The Neighbors

by Ahlborn, Ania

  “It’s more my husband than me,” she said. “He’s a bookworm. I would have asked that fellow you live with...what’s his name?”

  “Mickey.”

  “But since he wasn’t home...” She paused, taking a moment to consider her words. “Honestly, I’m a bit relieved. I wasn’t too keen on inviting him over without anyone home.”

  Andrew gave her a questioning look.

  “Oh, you know how it is,” she continued, offering the conversation a dismissive wave of the hand. “Word gets around, small town like this. You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Harlow cleared her throat, a manicured hand gingerly touching the back of her neck. “I really shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “Anyway.” Her smile returned. “Shall we?”

  She stood beside Drew, scoping out the bookcase ahead of them while that tiny seed of suspicion about Mickey dug itself deep into the soft tissue of his brain.

  “Mrs. Ward...”

  “Harlow,” she said. “Please.”

  Drew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He considered mentioning the uncertainty he’d been feeling around Mickey. It seemed like, from what Harlow had just mentioned, he was right in having reservations. But he didn’t want to seem petty; he didn’t want her to think of him as a gossip, as someone who, like Mickey, should be kept at arm’s length. Instead, he decided to focus on the task at hand.

  “Harlow,” he said, feeling both odd and exhilarated at being allowed to use her first name. “I really want to help.” He met her gaze, his heart fluttering when their eyes locked. Had she been a brunette rather than a blonde, she would have looked like vintage Elizabeth Taylor. He imagined that her looks had intimidated thousands of boys—had made them weak in the knees but kept them at bay, because who could possibly be good enough for a girl like her? “But I think I might lose a limb if I try to move this thing myself.”

  Harlow offered the piece of furniture a perplexed look before exhaling a quiet laugh, as if just then realizing how impossible her request had been.

  “I’m sorry.” She chuckled with a shake of her head, loose curls sweeping across her cheeks. “I really am an idiot, aren’t I?” She rested her hand on his arm, her smile lighting up her face. “Well, you’re already here,” she resolved. “I’ll make you something to eat. What do you say? Eggs, hash browns, the works; I make the best breakfast in all of Kansas.”

  As if on cue, Drew’s stomach let out a loud growl. He pictured himself sitting at a breakfast table, sunlight filtering in through crisp white curtains, sunshine glinting off a fresh pitcher of orange juice just like it would in the commercials.

  “I really couldn’t.” It was the first thing to tumble out of his mouth—one of those things you kick yourself for saying but say it anyway. He was starving. After days of living off fast food, he’d have killed for a homemade meal. “Honestly, I haven’t been here more than five minutes. There’s no reason—”

  “Nonsense,” Harlow cut in. “It’s the least I can do.”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably, afraid to overstay his welcome. She noticed his uneasiness and shook her head with a glossy grin.

  “What is it, afraid I’m going to bite?”

  Stepping behind him, she placed both hands on his shoulders and gave him a steady push out of the room and toward the kitchen.

  She hadn’t exaggerated. She did make the best breakfast in all of Kansas. Drew gorged himself on crisp bacon and homemade bread. Even Harlow’s eggs were just right—sunny-side up, bright orange yolks perfectly centered and runny, just the way Andrew liked them. Harlow sat across from him with a wistful smile. She kept his juice glass full and gave him a second helping of bacon without him needing to ask. Andrew gave her a satisfied grin as he ate, his cheeks stuffed with the best-tasting food he’d had in forever. By the time he was finished eating, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fit out the front door.

  “Goodness,” she said. “You were hungry. Had I known, I would have invited you over sooner.”

  Drew raised a bashful shoulder in a shrug, nearly apologetic of his appetite.

  “The cookies were awesome too,” he confessed. “Thanks for those.”

  “That roommate of yours didn’t eat them all?” She raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but Drew shook his head no.

  “Said he was on a diet.” A moment passed between them—Andrew and Harlow staring at each other—before they both shared a laugh at Mickey’s expense.

