Neighborly

by Ellie Monago

  Raquel seems like the safest bet. We had a really good time at the park that one day, and she was the one knocking on my door then.

  I ring the doorbell. Then I knock, waiting a long minute. Her car is in the driveway, so she’s likely home. One more ring, then one more knock—that’s not too stalkerlike.

  I’m just about to turn around and retreat down the steps when Raquel opens the door narrowly. Really narrowly, like barely wider than her head. She doesn’t want me to go inside. Or she doesn’t want me to see inside.

  Her smile, by contrast, is exceptionally warm and friendly, which could mean she’s genuinely happy to see me. It could also mean that she’s afraid I’ve caught her in some sort of compromising position.

  I already know her marriage is open. What’s she worried about?

  “Hi!” I give Raquel a big smile back. “We’re headed out of town for the weekend.”

  “Really? Cool! Where are you going?”

  “Fort Bragg, up north near Mendocino. That’s where Doug’s parents live.”

  “Well, have fun!” She seems eager to shut the door, to get back to whatever or whomever.

  “Could I just ask a quick favor?” I read somewhere about the Ben Franklin effect: that someone who’s done you a favor will actually like you more as a result. Time to try it out. I need to build up some goodwill for when I opt out. “I was wondering if Meadow has an extra sun hat we could borrow?” Creepily, Meadow’s head isn’t much bigger than Sadie’s.

  Raquel shakes her head. Does the Ben Franklin effect work if you ask for a favor but the person doesn’t do it for you?

  “But have fun,” she says with another smile. “Bart and I can’t wait for your barbecue next weekend. Maybe by then, you and Doug will have an answer for all of us?”

  I’m so stupid. It hadn’t even occurred to me that they all RSVPed yes so quickly because they’re expecting a big announcement. Barbecue = fresh meat. They might think we were telegraphing our intentions.

  But someone in this neighborhood is targeting me. It could even be Raquel, because it could be any one of them. Really, everyone coming to my barbecue is a suspect. There’s no way I can let them have access to my inner world—my marriage, my husband, my body. His body. That’s the one they really want, isn’t it?

  “I’ll have an answer for you,” I say.

  “Great. Have fun on your trip!” Before I can get out a response, she’s shutting the door on me, obviously so eager to get back to what—or whom—she was doing that I’m not sure why she even answered it to begin with.

  I’m about to cross back over to our side of the street when I see Yolanda and Wyatt exiting their house with the twins. I think of approaching them—maybe I’ll still get to test out the Ben Franklin effect after all—but Yolanda sees me and her face, which had been neutral, is transformed. Her expression becomes one of pure hate. It stops me in my tracks.

  Wyatt sees where she’s looking, and his face changes, too. He looks afraid. He raises his hand in the most perfunctory wave and then hurries after her. She’s immersing herself fully in the twins, and I know that trick. Kids are the most acceptable diversion, the best way to be instantly and entirely busy.

  I have no idea what I could have done to make Yolanda so angry. It’s been radio silence from her since girls’ night out when all the other women were texting me.

  Then why did she RSVP for the barbecue? Just one curt word, but still. She said yes.

  Doug already has Sadie set up in her car seat, sucking away at her pacifier. As he and I get in, he fixes me with a stare and says, “What do you think that was about?”

  I buckle my seat belt and try to keep my voice level. “They must have been in a rush.”

  Once we’re on the road, Sadie falls asleep quickly. I feel like this is our chance to talk, without having to look each other in the eyes.

  “Are you mad at me about getting drunk at girls’ night?” I blurt artlessly.

  “No.” Flat, inflectionless, devoid of information.

  “Are you mad at me for something else?”

  “What else could there be?” It’s amazing how that same flat tone can suddenly feel so challenging.

  I glance back at Sadie, not wanting to corrupt her virgin ears even though I know all she’ll be aware of at this age is tone, not words.

