The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  “That’s cool.”

  I pulled her into me. “You have your whole life in front of you, Mycah. Someday you’ll be married and making big bucks as a high-powered attorney, and you’ll remember these moments we had together.”

  She laughed. “I’ll remember them, all right. Sleeping with the beer man.”

  “Sometimes you meet someone and make a connection, and before you know it, it spirals out of control and that person is all you can think about.”

  “So I’m all you can think about?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Me and your beer, huh?”

  “Pretty pathetic, right?”

  “It’s actually kind of sweet,” she says. “In another life, Clay Daniels, I could probably love you.”

  I kissed the top of her head.

  “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she said, snuggling against me.

  “We both know it can’t last.”

  “We’re going to have to find a way to coexist once we become business partners.”

  “I’ll send you a check every month.”

  “You better make sure they don’t bounce or I’ll sue your ass.” She laughed.

  “I’m the president. The buck stops here.”

  “You pulling rank on me?”

  “You’re sleeping with the CEO, aren’t you?”

  “The boss is allowed to sleep with the help?”

  “Only with minority shareholders.”

  “I’m a minority with a minority share.”

  “At thirty-five percent, you’ll soon be a rich minority owner. It’s the American way.”

  “You’re a real slave driver, you know that?”

  I knew I’d have to break it off with her sooner than later. It would be the best thing going forward. Mycah would be off to law school after her senior year, hopefully far enough away from Dearborn not to be a problem. Our affair would remain a secret that only the two of us would ever know.

  Or at least that was what I hoped for at the time.

  * * *

  I polish off the rest of my Weiss beer as I recall those heady days with Mycah. I was so stupid to think that we could have ever been business partners. The guilt of what I did weighs heavily on me, and now Mycah is missing and Cordell is dead, and the entire town is up in arms. The memories serve to fossilize my past. Only death will release me from this prison of my own making. Either that or confessing to Leah what I did.

  I notice that I’ve consumed two giant glasses of beer while thinking about her. I need to get back to work. Get my head on straight. Instead, I pour myself one more.

  The Weiss tastes better with each successive glass. On an empty stomach, it has a nice pick-me-up quality that emboldens me to return to work. Ben will be in around noon to help me brew up an Alt beer, and once I’m focused on work, it’s all I’ll be able to think about.

  After downing the remains of my beer, I jump off the stool and start to prepare for the brewing process. Other than drinking, work is the one activity that helps me forget about my marriage and the indiscretions I’ve committed.

  As I heft a bag of malt over my shoulder, I think of Zack and Zadie and what their life would be like without me. Maybe they’d be better off if I weren’t around. But then I think of them being raised by Leah and it gets me wondering. Maybe my occasional presence in their lives is a good thing, and it makes me realize that I should be there for Zack and Zadie in order to save them from Leah’s erratic behavior. But if Zack is any indication, it might be too late. The damage may have already been done. At least Zadie’s a sweet and perfect child. I thank God every day for that beautiful princess.

  LEAH

  Wednesday, October 21, 9:03 a.m.

  FOR THE LAST FEW DAYS, I’VE BEEN THE PERFECT HOUSEWIFE. THE PERFECT mother. Being perfect isn’t easy. I’m practically losing my mind from the extreme boredom of this perfect life. It didn’t take long for me to get this way, especially after all the interesting things that I’ve uncovered in this creepy little town. Five days of doing laundry and cleaning the house from top to bottom, trying not to think about kidnapping and death, watching Ellen and Dr. Phil every afternoon. Making breakfasts and dinners from “scratch” and then hiding the frozen-food boxes from my family. We’re a well-orchestrated theater of domesticity in which we conspire to suppress the obvious faults in our narrative.

  Even makeup sex with Clay proved uninspiring, although that’s not unusual. I lay there in the dark the other night as he went through all the preordained steps leading to “the act.” Despite showering and brushing his teeth, Clay still reeked of beer. Sadly, I couldn’t muster the energy to fake an orgasm. I just lay there like an inanimate object until he finished.

