The Best of Good

by Sara Lewis

  “I have something for you, Mike,” I said, “something just for you.”

  “What is it?” he said. “Is it a teeny, tiny guitar, because I want to hold it myself.”

  “Not a guitar. But you can hold it yourself. It’s a whole other instrument.” I went inside and got a bag from a music store from where it lay on top of one of the cartons. I came out and handed him the little bag. He pulled out the box that was inside. “It’s a harmonica. I’ll show you how to play it. Elise is big enough to hold this guitar, so the two of you can play a song together.” I braced myself for his negative reaction.

  “Like a band!” Mike said.

  Good old Mike!

  “Right,” I said, “You got it. Because you know how in a band, people play different instruments? And I’ll play with you too.”

  Mike put the wrong side in his mouth and blew. Nothing happened, and he looked crushed.

  I turned it around for him. “OK,” I said. “Now you can blow into the holes and make noise or breathe in through the holes and make noise. Try it a little. Good. Now, look at the top here. See those little numbers? Those are going to help you play songs. I want you to practice blowing through 4, then breathing in—that’s called drawing—through 6 a couple of times. Right. Perfect.” I turned on my stool to face Elise. “Now, Elise, see if you can make your fingers look like mine. That one, right there. Now push down so that the string is against the neck of the guitar.”

  “Ow,” Elise said.

  “Yeah, it’s a little painful. If you practice enough, you’ll get calluses and it won’t hurt anymore.”

  “Like on the monkey bars,” she said.

  “Exactly. So press these fingers hard against there and then strum the strings with these fingers. Great. See how nice that sounds? Now I’m going to show you another chord, and then you can switch back and forth.”

  I worked with them for fifteen minutes. “OK, so that’s all we’ll do for today. I’ll show you more whenever you want.”

  Elise stopped strumming and tried to give me back the guitar. Mike, taking his cue from his sister, took the harmonica away from his mouth to hand it over to me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Good,” Elise said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Good,” Mike echoed.

  “You’re welcome. Do you want to keep those a while to practice on?”

  Mike looked at Elise.

  Elise said, “Well, yeah. Can we?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Practice what I showed you and then I’ll show you some more.”

  “OK.” They started to rush home to show their mother.

  There was probably something wrong with giving them the instruments to take home, I thought, something that, not being a parent, I had not considered. I tried to figure out what it might be. The harmonica and guitar were not dangerous, so that couldn’t be it. Their mother might not like the noise? It might bother Jeanette upstairs? What could I say to cover my possible mistake? “Do your homework first!” I called after them.

  The two of them stopped in their tracks and turned around to look at me. “We don’t have homework!” Elise said. “It’s summer!”

  Oh.

  I heard them talking excitedly to Robin about their lesson. Throughout the evening, I heard the instruments off and on. They sounded like a rehearsal for an experimental performance piece.

  I put together my new desk and started working on the entertainment unit.

  twenty-nine

  The next day I set up the TV and called the cable company to order service. Then I called the Salvation Army to pick up my old stuff. I dragged my desk out to the garage, went back inside, and started taking apart my old bed.

  I was pretty exhausted by late in the afternoon, and I wanted to get out of the apartment. For some reason, I ended up at the beach, where I hadn’t been in years. I sat on a wall and listened to the ocean for a long time. A Mexican family was cooking an enormous amount of food nearby. They had coolers, cooking utensils, grocery bags, plastic food containers, all arranged on and around a folding table.

  Three young women and two men opened innumerable plastic containers of food and transferred it to the grill, to plates, to other containers. The food sizzled, and I could smell tomatoes and spices, meat searing over the flames. They had a radio on and a few teenagers danced intermittently. A grandmother sat in a chair drinking a Coke. I tried not to stare but just take an occasional glance between long gazes at the water. A man came over with a plate of food, offering it to me wordlessly with a lift of his eyebrows. I had sat there for so long that they must have thought I was hungry.

