The Neighbors Read online

  “Come on,” Mick urged. “It’s hot. It’ll go faster with two.”

  Back and forth they went, from the truck to Andrew’s room. Mickey even helped move some of the cardboard boxes so they could squeeze the bookcase inside. On their last pass for the mattress, Drew noticed that their slacks-wearing neighbor had been joined by a woman who looked just as proper as he did. She stood in front of a rosebush, trimming stems with a fancy-looking pair of shears, wearing bright red heels in the grass. He couldn’t make out her face beneath the floppy brim of her gardening hat.

  It was disorienting to see them gardening in such proper attire. But Andrew was struck with a desire, a need to walk up to that picket fence and introduce himself. The woman noticed him looking. She lifted a gloved hand in silent greeting, a wide smile pulled across her lacquered lips. Drew looked down to his feet, struck by a familiar sense of awkwardness; it was the same unease he’d felt when he realized his truck didn’t belong on Magnolia Lane, that he didn’t belong in Oz.

  “Those are the Wards,” Mickey told him, hesitated, then continued. “They’re all right.”

  They were more than all right. Because what kind of people gardened in business casual? Perfect people, he thought; people who wouldn’t be caught dead on Cedar Street.

  He and Mick just about killed themselves dragging that mattress down the hallway. Mickey went backward, slowing down when Drew yelped that he was about to trip over his own feet. He hovered while Drew organized his things, as if waiting to be told what to do. Finally unnerved by his roommate’s sudden bout of assistance, Drew shook his head at him and shot Mick a look.

  “I’ll be all right,” he assured him. “Really.”

  “You sure?” Mick asked, but relented when Andrew’s eyebrow arched dubiously over one eye.

  By the time Drew stepped out of his room, Mick was back on the couch, mashing buttons. Drew scratched the back of his neck, watching the game for half a minute before speaking up.

  “Hey, do you have a screwdriver anywhere? I need to put the bed frame together.”

  Mickey paused his game, eyed his new roommate for a second, and tossed his game controller onto the couch cushion.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Wait here.”

  Drew furrowed his eyebrows as Mickey wandered into the kitchen, disappearing through a door that led into a garage. He waited for a minute, rolled his eyes at how long it was taking, and sank onto the couch. Grabbing the controller, he was about to unpause Mick’s game when the plate of cookies caught his attention. He leaned forward, plucked the little card from atop the cellophane. The flowing script declared the treat was from the Wards—those perfect next-door neighbors. It was flawless, the prettiest handwriting he’d ever seen, matching the woman who had written it to a T. His heart flipped when he put it together: she had been the shadow in the window the evening he pulled up, the night he thought their house was Mick’s. She had seen him fiddle with their gate latch, had watched him realize his mistake and wander next door to the house that, no doubt, she hated. And instead of turning her nose up at the new neighbor who’d just moved into the crappiest house on the block, she stepped into her gleaming kitchen, grabbed a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, and made cookies. For him.

  Carefully pulling the cellophane away from the edge of the plate—a real plate, not a disposable one—Drew lifted a cookie to his nose, inhaling its sweetness before taking a bite. He fell back against the couch, his eyes shut, a chunk of chocolate melting on his tongue. They were amazing, as though she’d sprinkled magic into the mix.

  He sat up when the kitchen door to the garage slammed shut. Mickey trudged into the living room, holding a Phillips-head screwdriver out for Andrew’s approval.

  “Have you tasted these?” Drew asked, getting to his feet. He took the screwdriver, Mrs. Ward’s little card tucked into the palm of his hand.

  “They’re for you,” Mickey said. “Forgot to tell you.”

  “They’re incredible.”

  “Take them,” Mickey said, waving a hand at the plate. “I’m on a diet.”

  A laugh burst from Andrew’s throat. Mickey blinked at him, then retook his seat.

  “Shit, you’re being serious,” Drew murmured. “Sorry, man. It’s just that, you know, you don’t look like you need it.” It was a white lie—a tiny untruth to spare his friend’s feelings.

