Won't You Be My Neighbor?

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  “There’s no sign of anyone, the house and neighborhood are clear. We’ll set up extra patrols in the area for the rest of the night. You’re going to need to get that door panel changed and call your insurance to report anything that’s missing.” He paused, frowning. “We’ve had several break-ins in the area, but this is a change from the normal pattern. Usually they only enter when no one’s home. Lots of vacation burglaries. I can’t understand why they broke in while someone was here and sleeping.”

  Blair could. With as little as she left her house, the burglars no doubt thought it was empty. She shuddered. So much for being eaten by cats. Her reclusive ways were bound to get her killed in other, more gruesome ways. What would have happened if she hadn’t gotten out? If whoever broke in had caught her in her bed asleep? Her hands trembled and she shoved them behind her back, clasping them tightly together.

  “I’ll walk you out,” her neighbor said to the officer. The two men scowled at each other. Blair was probably scowling, too. It was her house; she should be the one to walk the officer to the door. On the other hand, she couldn’t walk without putting weight on her wounded foot.

  The men walked ahead of her while she hobbled far behind. The cut on her foot hadn’t even been that deep, so she didn’t know why it should hurt so much. Maybe her grumpy neighbor had done something wrong when he bandaged it, something besides make the bandage crooked the first time.

  By the time she reached her entryway, the officer was gone. Her neighbor had his back to her as he surveyed the damage to her door. “I have something in my garage for that. Be right back.” His words barely registered until he returned a few minutes later with a board, hammer, and nails. Blair pressed her hands over her ears as he pounded the board onto the door. She had never liked loud noises. He finished quickly and turned to give her a curt nod. He was gone before she could thank him, almost as if he were afraid to be in the same room with her.

  What an odd man, she thought. She stared at the shattered glass on the floor, wishing not for the first time that she were one of those women who could summon tears at will. It would feel good to cry right now, to let it all out and clear her emotions. She hadn’t ever been a crier, though. She was more prone to either stew in silent misery or do what needed to be done to fix the situation. Right now was the time for fixing. Her weird neighbor had put up a board; now she had only to sweep the glass. She hobbled slowly to the kitchen and returned much faster, using the broom as a crutch.

  She made quick work of the glass before dragging out a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush. Scouring the floor on her hands and knees felt good, like expunging the presence of the person who had been in her house. She sat up on her knees and scanned the interior, trying to think of anywhere else the person might have touched. He hadn’t taken anything. She had no electronics except for her computer and it was out of sight in an armoire. Otherwise her television was almost as old and heavy as she was because she had inherited it from her parents after they died. It still worked so she saw no need to upgrade to one of those flat screen things. Plus, they were ugly and didn’t fit well in a cabinet. Blair liked for the television to be out of sight when it wasn’t in use, not prominently on display like a piece of glass and plastic artwork.

  If her burglar had been a connoisseur, then he would have realized that some of her artwork was valuable. Blair had been a collector since she was a teenager. He hadn’t been looking for artwork, though. He had been looking for drugs, money, jewelry, or electronics. Blair had none of those things. In fact, when she viewed her house through the eyes of a potential thief, she wanted to laugh at the disappointment he must feel. There was nothing that could render quick cash. The house was as tidy and dowdy as a hotel room, only with better pictures on the walls.

  “Thank goodness I’m boring and frugal,” she muttered. She used the edge of a table to pull herself up, realizing as she did so that she was still wearing her neighbor’s robe. Some strange compulsion propelled her to bring the sleeve of the robe to her nose and sniff. Not bad, she thought. The aroma was a pleasantly masculine mixture of cologne and laundry powder. Too bad he couldn’t be as nice as he smelled, although he had fixed her foot and her door. That was something, she supposed. She didn’t want to ever see him again, but now she would be forced to return his robe. She took it off with a sigh, not only because she didn’t want to have to encounter the man again but because without the robe she felt oddly vulnerable and cold.

  Sleep would no doubt be elusive for the night, and maybe for a long time to come. Shivering, Blair collected her book, hobbled to her room, and tucked herself in for a long night of reading.

  Chapter 3

  Two days later, Sully was heating a can of soup for supper when there was a timid knock at his door. His heart sank when he saw Miss Prim on the other side of the door, his bathrobe in one hand and a tray of cookies in the other. He sighed, gearing himself up for the unpleasant task of rebuffing her. Why couldn’t single women leave him in peace? He had taken care of her when she needed help, and now she apparently had them married and living happily ever after in her head.

  He reached out and took the robe and cookies. Her expression was one of dismay, probably because her plan didn’t work and he didn’t invite her inside. “Thanks for returning my robe. You didn’t have to make cookies. In fact, I wish you hadn’t. I don’t know any other way to say this than to come out and say it: I’m not interested in you. I don’t want to date you; I don’t even want to be friends with you. Please, let’s go back to being strangers who don’t speak or nod.” He didn’t slam the door in her face, but he closed it firmly.

  He had just reached his now-boiling soup when there was another knock on his door, this one less timid. With a longsuffering sigh, he returned to the door. He had barely wrenched it open when she pushed him aside and came barreling through. She stormed to his kitchen and retrieved the tray of cookies, rounding on him with red cheeks even as her perfect hair stayed perfectly in place.