  It looked good, sausages and peppers and fresh tortillas steaming on a paper plate. If I could have transformed into a member of this family, acquired a new past, present, and future by eating that plate of food, I would have gobbled it down gladly, meat and all. But I shook my head. “No, thank you,” I said. He didn’t say anything but kept holding the plate out. So I said, “No, gracias, señor. Muchas gracias.”

  “You sure?” he said, “Absolutely positive?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Thanks a lot, though. It’s nice of you.”

  “You change your mind, man,” he said, “you come on over and have some food with us. We got plenty. Too much. Cerveza, maybe?”

  “I’m tine, I said, I hanks. Really.”

  The man shrugged and walked away. I was embarrassed that my neediness was so visible, even to strangers, but not embarrassed enough to leave the sound of their voices, the generous swell of their laughter at a joke, and their huge and obvious enjoyment of the food, one another, and the night. I sat there and watched.

  There wasn’t much of a sunset, as it was overcast, just a glow through the clouds for a few minutes before daylight disappeared. The barbecue fire seemed to brighten as darkness settled in.

  These are normal people, I was thinking. This is how they behave. I can’t have what they have.

  Why can’t I?

  Because I let my brother die! I don’t deserve it.

  There was a searing, sizzling hurt inside of me, as if with this sentence, this self-assessment, my insides began to barbecue themselves.

  You think that not having a life yourself is payment for what you didn’t do that night? I considered. Maybe not sufficient payment, but it’s all I have.

  What if it wasn’t anybody’s fault? What if it was just an accident, something bad that happened for no particular reason.

  I could stop feeling guilty,

  I tried to imagine this, life without guilt. Guilt had settled in with me a long time ago and made itself at home. I thought of it by turns as a friend, as a familiar old roommate I couldn’t get rid of if I tried, and probably most accurately, as a nasty, exhausting, high-maintenance pet that I had somehow gotten stuck with and that was destined to outlive me. Then there were times when guilt seemed almost like a body part, an extra appendage that I had to wash, protect, keep warm. Any way you looked at it, guilt was always with me.

  How would I get rid of it? I wanted to know.

  I couldn’t come up with an answer to that one. I thought about what Ellen had said the other night about the photo album. What if I could simply start a new life from where I was this minute? It might not have anything to do with selling songs or buying a house or furniture.

  The beach was getting cold and foggy. I wished I had a sweatshirt. I wished I had a guitar, my security blanket. Of course, I would have felt like a giant dork sitting on a wall at the beach, strumming a guitar, but I was just about desperate enough not to care. I waited until the Mexican family had started to pack up and my physical discomfort had become sharper.

  On the way home, I went to the donut place that everyone says is so great. All these years that I’ve lived here, I never tried those donuts that people talk about all the time. I didn’t know what possessed me now, except maybe that the place was lit up and looked warm. I wanted to know if the donuts were really that good. I wanted to know that minute. I bought a chocolate twist and
a crumb. I ate them. They were good. I got back on my motorcycle and started for home. Then I thought about the Mexican family and their food. If I had a family, I would buy them donuts. Ellen wouldn’t eat one, of course. Maybe I could pretend that my neighbors were my family. I drove back and bought a dozen chocolate-glazed and a dozen plain-glazed. I parked in the garage and took the donuts inside. I looked at them for a full five minutes before I went back out, up the stairs, and knocked on Jeanette’s door.

  “Jeanette,” I said, “It’s Tom Good from downstairs.”

  “Oh, what is it, dear?” she said from behind the closed door. I could hear her starting for the door with her walker. “Is it a water leak? I don’t have anything running! Not that I know of.”

  “No. Nothing’s leaking.” Guilt, my faithful old pet, clawed at me as I realized that I had never been up here in all these years except to report a problem. “I just—I got some donuts. Would you like some? A donut? Or two?”

  There was a pause, “Oh, my lord!” she said, sounding startled.

  I could hear her moving around behind the door, unlocking it. She had gotten a lot slower in the time I’d lived here.

