The Neighbors Page 3

  Most mornings started out like all the rest, with his mom whipping up a batch of her specialty: apple pancakes with whipped sour cream. His dad had a job at a potato processing plant just a few miles shy of town. Every morning, after Rick finished his pancakes and downed his OJ, he’d ruffle Drew’s hair as he passed the couch, and he’d leave for work without so much as a good-bye. Every morning, as soon as Drew heard his boots on the front steps, he would spring from the sofa and rush to the window to watch his dad pull the old Chevy out of the driveway. Back then, he wanted to be just like his pop—to work at a big factory and drive a cool truck. From his six-year-old kid perspective, those were the only two things you needed to be a man.

  But the morning Andrew’s father left for good, things were different. It was summertime, so he was still in his Transformer pajamas, watching cartoons on basic cable. There were no pancakes, no conversation between his mom and pop. When Drew asked his father about the old gym bag tossed over his shoulder, Rick had pulled him into a tight hug, ruffled his hair just like every other morning, and told him, “See you later, champ.” But rather than climbing into the Chevy, his dad climbed into someone else’s truck instead. He was gone before Drew’s mom stepped out of the kitchen to check on him.

  “Get away from the window; turn on the TV,” she told him. “Scooby-Doo is on.”

  “OK, Mom,” Drew replied, squeaky-voiced, but he lingered at the window for longer than usual. Julie crossed the room, pulling the curtain closed on the still-parked Chevy just beyond the glass.

  “How about we fill up your pool today?” she suggested, and that mysterious truck melted from Andrew’s mind. Visions of sitting in his blue plastic pool blinded him with youthful bliss, and he raced up the stairs to his room to fish out his miniature Speedos and inflatable shark.

  It was only when Drew found himself standing stark naked in his bedroom, trying to get a scrawny leg through the hole in his swim trunks, that he wondered whether he should have told her about the strange truck his dad had climbed into. But if he told her about the truck, he’d have to tell her about the lady driving it, and that would ruin his day in the pool as quick as a tornado could ruin a Kansas town.

  After that, the house decayed into a shadow of its former self. The whitewashed clapboards faded and peeled. The roof was ravaged by decades of wind, and the missing shingles never got replaced, because, his increasingly listless mother reasoned, the next storm would blow them right back off.

  All that was left of Drew’s father was Rick’s pickup and his mother’s sense of betrayal—betrayal that had festered into something that Andrew could no longer handle. She wouldn’t set foot outside her home: not to go to the grocery store, not to check the mail a few steps from the front porch stairs. Years before, she sometimes forced herself to walk along the wraparound porch and sit in her daddy’s swing, but she could no longer even manage that. A few steps outside sent her into a panic, sure that the doors would lock and she’d never be able to get inside again. Andrew had been nine the first time he went to the grocery store alone, a shopping list stuffed into one pocket, a fistful of dollars stuffed into the other. He rode his bike more than three miles in a single direction in the blazing August sun, only to realize, far too late, that he had no way of getting those groceries back home. With plastic shopping bags heavy on his handlebars, he walked his bike all the way back to Cedar Street. When he finally arrived, the half gallon of milk had gone warm.

  By the time Drew turned twelve, he found himself paying bills out of a dwindling bank account, forging his mother’s name on checks so the city wouldn’t turn off their water, electricity, gas. Julie had never worked—they had lived off Rick’s salary. When his dad disappeared, the government checks started coming in. Drew would deposit them into an ATM before school each week, and would stop by the same machine after school to pull cash out. He had made the mistake of walking into the bank only once; the girl behind the counter had smirked at the kid trying to cash his mother’s welfare check. The teller nearly refused to give it back to him, insisting that what he was doing was illegal, finally relenting when Andrew burst into a fit of panicked tears.