  “Did someone already tell you about openness?” I say softly. I can’t put it off any longer, not with the barbecue looming. We’ll need to opt out before then, and if people still show up, I’ll know they really meant it about being friends.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  So I tell him, making it sound as patently absurd as possible.

  By the end, Doug’s mouth is hanging open, a great big cartoon O. “Everyone on the block,” he finally gets out, “they’re all sleeping with each other?”

  “Not everyone. Some people opt out. Andie and Nolan opted out, for example.”

  “Do you know everyone who’s in and everyone who’s out?”

  I want to believe his interest is more academic than prurient. I want to believe that he’s going to dismiss the possibility out of hand. Because he loves me. Because he can’t stomach the idea of another man ever touching me or another woman touching him. Because we belong only to each other. We’re not monogamous because we saw no alternatives. We’re monogamous because it suits our love for one another.

  “Wyatt and Yolanda?” he asks. “They’re part of it?” I nod.

  “He probably hasn’t mentioned it because it seems like the women talk to each other first. They’re touting it like it’s some sort of feminist movement.” I hope he’ll roll his eyes with me, though truthfully, it may very well be feminism. This is grrrrrrl power. I’m just not that kind of grrrrrrl.

  “Wyatt and Yolanda,” he repeats, like something’s becoming clear.

  Is Doug harping on it because he thought he and Wyatt were better friends than that or because he’s just happened to notice that Yolanda is beautiful? Sure, she’s an aging beauty, a bit zaftig maybe, but she’s a certified beauty. She used to be in pageants, as she found it important to note.

  Or maybe Tennyson is more his type. She actually looks like the girlfriend he had just before me, the one who intimidated me even in pictures, making me wonder how he could be slumming with me.

  Not that he’s ever given off that impression. Not at all.

  My self-esteem was so low when we met. All my confidence came from doing well in school and then at work. I was terrified of relationships, terrified of being truly seen for what I thought I was. I didn’t just have a fear of intimacy; I had a terror. It wasn’t only because of what had happened with Layton, but with Ellen, too. Doug broke through all that with patience and kindness. He was the first person who thought I was worth it. Thought I was worth something.

  And now, here he is, hesitating when he should be saying hell no.

  It’s just that he’s in shock. Of course he’s going to say no.

  “What would your parents think?” I ask. I know it’s kind of a low blow. But they were entirely behind the idea of us moving to this neighborhood. They were willing to put up a whole lot of money to make it happen. His dad’s ex-military; his mom’s a Suzy Homemaker. It’s about as apple pie traditional as a marriage can be, and Doug reveres them both.

  “I don’t ask about their sex lives, and they’ve never asked about mine.”

  Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s one of the arrangements that was mentioned at girls’ night. Doug and I wouldn’t need to know the specifics of each other’s dalliances.

  The air is charged, and not in a good way. Just talking about this is a threat.

  I’d presented openness like it was cockamamie, a quirk of our neighbors that we can laugh about, but that’s not how he’s taking it.

  “People can get jealous,” I say. “They can get obsessed. It’s hard for a breakup to be truly mutual. There can be gossip and lies. Why subject ourselves to all that? Do we ne
ed an orgasm that badly?” I mean the last part as a joke. He doesn’t laugh. And it occurs to me: he might need an orgasm that badly. I haven’t been stepping up in that department.

  “Some people must be happy with the arrangement,” Doug says. He pauses a beat, but I’m too upset to answer. “You said people do it all different ways. You make up your own rules. Like, it doesn’t just have to be a license to screw around.” Do I detect an imploring note? Is he actually trying to convince me to give this a shot?

  “Do you already know who you’d pick?” I ask, knowing that I’m treading on dangerous ground, but I can’t help myself. Some part of me always thought it would come to this, that he would realize I’m not good enough.

  “No.” I’m hoping that he’ll reach for my hand, tell me I’m the only one for him, that he never even thinks of other women. But it would have to be a lie. I mean, he’s a man. He has eyes. Tennyson, Yolanda, even June when she’s done up right—they’re all incredibly attractive women. He might have already had fantasies about them.