  Mickey responded by unpausing his game and shooting a guy in the chest with an assault rifle. Drew shoved the rest of his cookie into his mouth, grabbed the plate off the coffee table, and walked down the hall to his room.

  The rest of Drew’s day was spent unpacking. He had positioned the bed beside the window—when he was a kid, his bed had been positioned the very same way—so that the Wards’ place was the first thing he saw when he woke up, and the last thing he saw when he fell asleep.

  The walls still needed painting, but at least they were a clean slate. One was now home to that cockeyed bookcase, while the other accommodated his dresser. He stacked boxes along a wall he hoped would house a future purchase of a desk and a chair, though that would have to wait. Cash was tight, and his decision to leave home had included the hasty decision to abandon his job at the local grocery store. It had been a stupid thing to do, but it had felt right at the time. He wanted to start fresh, completely clean, and his grocery store job had been the very thing that had funded the life he was now running from. Bagging groceries and, later, ringing up clipped coupons had kept the Morrisons afloat for years. He didn’t want to be reminded of that every time he clocked in for his shift. And, if his mother was miraculously cured of her agoraphobia, he didn’t want her rolling a cart full of booze into his checkout lane.

  After he’d spent nearly an entire day organizing, the strawberry shake debacle had been forgotten and his stomach twisted with hunger. It was either pudding cups or going out to eat, so he resolved to take a quick trip to the Taco Bell, pick up a couple of burritos, and call it a night.

  He made a beeline down the hall, his truck keys in hand, but his plan was diverted by an unlikely sight. Mickey stood in the kitchen, the same pair of yellow rubber gloves Drew had worn pulled up to his elbows. His white-haired roomie stood hunched over the kitchen sink, scrubbing the stained porcelain with an expression of startling concentration.

  Andrew stood at the mouth of the hallway, afraid to move, as if moving would scare Mickey and cause him to run. The smell of bleach soured the air, but the sweetness of Drew’s satisfaction more than made up for it. He had hoped that scrubbing the bathroom would motivate Mick to get up and do the same; it appeared that he had been correct.

  Mickey eventually noticed his housemate standing there, watching him with what must have been a stupid grin on his face. He stopped what he was doing—caught in the act—as though scrubbing the sink were some sort of crime. “Hey,” he said.

  “What’re you doing?” Drew asked.

  “Cleaning. The bathroom doesn’t match the rest of the house now. So, you know...”

  “Well...that’s awesome.” Hooking a thumb toward the front door, he gave Mick a questioning look. “I’m picking up food. You want a burrito?”

  With those canary yellow gloves giving the big oaf a comical appeal, Mickey eventually nodded with a crooked smile.

  “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll pick up an apron for you while I’m out,” Drew teased. “It’ll match your gloves.”

  Climbing into the cab of his truck, Drew paused in thought. Maybe this was going to work out. As odd a couple as they were, maybe he and Mickey would rekindle their friendship. Maybe it would be just like old times. Shoving the key into the ignition, he felt better about the future than he ever had before.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rumble of Mickey’s TransAm roused Drew the next morning. Listening to the Pontiac scream down the road, he rolled onto his side and pressed his face into his pillow with a cotton-muffled groan. It felt early—way too early for Mickey to be up. He squinted across the room
at the digital alarm clock he had brought from home, the numbers glowing like the cherry of a burning cigarette: a few minutes past eight.

  “What the hell?” he murmured, the heels of his palms pressing into the sockets of his eyes. First the guy went full-fledged Donna Reed, and now he was up earlier than Drew. Next up: Mickey would return home with armloads of groceries and the insatiable desire to try his hand at Belgian waffles.

  Half-asleep, he rolled out of bed, brushed his teeth while sitting on the toilet, and then hopped in the shower to wake up. By the time he was dressed, Mickey still hadn’t come home, and Drew found himself standing in his room, staring out the window at the house next door. A shadow shifted behind glass. He squinted, trying to make out the figure that seemed to hover behind the curtains, wondering whether there was actually someone there, staring back at him, or if he was seeing the shadow of a swaying houseplant. The carefully cut lawn, the vigilantly pruned roses, the white picket fence standing proud against the big blue sky—it reminded him of the black-and-white sitcoms his mother used to watch; the ones where the men worked and the women patiently awaited their return, eager to ask about their day, ready to offer up a pair of slippers, dinner in the oven, raring to go. They were the type who held neighborhood barbecues and ran through wheat fields on the Fourth of July. These were people Andrew wished he knew.

