by Ellie Monago
That’s from Raquel, sweet and self-effacing. My new friend.
These are good people who just want to help each other and know each other. To know everything about each other, isn’t that what Fanny—I mean, Val—said?
Dog walker, with references!
We’re cutting off my daughter’s long hair. Should we donate to Locks of Love, or is there something more local?
Colitis 5K Walk—all are welcome to bring awareness to the cause.
Mountain of Styrofoam. Anyone need it for art projects or packing?
So that’s how it’s done. But then, I didn’t even know about GoodNeighbors before last week’s trash pickup. What a difference a week makes.
Free Restoration Hardware dining room table and six chairs. In good condition, two years old.
Wonderful kitty needs a new home.
Please join our book club!
Coed softball game tonight.
See, the AV is full of good people. Welcoming, inclusive people.
I need to tell Doug about the notes, now that someone’s brought Sadie into it and is actually stealing from us. It’s become a safety issue.
Steve Johnson’s the best general contractor around. Trust me.
Oliver, of course. I see him on the site all the time, always the first to recommend painters, roofers, and contractors of every stripe. I suppose it is very neighborly of him, but it also strokes his ego. I have no idea how Doug could have talked to him for so long. I still haven’t asked what they talked about.
An ego like his, getting bested by Doug and me for this house . . . Could it be him?
Does your husband know?
Well, he’s about to know about you, you coward. Whether or not Oliver is the psychopath behind the notes, I decide this is one secret I just can’t keep anymore.
I call Doug at work. “Hey there,” he purrs. It’s his I’ve-gotten-laid-recently voice.
“Hey. I’m freaked out.”
“What happened?” His concern is instant.
I take a deep breath and tell him everything. That I’ve been getting notes but I didn’t want to bother him. I wanted to handle it on my own, and I didn’t want to prejudice him against his new neighbors. Everyone’s been so kind, by and large. I hoped I could just forget about the notes.
“But I can’t ignore them anymore,” I say. “Whoever’s writing them has taken it to the next level.”
“What did they do?”
“They stole Part C.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, that part we need for Sadie’s dresser. It was delivered this morning, and now it’s gone.”
“Are you sure it was there, and then it disappeared? Maybe it was never delivered.”
“I had the shipping company ask the delivery guy. He confirmed that he left it. Why would he lie?”
A long pause, and then Doug’s voice takes on an eerily calm quality, like he’s a hostage negotiator or whoever it is who talks suicidal people off ledges. “Because he was covering his ass. He probably delivered it to the wrong house.”
Unlikely, but possible, I guess.
“The notes are weird,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But to think someone’s running around stealing packages?”
“If they can leave notes, why wouldn’t they steal? They’re getting bolder. That’s what scares me.”
“This is a really safe neighborhood, Kat.”
“I want to think so, too.”
“It’s a really expensive neighborhood.” Like I can forget that. I make sure our bills get paid on time. “What I mean is, if one of our neighbors is writing the notes, then they might be eccentric, but I doubt they’re dangerous.” Another pause. “Speaking of eccentric, there’s that lady across the street. The one who’s obsessed with parking. Did you park in her space?”
“No, I haven’t parked in her space. And it’s not Gladys.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s eighty years old. Part C is heavy. It’s particleboard.”
It’s like he didn’t even hear me. “Gladys probably watches the street like a hawk. She doesn’t have anything else going on in her life, so she’s got the time to nurse grudges.” I can hear him warming to his argument. “You said yourself that the handwriting is perfect. She probably had to take penmanship classes in her day. No one under fifty even knows how to write anymore. You think you’re on the geriatric mob hit list?”
We might laugh about this later, but it’s not later. “The last note said, ‘Your poor little girl.’”
“I get why you’re bothered. I know you’re already on edge with the whole move and trying to make a good impression on everyone.”
“Do not make this about me.”
“I’m trying to say that I understand why you’d be upset.”
“But you don’t think I have a reason to be?”
I hear him sigh. “I just don’t want you to work yourself up. Whoever it is—man, woman, aardvark—don’t let them get to you, OK? A bully loves a reaction. We’re talking about high school pranks here. Maybe it’s that Goth girl next door.”
“Maybe.” Though I don’t really think it’s Hope. Somehow, it just feels more adult than that.
“We’ll talk when I get home, OK? We’ll figure out how to make you feel safe.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Wait until tonight. I’ll talk to Wyatt when I get home. I’ll see what he thinks we should do.”
That implies that Wyatt is someone to be trusted. We have no idea if that’s the case. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You wanted to call the police, and Wyatt’s on the force. It just makes sense. I ran into him the other night, and we talked for a half hour. He’s a good guy.”
I read somewhere that the psychological profiles of cops and criminals are extremely similar. They both think they’re above the law. “I don’t want him repeating this to the other neighbors.”
“I’ll tell him it’s just between us. He’s a cop. He knows how to keep things quiet.”
I don’t answer.
“Listen,” he says, “I’m upset, too. I don’t like someone treating you like this. But you know how you can get.”
“How do I get, Doug?”
Now he doesn’t answer.
