From time to time I would think of him and hope he made it. Maybe it was better that he never came to save me, because if he had I would never have met and saved Elizabeth.

  I saw her that day on the beach. She was wearing a long-sleeved thermal with a Strawberry Shortcake design and long sweatpants. I remembered, because her outfit was so odd for the scorching August heat.

  She was by the stone wall and crusty shower stall, hiding. Her brown hair was tangled and greasy, covering part of her face. She was weathering the snickers and snide remarks thrown her way. Nearby girls and boys pointed their fingers at her and started chortling, yelling names like “stinko,” “weirdo,” and “dummy.”

  Transfixed, I continued to stare. She stood motionless. Immune to their nasty comments and finger pointing, she raised her chin a fraction and gave them a steely stare. Once she started chanting incomprehensible words, the children left her alone in search for a safer activity to pursue. They feared she might be psychotic or have an untreatable disease.

  No tears welled up in those large haunting vessels. No words escaped her purple lips. But when her eyes drifted to mine, there was a spark that thrummed my heart. I felt her pain, her silent scream for help, her unspeakable wish for a friend. It was then that I fell in love.

  She was my first and only.

  Chapter Ten:

  Friday, June 8, 2012

  8:00 A.M.

  Detective Kylie Kang:

  It is important that I meet Leila at Tazza d’Oro, a coffee shop a block from my apartment. Normally, I would prefer to see the victim on their turf; breathing in the same air the victim breathed, seeing the same sights the victim saw before the final moments when his or her life was drastically cut short. The desire to catch the bastard that ended a life intensifies at the sight of medium-velocity spatter, yellow evidence markers, and other hallmarks of a murder scene.

  Being at the primary scene always heightens my senses when solving a murder. Most detectives are strongly advised against personal attachment to the victim and the case, but I get my mojo from it. Making the crime personal is my weapon of choice. But this is different.

  This time it is personal.

  A murder case, that I can handle. Lead detective, that’s me. But this time I feel like the victim, my dignity dismembered and my reputation charred. This time I am vulnerable and I desperately need to be on my turf. I can’t give Leila the upper hand; not this time.

  Arriving an hour early, I wait for th
e front corner table to become available. The position has a clear view of the door and is tucked between a lush green ficus tree and the newspaper vending machines. This table gives me the strategic advantage to see Leila coming in before Leila spots me. Not being caught unawares is key to maintaining composure and keeping the upper hand. I also like that there are no adjoining booths or tables, making it harder for would-be eavesdroppers. There’s always someone wanting to stick their nose in where it doesn’t belong. I am not sure what is going to come out of this meeting, but whatever it is, I want damage controls in place.

  Oh good, the man hogging the table looks to be on the last page of the Tribune and has already finished his coffee and pastry. The coffee shop is packed so I sidle up next to the man and get into position for the takeover. A musky-woody scent hangs in the air. Apparently no one told him that a little goes a long way.

  Grunting and clearing his throat, he rattles his paper a bit, overemphasizing his dislike of my intrusion on his personal space. I hold my ground. If he wants me to move than he needs to say it in words. I can’t stand passive-aggressive people. Uncomfortable, he fidgets with the trash on the table, gets fed up, folds up his newspaper and heads for the door.

  By leaving his trash in a scattered mound on the table, he is giving me the middle finger. He is one of those passive-aggressive introverts that fights battles in his own cloistered, conniving way. Bastard. Got you out of your seat sooner, didn’t I? Wishing I had my gloves, I pick up the paper cup as if it is contaminated or part of a crime scene—saliva dries at the lip and a sticky, sugary substance coats the sides—and toss it into the trash. Taking wads of discount-thin napkins from the dispenser, I dip them into my water cup and vigorously wipe the table clean of the man’s filthy message. Got it, loud and clear.