  He flipped open his wallet and fingered the corner of the card he’d found on top of the cookies the day before, then slid it back in place behind his driver’s license. He thumbed through his dwindling stack of cash. With only one hundred forty-two dollars left, he was running dangerously low on funds. But he assured himself that everything would be fine. In their e-mails, Mick had assured him that money wasn’t a big deal—Drew could pay his share of the rent when he got on his feet. The offer had struck him as overly generous, but he was thankful for it. And Drew was no freeloader; he’d pick up a job in the next few days. But until then, he needed paint.

  The doorbell rang just as he grabbed his keys. He paused, the odd sensation of having to answer somebody else’s door settling over him. Sure, he had been there for a couple days, but it still felt strange. It was a public admission of residence, assurance to whoever was on the other side of the door that yes, Andrew Morrison did live here now. The doorbell rang again. Drew squared his shoulders and walked down the hall, peeked through the peephole and blinked.

  It was her.

  Butterfly wings brushed the lining of his stomach. His belief in first impressions stood firm, and he definitely wanted to make a good one now.

  Andrew cleared his throat, pulled open the door, and offered the woman from next door a confident smile.

  “I missed you yesterday,” she said. “Just wanted to be a good neighbor and welcome you home.”

  The first boy had taken less than a week. She hadn’t liked him. He had been a slob just like Mickey, and it disturbed Harlow how at home he had seemed in that shithouse of a rental. His name had been Christopher Clark, and he hadn’t had an inkling of ambition—no drive, no common sense in that empty skull. When Harlow had taken in the spectacle that had been Christopher Clark’s bedroom, she had shaken her head in disgust. The boy had slept among trash, hadn’t bothered to obtain any furniture; the entire room had the sharp stink of body odor.

  But she pursued him anyway. He wasn’t perfect, but dumb enough to not know any better, which gave her a sense of comfort. She intended on stepping up her game as time went on, but that first time on Magnolia, she had been nervous, and Christopher was easy.

  But Christopher hadn’t intrigued her. The act had felt empty, nothing but an exercise in testing the waters. His eagerness had made her sick, and that was what had ruined it in the end: that lack of reluctance. The hunt had been spoiled.

  After Christopher, Harlow made more of an effort to find boys that sparked her interest. To her disappointment, finding upstanding specimens was more difficult than she had expected. For a time she had been so uninspired, she even let a few of them go. It wasn’t worth the energy if the boy wasn’t right.

  But Andrew Morrison was different. She could already sense it. There was something raw about him, a vulnerability that was almost electric. The more she observed him, the more Andrew made her eyes sparkle with hope, from the sharp smell of a clean bathroom to a bright smile when he answered the door.

  Andrew Morrison was perfect.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Andrew watched Harlow Ward saunter down the cracked driveway, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth, a sinking feeling heavy in the pit of his stomach. She had excused herself shortly after coming to Mickey’s door, embarrassed by the mess she found inside.

  Turning away from the window, he stopped in the doorway of his bedroom, his arms protectively crossed over his chest. He could only hope that Mrs. Ward’s opinion of him hadn’t been completely blown by something out of his control. Despite his best efforts, he had yet to tackle the living room and kitchen. He supposed if he’d led her to the bathroom, he could have reclaimed an iota of her respect.

  Sure, he thought. Mrs. Ward, please let me prove my worth by the sparkle of my tub.

  He realized, after a few minutes of brooding, that he was staring at something that didn’t belong to him: the cookie plate. He had devoured most of those delicious treats in a single sitting, but a pair of them remained on patterned porcelain. It was a habit he had picked up as a kid—save the last few for later, because there was no telling when he’d have money for more cookies, more candy, more anything. Stepping forward, he lifted the plate from the top of his dresser, slid the remaining cookies onto a sheet of scrap paper, and ducked into the darkness of the hall.

