The Neighbors

by Ahlborn, Ania

  “Son?”

  Drew looked up with a jolt, surprised to see a man standing just a yard away. He had never seen Harlow’s husband up close before, couldn’t remember whether he’d ever caught the guy’s name. But he was unmistakably Harlow’s: perfect teeth like off a toothpaste commercial, loafers glinting in the sun. Guy Smiley personified.

  “Looks like you’re having some trouble,” the man said with a smile. “You’re Andrew, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Harlow’s told me about you. She said you were kind enough to come over and help her out.” He extended his hand toward Drew. “Red.”

  Drew took the guy’s hand in greeting, shook it.

  “Redmond,” he clarified. “Though nobody ever called me that save for my mother, and she only called me that when she was good and steamed.”

  Drew couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as Red turned his attention to the truck. The Wards just kept getting better and better. Harlow was perfection, and Red...well, Red had Ward right in his name: Ward for Ward Cleaver, the perfect TV dad.

  “First time you’ve had problems?” he asked.

  Drew nodded. “Yeah, she’s never broken down on me before.”

  “How long have you had her?”

  “Since I was six.”

  Red gave him a curious glance.

  “She used to be my dad’s. He left and I got the truck.”

  Red raised an eyebrow and looked back to the engine.

  “Consolation prize,” Drew confessed.

  “That was nice of him,” Red murmured.

  As the man tinkered beneath the hood, Andrew took a few steps forward to look himself.

  “You know anything about cars?” Red asked.

  For a split second Drew was about to lie. Not being able to fix his own truck—well, that was embarrassing. Automobiles were supposed to be a common denominator among men: cars and football, both of which excluded Andrew Morrison from all of man-dom.

  “I don’t,” he confessed, “other than changing the oil, really.”

  “Try to turn her over for me,” Red suggested.

  Drew climbed behind the wheel and gave the key another twist. The engine sputtered. Red waved a hand at him from behind the hood.

  “You’ve got fuel, right?” Red asked, Drew rejoining him next to the front bumper.

  “Half a tank; filled up a few days ago.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Red drew out a small Swiss Army knife. He flipped through the various tools, came to one that functioned as a screwdriver, and began to unscrew the distributor cap.

  “What about your spark plugs?”

  “Those should have been changed out a few months ago,” Drew said. “I paid for it.”

  Red shook his head. “Just because you paid for it doesn’t mean it was done, son. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

  With one screw down and one to go, Drew watched Red carefully remove the cap, exposing the distributor.

  “Well, there’s your problem,” he announced. “See this?” He held up a small part for Drew’s inspection. “That’s your distributor rotor.”

  Drew cleared his throat as Red waited for some sort of response, and despite the lightbulb Drew wished had appeared over his head, there was no sudden realization, no true understanding of what the small part between Red’s fingers meant.

  “OK?” Drew said.

  “It’s come loose,” Red told him, “which is why your truck won’t start. No rotor, no spark, no go.”

  “Is that normal?” Drew asked. “For it to come off like that?”

  Red pressed the rotor back onto its stalk. “I wouldn’t say it’s common, but it’s not unheard of.”

  “Huh.”

  Drew watched Red press the rotor into place.

  “Should have asked your roommate,” Red suggested, nodding toward Mickey’s sleeping Pontiac. “He probably knows cars.”

  Drew rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

  Red gave the kid beside him a knowing look. “I had a roommate once; worst decision I ever made. Seems like it’s always the same old story.”

  “Mrs. Ward mentioned something about Mickey,” Drew admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Something about his history; she didn’t say what it was.”

  Red nodded, apparently familiar with Harlow’s reservations about their neighbor. But he didn’t waste time on gossip, motioning for Drew to try the engine once more.

  “Go ahead, give it a shot.”

  Andrew walked around the front of the truck and climbed into the cab. Pushing the clutch to the floor, he gave the key a turn. The engine sputtered once, then roared to life.

  “Hell yeah.” He laughed, smacking the steering wheel with satisfaction.

  Red appeared in the driver’s window, smiling at Drew’s approval.

  “Well, there she goes,” he said. “Lots to do?”

  “Job hunting.”

  “That’s no fun. What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “Anything,” Drew admitted. “I’ll take whatever I can find.”

  Red looked impressed, his expression drifting toward contemplation a second later.

  “I’ve got a lot of odd jobs around the house,” he said after a moment. “Harlow’s a handful, and any renovation takes three times as long with that woman. She’s a perfectionist.”

  Drew grinned. He knew she was. She wore that personality trait like a badge of honor on her dress lapel.

  “I like you,” Red confessed. “I like your work ethic. And you can’t get a job better than the one next door. What do you say?”

  Andrew blinked. It was too good to be true. He was hit by a wave of relief. Now he’d been saved not once, but twice—and both in the same morning. Working at that perfect little house, fixing a kitchen faucet or, hell, even retiling an entire bathroom—it was leaps and bounds above scrubbing dirty toilets at a fast-food joint.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely,” Red said. “Harlow seems to like you as well, so why not?”