  What does that say about our relationship? About me? When I can’t even pretend to enjoy sex anymore? I need something to help me escape this rut I’ve settled into. The only thing that interests me these days is sneaking into Clarissa’s house and reading her diary. It’s like an alcoholic trying to quit, white-knuckling under the pressure and in desperate need of a drink. Without help, they eventually succumb to their obsession.

  So when I woke up this morning, I resolved to continue with my stealth activities. So what if it’s wrong to sneak into a neighbor’s house. What else have I got in my pathetic little life? No playgroups, no stay-at-home mommy friends. And who knows, it might actually help the two of us grow closer. If I can discover her likes and dislikes, maybe it will give us something to talk about. Google and Amazon spy all the time in order to find out more about their customers. So why can’t I do the same thing in order to make a friend; someone I can open up to and share my innermost feelings?

  Frankly, I’m a bit surprised that the police haven’t yet contacted me. I sort of hoped they would have tracked me down by now as a person of interest. I want to be wooed, needed, and treated as someone to be taken seriously. My rendezvous with Cordell the night of his death has thus far gone undiscovered by the police. I know I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a private citizen looking into a horrible crime. It’s not against the law to search for answers.

  At first, I debated going to the police with my information. But what would that accomplish? Cordell and I met for drinks, two lonely souls having a private discussion. I’ll go down to the station once I know all the facts. I do know this: Cordell was killed for a specific reason, and his relationship with Mycah is the only connection I can make at this point.

  The kids are off to school and Clay has left for work. The dreadful laundry can wait, as can the dreadful dishes. I’ve already let Mr. Shady out to do his business. Clarissa won’t be back until later in the afternoon (I hope). I’ve decided to go over there this morning and read more of her diary. I’m expecting to find some interesting new entries.

  Mr. Shady scampers back inside, wagging his tail and staring up at me as if I’m truly a bad person. Why am I projecting these emotions on an innocent dog? None of this is his fault. My guilt is not appeased by scratching his chin, but it’s like he’s reading my mind. And this thought reminds me of my twin sister, Annie, and how I wronged her when we were young girls. I loved her for sure, but I most definitely wronged her.

  * * *

  I lift the diary out of the drawer, unlock it, and then open it to the page where I left off.

  October 15

  I’ve managed to hide the bruises from my colleagues by wearing long sleeves. It still hurts though. Russell has been unusually nice to me as of late, swearing that it will never happen again. He’s acting all sweet and kind. Of course, he’s done this before and look how that turned out. I’m done believing in fairy-tale endings because I know fairy tales don’t exist. This is the vicious cycle of domestic abuse.

  I’m frightened for my well-being and the well-being of the children. Maybe I’m in denial about my husband. Yes, he’s hurt me in more ways than one. But is he capable of murder? It’s hard to picture my husband as a killer. No, I don’t want to believe it despite every shred of evidence po
inting me in that direction. Even if he was the father of her unborn child, he would have persuaded Mycah, in his usual charming way, to abort it. That’s just the way he is. A coldhearted bastard. But maybe she refused. And he killed her. I don’t want to believe that he’d throw his family and career away for a manipulative bitch like her. But what if he did? And what if he did it in order to KEEP his family?

  I can’t speak to my colleagues about any of this. I badly need to confide in someone. But whom? I still can’t believe I went to my neighbor’s house the other day with brownies in hand. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn’t home. The one time I needed to talk to someone and Leah wasn’t there.

  I do want to be friends with her. She seems nice, and I think she wants to be friends with me too. I want to get to know her better. If that’s to happen, I need to know more about her. Check out her past. Make sure she’s not some loony tune before I can fully trust her.

  Only here in my diary can I be completely honest and forthright. Thank God for you, dear Diary. Because there has to be someone— or something—I can open up to and tell my most secret fears. I’m bursting at the seams, keeping it all locked inside me until the time comes when I can let it all out.

