The Neighbor Read online

  CLAY

  Monday, October 12, 6:30 p.m.

  I GRAB AN EXTRA-LARGE COFFEE AND A JELLY DONUT ON MY WAY HOME from work. My head’s a mess. I overdid it this afternoon and ended up drinking more than I should have. As usual, quality control’s to blame. Hopefully, Leah will be too busy getting ready for this vigil to notice the sad condition I’m in.

  Some of the jelly spills on my shirt as I navigate my way home. I try to clean it off with a napkin, but it leaves a blotchy red stain that resembles blood. Or worse: lipstick.

  Leah’s gabbing nonstop the moment I walk through the door. I can tell from her flushed cheeks and the frantic way she’s moving around that she’s also been drinking. My lucky day. When she gets like this, she’s usually too distracted to notice anything else. I down a quick beer while I’m waiting for her to get dressed. The kids are sitting at the kitchen table, having a snack and trying to ignore their drunken parents. Once they’re done eating, we excuse them from the table, and they dash up to the safety of their rooms.

  Do I feel guilty about drinking in front of the kids? Truthfully, no, but I do feel bad for them when I’m drunk and slurring my words. Or when Leah’s trashed and acting stupid. I’ve always had a fondness for beer, and it never really seemed to matter when the kids were little. They just thought it was the same goofy old dad when I was sloshed. Now that they’re older and can connect the dots, and can tell when we’ve had a few, it’s become an issue. Leah’s drinking has certainly increased in the last year, ever since we decided to move to Maine. Her drinking worries me more than anything. Maybe it’s the uncertainty of moving here that caused it. Or maybe it’s because our relationship is not where it should be. Nothing good can come out of talking to her about it. She’d forcefully deny it. She’d point to my excessive drinking and call me a hypocrite for calling her out. My biggest fear is that something bad would have to happen before she realizes that she has a problem.

  I hear a loud knocking. My next-door neighbor Russell appears at the front door. What’s this? We’re responsible for taking care of his kids too? Great. After a brief chat at the door, he leaves just as our babysitter pulls up in the driveway. Leah greets Molly with detailed, written instructions that would put most technical manuals to shame. Molly continues to nod her head so rapidly and with such enthusiasm that it appears to me as if she has some sort of neurological disease. As soon as Leah is satisfied that she understands her rules, we head out.

  I’m exhausted and the coffee has only made me sleepy. I’ve been working twenty-four/seven for the last six months and it’s starting to wear on me. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love making beer. It’s been my lifelong dream to open my own brewery. But a person can only do so much before the body and mind begin to break down.

  A parking space opens up two streets away from Chadwick’s front gates. The sidewalks are filled with people of all ages heading toward campus to pay their respects.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Leah says, clutching my hand.

  “It’s a vigil. I don’t think it’s meant to be amazing.”

  “I mean to see people from all walks of life coming together. Just think how we could effect real change in this country if we were all on the same page.”

  And by that she means if things were run her way.

  Honestly, I feel allergic to politics these days. Politics means nothing to me. The system is so corrupt it’s left me jaded and cynical. Leah believes that I still share her progressive views, and at one time I did. It’s how I met her. But no more. I’ve given up caring about social justice, equality of income, and LBGT rights. Does that make me a rube? Maybe. I can’t even bring myself to vote.

  “Hurry, Clay. We need to get there before it starts.”

  LEAH

  Monday, October 12, 6:52 p.m.

  I’M ALL JITTERY AND NERVOUS AS CLAY AND I GET OUT OF HIS PICKUP truck and make our way toward campus. It’s the same pickup truck he uses for his brewery, and it even has the words FRESH BEER on the side, which strikes me as a bit tacky for the occasion. Still, it’s the last thing on my mind. My head is spinning from all the wine I consumed earlier in the day. Thankfully, a long shower and a couple more glasses of wine helped calm my nerves.