  “Well,” she said, rising from her seat, only to pluck Drew’s breakfast plate from the table. “That’s good to know. Now I won’t hesitate to bake more.”

  Drew couldn’t help himself. He beamed.

  Walking him out to the front porch, Harlow offered him a thoughtful smile. “Come over anytime,” she insisted. “My door is always open.”

  When she reached a hand out to brush a strand of hair from Andrew’s forehead, he nearly recoiled at how strange it felt, nearly leaned into her touch with how much he craved the contact. He was sure that she had noticed him tense, but she didn’t relent. Rather than pulling her hand away, she let her fingertips whisper against his skin. It was only when Andrew relaxed that she let her hand fall away.

  “And, Andy,” she said, stopping him as he descended the front porch steps. “Be careful, OK?” She nodded toward the wreck of a house next door, wordlessly implying Mickey with the tilt of her head.

  Andy. His mom used to call him that—Sandy Andy, after a long day of playing out in the yard.

  “I will,” Drew promised.

  When he unlatched the front gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but to shoot a parting look over his shoulder. But Harlow was already gone, and Andrew already missed her.

  Andrew needed to find a job. He was already low on money, and there was no way he’d be able to make next month’s rent if he didn’t get some cash coming in. The last thing he needed was for Mick to feel that Drew wasn’t living up to his end of their bargain. Mickey would at least have a good reason to shoot disapproving glances Andrew’s way.

  Not like his mother. Even as he felt guilty for leaving her, he hated her for it. Leaving home was what kids were supposed to do—grow up, get out, start a life. The mortification he’d feel if he couldn’t make rent, if he ended up having to go back home, would be enough to kill him.

  He grabbed his keys off his mattress, took a Capri Sun for the road, and stepped out of the house and to the curb.

  As the Chevy rambled down the road, Drew couldn’t help but be struck by his shift in perception. Once upon a time, getting a job had meant keeping the lights on until he could escape Kansas completely. But now Andrew wanted nothing to do with leaving Kansas at all. His sole motivation was to find work and pay his rent, anything to keep himself on Magnolia Lane.

  Sitting at a stoplight a few blocks from home, Mickey watched Andrew’s pickup roll through a yellow light toward the center of town. He watched the Chevy grow smaller by the second before his eyes snapped to his rearview mirror. A silver Taurus was honking for him to move, the guy behind the wheel shaking his hands in muted frustration. His mouth moved soundlessly, silenced by the windshield, but Mickey could read his lips.

  Slowly raising his right hand, he casually extended his middle finger and watched the guy’s temper flare. He let the driver stew for a few more seconds, then stepped on the gas, smirking. Sometimes he wondered about his own set of scruples. He allowed Harlow Ward to do what she did without interfering, yet he couldn’t climb out of his TransAm and pop a son of a bitch like the Taurus guy in the mouth.

  “You’re fucked up,” he muttered beneath the roar of his V8. “You’ll burn in hell for the shit you’ve done.”

  The music was an instrumental version of Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young.” It was terrible, but Drew was a captive audience. He found himself tapping his sneaker on scuffed linoleum, singing the lyrics under his breath. The door to the office at the back of the Thriftway finally swung
open, and a guy in a pale yellow polo stepped in with a too enthusiastic hello.

  “Hi there. Andrew, is it?”

  Drew stood and extended his hand with a smile.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Andrew Morrison.”

  “Nice to meet you, guy. Please...” A motion to the chair Drew had just occupied. “Have a seat.”

  The pale yellow polo took a seat behind his desk, upon which a nameplate read, STEVEN CRYER, STORE MANAGER. Getting back into the grocery store business turned Drew’s stomach—it felt like he was falling backward rather than moving on to bigger and better things—but this was his best shot at an immediate hire. He had experience—and no time to waste. Scoring a job here would allow him to look for something different between shifts.

  “So, I hear you’re looking to work for us.”

  “Yes, sir, if there’s an opening.”