  She wants to be friends with me? This is a very good development. But what does she mean when she says she wants to check out my past? I don’t want her to know any of that. For years I’ve been trying to put my past behind me—trying to erase it from the deepest recesses of my memory banks. But with the Internet, anyone can do a background check and research another person. Everyone these days is an open book.

  I turn to the next entry in her diary.

  October 16

  Cordell found dead!!! WTF??

  Now I’m seriously worried. Russell gave me a big hug when he heard the news this morning. Told me we were going to get some marital counseling and that he was going to be a better husband. I have to admit he is a great dad. The kids adore him. If only they knew what he’s done to me, and possibly what he’s done to those two college kids. Maybe Cordell tried to blackmail Russell. Russell’s not a man to be trifled with. He was a linebacker in college and earned a black belt in jujitsu when he was eighteen.

  I’m lucky to have a college friend working for the FBI. She informed me that Leah graduated from high school just outside Seattle. Leah Green her name was back then. Earned her college degree in English from Oregon State and then returned to Seattle for a master’s degree in Creative Writing. Worked a few odd jobs before she met her current husband. They dated for two years before they got married and had kids. Haven’t got all the information yet, but so far so good. She seems pretty normal.

  If Russell finds out I’m talking to her, he’ll be pissed. He wants to control most everything I do. This totally sucks. I’m an intelligent black woman living in constant fear and there’s nothing I can do about it. Only Russell knows the truth about me. It’s why I need to be discreet. It’s why I must check everyone who seeks to get close to me. The closer they get, the more anxious I become. No one can find out my secret. NO ONE!

  Now that Cordell is gone, I might be next in line. I don’t sleep at night, afraid I might not wake up. I wouldn’t put it past Russell. With each passing day, I’m starting to believe that control freak did the unthinkable.

  I know I’m difficult to get along with. I’m moody and easily tire of other people. I hope Leah will find it in her heart to forgive me for the horrible way I’ve treated her. Maybe one of these days we can be friends.

  What could she have done to deserve such treatment? I drop the diary on the bed as if it’s infected with a deadly virus. It makes me nauseous to think that Clarissa has asked someone to look into my past. I feel violated. What right does she have to do this? I’m not sure I even want to be friends with her now. How could I be a friend with someone who would stoop so low? What I’m doing by reading her diary is nothing like her act of betrayal. I do what I do out of love. My motive is simply to connect with another human being and develop a spiritual bond with them. Never in my life would I ever think about looking into someone else’s past.

  I can’t go on reading these pages. Not in this condition. Yet I can’t leave here without knowing what else is in this diary. I pace the room, trying to ward off the anxiety growing within me. I run downstairs and pull a Riesling out of the refrigerator.

  Once back upstairs, I unscrew the bottle and take a long gulp. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely make out her handwriting. I pace the room and try to think of a plan. Maybe I could come back tomorrow when my head is clear and I can resume reading it.

  The wine calms me. I sit on the bed and rack my brain for an idea. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? I pull my phone out and snap photographs of the pages. Then I close the diary and stick it back under her lingerie.

  After being a teetotaler for the last five days, my body welcomes alcohol like an old friend. Fearless, I take a selfie in the bedroom and inside their bathroom. This is not a prudent thing to do, but I don’t care about prudence now. I walk around the house, laughing, and take a selfie in every room. It gives me a huge rush knowing the power I wield over Clarissa and her family. How dare she look into my past. What gall that woman has.

  I’m dying to know what her secret is, the one only her husband knows and is holding against her. Is this why he controls Clarissa and keeps her from making friends? It does seem cruel of him. Considering her lofty position and years of higher education, it must be humiliating to be under his thumb. It’s why we can’t be friends: because he’s watching her every move and is controlling to a fault.

  I’m developing a theory about what happened. Russell engaged in an affair with Mycah and then killed her when she threatened to go public with the news of their unborn child. An admission of an affair with one of his students could potentially destroy his career as head of the department. This is the reason he killed Cordell. Cordell knew about the affair and it posed a threat to Russell’s reputation. Cordell didn’t want Mycah to leave him.