  I clutch Clay’s callused hand to keep me steady. I certainly don’t want him to know I’m slightly drunk. The night is cool and crisp and the trees above rustle in the October breeze. Up ahead I see hundreds of lit candles flickering in the night. The closer we get, the better we can hear the murmur of the crowd. It’s both exciting and nerve-racking to be part of such an important event. Reporters and news cameras appear everywhere.

  Russell had dropped the children off with Clay while I was taking a shower, and by the time I came down, Molly had already arrived. I gave her brief instructions and made sure everything was in place. The children immediately began playing with each other soon after being introduced. It always amazes me how easily children can get along with one another. There’s rarely any judgment or suspicion. I often wish adults could act in the same manner, but inevitably things change with age, and we become more defensive, skittering back to the safety of our tribe.

  Clay’s odor tonight horrifies me, although I try not to make a big deal out of it. He reeks of grains, hops, and sour yeasts. I wish he’d showered beforehand, but at least he took time off from the brewery to be with me. When he quit corporate America to brew beer, I was appalled by his decision. He hated being locked up all day in a cubicle. The loss of his salary was a blow to our finances, but coming home each night reeking of beer was the worst. It took me years to come to a grudging acceptance of that particular smell.

  “You’re shivering, Leah. Are you okay?” Clay asks.

  “I’m nervous.”

  “We can turn around and go home if you want.”

  “I bet you’d like that.”

  “No, I came here to support you.”

  The surrounding buildings are all lit up. I’ve jogged around this campus more than a few times, passing students lugging backpacks around, all of them looking like mountain climbers ready to scale Everest. We pass Prescott Hall and I see banners hanging out the windows, decrying racism and sexism, and promoting LBGTIQ rights. I see another that reads BRING BACK MYCAH!

  “I understand the LBGT part, but what do the I and Q stand for?” Clay asks.

  “I is for ‘intersex’ and the Q means ‘queer’ or ‘questioning.’”

  “Intersex?”

  “People born chromosomally one sex but have the opposite genitals.”

  “And why the Q if you already have G for ‘gay’?”

  “Because a person can identify as queer or questioning without necessarily being gay.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this stuff.” Clay laughs. “They should have a C for ‘confused.’ ”

  “Kids are way more accepting these days.”

  “I suppose, but I’m old school when it comes to college.” He turns and stares at me. “How do you know all this?”

  “I just do,” I say. “Don’t you think it’ll be a better world when Zack or Zadie go off to college?”

  “I’m not so sure, the way things are going.”

  “You’ll still love them, right? However they turn out?”

  “Of course. Whatever letter they choose to be, I’ll always love them.”

  “Very funny,” I say. “No person should be attacked because of his or her racial makeup or how they identify.”

  “I came here, didn’t I?”

  “I wanted you to come to this vigil because you want to be here, Clay. Because you want to effect change and create a more equitable society.”

  “Yeah, that too,” he says, more to appease me than anything else.

  I squeeze his hand as we pass the library and then the admissions office until we arrive at the quad. It’s such a beautiful campus, especially at night and with hundreds of people holding candles in support. A stage has been set up in front of Gordon Memorial Chapel. All aroun
d me people are huddled together in solidarity, anticipating the start of this vigil. Voices whisper in hushed tones. People hold up signs with the words BRING BACK MYCAH and RACISM with a red line through it.

  Someone passes us candles and we light them from a neighbor’s wick. Once they’re lit, I grab Clay’s hand again. It feels rough and calloused, yet protective at the same time. I love his big brewer’s hands. Looking into his eyes, I can tell he’s been drinking. It’s part of his job, or so he tells me. He claims that he needs to be doing quality control throughout the day. Like a chef tasting his food. I know he’s right, but I still don’t like that he drinks all day, every day of the week. If unchecked, it could turn into a real problem.

  Then again I should be the last person to lecture him about drinking, especially after consuming nearly a bottle of wine earlier in the day. But that’s an anomaly, not something I do on a regular basis.