  Somewhere in the middle of Andrew’s fourteenth year, Julie stopped cooking. Suddenly, with the bills and the groceries and nearly constant takeout, welfare wasn’t enough—and she wasn’t helping the situation any, drinking through whatever was left of weekly checks. Random men would stop by the house each week, toting bags full of bargain-basement alcohol. One week, when there was nothing left in their cash reserve, Andrew couldn’t pay the guy who showed up on their doorstep. Rather than letting him leave, Julie pulled him inside and led him upstairs. Drew sat on the couch with his hands over his ears, his face hidden against his knees. He started saving for his mother’s booze after that, always careful to have enough cash so it would never happen again.

  By the time Andrew graduated high school, he gave up any future plans and got himself a job. But the bills kept coming, kept growing. Julie kept drinking.

  Everyone felt bad for poor Julie Morrison, but from where Drew was standing, he was the one who deserved Creekside’s compassion. Between the job and the bills and finding his mom passed out drunk on the couch, he started to wonder just how fair life was.

  And then he found out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, Harlow Ward squinted past coils of steam as the new boy’s pickup rolled down the street. Mickey’s Pontiac was parked in the driveway—the kind of car the devil would drive if he walked the earth and lived in the heartland. She supposed that was appropriate; after all, Mickey Fitch was no saint.

  She drained her cup of coffee, ran her thumb along the rim to remove the blotch of red lipstick, and crossed the dining room, her heels silent on the carpet. Dragging her fingers along the tabletop, she paused to admire her reflection in its polished surface, smiling at the woman who gazed back at her from below. Entering the kitchen with the distinctive click of high heels, she placed the still warm mug in the sink and gazed out the window onto a picturesque backyard. The hydrangeas were in full bloom, and the wooden trellis that clung to the side of the house was already heavy with rosebuds.

  She leaned into her reflection in the glass, pursed her painted lips, and fluffed the easy curls that framed her face. She had an errand to run.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she announced, straightening her pencil skirt with one hand as she balanced a plate of cookies in the other. She crossed the living room—the carpet so white, it was a wonder anyone had set foot on it at all. “I’m going next door.”

  “Should I go with you?” Red asked, but she offered him a knowing smile and approached his recliner in response. She stopped beside him, her fingers tracing a path from his ear to beneath his chin.

  “Oh, Red,” she said, “what in heaven’s for? To help me take care of business?” She chuckled, then stepped out of the house.

  Andrew never had a taste for thrift stores. They reminded him of just how bad off he and his mom were. But starting a new life meant new stuff, and he had no money for that any other way.

  The place he’d found a mile from Mickey’s place was a rundown secondhand junk shop that smelled of mothballs and unwashed clothes. There were two people working there, both sweet elderly women who would snap themselves in half with the least bit of effort. They followed him around like baby ducks, pointing out items that he had zero interest in. But he liked the attention, and they liked fawning over the “nice young man” visiting their store. After forty-five minutes of walking the over-stuffed aisles with them, Drew decided on a mattress, a bed frame with no headboard, a badly refinished chest of drawers, and a slightly cockeyed bookcase—all for sixty bucks.

  Asking the women to help haul a mattress across a parking lot would result in two dead bodies in the bed of his truck, and digging a pair of graves for a couple of doting grandmas wasn’t an efficient way to spend his afternoon. So, armed with the store’s only dolly, Andrew struggled with his pu
rchases alone. The mattress was the hardest part. He dragged it through the store and onto the sidewalk, then hoisted it upright just as the wind picked up, nearly tearing it out of his hands and into the street. The grandmas watched him through the window with their hands pressed to their mouths, waiting to see if he’d be lifted off his feet like a kite. They knocked to get Drew’s attention, offering pantomimed advice. By the time the mattress was on the truck, he was exhausted, but it was only the beginning. The bookcase was next.

  After half an hour of struggling in the hot prairie sun, Drew collapsed inside the cab of his truck and blasted the air as high as it would go. With the AC mercifully battering his face, he thought about how he’d have to wrestle all this crap out of the truck and into the house without a dolly, unless by some divine fate Casa de Mickey was equipped with such a utilitarian device.