  “As long as you don’t need me to work on your car,” Drew said. “Because, honestly...” He lifted his hands from the steering wheel, shaking his head. Red laughed.

  “We’ll start tomorrow morning,” Red told him. “Eight o’clock.” He extended his hand.

  “Awesome, yeah,” Drew replied, shaking just a little too eagerly, not even bothering to ask what Red was going to pay him. The idea of working for Harlow was so alluring that at that moment, money was the last thing on his mind. “Really, thank you. This is great.”

  Red waved at Drew as if to say it was nothing. “Nonsense; thank you,” he told him. “See you tomorrow.” And then he turned and walked away.

  From behind the curtain, Harlow smiled.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A few blocks north of Magnolia, Drew found himself standing in the dirt parking lot of the local farmers’ market. The market was in full swing despite the storm the night before, regardless of the fact that it would more than likely roll in again. The place was dotted with little booths and hand-painted signs: strawberries, three dollars a pint; freshly baked loaves of bread, two for five dollars. A little girl and her mother sold lemonade while others hawked their watermelons and organically grown zucchini.

  Overwhelmed with gratitude, Drew was determined to give the Wards a proper thank-you for all that they’d done. Sitting in his just-fixed pickup, he was no longer unemployed, and while he barely had enough cash to scrape by, he owed a debt, and he planned on paying it.

  An older woman occupied the booth closest to him. Her carefully painted sign assured anyone who was looking for a unique gift that yes, she had cellophane and would arrange the purchase into an attractive gift basket, perfect for that special someone. Drew didn’t know the Wards very well, but a fruit basket was a classic gift. Anytime someone greeted a new neighbor on television, they presented a big basket full of fresh produce. He
thought he remembered the ritual signifying bounty, or that the recipient would never know hunger. Whatever the meaning, he was sure Harlow would appreciate the retro touch.

  “Do I buy the basket first and come back to have it arranged?” Drew asked the woman behind the precarious wall of wicker. She sat on a collapsible fishing chair, her hands busy with two aluminum knitting needles looping through the air like twin conductor’s staffs. She nodded at him with a smile.

  “For someone special?” she asked.

  He picked up on her tone. Someone special, in her eyes, should have been a pretty young lady in a free-flowing summer dress—a beautiful girl with an easy smile and hair that rode upon the wind. Once upon a time, that girl had been Emily, but Emily was gone. And while Harlow may have not been Andrew’s age, she was still beautiful, still pure and elegant and utterly sophisticated. Drew offered the woman a smile.

  “For a neighbor,” he answered. He flushed when he realized he had almost said “a friend.”

  “Sweet child,” she said. “Neighbors are important too. Just don’t forget Robert Frost.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Frost, dear,” the woman repeated. “The poet. Don’t tell me you haven’t read him.”

  He knew the name, and he was sure he’d read an obligatory poem or two in his senior English class, but nothing specific came to mind.

  The woman rose from her chair, put her knitting aside, and picked out a basket from the pile.

  “Good fences make good neighbors, dear. But a pretty basket never hurt anyone.”

  She handed the basket over with a smile. Drew reached into his back pocket for his wallet, but she waved the notion away.

  “Pay later,” she told him with a wink.

  Drew blinked at her refusal. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, are you going to run off with my basket without coming back?” she asked with a teasing smile. “You wouldn’t deny an old woman a few minutes of your time on your way out, now, would you?”

  “Of course not,” he told her, taking the basket from her hands. He couldn’t help shaking his head as he walked away from her booth. Since he’d moved onto Magnolia, everything had turned to gold.

  By the time Drew had walked around the entire market, he had collected a bouquet of fruit, complete with a grapefruit as big as his head. There was a pint of freshly picked strawberries, a couple of oranges, and a giant slice of Saran-wrapped watermelon. He plucked up a pineapple as well, recalling that it was a symbol of hospitality, and filled the remaining nooks and crannies with plump cherries. Unable to resist temptation, he popped one of them into his mouth, tasting summer. He spit the pit onto the ground before heading back toward the baskets, remembering his Gamma’s warning: Don’t swallow the seed, or a tree will sprout inside your stomach and roots will shoot out your toes.

  He set the heavy load onto the old woman’s table, and she put her knitting aside once again and got to her feet. She was a lot like Drew’s Gamma before she had passed away—shrinking down toward the ground while Andrew grew up toward the sky. It makes it easier to reach for the stars, she had told him. So reach while you’re young. He missed her; the way she used to balance him on top of her feet and dance with him on the wraparound porch. PopPop knew how to play the guitar, and he’d play old country songs while Drew and his Gamma danced, his mom and dad dancing and laughing together just a few steps away.

  He watched the older woman work in silence, arranging the produce with a contemplative expression, stacking and draping, making sure it looked like Drew had picked it out of a glossy-paged magazine. A pink ribbon was the finishing touch.

  “For friendship,” she told him. “May it go well for you, my dear.”

  She offered him the basket with a fond glint in her eye. He paid her, thanked her, and nearly skipped back to his truck.