  Without warning, the crowd starts to sing “We Will Overcome.” It’s a beautiful moment and my voice gets lost in the chorus echoing off the buildings enveloping us. It’s a moving tribute. I turn and look at Clay and notice his narrowed lips and furrowed brow; he’s not even pretending to care. It hurts my feelings that he won’t even try for my sake. He’s wearing the same grubby clothes he wore all day at the brewery. It even looks like he has lipstick on his collar, although I know he’d never cheat on me.

  After a few student speeches decrying the history of racism on campus, Clarissa takes the stage to mild applause. She’s dressed in a stunning orange and blue African bazin and head tie. Her caramel complexion radiates against the flickering candlelight. Dangling from her ears are gold disks with the continent of Africa stamped out of the middle.

  She speaks and her powerful voice resonates across campus, becoming almost unrecognizable to me. Its eloquence echoes far and wide, and I can’t quite believe that this is the same harried woman I spoke to just a few hours earlier.

  She speaks about Mycah in the past tense, as if the girl is dead. She speaks about her as if she’s a martyr for the cause, recognizing her contribution to social justice and racial equality. Then in the next breath she calls for a moment of silence, asking people to pray for the girl’s safe return.

  Everything happens in a blur, and before I know it, we’re marching through campus, singing a protest song and holding up our candles. It nearly brings me to tears. Clay shuffles next to me, silent and brooding, eager to head back to his truck. It frustrates me that he refuses to fully participate. He’s the one who moved me three thousand miles across the country. Ripped me away from my comfortable surroundings to live in this frigid, hostile state.

  How I miss the Pacific Northwest and the Puget Sound. The smell of pine trees and the gentle mist that falls much of the year. I miss the mountain ranges that rise up on both sides of the city, giving Seattleites their spectacular views. I miss talking politics with my group of stay-at-home moms, and drinking lattes as our children play together in the parks.

  We straggle back to the car afterward, Clay pulling me faster than I care to go. The occasion is somber, powerful, and I don’t want to tarnish it with haste. Truthfully, I don’t want the night to end. For the first time since moving here, I feel a part of something bigger.

  “That was beautiful,” I say once we’re back inside the truck.

  Clay turns and looks at me oddly, nodding in a way that is meant to be dismissive. I’ve noticed that his attitude has changed over the last ten years. No longer does he care about the social issues that we once shared. Age and fatherhood have narrowed his views in a way I don’t find appealing. All his interests have converged on to one thing: beer.

  “Didn’t you find the vigil moving?” I ask.

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “You don’t think it was a beautiful tribute?”

  He laughs.

  I cross my arms and turn away from him. “I could tell you didn’t want to be there.”

  “Jesus, is this going to turn into another argument?” He turns on the radio and the news comes on.

  “I was just asking a simple question.”

  “Look, Leah, I’m sorry that girl has gone missing. But the truth is, I found the whole thing laughable.”

  “In what way?”

  “Nothing they said or did will bring that girl back. In fact, the whole event turned into one long political statement about how minorities are being oppressed in this country.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Bullshit. They turned that ceremony into a civil rights movement. They made it seem like all white people are racists for merely existing. Anyone could have kidnapped her. It could have been a bunch of black gangbangers who took Mycah, for all we know.”

  I’m stunned by his comments. It strikes me as odd that he said her name, as if he somehow knew the girl. Then again, maybe he did know her. She was of legal drinking age. It’s entirely possible she was a frequent visitor to his brewery.

  “Did you know her?”

  He laughs nervously. “I knew who she was.”

  “How so?”

  “She came to the brewery on occasion with some of her friends. I stopped a few times and talked to them. And trust me, you have no idea of the kind of crazy shit that goes on on that campus.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “I didn’t really know her. Just to say hi. I recognized her one day when they put her picture in the newspaper.”

  “And you never thought to tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You knew how interested I was in the case.”

  He shrugs like a little kid.

  “What in the world did you talk to her about?”