“Let me help, OK?” he finally says. “Let me talk to Wyatt.”
I know how this will go. He’s determined, and he’ll wear me down, nicely. Because he’s undamaged, so his judgment is above reproach.
But what’s that old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s after you.
CHAPTER 13
“Maybe you could just put up the spice rack?” I say to Doug with a weary hope. If our house is more in order, literally, everything will feel manageable again. Once the spice rack is affixed to the wall, I’ll be able to at least put the spices in their proper place. That’s one more box I can break down, albeit a small one, and it’ll be easier to start cooking again. Cooking is a baby step toward making a house a home.
The kitchen is small and the oak cabinetry is dated, but it gets good light. Someday, I’d like to add a backsplash in a bright color, something befitting Crayola. But today, I’ll settle for the spice rack. And then tomorrow, Doug can build the kitchen cart to house our pots and pans. One foot in front of the other, one box at a time. Everything’s going to be fine. Sure, one person doesn’t seem to want me in the AV, but I’m wanted by everyone else. I’ve been invited to my second girls’ night out, and not just by one person. They’ve all texted me to make sure I’m coming. That means I’m going to be a regular at girls’ night. Andie never pulled that off.
And sure, Part C is missing. But that could be because the driver made a mistake and then lied to cover it up, like Doug said, or, if it was stolen, that only renders the whole note thing juvenile and harmless. Someone who steals particleboard is not someone to fear. It probably is Hope and her teenage friends. It could be some Goth initiation rit
ual, for all I know.
Doug is dancing around with Sadie, and she’s rewarding him with giggles. This is what I should focus on. This is real life.
“It’s the weekend,” I say. “Let’s make some progress on the house, and then we can go have fun.”
Doug does a little soft-shoe. “I’ve been cooped up all week in a cube. I need a break. I need to get out in the sunshine, pronto.”
“We’ll get out. But do one thing first.” I’m practically begging. “Just the spice rack or the bookshelf.”
“I’m the one who watched Sadie while you were out partying with your new friends last week. Doesn’t that count for anything? I mean, I did everything for her. You wouldn’t believe the size of her poop. I should be nominated for Father of the Year after cleaning that up.”
I know he’s kidding—he’s not one of those guys who’s never changed a diaper—but it rankles anyway. He watches Sadie by himself for one night and changes a poopy diaper, and he’s Father of the Year?
“Please, Doug,” I implore.
He stops moving and cocks his head. “Then we stroll Main Street? And for the rest of the day, not another word about building or installing or, heaven forbid, affixing?”
It’s the best deal I’m going to get.
A half hour later, the spice rack is up and we’re headed out with Sadie in her stroller. Doug is in high spirits. “I wish there was a boys’ night out,” he says. “Maybe I should start one myself. Vic seems cool. Oliver. Definitely Nolan.”
I wince. It’s visceral, my response to that name. Doug might as well be saying Layton. It’s a good thing that Andie doesn’t bring him up much. Come to think of it, open as she appears, she doesn’t actually share that much personal information about her home life at all.
“And Wyatt, for sure,” Doug says. “He’s awesome.”
Doug had been true to his word, knocking on Wyatt’s door and disappearing inside for more than an hour. Yet when Doug returned home, he was unusually succinct in describing their talk: yes, Wyatt was going to keep things confidential; no, he didn’t have any idea who the writer could be; yes, Wyatt would keep more of an eye on our house; no, there was no need to call the police.
“The thing is,” Doug told me, “the department wouldn’t do much in a case like this. There’s no one to issue a restraining order against, and they’re not really going to take a bunch of anonymous notes seriously.”
“The notes are threatening.”
“There’s no explicit threat. You wouldn’t believe how overt it has to be before the police will do anything. Wyatt told me some stories—” Seeing my face, he clams up. Then he says, “It’s going to be OK. Wyatt says whoever’s doing this will get tired. They’ll run out of steam.”
I hesitate. I want to believe that so badly, but then I remember Note #3: You thought we were done here?
“Wyatt knows how these kinds of people operate, Kat. He knows common harassment patterns. And an increased police presence as soon as the new neighbors arrive won’t exactly endear us to the block. He’s looking out for us, Kat. He’s a good person.”
“You’re sure he’s not going to tell anyone?”
“Positive. He said he won’t even mention it to Yolanda.”
If Wyatt thinks it’s no big deal, if the police see far worse all the time, then I should try to accept his assessment.
It suddenly strikes me that Wyatt’s wife is the only one who hasn’t texted me about girls’ night out. Yolanda is the only one who hasn’t regularly made it clear that she wants my friendship.
Now, as we stroll past the park en route to Main Street, the first people I see are Wyatt and Yolanda. It’s like when you’ve had a dream about someone and then you open your eyes and there they are. There’s a sense of unreality to the whole scene.
But nothing could be more ordinary. Branstone’s daughter, Zoe, is playing with Yolanda’s twin boys in the sandbox. Wyatt’s got his feet submerged beside them. Brandon and Yolanda are sitting on the edge, chattering away like magpies (I remember now that they watch each other’s kids a lot. Though right now, Wyatt’s doing all the watching). Stone is on a nearby bench, scrolling on his phone.