  “But you like thinking about who you’d pick,” I say.

  “That’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about open marriages. I’ve heard that sometimes they work.”

  “What do you mean by ‘work’?”

  He stiffens, and again, not in a good way. “I’m just trying to talk to you. We’re adults, right? We can talk about things even if we don’t decide to do them.”

  “But you want to do it.”

  “I’m not saying that. Most likely, we’ll opt out. But can’t we just think about it first? There’s no rush to say yes or no.”

  I know in my heart I’m not strong enough for an arrangement like this. Even before learning about openness, I’d imagined Doug with the other AV women.

  “I love you, Doug. I don’t want to share you. I don’t want to be with anyone else but you.”

  He nods, keeping his eyes on the road. His face doesn’t soften.

  I’m so afraid of not being special anymore in his eyes. Of being replaced. Because whatever I do, even if I force myself to step up my game sexually, I can’t be new for him. I can’t be someone else. But how can I explain that when he won’t even look at me? When he’s barely looked at me for days?

  “Fine,” he says. “We’ll say no.”

  “You wanted to think about it.”

  “But you want to say no. So do it.”

  I didn’t want to say no like this.

  Pandora’s box is already open, no matter what we do now. The idea of other people is alive in our marriage. We can opt out, but it doesn’t change that there’s an option.

  “Are you being honest with me?” he asks.

  “About what?”

  After a pregnant pause, he says, “Listen, monogamy’s all we’ve known together. Sometimes, when someone’s so familiar . . .”

  “It’s not so exciting anymore,” I finish for him. “You’re not that excited by me.”

  “Or maybe it’s you who’s not excited by me. You used to initiate sex all the time. Now you never do.”

  I initiated sex because seducing him was the only way I could get turned on. Because that was what I’d been taught. But I just don’t have the energy lately or the need to perform. I’m a mother now.

  Is that why he’s seemed so angry lately? Because I haven’t been initiating? Or because someone told him what I said about not wanting him? He stayed at Gina and Oliver’s without me. He’s been talking to the guys. And he and Andie had that drink together, late at night, while I was passed out.

  “We can work on our sex life, if that’s what you want,” I say. “But we can’t bring anyone else in.”

  He nods slowly. He doesn’t look happy.

  Of course he doesn’t. I’ve just told him that the AV is where you can have your cake and eat it, too. Only he doesn’t get to sample. He’s just got pound cake for the rest of his life.

  Everyone starts out saying no, and then they get worn down. I’d assumed that the neighbors were the ones who did the wearing down, but now I see that it’s probably the spouses. One person says no, and then the fantasies grow for the other person. Just because Doug is telling me I can opt out, that doesn’t mean he can’t pressure me to opt in later.

  Fantasies can be deadlier than reality. Because maybe Doug would have been sexually incompatible with, say, Tennyson, or maybe she’s actually a total dud in bed, but that would never be true in his imagination. Is that why some of the women, like Yolanda, agree to openness? While Raquel was extolling the virtues of self-confidence and empowerment, Yolanda called it affair prevention.

  All that cake, parading around. Surely Doug’s mouth will start to water.

  CHAPTER 18

  “You’re here!” Melody runs out to the car. “Sadie’s gotten so big!” She’s practically clawing the window to get at her grandchild.

  Melody power walks every day for hours to maintain her trim frame. Her short hair is dyed blonde, identical to her natural color before she went gray, and it’s thinned in recent years until it’s almost diaphanous, revealing a hint of scalp beneath.

  Scott is hanging back, framed by the front door. He’s tall and equally trim. Bald on top, gray hair trimmed neatly along the sides, his head is shaped like a football helmet. He’s in a polo shirt and khakis, same as he wore to work every day as an engineer. He’s a creature of habit, not prone to sudden moves and disapproving of them in others.

  Now that I’ve got all those cake images dancing in my head—Tennyson as red velvet, Yolanda as lemon meringue, June as carrot—for the first time, I’m thinking we might just want to get the hell out of Dodge. The notes are scary, in their way, but it’s not the same way. Because with the notes, Doug is still standing beside me. We’re still a solid team. The openness is a threat of an entirely different magnitude.