  “These cookies are not for you,” she said. “They’re for a children’s program at my church. I don’t bake cookies for strange men. I don’t show up in the night half-dressed at strange men’s houses. I don’t do any of the things you have accused me of doing, nor would I. Ever. Even if you were the sort of man I was interested in, I would never blatantly throw myself at you. Thank you for the robe and for patching my door. Now please never talk to me again you odd, conceited person.”

  He watched her stalk away and let herself out, closing the front door with a snap that reverberated through the house. Were the cookies really not for him, or was that a ruse to save her dignity? Her car started, and he realized she was probably telling the truth. He had snatched the cookies, along with whatever shred of self-esteem she had, and taken them. If what she said was true and she wasn’t throwing herself at him, then his behavior must appear odd and conceited, indeed. He should probably try to explain things to her, to apologize and make amends. He wouldn’t, though. Not only because he didn’t care enough, but because he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t suddenly develop an interest in him and begin pursuing him. More than anything else, Sully wanted peace; he wanted to be left alone.

  As he poured his soup into a bowl and sat down, he glanced at the spot the cookies had called home far too briefly. They had looked delicious, but that was a strike against Miss Prim. The most tenacious women were always the best bakers. No matter. There were Oreos in the cupboard. Sully had found that he would rather have peace and store-bought cookies than a needy woman and homemade treats.

  Blair’s hands were shaking. She took a few deep breaths, but nothing helped. The nerve of that man. What was wrong with him? Granted, she didn’t have much experience with men, but did they always assume women were on the prowl? Did every man she had encountered think she was looking for a marriage proposal? If so, she would never leave her house again. What if Tristan thought that? In his case, the premise might actually be true. She was sort of on the prowl for hi
m, in her passive way that would never let him know. But not her neighbor. He wasn’t even that attractive. He was fairly nice looking, not ugly, but certainly not as beautiful as Tristan with his intellectual brown eyes and curly mop of hair that never laid right.

  For a few minutes, she became caught up in a daydream of her therapist, one that involved him spouting a few lines of poetry in her direction. So it came as something of a surprise when she realized she was in her church parking lot. How had she gotten there? Her hands had stopped shaking, but now she was nervous for a different reason. People. Strangers. Children. Three things guaranteed to make her want to hide in a corner until all the noise and confusion went away. It was with some surprise that she had found herself signing the paper on Sunday, volunteering herself to bring cookies for this event. She had never done such a thing before. But she could bake, and dropping off a tray of cookies seemed like a gentle way to be involved without actually being involved. Tristan would be proud.

  That thought propelled her out of the car and through the double doors of the church’s fellowship hall. She could do this. Drop the cookies and walk away. No one would have to know where they came from; no one would have to engage in conversation.

  Of course that wasn’t how it worked out. “Hi!” A chipper voice boomed the word from behind her. Blair froze and resisted the urge to put her hands in the air like a criminal who had been caught robbing a bank. If she stayed where she was and pretended not to hear, would the stranger go away?

  “I’m Susan,” the woman said, undaunted by the view of Blair’s rigid backside. “You must be Blair. I saw your name on the signup sheet, but I couldn’t place you. Now that I’ve seen you, I remember glimpsing you in church. Do you have children? Is one of them here?" Her voice faded in and out as if she were scanning the room for Blair’s elusive children.

  Blair’s breathing became shallow, her palms started to sweat. Her mind blanked. Children? Did she have children? She couldn’t remember. Words, words, think of some words. Start with hello. Tristan’s comforting instruction came to her rescue. She turned and saw a chunky blond with a perky smile on her face. “Hi,” she said.

  The woman beamed. “Hi. So, do you have kids here?” She made a weak sweeping gesture toward the tangle of children running behind her.

  “I don’t have kids,” Blair said. “I like to bake so…” she trailed off with an uncertain glance at her cookies. Was she not supposed to help if she didn’t have kids? Had she misunderstood? Did they only want parent volunteers?

  “Great!” Susan declared, smiling brightly. Did she always smile like that when she talked to people? Blair couldn’t imagine how much energy it must take to be so cheerful all the time. She was exhausted thinking about it. “We’re a little short on helpers today. I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay and help out?”

  Blair was so caught up trying not to count the woman’s teeth that she almost didn’t hear the question. Stay? Help? This was her worst nightmare coming true. She simply wanted to deposit the cookies and sneak away. “Oh, I um…” She darted a frantic glance, searching anywhere for escape.

  “Basically we need someone to stand in the kitchen and hand out treats,” Susan said. Blair wondered if she smiled when she was angry. Did her lips stretch to resemble a grimace? Because that could be terrifying.

  “I suppose I could stand in the kitchen,” Blair said. Her blatant reluctance and lack of inflection seemingly went unnoticed.

  “Super!” Susan enthused.