  “You’ve worked in grocery before,” Cryer noted, looking over the handwritten job application Drew had filled out not a half hour earlier. “Says you were employed at Kroger just...” he paused, glanced up at Drew with a puzzled expression, “a few days ago?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  “You were let go?” The look of suspicion on Cryer’s face was a comical contrast to the smiling dollar sign mascot on the vinyl banner behind him. Thrifty says: Shop at Thriftway! Best prices, guaranteed!

  “No, sir, I quit.”

  The suspicion immediately shifted to distrust. Drew could read the guy’s mind: quitters never won, not even in the produce department.

  “Looks like you were employed there for quite some time,” Cryer noted, shifting in his seat. “Five years, which is impressive, so I did us both a favor and called in for a reference.”

  Drew’s mouth went dry.

  “Uh-huh,” Cryer said. “Want to rethink your story?” With his desk chair groaning beneath him, Cryer leaned back and knitted his fingers together across his chest, as if he were convinced that managing a two-bit grocery store was the top of the food chain.

  “I-I left,” Drew stammered.

  “You walked out. That’s not the same as quitting,” Cryer noted. “But here”—he tapped the résumé on his desk—“you say you quit.”

  Drew stared down at his feet, baffled by how quickly this interview had gone to shit. He frowned, coming to the far-too-late realization that he shouldn’t have lied. But it was too late for that now. He had been blinded by his need for work, by the charm of that morning’s breakfast, by the fact that he’d rather live in a Dumpster than go back to where he’d come from. Cryer was about to tell him to get out of his office; he could feel it.

  Suddenly, he heard his dad yelling from the kitchen. Just say it. The truth will set you free. Drew didn’t know what truth Rick had been trying to get out of his mother that evening, but he knew the truth that would possibly save his chances here. Closing his eyes, he exhaled a defeated sigh.

  “I really need this job,” he murmured.

  “I’m sure you do,” Cryer quipped.

  “My mother is an alcoholic,” he confessed. “And she doesn’t leave the house. Ever.”

  Cryer perked up, but Andrew hesitated. How could he tell this man—this stranger—about his mom? About the way she trembled if she didn’t have her hourly drink; the way she melted into the couch with satisfaction when it finally hit her lips? Drew knew it was a disease, but he couldn’t help be disgusted by her. How was he supposed to explain that to this self-satisfied grocery store manager and keep even a shred of his own dignity? Confessing her sins somehow turned him into a bad person. But it was his only shot at a job, and if he didn’t get it, he’d wind up right back there on Cedar Street, miserable, watching her slowly drown herself.

  “I haven’t told this to anyone,” he said, hoping that Cryer would lend him some mercy and wave off any further explanation. But the store manager looked far too intrigued to let it go. Drew swallowed against the lump in his throat, stared down at his hands, and dared to continue.

  “I’ve been taking care of her since I was a kid, and just recently—last week, actually—I saw her walking down the street back toward our house.”

  Cryer leaned forward. “You said she never left the house,” he countered.

  “Exactly,” Drew replied.

  He’d been driving home from work when he spotted a woman hobbling along the side of the road with two paper bags. At first he suspected it was Mrs. Combs, a widow who lived alone on the outskirts of town. Every now and then, Mrs. Combs would wander into town on foot. Most of the time she’d get picked up by police; she had early-onset Alzheimer’s and often forgot where she was. Drew had slowed his truck and leaned across the bench seat, rolling down the window to offer her a ride.

  But it wasn’t Mrs. Combs.

  It was his mother.

  He remembered the surge of joy that had speared his heart. Holy shit, he had thought. She’s outside. She’s trying. She’s really trying to get well again.

  He had pulled the truck over and jumped out of the cab, but a wall of nausea stopped him in his tracks. His mother refused to look at him, her face a mask of guilt. He didn’t have to look inside those bags to know they weren’t filled with groceries.

  “The bags were full of booze,” he told Cryer, his voice barely a mumble.