  “I’m in my nightdress, dear!” she said. “I hope you don’t mind!”

  “No, it’s, I—” I stammered. “It’s OK. I’m not that sensitive.”

  Finally, she opened the door. She looked at the box and put both hands to her cheeks, a cartoon of delighted surprise. “I’ve heard about this place! How did you know I love donuts more than life itself? How did you know?”

  “I just had a feeling,” I said, improvising on the spot.

  She took two. “You have made my day!” she said. “Are you moving or just curious?”

  “What?” I said. For a second, I didn’t follow her train of thought. “Oh, the house across the street, you mean…” I pointed at it. “I was interested, but it was sold. Somebody else bought it.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be then!” Jeanette declared. She opened her mouth wide, and half a donut went in at once. “Mmm!” she said, little sugary clumps at the corners of her mouth.

  “See you!” I said. I went downstairs.

  “Thank you again, dear!” Her mouth was still full.

  I had a lot of donuts left.

  I looked at my watch before I knocked on Robins door. It was only a little after 8:30. It seemed later. I knocked three times. “It’s Good!” I said from the outside. “I have donuts!”

  The door opened. Robin was in her overalls again. “Hi. Oh. Donuts? The kids will be so excited!” she said.

  I handed her the box.

  “Oh, not all these!” she said. “What about you?”

  “I had some,” I said. “Back at the—”

  “That’s very generous of you. Kids, Mr. Good brought you donuts!”

  “They’re for you too,” I said.

  “Oh, no! Not me. I’m trying not to. I’m so fat!”

  “You’re not,” I said. “You look great! You’re gorgeous.” I meant it. Who knew where these thoughts came from? I never said stuff like this.

  Robin probably wasn’t used to hearing it either, as she immediately turned a deep red. “Come in,” she said, “Come in for a minute and sit with us. Would you like to?”

  I went in. In all these years, I had never been inside this part of the house. There were toys and pieces of toys all over the place. There were naked, headless Barbies; hundreds of red, white, green, and blue Lego pieces that didn’t add up to any building, vehicle, or even recognizable geometric shape; little fat plastic people in bright colors; trucks; blocks. There was a nearly empty dollhouse with, instead of dolls and tiny furniture, a coloring book and two crayons in its living room. Then there were books, pajamas, shoes, socks, and sweatshirts on the floor and on the furniture.

  “Well, it’s a mess, of course!” Robin said. “It’s a small space, and if I nag them too much about being neat, they can’t have any fun! Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, I, no, thank you,” I said.

  Maddy and Elise were playing a board game, Mike was watching television, and Ray was playing with some little bears, whispering to them as he moved them around the floor. The kids all looked up at me, surprised.

  “Mr. Good brought donuts,” said Robin.

  “Good.” I said. “Just plain Good is fine.”

  “I want one!” Ray said.

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” said Elise.

  “I want chocolate!” Maddy said.

  “Whoa,” said their mother. “There are more than enough here, and I want you to slow down and come with me to the kitchen. Everybody sit down at the table.” They each had a certain spot at the table and went to it without hesitation. First, Robin handed out napkins. Then she opened the top of the box. “Ray, what kind would you like?” she said.

  “Chockwit,” said Ray.

  Robin put a donut on his napkin. “Maddy?”

  “Chocolate, please, thank you,” Maddy said, probably hoping that using both would speed the donuts delivery.

  “Good girl,” Robin said. “Elise?”

  “Chocolate too, please,” Elise said.

  “Mike,” Robin said.

  “Same. Please. Thank you,” Mike said, reaching up for a donut. “You’re welcome! Excuse me!” he added. The other kids laughed.

  “Now, what do we all say to Mr. Good?” Robin prompted. She went to the fridge and got out a gallon jug of milk that was about half-empty.

  “Thank you, Mr. Good!”