  He could breach the perimeter of that white picket fence and ask the neighbors. A house like that was destined to have a fully stocked garage. Maybe they’d invite him inside, if only for a minute. Or maybe he and Mr. Perfect Neighbor would unload his truck while the missus brought freshly squeezed lemonade out to them on a silver tray. Invigorated by the idea, he pulled the seat belt across his chest and pushed the Chevy into first.

  A Sonic drive-in sign distracted him. His stomach rumbled. He’d just about kill for a strawberry shake, and nobody could tell him he hadn’t earned it.

  Harlow clicked up the cracked walkway of the house next door, grimacing at the dead lawn. It ruined the neighborhood like an ugly girl ruined a group photo. Most of the houses along Magnolia were charming—naturally, none so much as the Wards’—except for this wreck. Then again, it was her mother who had taught her that trick: standing next to the ugly girl in the picture made Harlow even prettier. That patchy lawn made hers look immaculate. Those sagging gutters made 668 Magnolia Lane look like an absolute dream.

  She fluffed her hair, pulled a single Kleenex from her bag, balanced the plate of cookies on top of an open palm, and pressed the doorbell through the tissue with a grimace. Ridiculous, she thought. How do UPS men not die of contamination? She waited, pressed the bell again, and rolled her eyes when there was no reply. Everything was far more complicated on this side of the picket fence.

  She walked along the edge of the house toward the backyard, the sad excuse of a lawn crunching beneath her feet. She nearly stumbled when one of her heels sank deep into the ground, grumbling beneath her breath when she had to lean against the dirty siding of the house to retrieve her shoe. Stopping in front of a window covered by a bedsheet, she pounded on the glass. She wanted to yell, wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but she stood tight-lipped on the lawn instead, her teeth clenched behind her cherry-stained mouth. The bedsheet rustled. There was a crash—something falling to the floor—a flurry of clumsy footfalls, and finally a violent pull on that makeshift curtain by the occupant of the dark room inside. Wild-eyed, Mickey Fitch glared out the window; temporarily blinded by the sunlight, he looked ready to pulverize the joker who had decided to wake him, probably only a few hours after he’d hit the sack. He blanched when he saw who it was, and with hesitation he raised his hand to the window—a silent plea for a few seconds to react—before letting the curtain fall back into place.

  Harlow snorted and did an about-face, mashing parched blades of grass beneath the soles of her shoes. She marched back to the front of the house and waited by the door.

  Mickey pulled the door open and stared at the woman standing on his front doorstep. Despite being roused from his sleep only seconds before, he was fully alert, wide-eyed as his visitor pulled the screen door open and, uninvited, pushed her way inside.

  It was hard to believe Harlow Ward existed in the present. Everything about her reminded him of that Mad Men show—her hair, her clothes; they were profoundly retro. For the decade he’d lived next door, he’d never seen her in anything casual. It was always high heels and makeup.

  She clicked her way through the foyer, placed the plate of cookies on the coffee table, and marched herself back to where Mickey stood.

  He opened his mouth to talk, and she slapped him hard across the face.

  Mickey took an unsteady backward step, his hand pressed to his assaulted cheek. When he pulled his hand away, he saw blood.

  Harlow casually adjusted her diamond ring, rotating it so that the stone pointed outward rather than toward the inside of her palm. His stomach twisted when she noticed him staring at her, offering up a hard smile.

  “Those are for the new boy,” she said, regarding the plate of cookies with an upward tilt of the chin. “Don’t touch them. You’re getting fat.”

  Mickey lowered his gaze. He hated when Harlow came over. The heat of his palm made the wound she’d just given him sting. Harlow turned away from him and stalked down the hall. He watched her pause in Andrew’s doorway for a long while, assessing the unlabeled and unpacked cardboard boxes that were neatly lined up along the walls. He tensed when she started to head back into the living room, but stopped halfway down the hall. Her nostrils flared at the sharp scent that lingered just outside the bathroom. Pushing the bathroom door open, she stood there for a moment, then moved back into the living room. Mickey pressed a wet paper towel to his face from among the kitchen’s disarray.

  “Did he do that?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mickey replied.