  Once on Magnolia, with the basket precariously balanced on his knee, Drew struggled with the Wards’ front gate, fiddling with the latch. Moving up the walkway, he took deep pulls of air that smelled of fresh-cut grass, thrilled to be on the other side of the picket fence yet again. A momentary breeze carried the perfume of Harlow’s roses across the yard, while breezy licks of jazz danced out an open window. A pair of fresh white curtains billowed outward into the afternoon sun. It was absurd in its perfection; another world—one that Andrew would be allowed to experience on a daily basis starting bright and early tomorrow morning.

  He pressed the glowing doorbell button and heard it ding above an accompanying piano. But the footsteps he expected didn’t come. He pushed the doorbell again, but still, nothing. Taking a few steps to the side, he peeked in through the long window beside the door. The place looked empty. His anticipation dwindled, a tinge of disappointment coloring his good spirits.

  Just as he was about to give up, Harlow called from the sidewalk.

  “Andy, honey...” He turned, and there she was, appearing out of thin air. “Good heavens, darlin’.” She paused, placing a hand to her chest as she blinked at the comically oversize fruit basket in Andrew’s arms. “What’s that?”

  Drew grinned as she made her way up to the front door, holding the basket out to her.

  “I just thought, since Red was nice enough to offer me a job...”

  Harlow’s surprise melted into what looked like genuine enchantment, and for a split second she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen: the way her hair shone in the sun like gold, the way her bright red lips pulled back with exhaled laughter—just like his mother, once upon a time.

  “For me?” Her lashes fluttered almost flirtatiously.

  He nodded, and she shook her head as though it were the nicest gesture she’d ever known.

  “My goodness, you’re the sweetest thing in all the world, do you know that? The sweetest thing.”

  Drew felt his face flush as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. She smelled like sweet vanilla. He pictured her pushing that basket of fruit from his arms and onto the ground, oranges rolling down the front steps and onto the lawn. She’d shove him against the wall next to the door, her mouth against his, her knee coming up on his hip, the entire neighborhood peeking through their blinds at Mrs. Ward and the boy next door.

  Startled, he took a step away from her. What the hell was that? His heart thumped against his ribs. His initial thought was that Harlow was seducing him, but that was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything at all, save for giving him a peck on the cheek. He stood staring at her as she plucked the basket from his hands and stepped around him, her high heels clicking against the porch. Pushing open the front door, she offered him a look over her shoulder.

  “Come in,” she told him.

  The door had been unlocked.

  Andrew hesitated, that flash of fantasy making him uncomfortable in his own skin. There was something wrong with him. Harlow was gorgeous, hot, even, but she was old enough to be his mom. Hell, that was one of the things that drew him to her—the fact that a long time ago, before the world fell apart, his mother was a lot like Harlow. And yet, there he was, imagining things that made him feel like a total creep.

  But he couldn’t refuse her invitation to go inside. That would have been rude—a complete contradiction to the gift basket she held in her arms. Taking a steadying breath, he followed her into the house.

  Mickey cracked open the screen door as he watched Harlow click up the sidewalk. He saw Drew offer her a giant basket, a ridiculous pink ribbon fluttering in the breeze. He clenched his jaw as Harlow leaned into him. When Drew followed her inside, he almost called out: No! Stop! Don’t!

  Something tightened in his chest, like a tourniquet around his heart.

  “So you just randomly decide to grow a conscience now?” he asked himself, disgusted. “You let her bring him here, and now you have morals?”

  He grimaced, let the screen door slam closed behind him, and turned to look at a fresh plate of cookies on the coffee table.

  Harlow’s perfume still lingered in the air.

  Mickey had be
en in his early twenties when he came out of a Narcotics Anonymous meeting to find a strange woman leaning against a slick black Cadillac, looking like the president’s wife. Her hair shone beneath the streetlight like spun gold. Her lacquered lips looked as though they’d been coated in ruby-colored glass. The porcelain finish of her skin glowed ethereal in the moonlight, and her curves...they invoked images of classy pinup girls posing with fighter jets and power tools. With his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head, he couldn’t help glancing her way, and she smiled widely enough to show off her perfect teeth. She gave off the scent of money like a pheromone. Some poor junkie’s over-protective mother, he thought.

  He hesitated when she flagged him down. She told him she was waiting for a “friend,” that she hadn’t expected to run into a dashing young man such as Mickey when she had set out for the community center that night. He smelled vanilla when she leaned into him a little too close, her lips brushing his cheek as she invited him to a late dinner.

  He would have been a fool to decline.

  Mickey didn’t know she was married, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. Despite her age—at least forty was his best guess—the woman was hotter than fire: everything from the way she talked to the way she batted her eyelashes, her chin tipped downward just so—it was an instant turn-on. Just having dodged possession charges, he was in the shittiest spot in his life. Banging a woman like this, married or not, was a welcome distraction.

  The night was predictable. Dinner. A few too many drinks—Mickey stuck to beer while she ordered exotic cocktails. She laughed a little too loudly, flirting like a girl half her age. Sex in the back of her sleek black Cadillac had been phenomenal. She had been wild, bloodying his back with her nails, bucking beneath him like she hadn’t been properly laid in years. For half a second, Mickey could have sworn he was in love.