  After washing the plate in Mick’s freshly scrubbed kitchen sink, he found himself standing in front of the Wards’ picket fence. Regardless of what Mrs. Ward thought of him now, the plate had to be returned. It was all a matter of whether he’d be invited inside or asked to leave.

  Nervous, he fiddled with the gate latch, imagining the plate slipping from his fingers and exploding into a thousand pieces at his feet. He clung to it, hugging it to his chest like Charlie had held fast to his golden ticket. It was Andrew’s pass into the chocolate factory; he only hoped it was good for a few visits rather than only one. Climbing the front porch steps, he took a deep breath, reached out his free hand, and pressed the glowing doorbell button. His heart thudded in his chest. Like a kid on a first date, he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to back out, but his feet were planted firmly—a conflict of mind and body.

  Before he could talk his feet into moving, the front door swung wide. Mrs. Ward appeared surprised at the guest before her, her hand fluttering just beneath the hollow of her throat.

  “Andrew,” she said. “Hello again.”

  He watched her mouth waver between confidence and uncertainty. She hadn’t been expecting him; very likely hoped that he wouldn’t show up in this very manner—the grungy kid from the dirty house next door. That sinking feeling returned tenfold, threatening to pull him through the porch floor and six feet beneath the ground.

  “I...” He hesitated, pulling the clean plate from against his chest and holding it out to her in offering. “...forgot to give this to you.”

  She blinked at the plate as if not recognizing it, and then her mouth bloomed into a beautiful smile.

  “You’re so sweet,” she said, accepting Andrew’s offering of porcelain with a faint nod of her head. “Clean too?”

  It was Drew’s chance, his opportunity to tell her that what she had seen inside—the dust, the sadly dim interior—that hadn’t been him. That was something he was going to change, was in the process of changing as they spoke. But before he could gather his wits and launch into an explanation, Mrs. Ward took a side step and motioned for Drew to come inside.

  “Really?”

  Mrs. Ward smiled at his enthusiasm.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come in.”

  Harlow led Andrew inside with a smile, a hand pressed aga
inst the center of his back to keep him moving as he gazed at pastel-colored walls and antique photo frames. The inside of the Wards’ house matched its faultless exterior. He marveled at the fact that he had been right, it did smell like home cooking, and the delicate scent of cut grass drifted through the open windows. Sheer white curtains shivered in the breeze, drawing drifting shadows across a meticulously vacuumed carpet, as white and perfect as an undisturbed blanket of snow. The place was a museum, and while Andrew was overwhelmed, he also found himself enchanted by its freshness.

  Placing the plate on the kitchen counter, Harlow turned to face Andrew with a warm smile. “Since I have you here, perhaps you could help me with something?” she asked.

  Drew looked away from a rack of spices, each bottle carefully hand-labeled, and gave her a nod.

  “I need a bookshelf moved,” she told him. “Follow me.”

  Directing him to what looked like a home office, the gentle pressure of her hand was at the small of his back. It was the kind of room that looked like it came out of a magazine: deep mahogany-toned furniture, a green glass banker’s lamp sitting next to a leather desk blotter. “There’s the culprit,” she said, motioning to a large bookshelf, a thing that looked to weigh a good two or three hundred pounds empty. “I’d move it myself, but the last time I tried to move furniture on my own I just about killed myself.

  “Do you think you can manage it?” she asked. “I hope we don’t have to take everything off it. That would just cause a mess-load of work, don’t you think?”

  Drew blinked at her impossible suggestion. The shelves were heavy with entire collections—Stephen King, Dean Koontz, a thick volume of Poe’s complete works. And yet he found himself considering it, contemplating how he could make this hopeless task happen.

  “You like horror?” he asked, casting a sidelong glance at the gorgeous woman beside him. Her classic look implied literary tastes running to the likes of Mark Twain, Emerson, and Thoreau; it was thrilling to think that she cozied up with the likes of The Shining, fantastic to imagine her curling up on the couch to indulge in old horror movies Andrew held dear: Dracula, The Haunting, Night of the Living Dead.