  Had Russell been spying on us at Applebee’s? The thought frightens me. I need to expose him before he comes after me next.

  I lift the bottle to my lips and take another sip. I must be careful not to drink too much lest I get drunk. My tolerance today is extremely low. I will drink just enough to take the edge off. I’m excited and slightly fearful, and the wine buzz is giving me the impetus to further investigate Russell. But other than this diary, what evidence do I have? The contents of this diary would never be allowed in court unless I could convince Clarissa to open up to the police.

  I stagger downstairs and slip out the patio door, nearly tripping over the threshold. If only I’d eaten a bigger breakfast this morning I wouldn’t feel so swoozy. LOL. Is that even a word? Swoozy? The air is brisk and a cold wind blows through the reedy fields. The starlings are nowhere to be seen today. They’re probably sitting like statues in the tree branches, waiting for the first brave flyer to lead the way.

  Mr. Shady barks as soon as I enter through the sliding glass door. I laugh at this silly little dog with the nervous tic. So what if he despises me. It takes him a few seconds to recognize who I am, and when he does, he turns and scampers off into the living room. I’ve read that dogs can sense a person’s mood. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so. But I do know that I’m often insecure and needy. I try to compensate for my low self-esteem by being the best wife and mother I can be, which isn’t always the case. Mr. Shady is the only one who sees me for who I truly am. He knows deep down that I’m a lush and a bad seed.

  I take another sip of Riesling. After placing it down on the counter, I notice that the bottle is half gone. Darn. That’s way more than I planned on drinking today. My head spins as I sit down to collect my thoughts. I screw the top back on and hide it underneath the sink, behind the Tupperware, cleaning agents, and dishwashing liquid, where Clay won’t find it.

  It’s not like I have a drinking problem or anything. Sure, I’ve often consumed
a few more glasses than I should have since coming here, but that’s to be expected. It’s the stress of moving three thousand miles from home and trying to make friends and fit in. Back in Seattle I was practically a teetotaler, stopping after one or two glasses. I had plenty of mommy friends, two adorable children, and was completely happy with my life. Once we’re comfortably settled here, and more financially secure, I’m sure I’ll return to my old ways and be satisfied with one glass of wine at dinner.

  This ordeal has taken a lot out of me. How do I stop Clarissa from delving into my past without letting on that I’ve been reading her diary? My alcohol-fueled brain is spinning with ideas and theories. Russell tried to make the attack on Mycah and Cordell look like a hate crime. That’s why Mycah’s body hasn’t been found. He needed to destroy the evidence of her pregnancy so that no one would ever know he was the father. And now Cordell is dead and no one can ever testify against Russell.

  I lie down on the sofa, resting my head on the pillow. A pleasant opaqueness muddles my vision as Mr. Shady jumps up on my chest and curls to sleep. A short nap will do wonders for me. By the time the children arrive home, I should be my normal self again.

  I will go to the police at some point and tell them what I’ve learned. But not yet. I must find a way to gain Clarissa’s trust. Get her to speak to me in a forthright manner. I need her to confide in me before it’s too late. So that she can escape the abusive relationship she’s mired in.

  My eyes close and I try not to think about the twin sister I once loved. I haven’t thought about her in a long time, and I don’t want to start thinking about her now.

  I fall asleep. The first dream I have is of Annie waving up to me from her wheelchair.

  * * *

  The doorbell rings, waking me out of my deep slumber. Are the kids home already? Have I slept through the afternoon? I look over at the clock and see that forty-five minutes have passed. Who could be at my door? My head feels prickly and for a brief moment I believe there’s been an incident at school. A Columbine or Sandy Hook comes to mind. I rush to the front door and open it. To my surprise I see Clarissa standing there. What does she want? Does she suspect that I’ve been sneaking into her house during the day and reading her diary?