  Cryer leaned back again, clearly relishing the tale.

  Drew clenched his jaw, his rage bubbling up now as strongly as it had then. He had begged her to go out with him so many times—to hop into his truck so he could take her out for a burger, so they could go to a movie; he wanted her to see that the world still existed and she could still be a part of it. He had tried to help her beat her disease, had even suggested that they pick up and move somewhere new, start fresh. She had refused him every time. And yet she had temporarily beaten her agoraphobia—not to make her only child happy, not to make his life easier, not to make up for all the mistakes she had made, but to fill the empty liquor cabinet at home.

  “So I packed up my stuff and I moved out,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t want to keep any part of my old life, especially not the part that supported her for the past five years, so I quit my job.” He paused, corrected himself. “Left my job, I guess. I hadn’t missed a day of work in like...” He shook his head, not able to remember the most recent unscheduled day he had taken off. “I don’t know. A really long time. And I felt really bad about it, you know? The people there were great, and I should have put in my two weeks, but I just had to get out of there.” He looked up, desperate for approval, for some glimmer of understanding. “Out of my house, I mean. And I didn’t want her to find me, or send someone to find me, or, I don’t know...” His words drifted off. He looked back down to his hands again.

  “That’s it?” Cryer asked after a painfully awkward few seconds.

  “That’s it,” Drew told him. And just like that, he felt terrible.

  He had raced back home after catching her along the side of the road, nearly mowing down their mailbox when he careened into the driveway. He stumbled out of the pickup like a drunk, careened up the porch steps, fumbled with his house keys. He dropped them once, then again, and finally flung himself inside, slamming the door behind him so hard and fast, all that was missing was the murderer, the ax, and the chase. With his back to the door, he saw the house he’d lived in his entire life through a new set of eyes. The house that his Gamma had lovingly decorated and his PopPop had kept up for so long was now little more than a living corpse. The sunny yellow color that had danced across the walls had faded to a sad brown. Nothing was clean. Nothing was new. There was no hope to be found, not in any of it.

  The one thing that was truly different about that familiar landscape was that Julie Morrison wasn’t in it. Instead, the self-proclaimed agoraphobe was dragging her feet along the road, two bags of booze heavy at her sides.

  He had been betrayed. By his mother. His mom.

  He stumbled forward, his vision blurred by tears, and did what he had only seen d
one in movies: he began to destroy the place. He dislodged the couch cushions and tossed them across the room, one of them clipping a small table full of knickknacks. Small ceramic figurines tinkled against the hardwood floor like rain, exploding on impact—all of his mother’s precious trinkets, annihilated by a pang of hate. He grabbed the coffee table by its rim, overturning it with a sudden upward shove. Empty bottles flew up; glass tumblers spiraled through the air; a full ashtray spun like a Frisbee before crashing to the floor. When the table hit the ground, it fell with a cacophony of shattering glass, bottles exploding beneath its weight. The stink of alcohol wafted up from the floor. He backed away from the mess, knocking a lamp off a side table as he did, wiping at his eyes.

  She had asked for it. She deserved it. But no matter which way he spun it or how he explained it, it boiled down to one thing: he had left her—an ill, mentally unstable woman; his own mother—alone. It didn’t matter how much he had done for her or how hard he had tried, because in the end he hadn’t tried hard enough. He had failed. And he had run. And nobody was going to give a shit about how he had given up college, how he had lost the only girl he’d ever loved, how he had spent Friday nights mopping up vomit rather than hanging out with the people who had once been his friends. Nobody cared about that because it didn’t matter. Andrew was the bad guy. He was the one to blame.

  Cryer sat silently for a long while, staring at Andrew as he replayed the drama that had become his life. A compassionate smile worked its way across the store manager’s mouth.

  “I appreciate your opening up,” he said.

  Drew blinked, that smile giving him hope. Maybe it did matter; maybe all that self-sacrifice was about to pay off, right here, right now.