Doug pushes the stroller over to Wyatt, activates the foot brake, and then claps Wyatt on the back. Wyatt stands up and gives Doug a bear hug like they’ve known each other for years.
Yolanda is watching our approach, her eyes slightly narrowed, before her expression melts into a smile for me. Brandon leaps up. “Long time no see!” he crows. He clutches me in a hug.
“Hi!” I eke out.
When Brandon releases me, he smacks himself on the forehead. “I’ve been totally meaning to bring over some hand-me-downs for the little lady, if that’s all right. We spend way too much on Zoe’s clothes. It’d be great to keep them on the block.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “But don’t worry; we’re getting by.”
“Of course you are. That baby of yours could be in a potato sack and she’d win first prize at the county fair.”
Yolanda laughs. “You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”
“I hope you’re wrong about that,” Brandon says.
The conversation between Yolanda and Brandon flows around me, a slow-moving current, and I can wade in whenever I feel like it or stand on the banks. It’s comfortable, nondemanding. I find myself hoping that neither of them wrote those notes, that neither of them grabbed Part C. They’re both around on weekdays, right? For reasons of scheduling, Stone’s off the hook. Maybe Wyatt, too, though cops can have irregular hours.
“Hey,” Doug calls over to me, “what do you think about having a housewarming party?”
I feel almost like he’s testing me, making sure that I’m still prepared to open up despite everything, and in such a public forum. But that’s not Doug’s way; he’s not underhanded like that. He loves a party, that’s all.
“We’ll talk about it,” I say.
“Uh-oh!” Stone laughs from his bench. Other than his initial wave and greeting, I hadn’t thought he was listening.
“We just need to get things more in order. Our house is still a mess.”
“It’s adorable,” Yolanda pronounces. “And so colorful.”
“It’s all Kat’s doing.” Doug grins at me.
Then he’s back talking to Wyatt, and I smile awkwardly at Yolanda and Brandon.
“I know you’re not completely settled in,” Brandon says, “but I bet you’ve at least gotten rid of all the bad juju?”
Yolanda smacks him on the shoulder playfully. “There’s no bad juju!”
“Nils and Ilsa?” He raises an eyebrow. “There’s some bad juju.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my throat tightening just slightly.
“Brandon just likes to gossip.” Yolanda gives me a smile. “You have nothing to worry about.”
It seems like Wyatt kept his word and she really doesn’t know about the notes.
“It’s not gossip,” Brandon says. “It’s personal experience.”
“Story for another time.” Yolanda regards him fondly. There’s true affection between these two. But was there also a tiny hint of warning in her look?
“We should get going,” Doug calls to me. “Our girl’s getting antsy!”
I’d enjoy Main Street on an ordinary day, but the phrase bad juju keeps ringing in my ears. Could Nils and Ilsa be behind the notes? They sold us the house and then regretted it?
I’m tired of speculating, tired of everything all of a sudden. That morphs into irritability, which centers on Doug, perhaps unfairly.
I’m trying not to be bugged that Doug put me on the spot about the party, the same as he forced me into drinks at Oliver and Gina’s, which then reminds me of the bikes. I’m also trying to forget that Dad of the Year comment, and how Doug makes me twist his arm to get anything done in the house.
But he’s working hard these days, I know. I don’t want to resent him, and I d
o want us to spend more time strolling around the neighborhood, doing what normal people do. I want to get to know the Village. I like gelato as much as the next person.
I find myself trailing Doug, who’s using Sadie like a prop, since everywhere we go, she attracts attention. I stand by, doing my best to smile while he makes small talk, seemingly oblivious to my mood. He’s probably just chalking it up to introversion, thinking I should push myself out of my comfort zone. It’s not like he heard the bad juju remark, after all.
In the bike shop, Doug and the proprietor start gabbing away. He has me trying on helmets. He even picks one out for Sadie. Then there are the bike locks and rainproof covers that are perfectly sized, which also means perfectly expensive. “Couldn’t we just buy this stuff at Target?” I ask him when the owner steps away.
“You have to support local businesses!” he says with a cheerful smile.
I bounce Sadie up and down in my arms, smiling stiffly, while he talks to shopkeepers and customers alike. I watch him in his element. He doesn’t seem to notice (or care) how I’m feeling. I should probably tell him outright, but isn’t he the one who claimed, on our second date, that his skill was reading people and giving them what they want? That skill seems to have abandoned him when it comes to his own wife.
Stop it, Kat.
I don’t want to be that wife who stands by silently, awash in resentment. I want to appreciate him for what he’s good at, like talking to people, and accept what he’s not, which is putting together furniture in a timely manner.
Besides, this isn’t really about Doug. This is about the notes, Part C, and bad juju. It’s my fear of escalation, of what might be coming next. It’s about the shame I feel over a past that I’m afraid is catching up to me right now, that a neighbor somehow knows what I haven’t even told my own husband. It’s about all that I need to keep boxed up and buried, on a block full of people who claim they can see through me.