  It occurs to me that even if I convinced Doug to sell Crayola, his parents could prevent us. After all, Scott, Melody, and Doug are the only names on the deed. They told me it was better that way, since my student loan debt would have led to a higher interest rate. I don’t know what would happen if Doug and his parents disagreed on something so huge. It’s hard to imagine Doug really taking Scott on.

  I was such an idiot. I never even read through all the loan paperwork, let alone consulted my own attorney. I just let Doug and his family cut me out of Crayola. But trusting Doug so fully, so blindly, had felt like progress. I thought Dr. Morrison would have been proud.

  Crayola can still work out for us, if Doug and I stick together. We can opt out and find a different, nonswinging group of friends, and over time, the spreadsheet will just become a funny story.

  As usual, Scott and Melody’s house instantly makes me feel confined. Trapped. It’s an “authentic Victorian reproduction” (Melody doesn’t realize the oxymoronic nature of that statement). Because it’s mimicking the past, the rooms are all tiny and overstuffed. Heavy valances adorn every window, while small lamps and knickknacks clutter every surface. The walls and furniture are all in somber shades like dark green and wine. Oil paintings depict dour-faced people in starched, suffocating collars from the turn of the century, except for the cherubs dancing in the master bedroom.

  The exterior is white with a gray-shingled roof and a latticed porch and gate. A gardener comes once a week to do the prissy English gardening that comprises the small front and back yards. There’s a carriage house to the side (Melody’s taxonomy, not mine) that is basically a small studio apartment without a kitchen, and that’s where Doug, Sadie, and I stay. The carriage house has an A-frame shape, but the wide double doors make it look like a barn. I like that we have our own place, which is essentially one open room, since the main house feels so claustrophobic.

  Melody has Sadie out of her car seat now and is clutching her tightly, like Sadie is more doll than human. Doug has our suitcase, I have my breast pump tote, and we all caravan toward the house. Scott pinches one of Sadie’s cheeks perfunctorily before slapping Doug on the back
in a way that seems more fraternal than paternal.

  We’re close enough to the coast, to Route 1, to be able to smell the ocean tang if we just open the windows. But Melody and Scott never do. The windows are shut and the curtains drawn in the living room.

  Doug and I sit on the couch, which is uncomfortable and covered in some sort of dark-green velour or velvet upholstery. Whatever it is, it always feels slightly dusty to my fingertips, despite the vigorous cleaning I’m sure it had recently, courtesy of Melody or a cleaning woman. I don’t think Melody would ever admit to paying someone to clean the house. All those years as what she called a “homemaker” have made her proprietary about all things domestic. That includes her monopolization of Sadie, which has already started. Melody has Sadie in her lap, turned around so they’re nose to nose. It’ll be three days of cootchie-cootchie-coo.

  “You’re looking well, Katrina,” Melody says, though she’s not actually looking at me.

  “I’ve been telling her that,” Doug says. “She might believe it from an unbiased source.”

  Oh, his mother is plenty biased. Now from his dad, I’d believe it. That’s a man who doesn’t dish out compliments lightly. It’s funny how I used to like Melody so much more than Scott. I thought she had a sweet, gentle nature and got run over by Scott’s alpha maleness. I’ve actually come to prefer Scott. He can be an asshole at times, but he is genuine. I think Melody manipulates Scott, lets him be the bad guy and do her dirty work so she appears pure and sweet. Scott can be obnoxious, but Melody is wily. And Scott adores Melody. He never wants to see her upset in the slightest. If he feels we’ve done something, we’ll face his wrath, which is formidable, and with Crayola at stake, it’s a whole new level of walking on eggshells.

  Melody leans in to Sadie and does a loud sniff. “Someone made a wee-wee in her diaper!” She looks over at Doug and me. “Shall I change her? It would be my pleasure.”