  One-word answers were his way of complying, but Harlow wasn’t satisfied. She strutted across the dirty carpet, her heels clacking against the kitchen’s cheap linoleum, and caught him by his chin.

  “When he gets back, you’re going to be on your best behavior. Best friends. Like a dream.”

  Mickey nodded faintly before Harlow released her grip. She stepped back into the living room and circled the couch, assessing her plate of cookies.

  “I should have used a bow,” she mused, leaning down to adjust the gift tag on top of cellophane.

  Welcome to the neighborhood! Most sincerely, Red and Harlow Ward.

  Full of strawberry milk shake, Drew was regretting getting the large as he rambled back toward Magnolia. The shake sat sweet and heavy in the pit of his stomach, twisting his guts into a slow-growing ball of nausea that, as soon as he got to unloading the bed of the truck, would more than likely turn ugly. When he finally pulled up to that now familiar curb, he sat there for a while, his hands on his stomach, taking deep and steady breaths, as if patterned breathing would somehow make all that milk and ice cream disappear. With the AC on high, he squinted against the artificial wind. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and when he turned, he saw a figure standing on the perfectly preened lawn of the fairy-tale house next door.

  The man was staring at him. When he met Drew’s eye, the guy turned away and went back to pushing a bright red mower, but it was Andrew’s turn to stare. Rather than wearing ratty shorts and a pair of old flip-flops, this guy looked just about ready to conduct an outdoor business meeting. Drew couldn’t imagine how hot he must be in a pair of long slacks and dressy loafers that glinted in the sun.

  The neighbor looked back over, and Drew instinctively ducked down.

  His stomach flipped and soured. A second later he was shoving the driver’s door open and bolting for the house.

  After puking up a stream of still-cold pink, he unsteadily made his way back to the front yard. Sick or not, there was furniture to unload and boxes to unpack. He didn’t feel like spending another night on a pile of his own clothes. Stepping back into the heat, he froze where he stood. Half of his furniture was on the sidewalk, as if on some sort of weird display. Mickey wrestled with the headboard.

  “Hey,” he said, spotting his housemate on the lawn, “figured you needed a hand.”

  Drew’s first instinct was to smile, but that nagging kernel of wariness immediately followed. Andrew believed in first impressions, considered those first few moments as a window to who a person really was. Mick’s most recent first impression hadn’t been a great one; tired,
sloppy, unaccommodating, he seemed like the last person to jump off the couch and lend a hand. But there he was, unloading Drew’s stuff like he’d been paid to do it when he hadn’t even been asked to help. Peering against the glare of the sun, Drew watched Mick work for a moment longer before dragging his feet across the lawn.

  There was something about Mickey that felt off—a weird vibe he couldn’t shake. Drew used to know a kid back in high school—Jeff Belkin. Jeff had been a real asshole, the kind of guy who could turn a simple conversation into the most unpleasant event of the day. Jeff had a coke problem. Nobody knew it at first, but after a while, it was obvious. Every time Jeff took a bump in the bathroom between class he’d turn into a fly at a picnic, constantly buzzing around people, wanting to talk, wanting to help: what can I do, what can I do? Maybe Mickey had a drug problem, coke or speed or something. Maybe that was where the vibe was coming from—chemicals that were slowly frying Mick’s brain.

  Pausing beside the back tire, he raised an eyebrow at Mick.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “What?” Mickey froze. He was a bundle of stops and starts, just like that Jeff guy.

  Andrew motioned to Mick’s cheek, a diagonal slash cross-sectioning his face.

  “Oh.” Mickey blinked, then furrowed his eyebrows. “Nothing,” he said. “Just an accident.”

  “Some accident,” Drew replied. “Looks like Norman Bates went after you in the shower.”

  “What?” Mickey shook his head. “Bates?”

  “Norman Bates, man. From Psycho.”

  Mickey stared at the house for a long while, then forced a smile.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Nah, it was just an accident. I haven’t even seen Psycho, dude. I don’t watch that old stuff.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Mickey lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. Drew wasn’t sure why he was surprised. It was hard to watch the classics while picking off zombies in a first-person shooter.