  He’s about to explain when his mouth goes slack. The truck accelerates down the empty road as he turns the volume up on the radio. What is he doing? I turn to complain, but he shushes me with a finger to his lips. This demeaning gesture makes me feel like a little girl again. I turn to protest when I hear the reporter’s voice over the radio.

  Mycah Jones was pregnant....

  LEAH

  Monday, October 12, 8:37 p.m.

  I’M SHAKEN BY THE NEWS AND ONCE HOME POUR MYSELF A GLASS OF wine. Molly said the children played beautifully together and were no problem. Clay paid Molly her usual fee plus some, and then she drove off, leaving four sleepy kids watching Toy Story in our living room.

  Although I’m furious with Clay, I can see that he is exhausted from working all day, not that exhaustion has ever stopped me from arguing before. The kids are happily ensconced in the living room, sprawled over the floor in their pajamas, heads resting on pillows while watching Woody and Buzz. I don’t want to ruin the good mood. A particular vision forms in my head of our families growing close, hanging out on snowy nights while the kids play board games in the other room. I see the four of us going through bottles of wine and beer and reveling in our intelligent and witty conversations, bragging about how beautiful our children are.

  Clay, as if apologizing for his earlier behavior, offers to stay up with the kids until the Gaineses come to take them home. Instead, I tell him to go to bed. My goodwill this evening is based entirely on selfish motives. Besides, I’m too hyper to sleep. I want to meet Clarissa at the door and praise her for delivering such an amazing speech.

  The movie is almost over by the time I collapse on the couch with my third glass of wine. Zack has already fallen asleep next to Willie. Zadie is drifting in and out of consciousness. Only Sasha is still bright eyed and fully engaged in Buzz and Woody’s epic adventure. I love Toy Story as much as the children.

  But tonight I find it difficult to concentrate on the movie. All I can think about is the missing girl and the child she’s carrying. Various theories come to mind. The news reporter didn’t give any more details about the case, and her boyfriend doesn’t remember anything about the assault other than that vaguely recalled ra
cial slur. Maybe Cordell is behind his girlfriend’s kidnapping. It’s entirely possible that she conceived in order to prevent him from leaving her.

  After I polish off my third glass of wine, my eyelids succumb to gravity. Sometime later I find myself being awakened by the familiar chime of the doorbell. I jerk my head up and look around the living room in panic. The movie menu is playing over and over on the flat-screen. All the kids are asleep, stretched out in their pajamas in awkward poses. I step over Zack’s body and check myself in the mirror above the mantel. Holy crap, I look horrible. The doorbell rings again. Through the window I see that all the lights are on in the Gaineses’ house. Cars are parked in their driveway and all around the cul-de-sac.

  What’s going on?

  I stand by the window as the doorbell rings two more times in succession. Are the Gaineses having a party without me? Not that I’m in any mood to socialize with complete strangers: I’m tired and still processing the news of Mycah’s pregnancy. I need to put the children to bed. But seriously. This get-together angers me. An invitation would have been nice, considering that I was the one who arranged for our babysitter to watch their kids. But then I realize that it’s not too late and that Clarissa is possibly waiting outside to invite me over for introductions. Oh yes, and refreshments. I laugh at my silly predilection for rushing to judgment. Certainly, she’s going to ask me over and introduce me to all her wonderful friends. It’s late, so I promise myself to stay for just one drink.

  Happily, I check myself in the mirror one last time. My hair is frizzy along the edges and sticking up everywhere. The creases around my eyes appear more pronounced than ever. I straighten everything out as best I can, ready to congratulate Clarissa on giving such a magnanimous speech. But when I open the door, I’m stunned to see Clarissa’s husband standing there in his dark blue suit. He’s tall and well built and at least a decade older than his wife. He reminds me of that famous basketball player the way he carries himself. He’s confident to a fault. Almost arrogantly so. I stare at him and wonder why Clarissa didn’t come over here and pick up the kids herself.