  Now I was embarrassed. “I have to tell you something,” I said. “I’m called ‘Good’ just plain old Good. Not Mr., OK, do you think we can change that? Because I really—”

  “OK, Just Plain Old Good!” said Mike.

  “Mike,” said Robin in a warning voice, but his sisters were laughing. Ray concentrated on his donut. “Yes, well call you Good, if that’s what you prefer.”

  I nodded.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Robin said. I noticed she didn’t call me anything now. Maybe she was just going to avoid using my name altogether. She pulled a chair in from the next room.

  “Oh, well, actually, I have to go now. I just wanted to drop those off. I’ll see you guys, OK? When you want another music lesson, just let me know, OK?”

  “Tomorrow?” Mike said.

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” I said.

  “That’s so nice of you,” Robin said.

  “Not really,” I said. “I enjoy it.”

  I left in a hurry, as if I had something really important to do, as if someone were waiting for me.

  I took the two steps over to my door, opened it, and went straight into my closet.

  thirty

  Once you’ve popped through a certain membrane of familiarity, like it or not, everything starts to be different. Now when I think about our lives as neighbors, there was the time before the donuts and the time after. On a time line of us as neighbors, there would be a chocolate donut above a black line marking that moment when things changed.

  The day after the donuts, Robin made cookies and left some by my front door. She thinks she has to pay me back, I thought. I ate all the cookies and left her a note: “Thanks for the cookies. They were good. Good,” it said.

  The next day I got a coupon for Sea World when I bought gas. I left it in an envelope in their door. “Thought you might be able to use this. Good.”

  Robin sent Elise over with a bag of ripe avocados. “These are from our grandmothers yard,” she said.

  “Oh, thank you!” I said. “Doesn’t your mom want some?”

  “We have about a million of those things. Only Mom likes them.”

  “Tell your mom thanks. And your grandmother.”

  I made guacamole every night for three days and saved the pits.

  I bought some pots and soil. I left a note, “Maybe your kids would like to plant the seeds from those avocados you gave me. They were good, by the way. Good.” I left the potting soil and the pots on t
heir step. The seeds were in a plastic bag with a little water.

  A couple of hours later, I heard the kids outside. There was a little bickering. “You did that on purpose!” “That ones mine!” “Hey! That’s not enough!” Softly, their mothers voice wove in and out of their smaller, sharper ones. “That’s it.” “A little more.” “All the way up.” “Now water.” “Yours is just right. Fine. Yeah. Stop. Stop. "Water was running, splashing on the bricks in front of the door.

  When someone knocked on the door, I jumped. I got there in three steps, opened it.

  “Hi, Mike.”

  He looked up, his head tilting way back. “My mom says you can come over for dinner.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I said quickly, as if this ruled out dinner.

  “I’ll tell my mom.” He disappeared inside his house.

  A minute later there was another knock on the door. I opened it. “She says we’re not having any meat anyway.”

  I thought a minute about what to do. When invitations come from next door, you have to be willing to follow through with your excuses. If you say, “I’m working,” you have to actually leave the house at 5:20 and not come back until after 2:00. If you say, “I’m not feeling well,” you’d better be able to fake some good, believable symptoms and stay in all evening. If you say, “I’m having guests,” you’d have to find someone to come over at a moments notice and be willing to put up with them for the evening.

  “What time?” I heard myself asking Mike.

  “Six-thirty,” he said.

  “See you then.”

  The post-donut age had begun, for sure.

  I brought ice cream. Robin’s mom opened the door. I hadn’t expected this. Inside me, a family of cornered squirrels scrambled, frantically scratching and clawing to get free.

  “I—” I said. “Hello. I’m Good.”

  “You sure are! You brought ice cream! That’s pretty good right there,” she said and took it from me. “I’m Liz. I don’t think we’ve ever officially met in all these years. Come on in.” Liz looked like an older, larger version of Robin. Her hair was as straight, but the color was flatter—more gray. She wore a loose-fitting shirt with a T-shirt under it and jeans, just like Robin.