  Without knowing quite how it happened, Blair was suddenly in the kitchen taking off her coat. She set her purse on the counter, washed her hands, and looked around for something to do. There were a dozen containers of cookies and brownies. She did a quick head count of kids and scouted for plates. Finding none, she pulled a stack of napkins from the cupboard and portioned a cookie on each napkin. The task was finished all too soon. Blair had never been one of those people who felt comfortable standing around doing nothing, especially when she didn’t know anyone and didn’t want to be there. She searched for something else to do and noticed the large pantry was a mess.

  Five minutes later the pantry was disassembled and spread throughout the kitchen. She paused to hand out treats when it was snack time, washing the cookie containers so they would be ready for their owners, and then she resumed cleaning. A few of the kids thanked her for the treats. She nodded at them and focused on making sure the line went quickly and smoothly.

  By the time the party was over, the pantry looked spectacular and Blair had avoided conversation with anyone. Somehow she didn’t think Tristan would approve.

  “Oh, my,” Susan said as she entered the kitchen. The smile was still spackled onto her lips, but her eyes were blinking rapidly in astonishment. “You’ve been busy in here. You didn’t have to do all this.”

  Translation: Why did you do all this, Nutcase? Blair used the wet cloth in her hand to swipe anxiously at the counter beside her. “It was no trouble.” That seemed like a much better thing to say than, “I prefer cleaning to children.” She shifted from foot to foot as Susan continued to smile at the pantry as though it were taking her picture. “Can I go home now?”

  Susan pulled her attention from the spotless pantry and regarded Blair with her unwavering smile. “Of course. Thank you for your, uh, help. And the cookies. Thank you for the cookies.” Her head bobbed up and down. Blair had seen that motion before. Whenever people didn’t know what to make of her odd silences or task orientation, they became nervous. Usually they were extroverts, the sort who had never met a stranger, the type of people for whom a room full of new people at a party was their every dream come true. They couldn’t fathom being anxious around people they didn’t know and therefore thought there was something wrong with everyone who was. Although, since she was going to therapy and debating taking medication for the problem, Blair supposed there was something wrong with her.

  She gathered her cookie container and left, feeling exhausted and depressed. Life was so much easier on her own. There was no one to judge her for her shyness, no one to accuse her of hitting on him, no one to call and interrupt the middle of a really good book. Was it really worth it?

  Her mind conjured the question as she drove past her deceased neighbor’s house. A “for sale” sign had been placed in the front yard. Who would receive the money from the sale of his house? The bank? Being a financially conservative person, the question bothered her. When her parents died, she had inherited their hard-earned savings. Who would get that money when she passed? The government? If so, how very wrong. Blair decided to make a will as soon as she decided the question of where her money would go. There was always charity, but which one? And how did she have the assurance that her money wouldn’t be squandered?

  When she thought of how her parents’ inheritance had changed her life and allowed her financial independence, she wanted to have the same effect on someone else. But who? Maybe Tanya’s kids. What were their names? She should probably find out if she was considering giving them a lot of money. And since it was odd that she was considering leaving money to two kids whom she had never met, she thought it was probably appropriate that she try to get to know them a little better, at least vicariously. Tanya was always talking about them. Maybe it was time Blair started to listen, especially to the part about their names.

  Next door, the light was on at Mrs. Caruthers’s house. Blair still hadn’t fulfilled her assignment of speaking to that particular neighbor, but after her failed attempt at making contact with Grumpy McInflated Ego on her other side, she didn’t have the heart to try. Tristan will be disappointed. She bit her lip and looked at the house, debating. Maybe tomorrow. Today’s social interaction at church had depleted her resources and she needed to recoup.

  But first she needed to call Tanya. Her old roommate was no less surprised to hear from her so soon after the last call, but she did a better job of covering today.

  “I need to know how to spell your kids’ names,” B
lair explained.

  “Why?” Tanya asked.

  Blair didn’t want to tell her she was thinking of including them in her will, so she searched about for something innocuous. “I’m going to send them a package.” There. She should probably have done that when they were born anyway.

  “A package? Of what?”

  “I don’t know--toys and stuff.”

  “Okay,” Tanya drawled. “Do you have a pen handy?”

  “Yes. And I’ll also need your address,” Blair said. She should have her address because Tanya sent Christmas cards, but she had never bothered to keep the information before, never imagining a time when she might need to mail anything to her old friend. Tanya didn’t call her on it. She patiently gave her address and spelled the names of her children—Andy and Rachael. I didn’t know one of them was a boy, Blair thought.

  “Why are you sending toys when you hate kids?” Tanya asked.

  “I don’t hate kids,” Blair said. “I don’t know kids. I have no experience with them, and they make me nervous.” She paused, wondering if she wanted to continue. “I volunteered at some event today at my church where there were a lot of kids. They were actually sort of cute. Some were polite.”

  “You volunteered at your church.” Tanya repeated the information like one might say, “You flew a helicopter to the moon.”

  “Yes,” Blair said, not bothering to explain her motivation or reasoning. She wanted to talk about things a little, which was odd for her. “It didn’t go very well. I’m not good at making friends.” The confession, though true, was still hard for her to admit.

  “Neither am I,” Tanya said.

  “You? What are you talking about? You’re friendly and know how to talk to people.”